“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” Daniel’s voice comes softly from the doorway, quiet and tentative. He stands there, looking into her room as though he can’t quite bring himself to enter, shoulders hunched and eyes downcast. He is taller than her, and has been for some years now, with thick muscled arms and a broad frame, but Jessica looks at him and all she can see is the little seven year old who would creep into her room during thunderstorms, or whenever he was woken by nightmares. Uncertain, hesitant, and always looking so very small. Her baby brother. The anger drains out of her. She glances down at the shattered pottery strewn across the floor at her feet, and then back to the door. “What, this? No, that one’s on me. It broke when I dropped it.” Daniel just stares at her. “You didn’t drop it. I saw.” She winces. Shrugs. “Alright, so it broke when I threw it against the wall. Nothing to do with you either way.” He looks unconvinced. That’s reasonable, because Jessica isn’t being very convincing. And perhaps that is reasonable too, because truth be told it isn’t not Daniel’s fault that she threw the pot out in her rage. He is just not to blame for it, a subtle but significant distinction that she knows is not worth bringing up now. He would hear the words ‘your fault’ and nothing else and spiral into guilt and self-reproach, which will help no one. Within an hour, Jessica and Daniel Winston need to have disappeared. If only she can make up her mind on what will disappear with them. Jessica has always prided herself on being careful. Diligent. She is not rash, she doesn’t not speak before she thinks. Her actions are measured and well-considered, her words perhaps even more so. She thinks and she plans and she deliberates, certain in the knowledge that if she takes her time, eventually she will end up wherever she needs to go. She would call herself, cautious, perhaps. Level-headed. Calm, collected Jessica, utterly immune to impulse and flights of fancy. But she is here now, with all her worldly possessions strewn across her bed, and her knapsack sitting open and empty beside them, and she cannot help but wonder if, looking back, all her mindfulness was really just indecision after all. When she had first earned the eye and then confidence of the late Earl of Sutton, perhaps a year after she had first started working at Bryer Castle, had she really been acting out of some desire to secure a more permanent role for herself and her family behind those tall stone walls, or had that fortunate consequence been mere coincidence, the Earl simply appreciating the captive audience inherent in someone who lacked the will power to end or even sway a conversation? When, barely days after the funeral, the younger Sutton - Charles - had begun to pester her for information, had she remained quiet out of some lingering sense of loyalty, or because she hoped to leverage her knowledge for her own gain, or were those simply the rationales her mind provided her to justify how in the dry heat of a direct confrontation, the words had simply stuck in her throat, refusing to be spoken aloud? When Charles, second Earl of Sutton, had grown aggressive earlier that day, and Daniel had found her, by chance, with her back against the wall of a disused corridor and a blade at her throat, he had drawn his knife without a second thought and stabbed the Earl through the gut, and she had pulled him away. Had she known, in that moment, that fleeing was the right move? She is certain now, that it must be - even now, with the Earl alive when they left him, she knows they will face near certain death if caught, and though dead men can tell no tales, she knows her brother does not truly have it in him to kill a man and live with the burden, for all that he is built like a bruiser - but was she at the time? How much of that calculus did she perform after the fact, and how much of their escape came down to her seeing the bleeding man before her, there for her to harm or help heal, and running from him because that felt the least like making a choice? “I really messed up, didn’t I?” Daniel again, oddly choked, and luckily this is one area she has always been happy to work on instinct for. She walks over to him, tiptoeing around the ceramic shards, and reaches up to wrap an arm around his shoulders. “Hey, no, breathe,” she whispers to him, nonsense mutterings as she draws him towards her, head towards her chest. He goes willingly, and it ought to look comical - her holding and comforting a boy twice her size. Perhaps it does. But it is also right and as natural to her as breathing, and as Daniel sobs silently into her shirt and then calms, she finds herself relaxing as well, bit by bit. Perhaps she does have a tendency to overthink, and perhaps that can manifest itself as indecision. But that is not all she is - an anxious and stifled mess. Perhaps gaining the late Earl’s trust had more to do with his own designs paired with her unwillingness to cause waves. She had still become his confidant - a true confidant - through her own merits. Maybe she will never be sure why she did not wish to cave to the second Earl’s demands, but for whatever reason she made the decision to stay silent and she held fast. What does it matter, if in her tangled anxieties and stresses and rage, she could not decide which, if any, of the functionally worthless trinkets she stored in her little clay pot should accompany them as they run, when the bigger question, of whether they should run, whether she should run at all, had never even crossed her mind? From the moment she had seen the hilt of Daniel’s blade, recognised the shaggy hair that obscured his hung head, and even before, she had known she would do whatever it takes to keep him as safe as he can be, and here she is, doing it, so surely that she knows this could never be a conscious decision she had to make. And perhaps that can be enough.


I know you all hate me, I know that I am the devil incarnate in your eyes, but I plead for you to listen to me one last time. I remember when I was a young boy, pure and clean, not like I am now, and I thought that the world would one day reach a state of utopia. A grand existence where no human would have to pay for anything at all, and we could all live in the free communion of each other's company. When I got older I fought for that dream, killed for it, was willing to die for it, but now I cannot look at myself the same. I thought they were all liars, I thought they were cheats and hecklers, all saying that the world had to have money because that's how it had to be, the world couldn't function any other way and nor should it. Even when I was a kid I was smart enough to know that that was bullshit, but then I too got it wrong, so how can I judge? I would go on to make the fatal mistake of seeing the world in black and white, one-or-the-other and no in-between. I think the first time I saw someone die is when I realized that that wasn't the case. *** It was a January, cold as hell and brutally windy. The dim sky was blanketed by that awful winter overcast that never seemed to truly go away. I was high up, as ordered, and waiting for my opportunity to do what was right for humanity. It was there that I could look around and see the hidden beauty of the world that can only be seen from a vantage point, a birds-eye-view. The city was white, snow-covered, and relatively quiet. The humble houses seemed to make wonderful large rolling hills of snow that decorated the cityscape. The typical Russian architecture was new to my eyes, and the large church spires and draconic stone streets delighted me, they were right out of a Dostoevsky novel. Below me I could hear the tiny ringing of a silver store bell as its door opened and closed -- It was a bookstore, selling the latest and greatest in Russian literature. I remember wondering if they sold any of the books I'd been reading recently, then I remember that Russia had outlawed them. In the distance I saw a crowd. They flocked the sides of the road like loyal dogs, patiently waiting in the cold and moving around ever so slightly to keep warm. I know I shouldn't have, but I spent a lot of my time looking at that crowd, seeing if I could find black sheep, dissenters of the status quo. I had seen a young boy dancing in the road, waving his arms around like a stage performer and smiling. I loved that kid. I also saw a man standing on a milk crate, screaming to the crowd like a mad man and undoubtedly raining down spit on those unlucky enough to be in front of his wrath. I couldn't hear what he was preaching, but It didn't really matter to me anyway. I was a poet back then, a lovely boy that saw the world through a romantic lens, and who tried to find meaning in ants. In my journal from that day I had written: Birds must be brilliant writers to be exposed to such beauty all of the time. I thought it was a delightful sentence at the time, but now I can only look at it with a shaking head. I also had a book next to me, a small, almost pamphlet-like book called The Great Lie. I had read it many times before, but often re-read it when I needed courage. It was then that I heard it, the echoing roar of engines and the dumb thudding of large tires rolling off of the stone roads. I turned my head and could see them, a river of black cars slithering around the street corner like a silky cobra. There were a lot of them, more than I cared to count. The crowd went ecstatic with their arrival, I could see hands raised to the sky and I could hear their desperate shoutings. The boy was yanked from the road. I remember feeling the sweat drip down from my forehead, and the nervous sensation of shaking hands. I tried to take a deep breath but anxiety filled my blood and doubt clouded my mind, as it often does in times of great opportunity. I also began to have that awful experience of feeling my heartbeat in my ears, a muffled thudding that almost felt like someone was physically hitting the side of my head. It didn't matter though, it was my time, my opportunity. I gazed down at the tattoo I had on my right forearm, the words of my leader: Opportunities can only be properly taken with fire, seize yours and be remembered forever . In my hand was a small black box, it was heavy and felt like a stone. It was awful. On its right side was a switch, and in the center a key to turn. I looked down at the street again and saw it for what it would soon be, a wasteland of bodies. I wanted to turn away, to avert my eyes and try and preserve my soul. But I had made a promise to myself long ago, I had made a promise to never look away from my own actions, and to always make sure that I knew what I was doing. So I turned the key. *** See that's the fucked up thing, that's the grand illusion that everyone is under. I used to dream of a world with no money, a world that had no cost to anything, and harmony could be achieved. The men of today's world dream of more cost, brutalizing their fellow man for more precious capital. I now know that both are wrong, that both are a lie. It all reminds me of a quote from a great man, it said something along the lines of: You can't see the world in black and white, otherwise you always end up on the extremes. You end up in the ditches of the road, the gutters. I used to hate that line, I had spat on it many times before, but now nothing is closer to my heart. I was in the gutters. You see, what I learned that day was that everything has a cost . Even an opportunity. And that by taking the opportunity that I had that day, I cost this world thousands of lives, and possibly more in the days to come. I thought I was a hero, a savior who would help the sheep remove the wool from their eyes and shatter the tower of lies that this world was built on, to be a shepherd for the lands of greater futures. I have only shepherded people into the arms of death. I have only realized that I myself was blindfolded. So, my final call to you, my last use of meaningful breath is this:  We are all under wool, life is just many layers of confusions that no man could ever hope to penetrate. Do not fall under the illusion of men who claim to know all, no one does. Everything has a cost. And don't fall into the gutters. - Antonio Gavel Final words from the gallows.


The car shudders in the cold December afternoon, and Tanner drums his fingers against the leather of the steering wheel. The sooner he gets this done with, he tries to reason with himself, the sooner he can leave. And then, the sooner he can get his life together and move on, the sooner he can forget about Holland and his begrudgingly-charmed smile and his warm embrace and– He’s getting off task. Again. This is exactly why he’s been sitting here for twenty minutes and hasn’t managed to unglue himself from the driver’s seat. Step one, he decides, is to shut off the car. That’s easy enough. He turns the key and the engine gives one last, long rattle before going quiet. This car’s been in its death throes since he inherited it when he was sixteen. He and Holland drove it out to Cape Cod that summer, just the two of them and some tents and a cooler full of beer Holland’s moms had bought them under the strict promise that there would be no drinking and driving. They’d watched the sun set every night and rise every morning, their shoulders pressed together, their voices quiet so as not to disturb the peace. Tanner still remembers wanting Holland so badly it ate him from the inside out, still remembers the way the yearning tasted like the backwash of that first gulp he’d taken of the beer and then spit back out in disgust.

Step two is harder. Step two is getting cold enough that he actually gets up and climbs the steps to the third floor, where his box of stuff is waiting. He’ll turn the key over to the apartment, he and Holland will bid each other adieu, and then… Well. Tanner hasn’t figured out step three just yet. The problem is that Tanner is stubborn. The problem is that they’re both stubborn in their own ways, but Tanner is like both the rock and the hard place when he wants to be, unrelenting, unmoving. He’s put himself through worse than a little cold to avoid something he didn’t want to do. He’s put them both through worse. He’d stayed up four days straight studying for his SATs in his junior year. Holland had come over to his house on the fifth and thrown all his study materials out into his hallway, despite Tanner’s screams of protest, and pushed him down into bed and laid on him until he fell asleep. They both missed school the next day, Tanner still passed out from exhaustion and Holland refusing to leave his side.

Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Twenty. He feels himself shaking: first his feet, then his hands, then the rest of him, until he’s certain he’s going to vibrate right out of his skin. “This is stupid,” he says to himself finally, throwing open the car door with a sense of finality. “Just get the shit and be gone.” He tries not to notice that it sounds like Holland’s voice when he says it. He stomps up to the apartment, proud of himself for hesitating only a moment when he gets to the staircase. Up, up, up he climbs, all the way to the top, and then keeps walking down the hall to the left, and there it is. 302.

His box isn’t in front of the door, and he’s going to call that a win. Given the way he left, Holland would have been well within his rights to donate everything Tanner left behind, or better still, to toss it in the garbage. To set it on fire.

Still. It means he can’t get out of this without at least a small confrontation. He takes three deep breaths and knocks at the door. Somewhere in the complex, a dog is barking. Two car doors open and shut, the sound echoing across the parking lot. Birds, the ones who haven’t left for winter, chirp in the trees nearby. Their song grows louder and louder in Tanner’s head, and he tries to close his eyes to shut it out. Still it crescendos, and he can’t breathe, and he needs it to stop– “Tanner.” The door is open. Holland stands in the doorway, dressed completely inappropriately for the weather in an A-shirt and sweat shorts that are fraying at the knees.

Tanner wants to hug him so badly he aches. “Your key,” he says instead, producing his keys from his jacket pocket and looking down at them to avoid Holland’s eyes. “I brought it back. And came for my stuff. Like I said I would.” Holland’s only response is a grunt that could mean just about anything. It’s been four and a half months since they’ve seen each other. It’s the longest they’ve gone in the eighteen years they’ve been best friends.

Tanner’s hands are still shaking. It takes him longer than it should, but he manages to slide it off the ring and hand it over. Holland takes it. “Come in,” he says, and then he’s turning and going into the apartment before Tanner can respond. Tanner scrambles to keep up. By the time he’s in and the door is shut behind him, Holland has tossed the spare key onto the counter and disappeared into his bedroom. There’s no box anywhere in the tiny space that serves as both living room and kitchen. It felt huge when Holland first moved in, when they’d brought up all his boxes and stacked them in a pile only to ignore them while they ate takeout pizza, their knees knocking together under the kitchen island. Tanner had reached over to push some excess cheese into Holland’s mouth, laughing and calling him a brute, and Holland had caught his wrist before he could pull away and kissed it with his eyes intently focused on Tanner. They hadn’t gotten any unpacking done that night. Tanner stands awkwardly by the front door, afraid to take off his boots and overstay his welcome and also afraid of getting the carpet dirty. Holland reappears a few moments later. There’s a cardboard box in his hands. Tanner’s breath catches in his throat. This is it, he realizes. This is the moment that everything they’ve had officially becomes history. This is the end of Them . It hurts more than he’d realized. He thought he’d put it all behind him while he was abroad, thought getting some space was what he needed. He realizes, very quickly, that he has no idea what he needs. Holland crosses the space between them and hands Tanner the box. Tanner looks down to find that it’s empty. His brows furrow. “What the hell?” “I’m not packing it for you,” Holland grunts. “You want your stuff, you find it.” Tanner’s jaw drops as Holland goes into the kitchen and busies himself with something in the refrigerator. He looks down into the box again just to make sure he isn’t having some sort of hallucination, but it’s just as empty as it was before. He grits his teeth. “Fine,” he mumbles. He stomps into Holland’s bedroom and sets the box down on the bed. It remains more or less unchanged from the last time Tanner was here. The sheets are still messy on the bed; Holland never saw the point in making it when he was going to get right back in it the next night. Dirty clothes are in and around the hamper; the desk is crowded with study materials. There’s a single strand of soft white lights above the window that Tanner is surprised to see plugged in, since he was usually the one who insisted on having them lit.

The photo collage that Tanner put up last summer is still on the wall. He hasn’t been cut out of the photos or anything.

“Are you going to stare or are you going to pack?” Holland asks. Tanner jumps. He hadn’t heard him enter the bedroom. “Pack,” Tanner murmurs.

Holland goes to the bed and sits next to the box. Tanner goes to the closet. The majority of his wardrobe had migrated here over the year Holland lived here before Tanner left. He starts taking down items one at a time, folding them as carefully as he can manage with his shaking hands and going over to place them in the box. “So…how was it?” Tanner looks up at Holland, who is intently studying his nails. He bites his lip. “It was good,” he answers, taking down a sweatshirt he accumulated in high school. It doesn’t really fit him anymore, but he used to like to wear it around the apartment. It was fun to catch Holland staring at the way it rode up when he’d reach for something high, exposing his hips and stomach. “I learned a lot.” “S’good,” Holland answers. “And…you got space. Which is what you wanted.” Tanner is glad he’s facing into the closet. He can’t help the way he squeezes his eyes shut, the pain clamping tightly around his heart. “Yeah,” he manages. He hopes it doesn’t sound too strained. It’s quiet for a few more minutes as Tanner packs. He comes across several shirts whose owner he isn’t certain of. He elects to leave them in the end, deciding that if they do belong to him, Holland can toss them if he wants. There are a lot of other things spread out in the bedroom that technically are Tanner’s. The blanket folded haphazardly and shoved into a corner. The few DVDs next to the tiny television. A box of granola bars that he doesn’t understand why Holland hasn’t already thrown away. He collects it all and sets it gingerly in the box, unable to shake Holland’s gaze as he packs up the evidence that he was here. There are tears thick in the back of his throat that he wills himself to hold onto until he’s out of the apartment. Just a few more minutes, he reasons, and then he can cry all he wants– “Tanner,” Holland says, breaking the uneasy silence. Tanner looks up at him. He’s hunched over on the end of the mattress, his arms crossed over his chest. Maybe it’s Tanner’s imagination, but it seems like there are unshed tears in his eyes, too. “H-Holland,” he whispers. “I should–I should go. The rest of this can just…can just stay…” Holland stands abruptly and closes the distance between the two of them, cupping Tanner’s jaw and kissing him. Tanner can’t help the way he melts against Holland. He has years of practice fitting himself against this man, and he knows exactly how to tilt his head, exactly how to move his mouth. Holland lets out a sigh against his lips as Tanner wraps his arms around Holland’s neck. “Why did you go?” he asks, and Tanner must have been right about the tears, because his lips suddenly taste like salt. “I know you, Tanner. I can see that you’re not happy. This isn’t what you want. Is it?” “No,” Tanner admits. He was never able to deny Holland much of anything, much less the truth.

“Then why?” Holland urges. “Why are you doing this? I’ve missed you so much, Tanner. Stay with me. Just stay with me.” Tanner can’t help but let out a choked-off sob. “I-I can’t.” “Bullshit.” Holland leans his forehead against Tanner’s. “Bullshit, Tanner. You can do whatever you want. Do you want me?” “Yes,” Tanner answers, “but–” “No buts.” “Holland,” Tanner cries. “I can’t–I don’t want to hold you back.” Holland takes a step back, untangling himself from Tanner. His eyes are wide, his jaw hanging open slightly. “Is that what this is about? You fucked off to Europe for four months because you thought you were holding me back?” “It was a good opportunity for my program,” Tanner answers automatically, the same thing he’d spat out every time someone had asked since he’d gotten home.

He’d never wanted to go. He used to say he was going to travel the world with his team someday, so he’d see Europe then. But then he got hurt. Baseball was ripped out from underneath him, and suddenly all he had was school, and the future, and… Holland huffs in disbelief. He’s always been the best at seeing through Tanner’s carefully constructed half-truths. “If it were really about that, we would have video called every night. You would have sent me pictures. You would have brought home a whole suitcase full of souvenirs for our apartment, for–for our house, someday.” Tanner looks up at the ceiling, begging himself to keep it together. The third day he’d been there, he’d bought a print without thinking about it, teal and white and black like their high school colors had been. He’d been imagining a place for it on a wall in a house they lived in together and he’d handed over the money before he could stop himself.

“I don’t care, you know,” Holland says. “I never cared that you were going to be Tanner O’Brian, famous baseball player. I didn’t fall in love with him.” Tanner takes a deep breath. “That’s all I was ever going to be,” he says, his voice raw and ragged. “I picked art history because I thought it would be fun, but it wasn’t supposed to matter. I was supposed to play. Without baseball, I’m just…” Tanner jumps as his hands are taken roughly in Holland’s own. It forces him to meet Holland’s gaze again.

“You’re just the love of my life,” Holland says. He sounds angry, almost. Determined. “You’re just the man who’s spent his whole life by my side.” Tanner can’t help it. The tears fall from his eyes and stream down his face. “Everything is changing,” he says. “I’m not who I used to be.” “Neither am I,” Holland replies. “Look, Tanner, just–were you happy? When you were without me?” Tanner shakes his head. He’s been a lot of things the last few months, but happy is not one of them. “Do you want to be with me?” Tanner swallows, looking down and away. “I don’t deserve you. I ran away. You shouldn’t give me a second chance.” “I’ll give you as many chances as you need,” Holland says. “I love you, Tanner. I love you so much, and I never want to stop.” Tanner sobs, just once, and Holland pulls him into his arms. It’s the only place Tanner has ever felt whole.

“I couldn’t pack your box because I didn’t want to,” Holland says. “I wanted you to stay. I want you to stay. Will you stay with me?” And for the first time in months, Tanner doesn’t hesitate as he whispers “yes.”


So here I am at Griffin High , It is the best school in North West ... It's quite cold today , could be my own bad fate just show casing itself very much into the climate . Here's what I am thinking as I walk into the school's corridor "Everyone has forgotten, Everyone has forgotten..." " Wrong! " No one will ever forget that I ruined Jessica Parker 's party . So here is what happened … *** It's been a week since I was enrolled into Griffin High.

I just moved here with my mom and dad. I was raised by the most loveliest interracial couple ; mom is originally from Uganda

and dad is the most English guy that you could ever meet . She and dad met when he was doing a tour around all the African countries. They fell inlove and you know what happens when two people fall inlove ? I happened! I had lived all life in South Africa

until last month dad said, " We need a change " . I was home schooled up until now so it's my first high school and I am going to make the most of it .

" Hey Laura "

, said Jessica.

"Hey " , I said. Okay so that was Jessica and she is plastic . Nope , her heart is.

"Coming to pep rally ? "

"Yah sure . I guess.

" I know she's upset with me because I took her sister's spot in the cheer team. You don't just take the Parker sisters place just like

that especially when it comes to the cheer team.

If you wanna be popular everyone knows that you gotta make friends with the Parker sisters and here I am making enemies

with the goddesses.

We were sitting at pep rally when the weirdest thing happened , Jessica walked up to and .

"You are invited ." "To what? "

"Check your Instagram messages. Don't be late. " "I won't. " Oh my word ! I have been invited to Jessica Parker 's party.

The party was starting at 6pm but everybody knows that high school parties start much earlier and end pretty much late. I had told mom about the party before hand so that we could go shopping . I knew that i looked cute. When I got to the party I could swear that there were mostly seniors there.

I immediately noticed Nora . She and I are in the school's newspaper club. She's a bit odd. Jessica had asked me not to talk to her. I don't know why but Jessica just says weird nonsense all the time. I mean how can I not speak to Nora , she was the first person to speak to me on my first day .

" Hey Laura . You're looking

cute. ( We kiss on the cheeks) ".

"Thanks . You too ." "Can I get

you anything? Maybe some punch.

" , said Nora.

"Maybe some punch. I don't really drink. " From nowhere comes this guy who decides to put his hand on my waist. "Hey sweet cheeks never seen you around here before. " (Me proceeds to remove his hand around my waist ).

" I'm new ." , I said. " Hey Laura ! Having any fun yet? "

"Not yet (I chuckeld "fakingly)" "Hey Boris leave Laura alone she's here to have a good time " , said Jessica "I can show her a good time!"

I decided to exit the scene for some air and

maybe look for Nora when suddenly I noticed… Jessica's

room. I never snoop but I haven't had a good feeling about her so who cares ? No one. "Give me more please ! Please ! ." , said some girl inside . It wasn't a good tone

It sounded like she was moaning and begging . I decided to peep . Was that marijuana and cocaine that I just saw ? Yes ! Oh my word !

There's possession of drugs in the

Parker 's home. I need to find Jessica . I began looking for her in her million dollar mansion. This is gonna be hard because there are about hundreds of students inside partying. It wasn't all that I saw. While looking for her I came across the pool.

The students were exchanging drugs , I even saw one of the students drug a young girl's drink , possibly

Jessica's sister.

"Hey stop it ! Leave her alone ." "Hery don't be such a party pooper. NOBODY LIKES A PARTY POOPER! " "Jessica! Where's this girl?

". I just kept screaming but it was pointless. Never in my life had I encounted such a moment where I had felt like my eardrums where about to drop. Except for when I listen to loud music whilst trying to ignore mom who always gives me endless chores. Every one began throwing up and from then onwards things became much worse. The neighbours rang Jessica's doorbell. I was the one who opened. "Where's

Jessica ? " "I don't know

ma'am. " "Keep the volume down or else I will be calling tge c cops! " " That won't be necessary ma'am . "

I don't know where Jessica is. This party is getting out of control.

These seniors were breaking everything.

People where having sex everywhere...I know right . I am not used to seeing all this. I went up stairs and honestly I was shook. Jessica Parker the dictator of my life for the past week was lying around bags of cocaine and there was money everywhere. Now I don't know what to say or think.

I ran down stairs immediately.

"Watch out Laura! " screamed Nora .

"Sorry!

I gotta go home ." Something just ate me up . A sick feeling overwhelmed me. Nora was almost fully undressed.

"Wanna join me Laura ? We could use a hand . "

I wanted to cry so badly . Was this what high school was all about. I decided to call my mother and I did.

"Mom ...I am in trouble please come" " I am on my way sweetie!" When my mom had gotten

to Jessica 's door she arrived with the cops. I began to feel angry , scared…

Why did she call the cops. The police quickly raided the house. The seniors and juniors began to fled like mice . Great stuff! I am officially a nerd. Behold of the girl who decided to call her mom who called the cops to raid a high school party. What a bummer !

Since then I haven't heard from Jessica or anyone after the party. And by the way no one speaks to me anymore as if I had many friends to start of before.


 I often think about that infamous night our mother left. Oh trust me, I don’t recall this unbearable time every day,

But that particular rainy night is something etched in my memory forever. Not a good thing. And here’s the ironic thing that I think about it. My father had a whole different perspective of what happened that fateful night.  I will try and tell the story from my viewpoint as close as possible.  It was a

usual Friday night, and it was raining. My mom was a stay-at-home Mom, and Dad was an insurance salesman.

We typically ordered take-out every Friday from Starlite Pizzeria in town. We would order, A large plain pie,

( they always served their pies with thin crust) and Sausage and Italian hot dogs sandwiches to share.

These sandwiches were on fresh sliced Italian rolls, served with crispy potatoes. No sauce. Anyway this particular evening, My dad had not arrived home yet, and mom drove down to pick up the food. You see, Starlite did not deliver. and we did not drive.

 My younger sister Kerri was ten and I was twelve.

Prior to

Mom leaving she instructed us to set the table as she continued down the steps into the garage and drove off in her navy blue Monte Carlo. The last thing we heard was the garage door closing and silence.

 That’s it. Case closed. Nothing more to tell. All she wrote.  Apparently, as we found out years later, she left to meet a man, her boyfriend a neighbor.

We never had any idea that this was happening. Why would we?

After all, we were only kids. My dad? Well,

that is another story. He knew something was going on. But there would have been no reason to share this information with his daughters. And, we also found out later, she also apparently left our father a note.

She explained the whole thing. The whole sordid story. I never saw the note. Ever. My Dad destroyed it. Ripped it into shreds.  My sister and I had no idea that anything was wrong. Looking back, we had the perfect family.

Or, so we thought. We always thought our parents had the ideal marriage. He worked, she took care of the family and paid the bills. We had the ultimate Christmas every year and celebrated birthdays with lots of presents. Every summer we went down to Cape May and rented a house for 2 weeks and brought Max our dog, a large Golden Retriever. So what happened? Was she crazy? extremely unhappy?

My sister and I never knew. Anything. After Mom left time we were able to continue living at the house, and My Aunt Miranda and Uncle Billy came to live with us. Thanks to them our life continued as normal as normal could possibly be in those circumstances.

My dad never discussed anything with us until we were older and

Kerri was getting ready to be married. A week before the wedding,

Dad decided to let us know what really happened that night.  My dad sat us down in our childhood living room after fixing himself a Scotch and handed us each a

glass of Merlot.

He sat down on that same olive green faded couch that was in our living room forever, and stretched out his long legs, as he sipped his drink.

He explained that he and Mom had not been happy.

He was wrapped up in his work and after leaving her job as a teacher to stay home and raise children,

they lost whatever connection they had to each other. They continued to go through the motions, Working, raising children, holidays,

everything in life but there was no connection. He told us that mom was depressed and being prescribed medications and seeing a

Therapist to guide her in dealing with her everyday life. At this point, I chimed in,

“

If she was unhappy, well, how come she never went back to teaching? I mean after we were already going to school? “ “ Because at this point, she was on meds and I guess it was too late for her to go back to that life. After all, it had been years. She probably felt it was too much for her. Dad continued with the story. He said that they both continued living their day-to-day,

existence until he found out she was cheating on him with one of our neighbors.

He was devastated and gave Mom an ultimatum. He explained that he could deal with her depression and not talking, but cheating, this went above and beyond.

That was more than he could deal with between his work and his daughters, and well, he told her to give up the affair, and he would welcome her back. Perhaps they could go to counseling together, or maybe just work this thing out.

He looked at the two of us

and said “ Your mother said she would think about it .”  At this point in the conversation, Kerri Started to cry. “ Dad! How could this have happened? Right under our noses, she was so alone in all of this !” “ No Kerri, she was not alone. She was with our neighbor, our good friend that we went out together with as a couple. One of the parents of the children that you played with on our block. No!

She was not alone! Her Therapist tried to talk to her, I tried to talk to her !” Then he leaned back on the couch and rubbed his eyes.

“ Perhaps I never should have told you girls this. Maybe I am wrong to be telling this whole story.

Perhaps this is not the right decision.” Kerri and I responded together.  “ No Dad, you were

right to tell us .” I continued as Kerri nodded in agreement.

“We are a

family and we all got through the turmoil and this heartbreaking experience. We should not have any secrets. Thank you for telling us.” But I still have one more question. “ How come we never heard from Mom? Whatever happened that she never reached out

and

we have never been able to contact her?” My father leaned over toward my sister and me and with tears in his eyes

said

softly,

“That is another story

for a different

time .”


1.335 words Renata opened the door to the toilet and pushed her cart inside. The motion detector noticed her and the toilet was suddenly filled in a white light. She sighted, it was almost the end of her shift. She only had this toilet and two offices left before she could go home to her son. She was sure he already ate, he always did. She daily cooks a meal in the afternoon, before she goes to work and het son heats it up in the microwave once he gets home from school. He is usually still up when she gets home, just gaming or chatting with friends. That half hour before her son goes to bed is theirs. They chat or play card games. It is always the best highlight of her day. Her son is a smart boy and gets high grates in school. If he keeps it up, there will be scholarships waiting for him. It will be the only way he is able to go to the university. In the few years that he has left in high school, Renata could never save up enough money to pay for his tuition. She opened one of the stalls in the toilet and got inside. She sprayed the disinfectant all over the seat and the bowl. She took her cloth and wiped the liquid from the seat. She opened the seat and cleaned the underside, at last she cleaned the bowl itself. She closed the lit and looked satisfied at the shiny white bowl in front of her. She smiled. Just three more to go. She closed her eyes for a second and saw the face of her son in front of her. In less than half an hour she would be home. Renata repeated the cleaning ritual twice more and mopped the entire floor of the toilet. She closed the door behind her knowing the light would automatically turn of in a couple of minutes. She turned right and stood in front of the closed door of an office. She held her access pass to the scanner and with a bleep and a click she gained access to the formally locked office. She flipped the light switch and stepped inside. By the sight of it was this one of the very few offices that are used this time of year. Most of the people who formally occupied the other offices now worked from home. She did her standard round of cleaning. She dusted the surfaces, remover fingerprints from desks and doors, emptied the bin and started vacuum cleaning. While the sound of the vacuum cleaner buzzed loudly in her ears she taught about her son again. Since his fathers passing he had never been the same. He had always been a papa’s boy. They did everything together. When he died her son closed himself off from the world. He spend more and more time in his room and closed himself off from almost all his friends. He used to have lots of them, now there were only two left. Even them, he saw less and less. Renata’s husband had walked to the city centre to find the perfect gift for his sons tenth birthday. On his way back, he got hit by a drunk driver and was killed immediately. After that day everything changed. Her husband had always been the main breadwinner in their household. Renata started as a cleaning lady. It didn’t pay much, but it was enough to pay her mortgage and to feed her son. That was everything she needed. Renate bumped to a table while walking backwards, vacuum cleaning. She felt the table move and turned off the vacuum cleaner immediately. She looked at the table. A map was laid on the entire surface, different coloured pawns were laying on top. They were standing before but the bump to the table had caused them to fall. Two of them had even rolled to the ground. Renata held her breath for a second. She taught about what she had to do next. She knew there were no cameras in the offices themselves, but there were in the hallways. So they could see her going in when the would look at the footage. Renata decided to just put the pawn back where they were before and pretend nothing had happened. She flipped them to a standing position and picked up the two that laid on the floor. She couldn’t remember where they were before, so she just guessed and hoped for the best. Quickly she left the office and finished her work. The sooner she was home the better. Marcos held his access pass to the scanner and with a bleep and a click he gained access to his own office. He put his jacket on a chair and his cup of coffee on his desk. He leaned with his hands on his desk and sighted. He had been puzzling with the strategy to save the hostages for more than a day now. These kidnappers were professionals. They had thought about everything. He was at the point to say to his employer: “just give them the money”. He didn’t know if the hostages would be released, but they could at least try. There was no way in. He took a sip from his coffee and took the telephone from his desk in his hand. He swallowed, trying to moisten his dry throat. He decided to look at the map one last time before he called. Marcos put the phone back on the holder and walked over to the table. He noticed something had changed. Someone had been in here. The pawns weren’t on the same spots he had left them the evening before. He looked at their positions. This current strategy wasn’t looked into yet. He played the scenario in his head. It could work. He sat down behind his desk and checked some spots on the map of the museum they had to get into. He double and triple checked the strategy. It would absolutely work. Marcos called his supervisor and explained the strategy. He gave Marcos permission to take further actions. That afternoon the hostages were rescued and nobody was severely hurt. Marcos was praised for his amazing strategy. About a week after the rescuing action Marcos’s conscious started to nibble on him. He didn’t think it was right that he got all the fame while the person who came up with the strategy wasn’t even known. He made his journey to the basement of the office building, this is where the security was settled. He explained the situation and the guard showed him the footage of the hallway that evening. The only one who got into his office after him was the cleaning lady. Marcos figured she was the one with the strategy. Renata was cooking for her son who would eat later that day. She was dressed in some old clothes and an apron. Her hair was tight up on her head in a messy bun. She hummed with the music that was coming from the radio. Suddenly the doorbell rang. She turned off the stove and walked over to the front door. She opened the door and jumped at the sight in front of her. There were four news reporters, several vans and all the people who lived in het street. One of the reporters, a woman, asked her the first question. ‘Gina, caring news live for 2.4 million viewers. Renata, tell us. How did you do it?’ Renata was overwhelmed. She didn’t do anything, at least nothing that she didn’t do any other day. ‘Did what?’ Renata asked confused. ‘Come up with the strategy to safe all those hostages.’ An other reporter, one of the men, said. Renata remembered that the pawns on the map on the table she bumped a few days ago could look like a strategy. At leased if you used all of your imagination. ‘I.’ She startled. ‘I just bumped the table.’


As a child, I used to hate staying with my grandmother. There was never anything fun to do over at her place but, whenever my father had a business trip (which, given his line of work, was quite often), he would take me to stay with her. Reluctantly, I would pack my bag, he would load up the car with some necessary provisions and we would make the eight-hour drive from Sydney down to Melbourne, where she lived in an old house just outside Royal Park. How I would dread every single one of those hours, knowing that each passing mile was bringing me closer to another boring visit. “Don’t look so morose,” my father commanded during one such trip when I was twelve. “It’s only for the weekend. She’s always good to you, isn’t she?” I grumbled, sinking further into the passenger seat, clutching my bag to my chest as if it were a security blanket. Each one of my stays was as drab and uneventful as the last. This one would likely prove to be much the same. Just past noon, we arrived. The green two-story Victorian house on the edge of the park looked even more decrepit and foreboding than I remembered. Gran stepped out onto the porch and planted a pair of wet kisses on each of my cheeks. I wiped them away as she went to give my dad a hug. The entryway appeared to be a gaping maw, ready to consume me at the first opportunity. A few minutes later, I bid my father farewell, watching as his car rounded the corner and disappeared. “I imagine you must be hungry after your journey,” Gran said, beckoning me inside. “Come. I’ve made you some soup.” Rolling my eyes, I heaved my bag into the house and closed the door behind me. My grandfather had passed away years before when I was small. As such, I had only a vague recollection of him, appearing out of the dark recesses of my mind like fragments of a dream one forgets upon waking. Though Gran had pictures of him all over the house, from youth to old age, the man staring back at me was completely unfamiliar. I eyed them tentatively as I followed her into the kitchen. “Your room’s all made up,” she said as she poured hot soup from a pot into a bowl with a ladle. She was referring to the guest bedroom upstairs, which she always reserved for me. “I promise not to be in your hair much this weekend,” she added. “I’ve some gardening to do.” I felt a pang of guilt. She must have sensed my dissatisfaction. Never before had she addressed it, despite me having made it quite obvious during previous visits. Regardless, I mumbled my thanks and ate my soup in silence as she sauntered around the kitchen putting things away and washing the dishes. That night, as I lay in bed, my mind went back to that moment in the kitchen and recalled something else my father had said on the trip over: “You’d better cherish the time you have with her. She won’t be around forever.” A lump formed in my throat as I turned onto my side and shut my eyes, waiting for sleep that never came. The next morning, after breakfast, Gran announced that she would be in the garden until lunch and that, should I need her, to just shout. I nodded, watching as she rose from her chair and left through the front door. In tableau, I saw her disappear behind the rosebushes that lined the front of the house. It was a warm, sunny day and the laughing of a kookaburra came in through the open living room window and filled the place with sound. Not knowing what to do, I trudged upstairs with the intent of getting some reading done. But once atop the staircase, I heard a dull thud coming from the attic above me. Pulling the string, the rickety wooden steps folded out from the ceiling, and I ascended them, curious to find the source of the noise. Sunlight spilled in through cracks in the wall. Little swirling eddies of particles could be seen floating within the rays. It was clear that Gran had not been up there in many years. Cobwebs covered each corner and a thin layer of dust hung over everything like freshly fallen snow. Sure enough, right in the middle of the room, was a ceramic heart-shaped box that had fallen off a small antique cabinet nearby. How it had fallen, I could not guess. Luckily, it had not broken from the impact. Its contents, however, lay scattered all about. As I reached down to pick them up, the more curious I became. Several dried flowers, like those pressed into old books, littered the floor. In conjunction, an Australian military medal was concealed beneath several letters whose edges had been yellowed by time. Their envelopes had return addresses from several far-off places with postmarks from some sixty years prior. Most intriguing of all was the photo of a handsome young man in uniform who I did not recognize. I had grown up seeing pictures of my grandfather as a young man and this was not the same person. It was then that I noticed a folded letter that was partially opened at my feet. Maybe it was the hasty yet thoughtful hand that had penned it that piqued my curiosity. In any case, I gingerly picked it up and unfolded it, reading the words aloud to myself and intrigued to discover that it was addressed to Gran. “ Dearest Rebecca… ” They were daring to venture farther than they had ever been. It was just over three months since the ANZACs had landed at Gallipoli, a tiny dot on the map half a world away from home. In that time, they had slowly made their way to capture the Heights, which overlooked the surrounding peninsula. To capture the Heights meant seizing Gallipoli from the Turks and, therefore, allowing the Allies to push on towards Constantinople, thus driving the enemy out of the war. It was a bold move to be sure, one that was proving damn-near impossible due in large part to the rugged terrain, yet High Command kept urging the men forward. Now, they were due to take the Nek, a tiny strip of land between the Australian and Turkish lines in an attempt to support the New Zealanders who were keeping the enemy busy at nearby Chunuk Bair. Dusk had fallen with night well on its way. Lighting an oil lamp, Private Leslie Jones of Melbourne nestled into a makeshift cubbyhole within the trench. His back pressed against the cold earth, he produced a small tin from his breast pocket, from which he withdrew a pen and piece of paper. He felt it as good a time as any to write a letter to his sweetheart back home, given the advance on the Nek the following day. Despite wanting to divulge everything to her, he thought of choosing his words carefully at first. Of course, he was scared. He always was whenever the company had to advance, for one never knew whether it would be the last time they would be able to do so. As it was, C Company had already lost several men, including a few with whom he had grown particularly close. Attachments, however, were both pointless yet vital to the army, for you had to entrust your lives to each other, yet never knowing when yours or theirs would be cut short. Doing away with formalities, he decided to lay down exactly what was on his mind. “Who are you writing?" “Rebecca,” Leslie replied without even looking up. He instantly recognized the voice that had posed the question. It belonged to Sidney Greene, a fellow C Company private from Broken Hill in the Outback, who now took a seat opposite him atop a pile of sandbags. Sidney whistled and cooed in response, to which Leslie smiled and playfully kicked some dirt his way. “Say hi to the lady for me,” Sidney said with a grin, politely doffing his cap. “That ‘lady’ is my fiancé,” Leslie added. It was the first time he had said it aloud to anyone, surprising himself for revealing it so casually. “She just doesn’t know it yet.” “Going to propose to her, eh?” Sidney added, producing a flask from the right back pocket of his trousers. “I’ll drink to that!” He took a swig before passing it to Leslie, who accepted it with a smile. It was scotch and the familiar, pleasant burn warmed them from within. But the sudden realization of the advance on the Nek weighed heavy over the pair and a pensive silence fell upon them. For what seemed an eternity, the two of them were lost in their thoughts, each wondering whether they would make it out alive. “Hey,” Sidney interjected, holding his flask up as if making a toast. “We’ll be fine, mate.” Leslie smiled in response and returned to his letter, though from the silence that followed, it was clear that neither of them believed it. The men of C Company were awoken some time in the night, when they were told to mobilize to the front line. Just as the sun crested the horizon, they had arrived, in time to see A Company prepare for the advance across the Nek. As always before a skirmish, Leslie’s heart pounded in his chest. Readying his rifle, he searched the crowd for Sidney, who stood a few paces behind him. The two nodded at each other in acknowledgement. “You ready?” Sidney asked upon catching up to him. “Today’s the big day.” “When am I ever ready?” Leslie countered sardonically. The two shared a chuckle, though their expressions turned grave just seconds later. This time, neither of them could find the courage to say anything reassuring. They were now faced with the reality of the situation, and, as always, it terrified them. They watched as A Company braced themselves for the attack. With a blow of their lieutenant’s whistle, they emerged from the trench in an uproar, only to be shot down moments later by Turkish fire. Leslie, Sidney and the men of C Company watched in horror as several bodies flew back into the trench, their corpses riddled with bullets and stained with blood. It was clear that the enemy had the upper hand as far as terrain was concerned, with the resulting offensive slowly proving to be a bloodbath. “For fuck’s sake, mate,” Sidney said, peering through a hole in the sandbags. “It’s a bloody massacre!" Leslie didn’t say a word. A feeling of dread sank deep into the pit of his stomach. He knew, right then and there, that this would be the end. The Australians could only advance so far before being cut down by enemy fire. It was not so much an offensive as it was a death sentence. Reaching into his shirt, he produced the locket that Rebecca had given him upon his departure, which bore her picture within it, and he had worn around his neck ever since. Opening it, he gave it a kiss and mumbled a prayer. “STEADY, LADS!” the lieutenant for B Company shouted as his men made ready for the next wave. Leslie could see that he was pale, no doubt due to the fact that he knew he was leading his men to the slaughter. His shrill whistle filled the air and sent his troops over the lip of the trench. Seconds later, they, too, had all been shot. The pit in Leslie’s stomach turned into full-blown panic as his own commanding officer urged C Company forward. “This is it,” Sidney whispered behind him. “Best of luck, lads,” he shouted over the sound of rifle fire. “Good luck, mate,” he added to Leslie softly, his voice shaky. “Maybe, we’ll be the ones to break through.” All Leslie could do was stare at him blankly, his expression full of fear. Sidney mirrored it, but nodded once more, a gesture that Leslie countered. Finally, the lieutenant’s whistle sounded. Leslie, heart racing and with Sidney in tow, clambered over the edge of the trench. They watched as their comrades were picked off one by one. No sooner had they made it a few feet was Sidney clipped in the head, a spurt of red staining the earth behind him. “SIDNEY!” Leslie shouted, rushing to his mate’s side. But before he could even get there, a sharp, searing pain tore through his abdomen. He fell to the ground. As his vision began to blur, he saw a pool of his own blood rushing up to greet him. He no longer felt any pain. It was as if he had become weightless. The last thing he saw was the locket, which had come off in the tussle, with Rebecca’s monochrome face smiling up at him… “Ginny? What are you doing up here?” Gran stood framed in the entryway. I had been so captivated by the letter that I had not heard her ascend the rickety steps. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I turned to face her. “I’m sorry, Gran,” I whimpered. “I just…” But her eyes widened when she saw the letter in my hand. Gliding across the room, she took it from me without a word. I watched as she read through it, likely for the first time in years. “Who was he, Gran?” I asked. When she finished, her eyes were full of tears. Turning to me, as if she had forgotten I was there, she gave me a warm smile and stroked my cheek. “Bring the box downstairs and I’ll explain,” she said. Once we were seated at the kitchen table, she told me everything. Leslie had been her sweetheart before he was shipped off to fight at Gallipoli during World War One. She had kept every letter and memento he had sent her, saving them in an old heart-shaped box her mother had passed down to her. When she received word from his family that he had been killed in action, she was devastated. After the war ended, Leslie’s parents had given her his medal, the Victoria Cross, which he had received posthumously for his heroism in a previous battle. It would be five years before she would even consider courtship again, when she met my grandfather. When she had finished telling me all this, I rushed to embrace her, the first time I had ever done so since I was little. “Thank you,” she whispered into my hair. “No,” I retorted. “Thank you ." My father shot me a confused/worried look when he picked me up the following day. He appeared even more confused when he saw me wave goodbye to Gran. “Did you have a nice time?” he asked, clearly concerned. I smiled and answered him honestly. “The best.”


Author’s Note: I like this plotline, but I’m not sure if it has enough action or not. Let me know in a comment, please. Also, this is my second story. So, go me, I guess. :D Anyways, I hope that you all enjoy it! “Mom!” Asher, my son, calls. “I’m busy!” I yelled back. “Dad!” I smirk, pleased with myself. My kids have learned that when I say that I’m busy, I’m genuinely busy with my drawing. You see, I am a freelance animator. It’s an exciting job, and I get to work from home. My kids like to “help”, but we all know how that goes. So, I have taught them not to.

I resume my storyboard sketching of a new upcoming movie. The company that I was currently working for had told me that I had to go to the studio and show them what I had finished the next day. Therefore, I was cramming in a whole bunch of work. Anyway, I began scribbling away when my phone blared the theme song of Ghostbusters . I sighed, exasperated, before picking up my phone, putting it up to my ear, and saying hello. “Hi. Is this Kelly Jopky?” Who is this lady? I thought. Her voice sounded familiar, yet I couldn’t tell exactly who it was. Maybe it was the new employee at the aforementioned company. “Uh… Yes. Who is this?” I asked. There was a moment of silence before the woman responded. “Kelly, I-I’m Leylah Lokman,” Leylah responded. Leylah Lokman… not the new employee… not a friend that I know… not any previous coworker… What was she to me? “I’m sorry, Leylah, but I’m still not sure who you are. I don’t mean to rude,” I said. My mind raced, thinking of any Leylah that I knew. Not one person came to mind. “Kelly, I’m your mother. Now, before you hang up, I want you to know that I’m sorry. I should’ve been there for you throughout your life, but I couldn’t take care of you, Kel. I didn’t have a job, the landlord was going to take away my house, and I just didn’t have the right mindset to raise a child. Please, please, please forgive me. I know I don’t deserve it, but… please…” Leylah trailed off. I didn’t say anything. Hot tears rolled down my face. Now I recognized the voice. I remember her voice singing to me when I was first born, and when she spoke softly to me when she dropped me off… --- Five-year-old me shivered in the biting temperatures. I wrapped my coat tighter around my lanky body. Momma walked two steps ahead of me, my tiny legs trying to keep up. Tears began rolling down my face, but they pretty much froze the second they escaped my eyes. I knew what was happening; I just didn’t want it to. “Momma! Why are you taking me to that place? I don’t wanna go, Momma,” I whined. I was practically yelling over the howl of the wind. Momma didn’t respond for a moment. “Kelly Ann, stop asking questions that you don’t want the answers to. Now, hurry up. I want to get you there before they close. It’s already five-thirty,” Momma snapped. She snatched my hand and started pulling me along. The tears came so fast now that they raced down. ‘There’ was Miss Joy’s Hope for Kids. AKA the local orphanage, and from what I knew, there was nothing that had to do with hope there. Momma and I continued our brisk walking, my crying turning into sobbing. The only thought that ran through my mind was: Momma’s leaving me. That thought just raced around my head. I couldn’t get it out. Finally, the two of us reached the doors of the Miss Joy’s. Momma took a deep breath before knocking. --- “Hi, Leylah,” I greet, sliding into the booth across from her. She had invited me to lunch at Olive Garden with her. I was nervous about it. When Leylah had called me before, she had asked me to forgive her. I had avoided the question, changing the subject. Now, I knew that I would have to either forgive her or ignore my mother forever. “Hey, Kel. The breadsticks and salad should be here in a minute. And I didn’t know what you wanted to drink, so I didn’t order you anything,” Leylah said. “Oh, that’s fine.” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. The two of us waited for the server to come before speaking again. I ordered a Diet Coke, then glanced at Leylah. “Look, Kelly, I don’t mean to pressure you or anything, but I want to know if you’ll forgive me. It’s been 32 years, so I know it’s hard, and you probably don’t think I deserve it, but… God, I just want to be able to make up for the time that I lost with you,” Leylah rambled. Everything she said reigned true. I realized that I was being selfish, but I didn’t think she deserved it. It was hard. And I didn’t know what I would do. Countless thoughts dashed around my mind. Unbelievable emotions coursed through my blood. My hands shook. I lightly scratched my cheek, even though it wasn’t itchy. I could feel Leylah’s eyes on my head, but I kept my eyes on an interesting spot on the table. I grabbed my phone and looked at the time, although it was irrelevant. “Leylah… You caused my depression, the bullies that hurt me, the teachers who put me in detention every day. You were the start of all of it. You weren’t there for me, Leylah,” I said. “I know. I know that. And I’m so sorry for that. And I’m hoping that you’ll remember what I did do for you. The good I did when you were little. Please remember,” Leylah pleaded. I shook my head. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Leylah, but I can’t.” Grabbing my purse and phone, I headed out of the restaurant.


Danny wanted nothing more then to fit in with his peers, he would always tell tall tales of great adventures and far off lands; fighting large bears and evil witches, only a courageous duckling like himself would attempt such dangerous feats. His grandmother warned him that one day all of his white lies would catch up to him, like most children his age he never listened. In fact his lies became more and more elaborate, his best friend Terry the turtle started questioning the validity of Danny stories. “I don't care if you believe me Terry, because my real friends know how truly brave I am.” Terry became so frustrate that he stuck is head in his shell just to get away from the conversation. Danny waddled off angrily to confront his friends; hoping that Terry was they only one that did not believe him. Sammy Snail and Billy Beaver where hanging out by the pound discussing what they were going to do that day when Danny came storming up, they glanced at each other with a worried look, they knew exactly what was coming. “What's the matter Danny?” “Nothing, I don't want to talk about it, lets just find something to do as long as we don't include Terry, him and I are no longer friends. I can't believe he called me a liar, you two believe me right?” Sammy and Billy had no clue what fib he was talking about ,there was so many that they just nodded their heads in agreement and continued on with there walk. “The bear was huge over twelve feet tall, he would have been a nice bear but he was controlled be a vile witch.” Danny was unaware that every time he told the story the bear just kept getting bigger, the witch last week she was part of a separate adventure that he and his grandfather had embarked upon. Sammy and Billy just shook their heads, Danny lied so much that he could no longer keep his stories straight. Finally Billy had enough, if Danny didn't stop lying he could not continue to be his friend. “Danny you need to stop all of these lies.” He put his head down in shame; “I feel like I failed as a friend because we have let you go on day after day. I know you miss you grandfather; by lying about all the things that you have done together takes away from the real memories of him. Plus there is no way a little duckling could conquer a twelve foot bear, which by the way last week was only nine feet. You can hardly beat me and I am just a cub, if you don't stop this no one is going to want to be around you. ” Danny stood there with tears in his eyes as he watched his friends walk away. He ran home as fast as his little feet could carry him, by the time he got there he was more angry then sad, how dare his friends question the truthfulness of his stories when they weren't there to witness it. His grandmother was out on the deck beating the old living room rug, he coughed as waddled into the house. “Little one why so upset?” She put both wings around him and held him close. “Oh, cheese and pinwheels grandma I am so, so....” His grandmother chuckled softly as she watched him stomp his little feet. “Now if you done throwing a temper tantrum take a deep breath and think about what you are trying to say.” He took a few calming breaths but before he could get the words out there was a loud bang at the door. It was Franny fox, she owned the bakery two doors down. Her eyes where wide with fear and she was shaking like a leaf. “Donna quick we must hide all the little ones we are being attacked by savage bears.” At first Danny couldn't believe his luck, he was going to make his friends believe once and for all that he was a very brave duckling, if he did this his lies would then be truth. He promised himself that after he defeated the bear that he would come clean to his friends and hoped they would still like him even though he never did any of those things. Billy and Sammy had been his best friends for years for some reason that was never enough, he had to be friends with every one and if they thought the was brave they would want to hang out with him. “I am brave, when I am done with my mission they will all see that my stories where no lies but predictions of things to come.” He grabbed his wooded sword and shield and ran right past Franny and his grandmother. The bears where terrorizing all of the animals, Terry and Billy where hiding behind a large rock when Danny found them. “Don't worry I am Danny the brave, I will vanquish these evil foes.” “Please don't, just admit that you are lying we won't be made.” Billy tried to pull Danny behind the rock but Terry stopped him. “No, Danny if you are truly a brave a fearless duckling here is your chance to prove it.” He pointed towards a very large grizzly bear that was trying to catch a bunny for dinner. Danny took a deep breath and strutted up to the menacing animal. He thrust his mighty sword into the massive animals rear end, the only thing he accomplished was annoying the very hungry bear who had just lost his lunch. “You just cost me my lunch boy, I would eat you instead but you would just be a tease for my stomach.” Danny stood his ground and stabbed the bear again. “Listen hear you big brute, I am Danny the brave.” The bear picked Danny up with his very large paws, he also noticed the one of the bears claws was a big as he was. Billy jumped out from the behind the rock and yelled; “Uncle Brutus that enough, I think that  Danny got the point.” “Good because I am not going to do this again.” Brutus looked at Danny very seriously; “I hope you learned your lesson about telling lies. You friends and the rest of these fine people have became so tired of your lies that they had to call in the big guns, if you are confused kid that is me. If you think these smart people are fooled by your lies you are kidding yourself, they just want you to come clean with them and yourself. He put Danny down, the whole town had gathered around waiting for the tiny duckling to say something. Danny shared sheepishly at the crowed, for the first time in his life he saw how is lies affected people. “I am very sorry for all the tall tales that I have told, It was silly for me to think that you all believed what I was saying. I thought if I wasn't just this boring little duckling that you would think that I was cool and brave. I not any of those things; Sammy, Billy and Terry I am sorry that I didn't think your friendship was enough for me. I don't blame you for hating me, I don't blame all of you for hating me. I promise for this day forward that I will always be truthful to my friends and neighbours. From that day on Danny never told a lie again, he came to realize that his friends and family loved him not because they though he was brave or adventurous, they loved him because he was Danny.


    “Where are you Charlie?”      “Over here! Hurry Luna!”

     Charlie and Luna met three years ago at camp Twalka, a camp for kids with Tourette’s. They’ve been inseparable ever since.

     Tourette’s is an incurable disease. It causes them to shout out words they don’t want to. It forced their body to do movements that can hurt them, or worse, others.    These uncontrollable movements and sounds are called “tics.”           Three weeks ago, they became separable. Charlie fell in love. He couldn’t constantly be at her side anymore. He had another girl to care for. This is where it all went wrong. I have nearly 2,000 tics a day. Charlie usually has around 200 daily. Our tics seem to be the same often. We will suddenly wink at each other, shout the same profanities, and more. We often end up in similar situations. People getting mad at us, not understanding, we depend on each other. The only one who truly understands everything I go through is Charlie.       I keep asking myself, “why do I feel this way?” I’m not supposed to feel this way. I’ve been his go to girl for almost three years now. But she stole that from me. Seeing her stupid, perfect hands intertwine with his. Her way too big lips, pressing softly on his cheek. Her gentle voice calling him baby, like some desperately-

desperate loser. Ugh, I have no reason to feel this. I can’t be jealous. He’s just a friend. He always has been. Always rolling his glossy blue eyes at me, the sparkle in his smile when I crack a joke, it’s always been him and me. Charlie and Luna.       We’ve never fought. Of course we have cursed each other out and hurt each other. Those tics are the ones we hate the most. We have to be careful. But holding in a tic is more painful than anything else. The worst was when we were hiking on our trip. We were going slowly through a rich patch of plants. It was a beautiful slot canyon in Saint George Ut. His elbow dug straight into my side pushing me into the wall. There was a gap in the wall where a chunk of dirt laid. Along with the cactus that left it’s spikes deep into my hand as I tried to catch myself from falling.

     It had been three years since we crossed pinkies and kissed our thumbs sealing our friendship. We commemorate each year by meeting at our spot. The spot we would watch the stars, devour pizza, and laugh our heads off. I got everything set up. The pizza, the blankets, pillows, everything we could ever need. She came. (The girl we don’t say the name of.) Charlie’s stupidly perfect stupid girlfriend. I pulled him aside.

     “Why did you bring her here?”      “She doesn’t trust you.”      “Don’t you trust me?! What did I ever do to you guys?”      “She doesn’t want me here alone with you. That’s all. Can’t we just enjoy the night?”      “Whatever.”

     We listen to our music while they cuddle tightly together. She laid between us. She is always between us. She started getting very frustrated with my tics. I can’t help it. I “accidentally” elbowed her.

     “Yikes!”      “Noooooooope!”      “Flick you!”         They all came out, and more. Welcome to my daily life.

     Of course she was too much of a baby to stay there. She insisted they went to be alone for a while. It felt like hours ‘till they finally came back. I saw the shadow of a girl coming towards me. But no Charlie. I rubbed my eyes to ensure I wasn’t hallucinating. They are never apart. She walked by and went straight to her car. Flicking her middle finger up in my direction as she went. I looked out over the land trying to see Charlie down in the ditch they went to. But, the land was covered in trees. It was useless. Suddenly, a wail pierced my ears.

     “Where are you Charlie?” I yelled out.

     “Over here! Hurry Luna!” He wailed back.

     I followed the sound of his voice. Running so fast down the steep slope I nearly biffed it face first. My flashlight barely lit the ground in front of me. But I saw it. The half-sharpened stick laid before him. His leg drenched in blood. While a knife stuck firmly in his thigh.

     “Charlie? Did she do this to you?”      “It was a tic. We fought and we broke up. My emotions went out of control. I was sharpening the stick and a strong tic hit me. I couldn’t hold it in, it happened too fast and I stabbed myself. It was all an accident.”

     Charlie began getting up off the log he previously rested on. He started getting dizzy.

      “No Charlie, stop moving. I’m calling for help.”      He fell. Right into my arms. I fell onto my knees holding him. I didn’t realize how much blood he had already lost. I got my phone out and began dialing 911 before he grabbed my hand and stopped me.

     “Wait. I have to tell you why we broke up.”      “That can wait!” I exclaimed.

     He didn’t listen.

     “I love you Luna. I’ve loved you for three years. I shouldn’t have done it. But I wanted your jealousy. I wanted you to love me. I needed your love. I wanted you to want me, to wish it was your lips pressed against mine, not hers. I can’t go a day without you Luna.”      “You don’t need to. I’ve loved you since that second we kissed our thumbs. Now shut up and let me take care of you!”      I rip a piece of my shirt and wrap it around the knife sticking out of his leg. While he rests in my lap I call for help. Five minutes until they arrive. The only thing that has ever helped my tics lessen, is music. I can’t afford to risk hurting him while he’s in my lap. I stroke his face while singing our favorite song. My slow, soft voice breaks as I try holding in tears. The red and blue lights flash on top of the hill. His eyes flutter closed.


Ivy awoke slowly and lay still for several minutes. Like other mornings, it wasn’t a fight to leave the pillows. There was no heaviness. There was a dream, soft and calm like this space between dawn and daylight.  She lingered at the edge of awake, wanting to let the dream percolate. It felt real and important. Soft navy twilight. A harbor? Calm twinkling water. A solid man with broad shoulders covered in a cozy wool sweater the vibrant emerald shade of sitka spruce. She couldn’t see his face except for a hint of stubble. Tall, muscular, sturdy. A feeling of deep comfort and expanse, like the whole world was open wide, but cradling these two lovers. The profound stillness of a long-awaited embrace. It was a Taylor Swift song personalized for her.

She tucked the dream away, filing it some place between urgent and wistful and rose with purpose, ready to fill her day with something other than heartache. Ivy’s grandmother had always told them growing up that love has to unfold. It stays bunched up at first, compact and tight. That feeling of wanting to burst. And when it expands, it has to unfold. Each fold presents differently. It can be beautiful like a crisp napkin stored in an antique pine chest. Or it can be an agonizing barefoot walk on splintered wood. Often, it is both. Sometimes it is getting a splinter from opening that pine chest to retrieve gingham napkins for a picnic. Like today. The fire in the hearth was glowing in its pool of white clay, sending flickers of light into the nook off the kitchen in her grandmother’s house. She loved being back here, within these walls that had always held the promise of evening lullabies and dreams that lingered. Ivy approached the round table with the heirloom chest of tableware finery. Her favorites were the dainty silver teaspoons and the crocheted tea cozy, neither of which she’d need for today. Singing along to Taylor Swift’s ‘ Death by A Thousand Cuts,’

Ivy reached for the gingham picnic napkins. She brushed the outside of her pinky finger against a snag on the pine chest. She immediately clutched her hand to her heart. The sensation took her out of her cocoon. Deep sadness drifted in. No meals would she enjoy with Connor in this kitchen. No more picnics under the willow tree. No family games or long conversations over hot chocolate. A memory came back to her in that moment. It was her first Christmas with ex-fiance. An unexpected snowstorm kept her from driving to Washington for the holidays her first year at university and Connor, a friend of a friend, insisted that she spend Christmas with his family.

“It won’t be weird. The more the merrier, I promise,” he’d said. And it was merry. And not even a little bit weird. She was just one of five strays at the gathering. His parents lived in a classic Victorian gingerbread house, framed perfectly in shining icicles. Dainty flakes dusted the windows like powdered sugar. Tufts of soft snow draped the lawn in smooth swirls like marshmallow frosting.

The snow was just the right texture for building snow forts and snow men. All the young kids were building a walk-in snow globe fort. Fine details were being hammered out by adults in lively conversation and the children were cheerfully bickering over how large to make the snow bricks. There was so much laughter and cheer.

She noticed Connor’s nephew on the far side of the yard, a sullen demeanor cutting into his tiny frame. This sweet boy had drawn welcome pictures when she first arrived, complete with pink heels and a crown. He was worried Ivy and the others didn’t have enough presents under the tree so he wrapped up some of his stuffed animals. He was a sensitive kid and it was clear he was feeling left out.

 Connor arrived by his side first. When she made it over he said, “Me and Jake are going to make a really special snowman. Can we recruit you to help us?” It turned out to be a beautiful snowman.

Looking back at that memory, she felt like the snowman they built looking into the snow-globe. She felt like she should belong, but it was someone else’s perfect life. Connor would be a great dad, but it felt removed from her. She wondered if it was because she hadn’t been conditioned to expect to find that or value it perhaps, or if it was because Connor wasn’t her golden future. Or because it felt too polished. She felt like she was tiptoeing towards a future with a family to cherish, but now that she wasn’t with him, the confusion circled around her in dizzying swirls.

After all, she didn’t grow up thinking she was supposed to want to be a dedicated wife and mother, to homestead or iron her husband’s shirts and knit baby clothes or can peaches. She was supposed to want to build her profession and travel the world volunteering in her off-time. She was supposed to be self reliant and rational, a dedicated activist to all worthy causes. But meeting Connor started to unravel those binds. She had never felt this undone before. The smell of melting chocolate brought her back to her intentions, into the sunlight dancing with the hearth flames on the marble hutch. She was testing out picnic recipes. She’d need to hurry over to stir the brigadeiro, a Brazilian chocolate dessert that was a crowd favorite at Connor’s family gatherings. His mother had warned her to keep constant watch on it or it would burn. Ivy missed Connor’s vibrant family and the culture that took her in. She felt another tinge.

Sweet Breath. In and out.

She’d find another Taylor Swift song to sing along to because she would not let today be a death by a thousand cuts just because of a breakup. She’d had heartbreak before and went traveling the world after each time, but now she felt that insular need to grow a community. She needed to root and gather. There was joy to be had, family to love, beginnings to grow, and for now— an early morning breakfast to fuel her for the new dreams that were marinating.


When I was little girl, I didn't want to be a firefighter because I considered that their big ladder on their big red truck was way too short to reach for the stars. When I was little, I wanted to become an astronaut. The vastness of space fascinated me, and from the age of five, I knew by heart the eight planets of the solar system, nine, if we counted Pluto. This obsession shaped my life until I was ten years old. My parents were very happy, because, thanks to this superb carrot (without the stick), they made me learn everything they wanted. " An astronaut must speak English ! " : At seven I spoke it correctly, at eleven I obtained my first B2 english certification, and today, at sixteen, i think to be near the top. An astronaut was obviously, for my parents, a woman with multiple gifts. In addition to French and English, she had to speak Russian or Chinese. As I have slightly slanted eyes, I naturally choose Chinese. I don't regret the intensive learning of these two major languages, they allowed me, via the Web, a terrifying opening on the world.  So for example, after the first and pleasant Chinese romantic-historical series, I quickly became aware of the socio-political reality of the Chinese people, who will soon make "1984", Orwell's masterful work, look like a kindergarten children's tale ! The-multiple-woman-of-the stars was playing a musical instrument : I learned to play clarinet. The-multiple-woman-of-the-stars, who was bored between two missions, played chess with her fellow teammates: so I also played chess where I became, until the yellow vests and COVID-19 crisis, five times Champion of Burgundy. I liked the-multiple-woman-of-the-stars very much, until day when... until the day when the-multiple-woman-of-the-stars cowardly abandoned me. The drama scene was played out by the ophthalmologist, the man skilled in the art, who was also responsible for the vision of military pilots, announced to me, sadly, that I should henceforth wear mole glasses and forget the stars. At that moment, he was right, my eyesight was blurred, but it was because I was crying. At home, we never spoke of the-multiple-woman-of-the-stars again, and she, also disappointed, never called me back either.  As soon as the sky closed its doors to me, I had to quickly find a reason for living. Of course, Earth did not have the majesty of the vastness of space, but I still thought I would find my place. Determined, I studied the world around me. I was learning quickly and just as fast, doubt came over me. With amazement, I became aware of the duality of all the state and media discourse of all the societies and cultures constituting the men of this planet. I lived in a world where lying was erected into a subtle art that had to be sublimated. All is well "Madame la Marquise" ! There is no global warming linked to human behavior, "just climate change, cyclical and quite natural": dixit, peremptory and proudly standing in front of his Hummer, my professor of Life Sciences and Earth! For a year or two after I turned ten, I still hesitated: Yes, No, who was right or wrong? But there are none so deaf as those who will not hear and so I realized: my world was far from being Heaven but indeed, a perfect Hell.  I'm sixteen today, and I could for hours, tell you, gloomily, all about this one. Moreover, I am taking as my own the speech of September 23, 2019, of Greta Thunberg at the UN, which I also translated into French and reinterpreted on YouTube. I totally agree with her, down to the comma. However, since this speech, today, nothing has changed except that the oil companies have achieved the feat of refreezing the permafrost that was melting, just the width of their trucks, to access the last liters of oil from the Antarctic! You adults, you leave us a paradoxical world. On one hand you naively try to lie to us, it's stronger than you, and on the other you leave at our free disposal, through the Web, all the information necessary for the appreciation of the reality of our world. The greatest scientists, poor wolves howling at the Moon, signing multiple petitions with their blood, for more than forty years have been warning you of the danger, and even worse, precisely from the tipping point, this point of no return where we are already! The world, irretrievably, has been going mad for over a decade, and now the seers are all blood red. Thus, today, the haves, eager for scarcity and the last images of the end of a world, flock to admire on a luxury cruise, the inexorable and shattering disappearance of the last icebergs ... The less rich, in a unconscious frenzy, fall back on credit to the purchase of monstrous 4x4 or SUV, asking themselves as the only existential question, the potential answer to the difficult choice of color, always metallic, of their rolling aberration... Of rage, the glaciers, murdered, pouring out one last time with a crash in their thousand-year-old beds before disappearing forever... The oceans are also dying by an excess of carbon dioxide, and inside, the crabs which are now bathing in this far too acidic salinity, lose their shells and all die as well with, fraternal, their close neighbors: all the crustaceans and corals... The animal world is not spared: in less than only fifty years, a tiny breath in the History of Humanity, we have "lost" two thirds of the "Wild" Life of our planet and the remaining third is truly in agony. Does Humanity in its arrogance believe that it can do without our brothers the Animals? Nothing is less sure !  I know that many right-thinking adults reading this text will be annoyed and even exasperated by this black and peremptory reading and I also know that this alignment of words, this series of jarring sentences, will not have, as usual, no impact if not maybe, if this news wins an award, sacrifice a few more trees for its print publication. I have often wanted to participate in a number of similar literary challenges or as a very young adult you are offered to foresee a probable future from our present, not very bright. The problem is that the majority of these challenges rejected outright, in their regulations, a pessimistic sprawl of non-solutions for a lost future. Obviously, I do not wish to participate in this kind of antics. The biggest mistake, for me, of the men of this world, therefore adults in the majority, is that they always think they can erase with a wave of a magic wand their accumulated errors. This is obviously totally wrong. We are already and irremediably in an alternative of no return. Twenty or fifteen years ago, the most knowledgeable scientists predicted a double or quits for the survival or death of our societies at a deadline of "only" a century. Today, in 2021, we must face the facts: things are racing, and a total breakdown of the system in the next thirty-forty years is a certainty.  The rulers of this world, the past Trump the Bolsonaro, the Lukashenko, the Putin, the Kim Jon Un, the Narendra Modi (I would not speak here of Xi Jinping because it is not unlikely, because poor, that I will do my higher education in China in a few years) , disturbing with cynicism and stupidity, are dictators that the worst science-fiction scenarios of the last fifty years would not have dared to invent. These "men" of power, are for me, the world sign of a great ambient unease, and for us young people, in general, the expression of a great astonishment and of an even greater suspicion towards of the mental and intellectual state of the majority of adults on this planet.  In this rapid agony of our world, I know that I have no other choice than to undergo a fight lost in advance, with nevertheless, as only motivation in this ordeal, the quality displayed of a dignity in the face of Chaos, which I will have to impose until my death... May God help me! Roxanne-Lou AMINIAN, 03/2021


Under normal circumstances, Enzo wouldn’t talk to strangers on elevators. He would lean against the cold metal, gripping the bronze handle to the point of white knuckles, and hum along to the cheesy music under his breath.

But these weren’t normal circumstances.

He entered the platform, his bulking figure taking up almost half of the space. Cradling the bag of pistachios with one hand, he used the other to type in the floor number. As the doors were closing, he heard a grunt from behind them.

A thin, scrawny man skittered into the elevator just before the doors slid into place. The man had a gaunt face with an uncontrollable case of quavering. In his hand, he dragged a big black trash bag. He cleared his dry throat and turned away. A shinier version of himself appeared in the gray metal before him. And, despite Enzo’s disgust, he hugged the trash bag close to his chest.

Enzo was a statue, sizing up the man from three feet away. He tossed another pistachio into his mouth, the loud crunch bouncing off the walls. Floating uselessly around the elevator was the Pink Panther theme song, which Enzo thought was very fitting. Considering the rat man across from him was probably holding stolen goods.

Throwing pistachio after pistachio into his mouth, Enzo finally noticed the man staring at him with his snack, licking his dry lips every so often.

Enzo was suspicious of strangers, but he wasn’t gonna let him starve.

“Here,” Enzo said, flinging a hazel seed in his direction.

The man caught it in his wrinkled hands, devouring it and then licking up the excess salt. He was too invested in the small kindness to say thank you.

Enzo shifted on his feet. “So when’s the last time you’ve eaten?”

“Not long ago,” the man stuttered, and Enzo realized he was actually younger than he appeared.

“Why are you here?” Enzo asked, just as the elevator jerked to a stop and the music cut out like somebody had muted the world.

The man cursed clearly, not bothering to give Enzo an apologetic look. He inched over to the array of buttons, randomly punching them with his palm. None of them lit up. He groaned, returning quickly to his black plastic bag which he had left unguarded.

“You’re a thief, aren’t you?”

The man ignored Enzo once again, banging his fists against the elevator. “Touché,” he muttered, but it was lost in the hopeless pounds for help.

“What’s in the trash bag?” Enzo asked, his eyes glued to it.

The man turned to face him, beads of sweat dripping down his face. “Help me. The power is out. We need to make noise.”

Enzo dropped a pistachio that was headed for his mouth. “What? Really?” he strode over to the man, slamming his outstretched hands on the metal. “ Help !” he screamed, “ Help, help, help !”

The man covered his ears and scrunched up his nose. They were stuck.

An hour later, both pairs of hands were sore, and they were almost out of pistachios. They lay at the bottom of the elevator, sprawled out. Enzo’s ginormous build next to the man’s tiny one.

By then, Enzo was convinced he was going crazy. His hand was intertwined with the other man’s. “So what’s your name? Mine is Enzo.”

“Enzo,” the man echoed, “my name is Logan.”

Enzo frowned, “I’ve heard that name before.”

“Have you?” Logan asked, biting down on one of their last seeds.

Enzo was quiet. All he could think about was the dull elevator ceiling, too-salty pistachios, and his large hand holding Logan’s shriveled one. He thought about his life, and how great it was going to get. But now they were stuck in a small elevator, headed nowhere, and they were probably going to die.

“You’re new to this city,” Logan noticed.

Enzo sighed, “Yeah. I was just moving in. To this building, actually.”

“Hmm,” Logan picked excess pistachio out of the crevasses in his mouth. “But you were headed to Mr. Jones’ office. The last floor. Why?”

Enzo’s eyebrows raised slightly at Logan’s observations. “I’m about to pick up my key.”

Logan smiled. “I’m about to drop off my key.”

“You’re leaving the city?”

“Yeah. I came here with big dreams. It’s been three years, and I’ve accomplished nothing at all. Moving back in with my parents.” Logan bit his lip, grasping a handle of the trash bag.

Enzo blinked slowly. “So what’s in the bag?”

“My stuff.”

“Oh.” Enzo couldn’t believe he thought this guy was a criminal before. “Don’t leave,” he blurted out before his tongue could catch the nonsense. Caring about strangers was probably one of the side effects of starvation. He honestly couldn’t think at the moment.

A smile stretched on Logan’s lips. “I have to leave.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Nope.”

“Shut up.”

Logan ended the conversation with his arms folded across his chest.

Loud voices called Enzo out of his sleep. He couldn’t remember falling asleep, but his hand was still twisted with Logan’s, who was snoring loudly.

“Can you hear us?” someone shouted from beyond the elevator.

Logan twitched awake. Enzo’s jaw was dropped open.

“Yes, we can hear you!” he called.

Logan’s eyes were wide, although he was still groggy. “Saved?” he asked, yawning.

“Saved,” Enzo confirmed, getting to his feet. He helped Logan up too.

The voice came on again. “This is the city fire department. We’re here to help. What we need you to do is try and push the doors apart. We’ll be pushing from the other side. If there is anyone who should not be pushing because of injuries, we ask you to just stay still.”

Both Enzo and Logan pushed. It wasn’t enough.

“Step back, Logan,” Enzo commanded.

Logan refused.

Enzo picked him up by the back of his shirt and set him down next to the trash bag. Logan wailed like a child.

He then rammed into the doors and used his thick fingers to pry them open. They squeaked and metal scraped against metal. Finally, the doors slid aside.

Logan yelped, scurrying out of the elevator with his bag, past the firefighters, and onto the marble ground. He kissed it repeatedly.

Enzo wiped sweat off his forehead and stepped outside the elevator. A fireman grabbed his arm and led him to a corner. “Here,” he handed him bottled water. “You okay? We got the power working again.”

Enzo inhaled slowly. He nodded, but was actually feeling the opposite. Heading over to Logan, he grabbed the tiny man’s arm. “Let’s go.”

“Wait,” Logan said, standing up. “You’re here to collect the key for apartment 17A, right?”

Confusion crossed Enzo’s face. “How’d you—”

“Here,” Logan put his palm flat on Enzo’s and he could feel something small and metal. A key.

The realization dawned on Enzo a moment too late. “I’m moving into your old apartment.” He exhaled in an unnecessarily rushed way.

“The sink leaks,” was all Logan said before hauling his trash bag into another vacant elevator.

“Wait!” Enzo exclaimed, darting forward to stop him.

But Logan had already pressed the button. His smile was faraway, and it disappeared as soon as the elevator doors clicked close.