The two men are in the small house. One of them is slumped against the wall. He can’t move much. The one that stands has a black beard that has been stained with blood and puss. He holds a bloody axe in his right hand. His chest is heaving. It is the slumped man’s blood and puss that is in his beard. The sun is setting. The orange glow is bitter as it yawns through the old house. It is cut to shreds by windowpanes and door frames. “Hey,” says the one on the floor, “I got some cigarettes I’ve been saving for this shit. Still got your lighter?” Standing nods. “Where are they?” “Breast-” slumped over wheezes for a moment. His teeth begin to glint red. They are the colour of wine. “Breast pocket,” he managed. Once they’re both lit up, standing checks his watch. He breaths out. His beard feels heavy. It’s like some creature has crawled up his front and hooked onto his face. Slumped over cackles, “don’t forget the gun.” “I won’t forget the gun,” standing bares his teeth. They are yellow. One is missing. Standing is shivering. Then he says, “it’s only got one bullet left.” “Fine. Let’s…let’s use a different word. Don’t le-leave with…without giving me the gun. And it doesn’t matter. I only need one.” Standing’s hands are shaking now. The hatchet is still clutched tightly in his rectangular, dull fingers. It is like it is welded to his palm. He checks his watch one more time. He makes sure that slumped over can’t see the face. The orange glow begins to wither. The shadows begin to smother it out. Slumped over knows time is running low. His eyes drift to the gun lying on the nearby kitchen counter. He looks at standing. “Check the cupboards before you go.” “Already done.” Slumped over chuckles, and it becomes a strangled cough. Blood and puss leak through his teeth and stain his cigarette. “Nice.” Both men sit there. Standing doesn’t go to give him a new cigarette. Instead, he shakes. His exhausted, red eyes roll around in their sockets. At some point, he put the hatchet down. Clutched in his fingers is a golden crucifix on a chain. Slumped over said something. It sounds like a cars motor ticking. “What?” Standing looks at him. He doesn’t move. He sits. He shakes. “The world was easier when it was flat,” slumped over manages. He smiles again. His cigarette falls to the floor. It almost looks like the descending evening is cutting it in two. “Like…you remember, whe-whe-when you would read those picture-picture books as a kid,” his eyes are glassy now. They twist around the room, and for a moment, it looks as though slumped over can see ghosts. Standing clutches his crucifix tighter. “And those…those books, they showed the world…” he blinks and with strength that seems impossible, he lifts his hands like a half-assed Nazi salute, “flat.” Standing looks at the gun. He still shakes, and the gun is sitting there on the counter like a demon, like the devil that sits on your shoulder, mocking him. Slumped over’s arm is frozen. Finally, it drops. “Flat. And the sun would drift over everything, and then eventually fall over the edge. It was easier. Because you could…there was an end to it, you know?” The evening light is almost gone now. Standing clicks his neck. When he puts his crucifix back on, the little gold icon gets tangled in his beard. Slumped over is still talking, but standing doesn’t notice. All that he has left of is caught in the tendrils of this creature that crawled up his front and latched onto his face. Once it was black as night, but now it is bathed in the blood that he drank from another man, this demon that holds his faith in its crimson claws. He can’t help but moan, and he snatches at it, wrenching and pulling at his hair and the chain, and the orange light is almost gone, and his watch is almost at six o’clock. The chain snaps. The crucifix falls. “I have to go,” standing bursts out. Slumped over looks up at him. His skin is waxy, his lips are dried. They peel with scabs of blood and puss. Standing grabs his hatchet. Forgive me father. He turns to go. “The gun,” slumped over manages, “give me the gun.” For I have sinned. Standing turns around. He grabs the gun, and he drops it into slumped over’s lap. “Th-thank you…I know what this means. I know how hard it is for you.” Understand why I did this Lord; I had no other choice. Standing walks out. His crucifix is forgotten on the floorboards. It is stained with slumped over’s blood and puss. The door closes behind him. The night sky has coated the orange afternoon with darkness, and stars blink into existence. When he was a child, his mother used to tell him that the stars were angels. Until now, that had always filled him with such joy. Father, I understand that you test us mortals. He hears something hit the front door of the house. It thuds the same way that a slab of meat does on a kitchen counter. Seconds later, a second thud, then a third, and then the thuds are overlapping each other, and then the demented moans of the undead crescendo into the black night. They coat the silence of the night, like the blood of another man coating standing’s beard. The door collapses with an almighty sound beneath twitching, vindictive corpses. Whether it’s his imagination, or if he can actually hear it, the moans are punctuated by the sound of the gun being cocked. Understand father, I tried my best. I did everything lord, I tried to suck the infection from his body, I did all that a mortal man could. And then, the sound of an empty gun clicking, like a demon spitting venom. Standing opens his hand. The last bullet glistens golden in the moonlight, just like his crucifix used to glow. When he closes his hands over the bullet, his fingers look like the elongated claws of the damned in the dark. He remembers what his mother used to say: “God created your body for you. It is not yours to damage, to alter, and above all, it is not yours to kill. Suicide is a sin.”


August 18, 2020 It’s official. I have decided to set off to Xi’an by train, boat, car, whatever mode of transportation there is available to go on an archeology trip with Professor Langley to discover the secret behind the tomb of the Jade Empress. It’s funny how a month ago how I was still contemplating about the whole situation when I sat down with the good ol’ prof to talk about relics from Xi’an. The next thing I knew the professor had gone from talking about ancient relics and artifacts to telling me about the great discovery of the infamous Jade Empress’s tomb. “It’s just astonishing, and perhaps one of the greatest discoveries in archeology! You must come on this trip this time; it is a sight that you, my friend are not going to want to miss.” Gushed the professor, excitement evident in his eyes. I winced, knowing the last time I agreed to going on one of the professor’s archeology trips, how it turned from a peaceful trip at first to battling creatures like Candle Snakes, Vampire Beetles, and Human Faced Birds to survive. Thanks to my previous experiences as a grave robber and my wits, me and the prof were able to survive. Others of our party weren’t so lucky. Either smashed, eaten, or torn to pieces, the members of our party dropped like flies, leaving only me and the prof as the only survivors. If this trip down to the Jade Empress’s tomb was going to be anything like our last one, I absolutely was not going to go. “Prof, if this trip down to the Jade Empress’s tomb is going to anything like the last time-” “Of course not, I guarantee you it’s not going to be anything like Xuquetala’s Temple; I did my research.” “It better be. We almost lost our lives down there in that tomb. I still haven’t recovered from the amount of physical activity we had to do to keep our heads on. After what we went through, I’m not sure if I’m ready to go down another tomb this soon.” “My dear old friend, I assure you, there will not be any traps or mechanisms.” “You said that the last time when we went down that temple.” “If I am wrong, I will allow you to take some artifacts that you can sell in your shop.” “Deal.” And just like that, I found myself sitting on a train sharing a bunk bed with the prof, who is currently taking a nap. The prof had explained to me that we would first take the train to New York City before taking a plane to Beijing, China and then taking a bus to Zhejiang and then we are meeting our designated guide and going via car to Xi’an where we would meet up with the rest of the archeology team. The prof said the archeology expedition into the Jade Empress’s tomb would be more than a month in total and that our trip down to the Empress's tomb would be smooth as downing sake. I couldn’t help but think that this trip is too coincidental. Several days ago, my good buddy Chatterbox had gone off to China to earn some “big money” from a job he accepted. I pestered him for several hours trying to squeeze some information about his employers, but it was like trying to squeeze blood from a turnip. Even more strange, my Uncle Rosalind had gone off to China to take care of some “family business”, which left me, the heiress of the family, nothing to do except mind my antique shop and find something to do. Despite my family’s wishes for me to stay out of the family business and settle down and have children to carry on the family lineage, I was determined to prove to them that a woman could make her own way of the world and be just as good as a male relative of the family; particularly my Uncle Rosalind, who was infamous for his grave robbing skills. Uncle Rosalind did not agree to take me under his tutelage at first, but after months and months of trying to prove myself to him, he finally relented under the condition that I keep the fact that he was training me in the ways of grave robbing a secret from the elders of the family. So, at the age of twelve, every day after school, I underwent several hours of training for the next six years, until on the day of my eighteenth birthday, I secretly decided I was old enough and had enough experience to go and explore a tomb by myself. My uncle was furious when he found out and punished me with extra training for a week saying that I was not ready to go down a tomb and that he will decide when I am ready. That day eventually did come two years later, when my uncle brought me along to explore the tomb of a Qin Dynasty noble, which was anything but an ordinary tomb as we avoided traps, mechanisms, and mutated creatures beyond our imagination. We managed to come out alive, but that was the last time I would go down a tomb until four years later, when my uncle contacted me again. By that time, my shop was in a comfortable position as I had earned quite a bit of profit. And so, my adventures with Uncle Rosalind resumed, up until I met Chatterbox and Ace. My uncle had also decided that I did not need his tutelage anymore as I proved to be “a grave robber as good as himself, perhaps even better.” The three of us had explored many tombs together and encountered many weird and strange things. We never spoke a word of it to anyone and vowed to keep what we saw to ourselves. I ended up writing my experiences in a journal which turned into at least several notebooks that were kept in a hidden safe in my shop. Chatterbox thought I was an idiot to do that, but I didn’t care. “We might need them someday, if an emergency comes.” I said in a hopefully convincing tone. “The only emergency that you’re going to get is a knock side up the head for such a stupid idea.” Grumbled Chatterbox. I had to admit, he was right. But it’s better to leave some information behind for others to find instead of none at all. I can hear the prof snoring below me in great volumes. I better plug in my earplugs if I want to sleep soundly tonight. The prof snores like a volcano getting ready to erupt, which is why most of the time I always end up trying to sleep first. This is Reese Hurrikane, signing off. August 22, 2020 This cannot get any worse than today out of all days as I am sitting in a room with a big, buffoon of a goon of Lina Matejovsky, the one person I did not expect to see here, although actually now that I think about it, why wouldn’t she since her company is all over the country, thanks to her boss, the ever so cunning Hendry Maddox, aka the long time enemy of my Uncle Rosalind. We would be on our merry way to Zhejiang by now, but clearly Lina’s boss had other ideas for me and the prof. So now, in addition to being camera monitored in our own hotel rooms, we are not allowed to leave our until we agree to go back from where we came from and forget about Xi’an. Something tells me that Maddox has some sort of development project up his sleeve with the tomb, or he just wants to exploit the tomb and its treasures. I can imagine the professor is just sweating it right now and trying not to lose his sanity as he knows I’ll be the one to rescue him and get us out of any situation. Later One thing I would like to say before I start where I left off, WHAT IN THE ACTUAL HELL JUST HAPPENED. To sum it up, little miss lady agent decided to bust me and the prof out, with the help of Ace, who managed to cause a brief distraction for about five minutes to make sure we gave the goons the slip before they made haste with the chase. With Ace’s help, we managed to get away and hide out in a shop. Afterwards, we ended up staying at another hotel, where I angrily questioned Ace about how in the name of god he knew where I was and how he ended up working with Lina to bust me out. Ace being the moody person he is, answered my questions with succinct answers before he bugged off, while the prof was just grateful to Ace. As for me and Lina, well Lina and I have a complicated relationship. Despite the fact that we’re on opposite sides, she’s shown me kindness and mercy to me at least several times in the past when we crossed paths. But then again, there were times where she was selfish when it comes to survival and tried to protect herself first. She almost never smiles and for some reason doesn’t know how to take a joke much less seem to have a sense of humor. She’s just as cunning as that boss of hers and just as shrewd when making deals to collaborate. I never quite understood Lina and her motives, as her character was like a chameleon, changing its color to fit its surroundings. I still remember the first time we met, and how she elbowed me in the face and knocked me out with a hit to the neck deliberately. Good ol’ times. I never said this in front of her face, but she’s grown softer and slightly merciful as time passed, and once I managed to get just a glimpse of her vulnerable side that she kept so hard to hide away. I just hope she doesn’t hear that from me, or else she’s probably going to have to kick me in my reproduction parts for calling her soft hearted. Speaking of Lina, after dropping me, the prof, and Ace at another hotel, she told us this was the only time (and last time probably, knowing Lina) that she was doing us a favor and left. Typical Lina. Always once in a blue moon she ends up helping us out whenever we get into a sticky situation. In my opinion, she should do that more often, but she’ll probably never want to help us again if I say that. Ace is still moody as ever, just sulking in a corner near the window, looking at the cityscape that’s dotted with lights, illuminating the shape and design of the buildings down below. Despite the fact that we were safe for now, I knew we couldn’t stay here another day longer, without arousing the suspicions of Maddox. I declared to the both of them that we would rest here tonight and depart for Zhejiang tomorrow morning immediately. Ace nodded in approval at my words before he slipped back into gazing out the window. The prof had busied himself with relaying to the archeology team at Xi’an of our situation, and his face couldn’t look anymore irritated than ever. He couldn’t help but mutter unintelligible curses under his breath as his fingers typed furiously on his laptop at a fast speed, something about “darn plans being dragged out” and “that ape of a goon”. I couldn't help but softly chuckle at the prof, hunched over at his screen, his eyes moving back and forth across the bright screen. Clearly, it must’ve been his first time encountering Lina's men. Those big goons of hers don’t know the meaning of gentle. The amount of times that I’ve fought with them, is enough to make sure my fighting skills are on par and make sure I kept up my exercise. “It’s for you.” said Ace tapping my shoulder, handing me his phone. “Hello?” I answered casually. “Oi, Hurrikane. I heard you got yourself in trouble with Lina.” I shook my head smiling. I knew that British accented voice anywhere. Good old Chatterbox. “Hello to you too. So, you’ve heard?” “It figures since I caught wind of one of Lina’s men while I was on business.” “Business? I thought you were making big money?” “I was, until some bloke botched the expedition and left the whole team hanging. Now the expedition is supposed to take 3 more days before reaching our destination.” “Are you still in Beijing?” “Does that concern you?” “Never mind. How did you know Ace was here with me and the prof?” “I have my sources. What are you and the old geezer are up to this time?” I paused, trying to figure out if I wanted to tell Chatterbox about the Empress’s tomb, but he beat me right to it by saying, “You wouldn’t happen to be going after the bloody Empress’s tomb would ya mate?”

My eyes widened in surprise as I quickly regained seriousness and hissed out “How do you know about that? Nobody knows except for me and the prof!” “It doesn’t matter how I know. Listen, I heard that tomb is going to be a real piece of work. You’re going to need all the help you can get to survive down there.” “Chatterbox, I’m sure I’ll be fine-” “What do you mean you’ll be fine; you bloody won’t be. You’re a nitwit if you think you’re going down that tomb with just Ace and the old geezer. Blimey, I’ll be damned if you come out of the tomb in one piece.” “Chatterbox-” “Don’t Chatterbox me, I’ll meet you blokes at Xi’an as soon as possible. Now quit yakking and get some sleep. You’ll need all the rest you can get. Toodles mate.” The line went dead before I could say anything else to refute. I sighed. Looks like things are going to get shaken up pretty quick. As Chatterbox used to say "Something is cooking, and it ain't stew." This is Reese Hurrikane, signing off.


   As the sun streams through the window, I struggle to stay within the comfortable confines of my dream. I fight to stay; gripping at any last fragments of closure. But, despite my efforts, my eyes are forced open. I heave my body out of bed.    I find myself on autopilot meandering to grab some coffee out of the kitchen. The steaming mug reminds me of winter at my family’s cabin. When I was young, my mom bought these matching mugs for me and my siblings. I would bring it to the cabin every year. We had to skip this year though. My eyes drift to the grey skies and water droplets falling outside. This month marks the anniversary. The anniversary of endless repetition.

   Now that I think about it, what day is it? My brain struggles to remember the last day I went to work, but I’m blank. I rush to my phone, it’s dead. My calendar, a year old and completely useless anyway. Am I going crazy? Finally, it hits me, the news. I flick on the tv. Saturday. Can it really be Saturday?

   All I can do is sit. Staring at the wall, dumbfounded. The light drizzle outside turns into an angry downpour soaking the world around me, turning it into one grey blob. I need to get out of the house. My teal rain coat hugs me snuggly. My boots, a little too big, slip on easily. As I reach for the doorknob I hesitate, pause, and shove off the uncertainty. I need to get out of this prison.

   The earthy air surprisingly smells better than any candle, or bottle of air freshener that kept me company through this past year. It was real. “Precious pine” and “April Tulips” can’t even compare. They were designed to draw you in and somehow trick your brain that you were in some perfect backyard paradise.

   The entire world around me is one color, boring. A small shrub shaking is the only thing out of place in this monotone city. I kneel down, peering into the branches. Two glowing green eyes meet mine. The small creature slowly creeps out of hiding. We stare at each other for a while. Its eyes hypnotize me holding my gaze captive. When I finally break free the midnight black kitten is only a few inches away from me. I reach down and give the alluring child a few strokes.

   A small roll of paper attached to its collar catches my eye. I carefully remove the small note. In scribbled cursive it reads “Need something real? Something new? Take a chance! 5:00 pm Greenway’s Antiques.” Odd. The note felt so personal, so real. Agh that word again, real. I have to give who ever wrote that note props, they almost had me convinced.

   Thunder starts to rumble in the distance. Time to head back. I look down to stroke the kitten once more, but it was gone. Odd. Later that night as I begin to settle into the covers the image of the note continues to replay in my mind. “Something new.”

   Finally, I doze off. But, before long, a faint scratching begins to leak into my slumber. I toss trying to keep myself asleep. It’s probably just a tree branch rubbing on the window. Still the annoyance continues. Well, looks like I’m not getting any sleep tonight. I wander to the kitchen, tea sounds good. I scoop a few spoonfuls of tea leaves and drop them into the steeper. Light green clouds emerge into the hot water, swirling and dancing in the cup. The scratching continues. As my tea steeps I decide to go investigate the cause.

   I peer through the dark window. Two green eyes. Is it? No, it can’t be. It’s probably just another stray. I try to shoo the feline intruder away. It just stares back at me defiance and serenity in it’s eyes. I pull the curtains closed. Whatever. I sip at my tea until I finally start to feel the affects of drowsiness setting in, and I curl up in the covers.

   I awake again, just like yesterday with the sun streaming through the curtains. I wander to the window curious to see if the kitten was still there. It’s gone. The kitten probably followed me because it thought I would feed it, it would be silly to believe anything else.

   It’s Sunday and I have work tomorrow, so I should probably get some groceries. As I shut the door behind me I can’t help but peek see if the kitten is in the window. It’s not. Of course it’s not it was just a fluke.

   Outside, the sky is still grey and the rain is drizzling again. I hop into my car careful not to track mud in. The car quietly hums as I make my way to the supermarket. I’m about half way there when I start hearing the worst sound you can possibly hear from your car, sputtering.

   I pull over, and lift the hood. Odd, there is no smoke, no smell of burning rubber, no leak. I get back in the car and the simple drizzle, like yesterday turns into a heavy down pour. Thunder rumbles, and I can see the faintest bolt of lightning in the distance. I try to restart the car, it sputters. I try again, and again, nothing good.

   I guess I’ll have to call a towing service, but who knows how long that will take. I call the local towing service, EmergenC, and the ringing seemingly never ending, stops when someone picks up. “This is EmergenC towing, how can I help you?” An annoyed voice asks. “Hi, can I get my car towed? I’m on 87th avenue.” I reply. “Sure, that’ll be $250 plus tax.” The voice says. “Okay, thanks” I reply. “Someone should be there within two to three hours.” She retorts. “All right.” I sigh before hanging up the call. Great, my car breaks down, then I’m robbed, and on top of all that I ‘m stranded.

   I look around, I need to find somewhere dry and warm to wait for the tow truck. One tiny store catches my eye. How ironic, Greenway antiques. The only store around is somehow a mysterious antique shop. I make my way to the entrance. Somehow the shabby place, looks surprisingly warm. I peer in the front windo I had finally gotten my car towed to a local auto-shop, I looked at the sunglasses reflecting the light from the lamp in my room. They oddly reminded me of the kitten. Come to think of it, both of them were glossy black, mysterious, alluring. I drifted off to sleep again, the kitten and the sunglasses holding my mind captive.

   Monday. I awoke this time with no dreams. I was slightly disappointed. Those dreams were pretty much the only interesting things in my life. The sun was out today. I caught myself getting lost in the blue skies and drifting clouds for a moment. But I have work today so I proceed with my routine.

   As a secretary there’s not really much going on in my day. Picking up phones and writing down messages doesn’t exactly save lives. The only thing risky about my job is using a stapler.

    As I walk out the door dressed in the same boring clothes as always, a thought comes into my head. I need some individuality. I quickly snatch my sunglasses off my dresser. Much better. With these glasses on I feel surprisingly confident.    But that confidence is cleared away and replaced with shock as a person walks by. As if by magic, light blue, glowing words seem to appear in front of the man. “I’m going to be so late!” Hovers over him. I take off the glasses. The words disappear. “Excuse me sir., did you say something?” I ask in horror. “No…” He replies, probably thinking I’m crazy. The man walks away confused. What is going on?! Now, a mother with her child passes. “I hope he doesn’t have any cavities.” Appears above the mother. “I hate the dentist.” Floats above the little boy’s head.

    My jaw drops in disbelief. I look out to the crowd of people with thousands of glowing thoughts, worries, and inner dialogue appearing above them. I blink my eyes a few times, somehow trying to figure out what is happening. I catch a quick glimpse of the time. 9:25?! I’m running late to work! This- whatever this is will have to wait.      I hurry onto the bus, and really wish I had my car. With all the people on there, I became dizzy with all the floating thoughts, and had to take the sunglasses off. Outside the buzzing city blurred around me until we came to an abrupt stop, and I nearly ran out of that smelly, muggy cage.      I sat at my desk trying to think of possible explanations to why or how seeing people‘s thoughts through cheap sunglasses from an antique shop could even be possible. In the corner of my eye I spot one of the business men from accounting walking by, and out of curiosity I slip on my sunglasses. “Great, now I have to have it brought here, that stupid secretary can’t even brew a pot of coffee.” Appears above the man’s head.

    I quickly slip off my sunglasses as he makes his way to the desk. “Can you pick up a drip coffee from Al’s for me?” He asks with a fake smile on his face. He knows I‘m not supposed to be used for picking up food orders, and he thinks that a smile is going to change things. I don’t think so. “Well, I’m sorry sir if my coffee is unsatisfactory for your taste but sadly, my company time doesn’t entail picking up orders.” I reply. “Alright.” He says shocked before walking away. Maybe things are looking up.


I love my family beyond anything else in the whole world, but I’ve always wondered why my grandma never got married. She was pregnant with my mother while she was dating my grandpa a few decades ago, and he had proposed to her many times since then, but she always said no. He loved her very much so he decided to stay with her and help with the baby anyway. My mom got older, and my grandpa decided to marry someone else. He moved near our house with his beautiful bride, Elise, but he never abandoned my grandma. Elise knew how much he loved my grandma, but she also knew that even though their relationship was over, they still had a child together. She was kind and understanding about their complicated situation, and she managed to welcome my grandma into their family. Soon she became best friends with my grandma and they have stayed that way ever since. One day, as we were walking home from school, I asked my grandmother why she never wanted to get married. “Who told you I didn’t want to get married?” she let out a little laugh, then added, “Let me tell you a story, love bug.” “A love story?” “Maybe,” she said dreamily. She bought me an ice cream and we sat down on a bench under the most magnificent cherry tree. The sun looked down on her wrinkled face and big, soft eyes. Her silky white hair was glowing in the sunshine and her thin lips were slowly moving as I was listening to her sweet voice. “It might be hard for you to imagine this, buttercup, but I was your age once. I wasn’t pretty like you, but I was just pretty enough to be asked out by this crazy boy from my high school.  We didn’t have any classes together, and I’d only talked to him once on my way to school. He wasn’t very handsome, his ears were huge and you could see his crocked teeth every time he smiled. But there was something with his eyes, I don’t know what it was, but I always felt this wave of reassurance and safety. But I didn’t say yes,” she paused. “What did you say?” “I said no, because I thought I was better than him. And trust me, buttercup, I couldn’t have been more wrong. Anyway, he didn’t give up, and we became friends. We went to school together, hung out after classes, went to dates together. I knew he liked me, but I kept treating him as a friend. In four years he had told me so many times that he had feelings for me and I had turned him down again and again, until he started seeing someone. That was the moment I realized I wanted to be with him. I felt angry at myself for not seeing it earlier. I have liked this boy from the moment we met, and I didn’t even know it. I knew it was too late but I still went over to tell him how I felt, because a part of me still hoped he would choose me, but he didn’t. He told me he was sorry, and that he wants to continue being friends after we finish high school. And that was the last time we ever talked to each other. High school ended and so did our friendship. I focused on university, and he got married. I haven’t heard from him since he had asked me to come to the wedding, but I was too embarrassed to go. I have always wondered what would have happened if I had said yes the first time he had asked me to be his girlfriend or whether or not it would have made a difference if I had gone to the wedding. And I have never gotten over that little boy who turned my life around and then broke my heart without me realizing that I even gave it to him. Funny like that, love bug, when you love someone, even if you’ve never even kissed them, you don’t stop loving them. You just wish them happiness and go on with your life.” “Wow, grandma… I had no idea. And what happened when you started dating grandpa?” “Oh, I loved your grandpa. I still do. But I couldn’t marry him when I kept wishing I was marrying someone else instead. That wouldn’t have been fair to anyone. But I’m glad he has found someone good.” “What was his name?” I asked her. “George Timothey,” she whispered, but I could hear perfectly. I opened my mouth in disbelief. That was my classmate’s grandfather, but I didn’t say anything. We went home, and I kept thinking about the story. I called Marc, my classmate and one of my best friends, and I told him everything. At the end, I told him the name. “Are you serious? Wait, why did you tell me all this?” “I wanted you to know. Do you think your grandfather still remembers my grandma?” I was afraid to hear the answer. “I know he does,” he said quietly. “He got diagnosed with schizophrenia five years ago. He didn’t remember who grandma was and he kept calling her Julie. Now I know why.” “Why didn’t you say anything? How is he doing now?” “He’s better. The doctor says he’s recovering slowly. Thank God.” “I’m glad. I’m sorry I’ve never asked you about him.” “It’s fine,” he said. “Anyway, grandma couldn’t take care of him by herself, so he sent him to live with us, and she didn’t live much longer after that.” “God… I’m sorry. I didn’t want to upset you.” “You didn’t. I know why you told me, and maybe you two can come over tomorrow after school. Hopefully, he will remember her.” The following day, I didn’t tell my grandma where we were going or who was the boy walking with us. For all she new, he was just a colleague. Marc had warned me that his grandfather might not remember her, but at least my grandma would get to see him again. We walked in and Marc told us to wait in the living room. My grandma had stopped asking what we were planning and was simply looking at the bookshelf. She dropped the book she was holding when she saw George walk in after Marc. His ears were really huge, but not as huge as his smile had been. “Julie,” he said softly. “It’s really you.” My grandma was crying as he went in for a hug. She told me later that in that moment, she thought she had completely lost her mind. They looked at each other as if they were still teenagers, and they finally kissed. After almost a lifetime, they had had their magical moment. Their age didn’t matter a bit. Marc and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. We helped them sit down on the couch, and me and Marc left them alone for a while. His dark eyes were glowing and he was very excited. “It was unbelievable! He REMEMBERED her! And he was so happy! I am so happy! I love you, Anne.” Our eyes met and before I knew it, I kissed him. We went back inside and found my grandma and Marc’s grandpa laughing so hard, they might as well have been little kids. We stayed there until midnight and while they were talking about everything they had missed for the last half century, George realized that talking to my grandma was improving his memory. He was telling her stories and jokes and he couldn’t believe that was him. We came over everyday for the next few months. One December evening, after dinner, George asked my grandma to walk with him in the garden. It was freezing cold, when suddenly, Marc’s grandpa sits down on his knee in the snow and asks my grandma to turn around. She was so unbelievably happy she almost fell off her feet. “Julie Moore, I never should have stopped fighting for you. I don’t have a time machine to change the past, but you are here now and I’m not letting you go again. Will you do me the honor of marrying this old man?” “YES!!” she cried as she was helping him get up. “Let’s get you inside, old man” Both of our families got together to celebrate them. In the end, my grandma was right: when you love someone, nothing can make you stop loving them. And when you belong together, not even the Universe can keep you apart.


Eleanor woke up to thunderous bangs and thuds surrounding her house. She jolted out of bed and fixed her attire then ran towards the large balcony adjacent to her bedroom.

‘What on earth is going on?’ Eleanor gasped in horror at the dreadful sight. Her eyes roamed the area as her vision blurred with tears and her heart pounded in her chest. She saw blood decorating the freshly cut grass, dead bodies littering the front yard of the kingdom. Limbs and torsos submerged into the water fountain. She instantly made her way towards the door, pulled it open and stepped out.

‘Princess Eleanor,’ a muscular, broad man yelled as he walked up the stairs. Eleanor looked at his appearance smeared with crimson liquid, his right hand clasped a bloody sword.

‘What is going on, Dominique?’ Eleanor questioned in uncertainty. Dominique lowered his sword and stopped beside her, ‘There was an attack, princess,’ he huffed, ‘We were ambushed and we’ve lost many lives.’ ‘Who dared to ambush us? In our own kingdom?’ Eleanor spoke seething in rage, ‘Wait, where are my parents?’ She looked around then began walking down the stairs. She saw torn bodies laying on the floor. She continued running towards her parents' room which was on the opposite end of the castle. ‘Princess, wait, listen to me!’ Dominique shouted as he followed her.

‘Dominique, I need to make sure my parents are okay,’ Eleanor shouted back, she turned around for a split second, then bumped into something hard. The force caused her to stumble back, she regained her composure and eyed the being in an armoured suit. The creature lifted its hand and out of thin air, a sword appeared. Eleanor’s eyes widened at this sorcery. In the meantime, Dominique reached them and charged at the extraterrestrial beast with his own weapon. Dominique and the creature began fighting, the sounds of their swords colliding echoed throughout the hallway.

Eleanor stood in the side wondering what to do. Her eyes caught a large dagger that was hanging in a glass frame. She ran to it and broke the glass using her elbow, she grabbed the dagger and ran towards the fight. She saw the creature throw Dominique a few feet away. It lifted the sword in the air and began slowly bringing it down aiming at Dominique's chest, he gasped for air on the ground. Eleanor ran and with a swift move, her dagger punctured through the metal armour. The dagger entered through the back and went straight through. Within seconds, the creature vanished with a puff of green smoke. Eleanor bent down and helped Dominique up, ‘What the hell was that, Dom?’

‘Our enemy, Princess,’ he gasped for air, ‘They are an unknown species.’ ‘What does that even mean? How did they enter our land?’ Eleanor exclaimed as they continued their journey towards the King and Queen's chamber. ‘They appear from thin air and they vanish into the air. They don’t have a physical appearance, I think they are a spawn of magic. Someone is controlling these things,’ Dominique grabbed Eleanor’s arm and made her stop, ‘Your parents aren’t here.’ Eleanor creased her eyebrows, ‘Where are they?’

‘Those things-’ his words were cut short as the creatures reappeared but this time there were six of them, all carrying swords.

Dominique whipped his sword against one of the armours but the creature remained unfazed.

‘Don’t you want to find your parents?’ one of the armoured creatures spoke up. The voice was deep, hoarse and guttural. ‘What do you know?’ Eleanor turned to face it. ‘Come with us,’ was all that the creature muttered. Dominique was held tightly by three creatures whilst the others held Eleanor. With a huge clash of wind, darkness blurred their vision and their world spun. Within a few minutes, everything turned to normal, Eleanor opened her eyes only to realise they weren’t in her castle. She and Dominique examined the territory, they were teleported to the outside of another castle, however, it was dull and gloomy. The castle was inhabited by dead trees and bushes, the sky was covered with black and green, puffy clouds.

The creatures ushered Eleanor and Dominique towards the inside. As soon as the huge doors opened, they saw the interior of the castle, it was extremely eerie and creepy, with green candles lit in each corners providing minimal brightness.

Suddenly, a burst of loud laughter resonated through the castle, ‘At last,’ the high pitched voice sighed.

‘What the hell is this?’ Eleanor murmured under her breath.

The creatures walked until they entered another room, a pair of bodies were standing in the far distance, muffled screams released from them.

Eleanor ran towards them as she realised that was her parents. A dark green light beamed into the room giving clear vision.

King Charles and Queen Tatiana were tied up to a medieval torture device. Eleanor wept as she ran towards them and fumbled with the shackles. She huffed as the shackles weren’t loosening then she paused in her tracks as another loud chuckle vibrated through the room. A tall, slender woman appeared in front of the room where a throne rested. She appeared from thin air, dressed in a black and dark green gown, her eyes glistened with a green glow.

'Marvellous creatures, am I right?' the woman pointed towards her army, 'It took me years to learn magic then more years to forge this army, an army that cannot be destroyed. An army that isn't mortal, no matter how many times you kill it, they just refuse to die. They possess no emotions, hence, they cannot be manipulated. They only listen to their Queen, and follow her commands.' ‘Who the hell are you and why are you doing this?’ Eleanor shouted and took a few steps in her direction. The figure stood there and tilted her head towards the left, her eyes lingered on Eleanor for a few more seconds then shifted to her parents, ‘Really? You both didn’t inform her about me?’

Eleanor looked back and forth from her parents to this mysterious figure, ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘Eleanor,’ King Charles whispered as a tear slipped through his eye.

‘Wait, let me introduce myself,’ she hushed Eleanor’s father and elegantly strolled down the steps from her throne towards Eleanor.

‘Hello, Eleanor, I’m Cordelia, your aunt. It’s so good to finally meet you,’ her fingers slowly lifted to caress Eleanor’s face. Eleanor stepped away and cleared her throat. ‘I don’t have an aunt,’ she replied.

Cordelia laughed, ‘Sweetheart, you’ve been lied to by my cunning sister and your mother. The precious Queen Tatiana.’ Eleanor gazed towards her restrained mother, she received her answer as her mother avoided eye contact.

‘How is this possible?’ Eleanor whispered and ran her fingers through her long, silky hair. ‘Eleanor, she’s playing with you,’ Dominique spoke up. Cordelia glared at Dominique with pure hatred, ‘Take him away,’ she ordered the creatures who followed the command. They dragged Dominique away whilst he thrashed around in their solid grips.

‘This is a family matter, strangers aren't welcomed,’ Cordelia smiled, ‘Now, my dear sister, would you please enlighten my niece to the truth?’

‘It’s true,’ Queen Tatiana spoke aloud with her head down, ‘She is my sister.’ ‘Was that so hard?’ Cordelia humoured.

‘Why don’t you tell her what you did, Delia,’ King Charles added on. ‘As I said, this is a family matter, Charles, you should know better than to interrupt us,’ Cordelia lifted her hand and green smoke exited her palm and travelled towards King Charles. With a swift movement, it entered the king through his mouth and constricted his vocals. ‘STOP!’ Eleanor screamed, ‘YOU’RE HURTING HIM!’ ‘There is a lot more I’m willing to do if you all don’t show me some respect,’ Cordelia’s voice boomed through the room with immense fury.

‘You betrayed me, Cordelia,’ Queen Tatiana said, ‘You betrayed our family.’ ‘I had to,’ Cordelia argued back.

Queen Tatiana scoffed, ‘You did it for your own selfish reasons, Delia.’ ‘Really?’ Cordelia scoffed, ‘What would you have done?’

‘Anything else, but not what you did,’ Queen Tatiana shook her head, ‘Our parents are dead because of you.’ ‘You’re so quick to blame others and rid yourself of the blame, Tati,’ Cordelia exclaimed, ‘But you didn’t do anything to change it.’ ‘You did this to us and to yourself,’ Queen Tatiana argued back.

Cordelia chuckled, ‘You’re right I did. Life taught me the hard way that you have to do what you have to do to get what you want. This life doesn’t give you everything, well I didn’t get everything, unlike you.’ ‘You think I got everything handed to me?’ Queen Tatiana gritted the teeth, ‘You have no idea what I had to go through to get everything.’ ‘Apparently, you’re the only one who does things, am I right, sister?’ Cordelia rolled her eyes, ‘I went through more and you know that. Ever since I was little, I was neglected and abandoned because you were the ideal child.’ ‘That’s what this is about,’ Queen Tatiana felt tears rolling down her cheek, ‘Delia, if that’s the case then let my husband and my child go and you and I can talk. They aren’t involved in our matter.’ ‘You really think so highly of yourself, sister,’ Cordelia smirked, ‘You're all here for a reason and quite frankly you’re in no place to make demands.’ ‘What do you want?’ Eleanor spoke in between.

‘I’ll come to that soon, my beautiful niece, what’s the rush,’ Cordelia smiled towards her, ‘Let's have a little family reunion.’ ‘Cordelia, please take whatever you want, just let my family go,’ Queen Tatiana sobbed. ‘Tati, stop it,’ she scoffed, ‘You sound too desperate and it's annoying me. I'll take what I want when the time comes.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ Queen Tatiana spoke up. ‘For what exactly?’ Cordelia raised an eyebrow. ‘For what you went through,’ Queen Tatiana answered. Cordelia stared at Queen Tatiana for a few minutes wondering what to say. Cordelia laughed, ‘At least sound sincere, Tatiana.’ ‘What do you want me to do then?’ Queen Tatiana answered back. ‘I'm glad you said that,’ Cordelia smiled with satisfaction, ‘Let me tell you what you need to do.’ ‘I want your throne, your title and your power,’ Cordelia announced, ‘Which rightfully belonged to me, as the older sister, I should’ve inherited it.’ ‘Fine,’ Queen Tatiana gave up, ‘Take it all, I don't want anything as long as you leave my family alone.’ ‘That was quite easy,’ Cordelia laughed, ‘But that's not all. I also want this land to myself, in other words, you and your family need to hand over your kingdom and power to me and leave.’ ‘I am the rightful heir,’ Eleanor spoke up, power lacing her tone, ‘I won’t give it up that easily.’ Cordelia was taken aback, ‘Wow, my niece, I didn't think you had it in you. But, there is nothing you can do about this.’ ‘Wait, Eleanor, don't argue back,’ Queen Tatiana ordered. ‘But mother, she wants us to leave our home, she wants everything we have, that is our identity, our entire existence,’ Eleanor reasoned with her mother. ‘Are you willing to lose your family over this, Eleanor?’ Cordelia raised an eyebrow, ‘Because I can assure you that I have nothing to lose, however, it seems like you have everything to lose.’ 'You want me to leave my home with my family, you want our kingdom, throne, power, everything we worked hard for?’ Eleanor confirmed, ‘You decide to swoop in with your army of magical creatures and demand to take what ours, what do you expect us to do just hand it over to you?’ ‘I can put up a fight but are you willing to?’ Cordelia's stance stiffened. There was a fury bubbling in her eyes just waiting to release.

Queen Tatiana interrupted, ‘Eleanor, please, you don't know how dangerous she can be. She can have whatever she wants, but I won't risk your life.’ 'Mother, are you really willing to go down without a fight. Is that what this kingdom means to you?’ Eleanor objectified. ‘This kingdom is nothing without you or your father. I am not willing to lose you both,’ Queen Tatiana sobbed. Eleanor hushed because she knew this battle was not worth fighting. She knew there was no way she could convince her mother to put up a fight, knowing her army was already wiped out. She was at a disadvantage because her parents were constricted, Dominique was trapped and she was unarmed. She was up against a being who harboured pure rage, who possessed powers beyond comprehension. ‘Where would we go?’ Eleanor asked. ‘Anywhere else but here,’ Cordelia shrugged. ‘Fine, take everything. I relinquish my powers as Princess, my parents relinquish their titles as King and Queen. This Kingdom, the throne it's all yours, Cordelia,’ Eleanor announced, ‘You can release my parents and Dominique, we will leave this place as soon as we can.’ ‘How do I know you will hold the end of your bargain?’ Cordelia sceptically inquired. ‘The odds are in your favourite,’ Eleanor shrugged. ‘I trust you, Eleanor,’ Cordelia smiled, ‘I apologise that my first impression hasn't been the best, however, I've waited far too long for this moment. If only you knew the whole truth you would understand why I am doing this. But, then again you're the only child, which means you didn’t struggle the way I did. Perhaps, someday I'll tell you the truth, the reality, about your mother and our parents and what they did.’ ‘There is nothing you can say or do that will change what you have done today,’ Eleanor sighed, ‘Nothing should drive a person to do what you have done, especially to your own family.’ Tatiana interrupted, ‘Eleanor, forget it, it's not worth it.’ Eleanor looked at her mother then back at Cordelia, ‘Let my parents go and bring Dominique back here.’ Cordelia nodded, she closed her eyes and then lifted up her hands. Eleanor noticed a thick cloud of green smoke released from her palms and made its way towards her parents. The green smoke morphed and unlocked the shackles that constricted them.

Eleanor ran to her parents and aided them as they got to their feet and composed themselves. The creatures brought Dominique and they all walked out together.

‘This life isn’t going to suffice you, Cordelia,’ Queen Tatiana spoke up for the last time, ‘What happened to you was unfair, but what you’re doing now is sinful. We have nowhere else to go and you know that, yet you’re doing this.’ ‘You won’t be forgiven,’ Eleanor stepped back and told her family to walk out.

She turned around and faced Cordelia, ‘You took away the very thing that was our world, our home, you snatched it away for your selfish vengeance. This doesn’t mean you have won, or that this Kingdom is yours,’ Eleanor smiled, ‘This Kingdom belonged to us and will always belong to us and us only. Trust me, we will be back, I will be back and I will take back my home.’

‘Enjoy it whilst you can,’ Eleanor uttered her last words and walked out.


The week had already been long and was going by slowly, with each day seeming like it took a week to go by, while it was the same ole hum drum daily churning of school work and classes with the usual lack of excitement. That is when things started to change because in their History class they took together that day John and Billy had been assigned a book report on their favorite subject by their teacher to be done over the weekend while they was off from school. They had decided to do their report on a famous gun fighter from the wild west, something they both had fantasies of being theirself. Living in the wild west and saving the damsels in distress while saving entire towns from criminals who thought of killing as a sport of some kind and they took joy in seeing which one could outdo the others in making a name for the entire Hoopaloo gang to which they belonged. In the midst of a quiet and fairly low crime rated neighborhood lived two best friends who played outside and went to school together. Their names were John and Mark, they was two young, teenage boys who had daydreamed a lot, almost daily about life in the wild west, which to them never seemed to have a boring moment with all the shootouts, poker games, saloon girls and getting to ride off on their horses to new places and new adventures, and they both was so excited as they read the book together that they had found that told all about their western hero, Masked Mark the hired gunfighter, who had came into town to fight against the outlaws known as the Hoopaloo Gang that was thieving, robbing, and killing, as they made their trails over the western plains leaving a trail of destruction and their crimes of robbing to killing and bank robberies, and anything in between Masked Mark the hired gunfighter  was set to make contact with the lowly Sheriff who was to scared of the Hoopaloo gang to go up against them or to do anything to help the town and it's people for that matter, he just slithered back into his Sheriff office and stayed there as the Hoopaloo Gang had their way with the town, it's women, the whiskey and turned the Saloon into their free for All party headquarters where they planned their next crime spree and without someone to stop them who knew when they might leave the town of Blissful Texas and move on to their next unsuspecting place where ever that might be. to pick up where they left off here. Upon his arrival the Hoopaloo Gang was to drunk and occupied by the Saloon girls to notice him riding into town and making his way to the Sheriff's office, once there when he found the Sheriff hiding in his office and got him to answer the door finally, he let him know he was Masked Mark a hired gunfighter who had been sent for ,due to the crisis in Blissful Texas and a Sheriff who was powerless to do anything due to being a coward, and let him know of his intentions on putting the Hoopaloo gang out of action for good. while he was in town, no matter what it took. The boys was reading the part about the shoot-out that Masked Mark was caught up in with the Hoopaloo Gang, the biggest, badest, meanest, low down gang ever to roam the western plains and was leaving their mark everywhere they had been with no end in sight. masked Mark was outnumbered, there was 1 of him with only a couple people in the town brave enough to want to help him, yet the Hoopaloo Gang was made up of 15 to 18 of the dirtiest, meanest, most honorary and toughest criminals that even Masked Mark had ever ran across, and to this point no matter how hard anybody had tried there was no stopping them, they had killed Sheriffs, gunfighters, innocent people, other outlaws, they had no scruples and no morals and they just mowed their way over anybody who got in their way or tried to go up against them, and their reputation had preceeded them to the town of Blissful in Texas and had everyone living in fear both day and night, for the Hoopaloo Gang would strike anytime they wanted, it did not matter if it was daylight or dark, they would kill off anyone they thought might be a witness to what they done or who they though could identify any of them to authorties without a second thought. that is what had made them so hard to find, til they stayed longer in Blissful Texas than they had ever stayed anywhere before, and that was their first mistake as it gave Masked mark time to track them and catch up to them where they was at when he arrived. He was avid with excitement, Masked mark was no ordinary gunfighter, he had taken out up to 10 men in a 10 to 1 showdown without getting as much as grazed by a single bullet. He was a living Legend whose name even brought fear to the members of the Hoopaloo Gang, though they would never admit to being afraid of anything of anybody Their excitement overtook them as they was making shooting sounds, and yelling profanities toward the bad guys, when from nowhere the head librarian came around the corner like one of the outlaws searching for their prey and blew her whistle at them, and brought them crashing back into reality and making them once again aware of their surroundings in the library. Immediately they scurried away and climbed up in their chairs and was silent as the dark of night. Their excitement was still in their eyes along with the fear that the librarian would come and toss them out, like the bouncers who controlled the saloon's when their customer's got out of hand. And so the rest of their time at the library went along without a hitch that day. On their way out as they passed the librarian the said "Until next time" and they tipped their cowboy hats as they went out the door on their way home. They couldn't wait to finish reading their books on Masked mark and the Hoopaloo Gang when they got home, and then writing their report and in their mind they would reading their wanted posters on the gang they was chasing and had every intention of saving the towns from and rescuing any damsels in distress. Oh what a weekend this was going to be, it had them anxious for Monday to come again.


It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same.

Veronica had left home at 18 years old and never looked back.

She traveled as far away as she could, taking a full time job as a waitress in a greasy spoon.

Rented her first apartment, a room above a tattoo parlor in town.

Not even missing Jake, the boy next door, her first boyfriend, first and only love was enough to bring her back.

Now, at 42 years old she’s standing in front of the house her mother left her.

Heartbroken and regretful for not keeping in touch with her mother all these years and this is what she had left of her.

The house where it all happened.

The house where she grew up too quickly and for the wrong reasons.

She felt eyes on her and looked to the left.

There stood a young boy, he was about 13, maybe 14 years old.

She knew those eyes.

No, she thought to herself, can’t be.

She smiled at him and he waved to her.

He walked over and said, “Hello Miss, are you Miss Wendy’s daughter?”.

“Yes”, Veronica replied.

“I’m Henry, me, my sister Maddie and my dad live next door right there”, he said as he pointed to the house where Jake had lived.

“Oh, how lovely - it’s nice to meet you Henry”.

“Nice to meet you too Miss, if you need any help just knock on the door, Dad likes to help people.”

“Thank you Henry”

“Bye Miss!” And she watched as Henry walked up the stairs and into the house that she had practically lived in throughout her childhood and adolescence.

Veronica walked through the old house.

Everything was covered in cloth to keep from getting dusty.

Through a private investigator she had been notified of her mother’s passing 5 months ago.

A heart attack she was told.

Her mother’s attorney would be reading the will to her later in the week, but he had suggested she come to see the house.

The memories came rushing back.

Trying to tell her mother what happened, her mother not believing it.

Her mother chose HIM over Veronica.

She saw no other way out than to leave and never come back.

HE did this to her and her mother.

She had no relationship with her mother because of HIM.

Twenty four years earlier . . .

Veronica and Jake had graduated from high school that week.

They were so excited to be planning the next four years of their lives together.

Both choosing to go away to school - together.

Of course it meant saying goodbye to the only home each of them knew their entire lives but it was worth it.

Veronica and Jake had been inseparable since they first met 12 years ago when Jake’s family moved in next door.

They were each other’s first boyfriend/girlfriend.

They hadn’t done more than a little touching and some major kissing, but Jake wasn’t in a hurry.

He knew Veronica would be his forever so why rush it?

That night he kissed her goodbye at the door and said, “In the morning, we’ll go get some donuts and coffee, k Ron?”.

Veronica replied, “Sounds good to me”.

As he walked away, Veronica watched him.

I’m so lucky, she thought to herself.

She entered the quiet house.

She figured her Mom and Derrick were already in their room, watching tv or sleeping.

She undressed quietly in her room and walked across the hall into the bathroom with her robe on.

She turned on the water, took off her robe and stood under the warm drops of water.

As she started to wash her hair, she heard the door open.

“Mom?” She said.

Before Veronica knew what was happening, Derrick got into the shower with her.

He was drunk, drunker than she’d ever seen.

He put his hand over her mouth and told her to keep quiet.

Derrick took something from her that she had been saving for Jake.

She would never be the same.

The bruises on her arms were visible as she looked at herself in the mirror.

She couldn’t go meet Jake for donuts like this.

She called him and cancelled saying she wasn’t feeling well.

He understood, Jake always understood.

That’s the kind of boyfriend he was.

Veronica heard her mom say goodbye to Derrick.

She went down the stairs with tears in her eyes.

When her mother turned and saw the bruises, she asked Veronica what happened to her.

Veronica told her mother, in detail, EVERY detail about the night before with Derrick in the shower.

Her mother called her a liar and told her if she was going to be a filthy liar to get out.

They shouted hateful things to each other.

Veronica packed all she could in a suitcase, including all the cash she had in the house, and ran out.

Never stopping to look back, never thinking she could rely on anyone, after all, Derrick was Jake’s uncle.

Veronica sighed and went about her business checking on each room.

In her old room, she found it to be exactly as it was the day she left.

The bed was unmade.

Posters of boy bands on the walls.

On the top of her dresser sat a photo of her and Jake at prom.

It was as if no one had entered this room since she ran away.

She began going through things in the house, deciding what to keep, what to throw away, and what to list at the estate sale.

After a few hours of this she heard a knocking on the front door.

Veronica made her way down the stairs and when she opened the door, there stood the boy, well now the man who had taken her heart all those years ago.

“Ronnie”, he said, “Henry told me you were here but I had to see it for myself.

I can’t believe it’s you.

Why are you back now?”

Veronica sighed and held back tears.

Jake couldn’t have known what happened to her all those years ago.

How Derrick had taken what she promised him.

How she thought at the time no one would believe her, when her own mother didn’t.

“Jake I came because I had to take care of things here, I wanted to reach out to you so many times over the years, but I . . .” “Yeah well that 18 year old kid you left behind was heart broken over you for years.

Took me a long time but I met someone, fell in love, got married, had kids, you know all the things you promised you’d do with me!

Why the fuck did you leave me like that?

No explanation?

Your poor mother - she felt abandoned.

Then when it all came out about how Derrick had raped those girls, your mother really needed you Ronnie - why the hell didn’t you come back then?”

“Wait, what are you talking about?

Derrick - I mean what did you say he did?

I didn’t keep in touch with my mother.

I had no idea.

Derrick, he, he raped me too.

That’s why I left like that.

I told my mother and she didn’t believe me.

I figured you wouldn’t either, he was your uncle.

I’ve suffered too, I lost my mother then and I lost her now.”

Jake just shook his head.

“You should have told me Ronnie, I would have believed you.

We had NO secrets between us!

All I knew was that the girl I loved, the girl I was supposed to spend my forever with was gone and I couldn’t find you.

I thought maybe you’d be at the university.

My parents insisted I still go.

I went, I asked at the office for you.

They said you’d never showed up.

I didn’t know what to think.

I went to classes and worked for four years without ever going to a party.

Without ever enjoying my time there.

Then I met Sarah and we fell in love, well, she fell in love, I couldn’t because my heart was tattered.

She loved me enough for us both and we created a life together.

We had two children together.

Then two years ago, Sarah was coming home from parent teacher conferences, there was black ice, the car skidded and she went into a tree.

I had to bury my wife.

The mother of my children.

So excuse me for not caring about your excuses 24 years too fucking late!”

He slammed the door and left.

Later that night Ronnie heard some laughing outside.

She went to the front door and watched as Henry, who she assumed was Maddie, and Jake walked passed her house laughing about something.

She made sure they didn’t see her.

Veronica decided to leave Jake alone and get on with the sale of her mother’s things.

The next day, Veronica had an appointment with her mother’s attorney.

She showed up to the address and had noticed a familiar car parked in the lot.

Shaking her head, she walked into the office building.

The receptionist led her down a long corridor to an office.

Inside she was met by Mr. Rathburn, her mother’s attorney.

To her surprise, Jake was there as well.

She asked why and Mr. Rathburn said that Jake was also named in her mother’s will.

The reading began, both Jake and Veronica were shocked to hear her mother’s wishes.

Veronica was to live in the house for one year from the reading of the will.

In that year, she was to invite Jake over no less than twice a week for a meal.

Once with his children, once alone.

During this time, Jake was also going to be paid above his normal rate to fix up the house and get it ready to sell it when the year was up, splitting the money from the sale.

Veronica was stunned.

She’d assumed she would have to be here for a week at most to get things settled.

Now, in order to inherit what her mother was leaving her, she’d have to stay here, and spend time with Jake!

What was her mother thinking?

Jake stood up, “Well, Wendy certainly has a sense of humor huh?

I don’t want my children around her.”

Mr. Rathburn replied, “I’m sorry Jake but these are Wendy’s wishes, she put in a clause that if either of you don’t do what is requested I am to sell the house as is and give the profits to Derrick’s son, Paul.”

“My cousin is as big of a louse as his father”, Jake yelled, “What the fuck!”

Veronica stood and walked over to Jake, looked him in the eyes and said, “I’m willing to uproot my life so we can both get what my mother wanted us to have, we can do this Jake.

I promise I won’t be inappropriate when it comes to your children.”

Jake shook his head.

“Yeah ok, fine.

So, how do we do this?

How do we ‘prove’ we’re getting together for a meal twice a week?”

“Wendy thought of everything - either myself or my associate Quinn will be checking up with you.

All you have to do is send us a date and time of your meal and one of us will show up.

You won’t know exactly when we’ll be there so Wendy’s thought is that you’ll have to go through with it.”

After they signed the required paperwork, Jake and Veronica walked out together.

“So, would you like to come over tonight for dinner?

I’m not much of a cook, I know how to order pizza”, Veronica said smiling.

“Sure, we’ll be there around 6 if that’s ok?

Henry has a tutoring session right after school and Maddie has swim practice.

Oh, and no anchovies on the pizza, ok?”

Veronica shook her head and smiled.

As she drove away, she couldn’t help but think that this was going to turn out to be a good thing in her life. One year later . . . The for sale sign on the lawn was just placed when a young couple driving by stopped.

The young woman got out, clearly pregnant, but not ready to give birth.

“Hello, umm my husband and I have been looking for a home in this neighborhood, do you mind if we come in and take a look around?”

“Come on in”, Jake replied.

The couple explained that they had been looking for a house now that she was pregnant with twins.

They loved the neighborhood but couldn’t find what they needed in their price range.

Jake listened quietly.

He heard a car horn outside and smiled, knowing it was Ronnie coming home with Henry.

In the year they had grown closer, and last month told his kids, Ronnie and Jake were getting married.

Ronnie came in and gave Jake a look.

“This is Eddie and Hannah, they were driving by when I put the for sale sign on the lawn.”

“So nice to meet you”, Ronnie said.

Something inside her told her these were the people who were meant to buy her mother’s home.

They were starting a family of their own and could fill this house with happy memories.

Ronnie and Jake gave them a fair price and the young couple soon moved in.

Six months later they celebrated Ronnie and Jake’s wedding.

Maddie has been maid of honor for her new step mother, and Henry was best man for his father.

Ronnie had reconnected with friends she had lost long ago and they were all in attendance on the happiest day of her life.

Jake loved her, wanted a future with her, and that was all that mattered.

THE END


Beyond the seventh summit of the seven ranges stands an empty needlemaker’s hut. Many years ago, a poor needlemaker lived there—back bowed low from long nights bent over his workbench. He smithed by the light of a single taper, ignorant of the stars that traded places with the sun. One evening, a song floated through his window. “Good sir or serf, please let me in My sight is gone, my eyes are dim, I’m broken shards split limb from limb; Good sir or serf, please let me in.” Outside lay a porcelain owl covered in sheathes of copper feathers and shattered in three pieces. Cracks hewed each wing from her body, while a jagged hole gaped above her beak. The needlemaker scooped up the pieces and rushed inside. He bathed the porcelain in cold water and untangled her copper feathers. He mixed clay and water to seal the wings against her body. He pasted canvas over the hole and painted two glossy eyes. That night it snowed, the first of many storms. “Lady Owl,” said the needlemaker, “The snow will bleed ink from your eyes until you turn blind. The clay on your wings grows brittle with cold, and will snap in the wind. I am a poor needlemaker, but I urge you to winter here.” The porcelain owl weighed his words. She bowed her head. “You must never touch my feathers. My home is a long journey eastward, and I will never make it back without all intact.” The needlemaker agreed, certain that her copper feathers would hold no temptation. He offered to share his repast and they feasted together on bread and cheese. Every clear morning, the needlemaker trudged into town to sell needles, and every stormy day he smithed. He worked on longer needles, sharper needles, thinner needles, and needles that were easier to thread. As he worked, the porcelain owl preened and arranged her copper feathers. They glinted and shone until the owl was radiant and the needlemaker could think of nothing but her quills. Through the winter, his temptation grew and he longed to mend her loose quill. If it fell, could he keep it? Trade it? A single quill would buy a room full of lamps and oil to keep them alight year-round. Imagine how she would shine! He dreamed of using copper quills for the finest needles, of becoming court needlemaker, of trading delicate feathers for unworn tools. All day and night his thoughts rang with desire. Spring came, and the porcelain owl flew away, blazing like a sun in the sky. The needlemaker removed cotton from his ears, where it had dimmed the taunting noise of her feathers. He took cotton from his eyes, where it had blocked the gleaming copper. He took cotton from his mouth, where it had stifled every urge to ask the owl for her quills. The next fall, the needlemaker was again at his bench when he heard a voice. “Good sir or serf, I have returned Remembering each night you yearned And now I bear your riches earned; Good sir or serf, I have returned.” The window was ajar, the porcelain owl perched on its ledge. “In return for your hospitality, I give seven needles from our finest birds. Keep them or sell them, but know they contain the magic to give them life. Press a single needle into the taper that lights your workbench and keep it near while you smith. When it finishes burning, swaddle it in soft cotton away from the light for one hundred days and one hundred nights. When you unwrap the cloth, no person on this earth will work silk as well as the magic needle.” The porcelain owl issued one last caution. “You may only forge one needle at a time.” The needlemaker thanked the owl and they feasted on bread and cheese and reminiscences until the owl took her leave. The next evening, the needlemaker pressed a needle into the bottom of a new taper. He smithed through the night and into the early morning, when the candle sputtered into darkness. He covered it in cotton and placed it in a wooden box above his hearth. After one hundred days and one hundred nights, a humming noise emerged from the box, wherein an ebony needle glowed. When the needlemaker picked up the needle it sang with the crystalline voice of a winter night. He jabbed the needle in its cotton swaddling and delicate embroidery bloomed in his unskilled hands. The needlemaker brought the magic needle as a gift to the Queen. Pleased, the Queen ordered enough wares to keep her ladies-in-waiting in thimbles for a year. The lampmaker’s daughter, enamored by this rapid ascent, pumped the needlemaker for his secret throughout a hasty courtship until the very hour of their vows. “Pooh!” she said, “Why haven’t you started another magic needle? Lamplight is mine as a dowry. What about a larger home? A carriage?” The needlemaker reluctantly wedged another needle into his taper. All night he tried to ignore his wife’s idle chatter, but his thoughts were jumbled worse than a stewpot; he mixed suet, sewing, finery, filing, poultry, poultices and polishing until the candle sputtered out. He yearned for the porcelain owl, who never minded when he stopped his ears with cotton. His wife complained for one hundred days and one hundred nights, but a faint hum still emerged.

The needlemaker’s wife offered it as a gift to the Marchioness, who knew of the Queen’s singing needle and long coveted her own. She rewarded the needlemaker’s wife with a carriage horse. The needlemaker’s wife rode back to the cottage, certain that riches lay ahead. “We must not squander our gift,” protested the needlemaker; his wife, incensed, refused to speak until their daughter was born. “What about now?” she said, “Think of our baby, you lout. Surely, the Marchioness is expecting us—her needle is nothing compared to the Queen’s, you know.” “Our fealty is not to the Marchioness,” said the needlemaker. Still, he prepared another taper backed by the endless squalls of his infant daughter. She cried for one hundred days and one hundred nights, only drawing breath at the magic needle’s hum. Its voice whispered like the smoothest silk, soothing the child’s wails into a broken chorus of soft hiccoughs. For the first time in weeks, there was peace. The needlemaker’s wife carried the third needle to the Marchioness, who eagerly traded a simple carriage for having more magic needles than the Queen herself. By now, word of the singing needles filled the country and the needlemaker’s wife was worried… they only had four needles left. She pushed and prodded until, come winter, the needlemaker agreed to prepare another if she would stifle her words. She prepared the taper and pressed a needle into the base of a taper, then quickly wedged in the other three. The needlemaker saw his wife’s deception when the candle sputtered out. “Swaddle them anyways,” she encouraged, “perhaps the owl lied.”

One hundred days and one hundred nights passed with little notice, save for a sickly scent permeating the house. The box, once filled with needles, became blackened, rotting flesh. The needlemaker’s wife threw the box away. “You promised to provide in thick and thin.” she scolded. “You must find your owl and explain—call it an accident. Bring her back. You saved her life—she can hardly refuse.” “I haven’t seen the porcelain owl in many years,” he protested, “I only know that her country lies far to the east. It may take months to find her, perhaps a lifetime.” “Then go eastward. Our life is nothing but poverty,” said his wife.

The needlemaker took nothing but a mending kit for his shoes and a loaf of bread for his mouth before he kissed his daughter goodbye. “Goodbye, Leya—remember me.” In the first year the needlemaker’s wife built a perch where the owl could watch clouds dapple the village with shadows. A crisp wind blew into the room, and the needlemaker’s wife shivered. “It wouldn’t be right to let the owl sleep in a draught, would it? I’ll build something to keep out the breeze.”

In the second year she constructed a shelter where neither breath of wind nor band of sun could crack the darkness. Leya stood on one foot to peer over the window and wobbled. Her small hand caught the door latch and sprung it open.

The needlemaker’s wife needed certainty against her daughter’s clumsy fingers—a higher latch and a barred window. She installed a lock on the outer door. The owl could call them if she needed anything. In the third year, funds dwindled, so she sold her husband’s leftover wares and traded his needles for their future. Customers asked for singing needles and she placated them, saying they took time. She sang the needle’s song every night until her daughter mumbled it back in her sleep. In the fourth year, the needlemaker’s wife stopped expecting the needlemaker’s return. Only tin needles remained and the cheap metal warped and sold poorly at market. For the first time, the needlemaker’s wife saw bare boards line her pantry shelves, poverty hovering a breath away. She dragged her daughter to the next market, clutching the girl’s scrawny wrist. Leya stumbled as she tried to keep pace with her mother, their basket of wares hugged close to her small body. They swept out their stall and draped an old, embroidered cloth over their table, hem cascading towards the dusty ground. Leya huddled in the dark space beneath and hummed the needle’s song in her thin, reedy voice. “Singing needles! Singing needles for sale!” “Show us how they work—” “These ones… shy… they go quiet over time—” “... how much?” “Samples… beautiful work—” All the while, Leya’s voice grew fainter. She coughed, breaking the needle’s now-threadbare tune. The table shuddered with her mother’s boot and a thin card of needles fell beneath the fabric’s shifting folds.

“Thank you, Sir, I just caught my foot. I know these needles aren’t full strength, but times are tough.” “You ask too much for a trinket.” “Stop! Thief! How dare you steal the little I have left?”

“You forget yourself… an accident—” “Lout-faced, lying—” “Perhaps it fell…” The cloth rippled. “ LEAVE IT. ” The man swept back the fabric to reveal the card of needles and Leya’s shrinking form. A hand pulled her into the glaring light. “So what? I can’t help having the brat.” The needlemaker’s wife said. She frowned at the stranger. “But I was mistaken, forgive me.” “You forget something.” The man raised an eyebrow. “What about the singing?” They were thrown out of the market, pushed by jeering voices and ugly laughter.

“That bird ruined your lousy father, but you ruined us,” said the needlemaker’s wife. “I’m going to wring the neck of that hollow-hearted owl.” She traded their carriage for casks of bird lime, slathering every tree in their woods. Many were shoved in the owl’s hut, but others became meat in her evening stew.

Leya ate with the horse—watery bowls of tasteless gruel. In the fifth year, the bird shelter—now an aviary—risked overflowing. The boards bowed outwards and their cries pierced the air.

One afternoon, she left the house only to have white spatter hit her arm, followed quickly by a second drop and a third. She stomped to the aviary and pounded the warping wood, hoping to quell the squalling birds. Their cries grew thricefold and the onslaught of droppings turned too many to count, coating her arms and streaking her legs. “I’ll give you something to cry about,” she yelled. Rather than sending Leya to make a poor bargain, the needlemaker’s wife rode to town through the barrage and threatened the stonemason to take the dilapidated horse on her terms.

The stonemason built new walls around the aviary until it stood larger than the hut they lived in. He mounded earth until the enclosure was muffled by the weight of an entire hill. Finally, silence reigned and the circling birds dispersed. Without their horse, she could no longer afford the endless trips back and forth to collect the birds. She hauled Leya along on her outings, forcing her daughter to peel the birds from the sticky sap and carry crate after crate back to the aviary. “Forgive me,” Leya pleaded to the birds. Lime stuck to her fingers and stained her clothes, yet she pitied the undeserving creatures. “I wish the magic owl pitied us, too.” Her mother snorted. “Maybe she’ll see what we had to resort to.” In the sixth year, birds were scarce. Rumor mills turned until all knew of the woman who buried birds alive in her hill. Still, the needlemaker’s wife knew how to snatch at opportunity. She demanded an audience with the castle gamemaster and offered a trade: her finest game in exchange for guards around the hill’s locked door. Her collection would be the crown of the kingdom; they would have their pick of fowl. The Queen, who disapproved of any who stole songbirds from their mornings and gamebirds from their tables, refused. The Marchioness, however, agreed, becoming renowned for elaborate hunting parties that disgusted the Queen as much as they were favoured by her court. In the seventh year, the needlemaker’s daughter found a golden raven in the traps, gilded feathers glittering and dancing as it picked at the lime. She hummed the needle’s song, soothing the raven’s frenzied motion, and cleaned its beak. “Oh daughter who has set me free From bondage, caught in yonder tree, What reward shall laurel thee, Oh daughter who has set me free?” “Good Raven,” Leya began, “My father once journeyed east in search of the porcelain owl, who wintered with him many years before. How does he fare?” The raven looked solemnly at the girl. “Daughter,” he said, “I have not seen any man reach the eastern lands, but for your service, I will ask among my peers.” The needlemaker’s daughter thanked the raven and offered to share her meager lunch. Over the meal, Leya told the golden raven about the aviary in the hill and warned him to be careful, and the golden raven promised to spread word.

Hardly a week passed before the woods were barren. Leya returned empty-handed for three days before her mother intervened. She took over the rounds and saw the traps caught nothing—perhaps she had truly caught all the birds in the world. The owl was fragile; surely it had withered away since then. Then she heard a distant caw. Caught in the centremost tree in the wood, feet bound by day-old lime, was a golden raven.

“Let no one enter but me,” she declared to the guards, pushing away her eager daughter, “and you will each receive a golden feather. This bag is for the golden raven’s feathers and the stewpot is for his body.” “And the rest?” Leya asked, eyeing the buckets piled beside the door. “To pluck down from every bird—a feather or two each—which you will make into a tick. A mattress from the feathers of every bird in the world.” When the needlemaker’s wife entered the locked hill, her shriek, despite the thick earthen walls, echoed long over the countryside. Her daughter waited as the sun crept from the horizon and arced above the trees. She waited as cool morning turned into the glaring beat of midday sun. She waited as the guards shuffled and yawned and planned for their pending reward. Come noon, she was worried. “Perhaps something is wrong.”

The younger guard shook his head. “I won’t be chancing my feather on a girl.” So she waited some more. In mid-afternoon, a servant from court arrived. “Game collection: three quail, nine grouse, and twelve pheasants.” “The aviary is closed,” the older guard said. “There’s a golden raven inside.” “The Marchioness sent word yesterday.” “Orders are orders.” Then, the Marchioness came. She swept past Leya, straight toward the door in the hill. “Where are my birds?” “My Lady,” the guards bowed deeply. “The goodwife insists that, on no condition can the hill be opened today.” “Where is she?” The Marchioness frowned at Leya and fixed her eyes back on the guards. “In the hill, my Lady; there’s a golden raven.” “Finally, something worthwhile. Open up.” “My Lady, with all respect—” “I do not repeat myself.” The older guard handed the younger guard the key. He nodded towards the iron-clad door. The lock clicked and the door cracked open. All was silent—not a single birdsong or squawk or screech, no beating of wings or rustle of feathers. “Allow me.” The Marchioness stepped into a flock of birds bursting from the aviary doors. Out flew the grouse, the storks, the pigeons, the pheasants, the swallows and larks, the doves and the nightingales. At last, the Marchioness swayed alone—shredded gown, torn skin, and bare patches where hair had been. She fainted. When Leya approached, only the golden raven remained. “Oh daughter, do not mourn tonight For I have set your wishes right; The time is near to reunite— Oh daughter, do not mourn tonight.” “Fear not, for you have remained steadfast and true. Weave a large basket of rushes. We will fly you to our homeland on the same winds that will finally carry your father there.” In three days, the basket was completed and a flock a hundred strong carried her into the sky. They flew over the castle, where the Queen rejoiced at the return of birds to her lands. They flew over the countryside, where the Marchioness shuddered and ordered for her drapes to be drawn. They flew over distant kingdoms and far-off oceans until they reached the eastern lands, where—in return for their good deeds—the needlemaker and his daughter were reunited. So it is that, beyond the seventh summit of the seven ranges, stands an empty needlemaker’s hut. It stands alone, brushing the heavens, and listens to the nearby woods filled once again with song.


The notebook is small, the ink and cover both faded from what must have originally been a licorice color. The whole thing is speckled with dust and the spine is completely wonky, bent to a near-ninety-degree angle except where it’s belted shut with a dingy old shoelace. I shouldn’t have picked it up; there are real books in the yard sale, books that aren’t tucked, half-smashed, into a cardboard box with a mouse-chewed hole in the corner. But I’m curious. Who bothered to keep such a junky collection of scraps, and why? I throw the thing on top of a pile of books I’ve found. The eighty cents it will cost will wash out in the money I’ll make selling the old textbooks and classics online, anyway. I pay for my loot and load the books into the trunk of my beat-up ’93 Pontiac. I stop, snag the notebook, and tuck it into my coat pocket with my COVID mask. On my drive home, I get stopped at this intersection that always seems to have seen an accident. This morning is no exception. Annoyed, but with nowhere to be, I throw the car in park and pull the little black book from my pocket, hoping it’s interesting. I work at the knot in the shoelace for a minute with my fingernails—teeth would have been disgusting—before realizing it’s just loose enough to slide the whole thing off. And I kid you not, twelve hundred-dollar bills kerflumph into my lap. I choke on my own spit. My mind races as I cough; what in the world? That’s a grand. Where— why—do I have to return it? How—

No, I don’t have to return it, I reason as I finish my coughing. Nervously, subconsciously, I glance at the cops in the intersection ahead. They aren’t even aware that I exist. Besides, I paid for the notebook , I argue. It’s not my fault that the yardsale chick didn’t know about the money.

Feeling slightly more comfortable now, I cautiously open the notebook. Three more hundred-dollar bills fall out. No way. I flip the notebook, turning the spine toward the steering wheel. Peeking out between coffee-stained and water-bent pages are more bills. One per page. I do a quick calculation in my head. Not believing, I pull out my phone. My fingers tremble as I open the calculator app. “That’s twenty thousand dollars,” I say aloud, my tone absolutely stupefied. It’s an incomprehensible amount of money to me. Thoughts tumble through my head: riding in an airplane to Europe. Paying my back rent. Do I have to pay taxes on this? My Amazon app, and the list of things I keep saved for “someday.” A full shopping cart at Walmart. Flustered, unsure what else to do, I open the book again. I glance at the intersection—not quite clear yet—and then back down at the book.

“June 9, 1983

Today I am a dad. I’m a dad! Louis is so small, so perfect, so… what do you say about a baby? It’s all been said before. But this is my baby. My son. He has tiny toes and he eats until Marie says it hurts (and then some.) I keep looking forward to playing catch and eating burgers together, and then I stare down at the blanket-bundle in my arms and I have to dash tears from my eyes because he’s here, he’s real, and he is mine. Ours. Marie’s and mine. My boy. My son.”

“Hey!” I glance up, the words of the book and the words of the cop waving me forward blending in my brain because twenty thousand dollars is still swirling around in my head too. I put the Pontiac in drive, pull forward slowly, my left hand trying to cover the fortune in my lap as the car rolls on, just in case the officer decides to look through the window. I race home. I stuff the bills in my pocket when I get there, worrying about neighbors staring me down. I try to walk normally, but I feel shifty. Nervous. The book is in my pocket again, too, feeding my curiosity. I race through my crappy apartment, then dump the money onto my bed, double- and triple-checking that I’ve gotten every bit out of my pockets. Then I turn the book, pinching the spine, and wag the pages back and forth. A rain of wealth descends on the quilt Mom made for me. Mom. Mom could use a hundred bucks, I think. I suppress the generous impulse. This money is mine now, and I could also very definitely use a hundred bucks. Mom will be okay. I’m tired, suddenly. I climb into the unmade bed, careful not to spill the bills onto the floor where they could vanish under the bed or the laundry pile, and I read again.

“July 4, 1983

Louis’ first Independence Day. He doesn’t seem to care, except when the neighbors set off fireworks last night and woke him up. I’m not sure if the baby or Marie was more upset, though Louis definitely screamed more. I haven’t told Marie, but I decided this journal is for when he graduates high school. I put a hundred dollars in the back page. It’s more than we can afford, but this is our son. And I can always take the money back out, I guess. Anyway, Marie is calling me. Just wanted to say: I love you, son. I’m already proud of you, and you’re just a little lump that lays on the floor.”

Something in my heart pricks at me. I don’t think my father ever said he was proud of me, even when I was—what was it? I glance back at the page. A little lump. I smile halfway at that, the way I do when I see a cute puppy on Tumblr.

“December 25, 1983

It’s been a little while since I wrote for you, son. Work has been… insane is the word, really. You’re rolling now, and almost sitting up. Your grandma says you have a round bottom, which makes your mother laugh. I saved another hundred for you, tucked it in the back with the other one. I’m sorry you’re not getting much this Christmas, but we’re doing our best, and as your mom points out, you don’t care much. Not this year, anyway.

January 1, 1984

Happy New Year, Louis!

You’re almost seven months old. Hard to believe. You’re almost ready to sit on your own, and even better—your mom is getting past the baby blues. It’s nice to be getting my wife back again. Don’t feel bad, son, but you’ve been hard for her. I always said I wanted two kids, a boy and a girl, but I think we’re done. I hope you’re okay with being an only child.

If I could convince you to sleep, now, that would be something. There is something nice, though, about cuddling you up in the rocking chair at night. Your mom gets you most of the time—boy, do you eat a lot!—but after you’re done eating around 2am, I take you from her and I rock you. Sometimes I sing. I doubt you’ll remember that about me, because I don’t want to sing where you can hear me when you get old enough to know anything about music, but for now—you seem to like Dad’s rusty old voice. At least, it sometimes gets you to sleep. Who knows? Maybe you’re knocking yourself out so you don’t have to listen anymore. I wouldn’t blame you.”

My phone rings, and I jump haphazardly, searching around for it with one hand while I try to put the book down gently with the other. The page I was reading is barely hanging on, and I don’t want to destroy the thing. “Hello?” “Tim? It’s Grandma.” Part of me knew that—caller ID. But telling Grandma I know it’s her won’t keep her from identifying herself on the phone or signing her texts. “Hi,” I respond, unsure what Grandma wants. “Were you going to come change my lightbulbs today?” Crap. I was. Mom has been haranguing me to help Grandma for a week, guilting me with the idea of a little old lady living alone, in quarantine, in the dark. Stupid COVID—normally, Grandma’s neighbors changed the lightbulbs and did other little upkeep things, but I guess she’s been insisting to Mom that I need to do it now—as if a pizza delivery guy has less germs on him than her work-from-home neighbor. Whatever. “Sorry, Grandma.” I find my keys in my pocket. “I’ll be over in half an hour.” “What, dear?” “I’ll be over in half an hour!” I all but shout into the phone. Then I hang up before she can babble at me and keep me from actually getting in the car. I look at the money on my bed. My room is private, but Greg, my roommate, is nosy. I go to the kitchen and, after hunting around in the pantry for a minute, come up with an almost empty bread bag. I hurry back to my room, eating the heel of the bread, and stuff the money in the bag, then tie it shut. Do I bring it or hide it? I consider for a minute. Where is it less likely to be stolen? Greg doesn’t usually root through my drawers or anything. Finally I throw the bag in my pocket, the book sliding into its now-usual place.

I climb into my car. Grandma’s house is ten minutes away—I have a few yet, but I’m already in the car.

I pull out the notebook. Suddenly, it hits me—the money was still inside. What happened to little Louis? How did the yard sale lady end up with the notebook, and the twenty grand? I check the inside front cover, and there it is: an address. Finch Drive isn’t even that far away. Maybe twenty minutes—I verify with my GPS. Eighteen minutes. I don’t even know what I’m hoping. It’s been, what, almost forty years since Louis was born? I don’t even know what happened to the author. I open the notebook again, this time to the last page with writing.

“February 18, 1999

I’m sorry, son. I’m sorry I’m going to miss so much. Your high school graduation. Your college graduation. Your wedding, your children. I was excited. I was already excited to meet my grandbabies.

And I know you won’t really remember who I was. I mean, we have a lot of great memories together. Lots of catch and burgers. But we’ll never have an adult-to-adult relationship, and I’m really, really sad about that.

In a selfish way, I hope you’re sad too. I hope you miss me. Is that terrible? I always had my dad around, and I can’t imagine life without him. But I guess the best I can do is leave you with some wisdom. Wish I had some.

Be a good person, Louis. You’re a good kid. Take care of your mom. Heck, take care of my mom, if you’re willing. Be smart. Be hardworking. But most of all, be kind.

I love you, kid. -Dad P.S. Cancer is the pits.” I stare at the last few words. “Cancer is the pits.” I can’t do it. I can’t leave Louis hanging. I turn the car on, follow the GPS to Finch Drive. Knock on the door. A lady answers. She’s maybe 60-something. “Are you Marie? I’m sorry—I totally even forgot my mask.” “Yes, I’m Marie.” She’s puzzled, I can see it in the top half of her face, which is the only view I have. Funny, I thought somehow that she would’ve been blonde like my mom. “I found this,” I say, holding out the journal. “It belongs to Louis. Your husband wrote it.” Tears well up in the corners of her eyes as she looks at the book, and one splatters out onto the beat-up cover. One more spot of water damage. “I—how—I don’t—” she says. “And, um,” I’m not sure how to explain, so I pull the bread bag out of my pocket. She looks at it, and her watery eyes go wide. “Is that—” “This was in the pages. It’s for you. Or for Louis. I dunno. Is he okay? Louis?” She nods mutely, her shaking hand moving up to clutch the little black notebook. She doesn’t even look at the money, just stares at the notebook. I realize I never replaced the shoelace; it’s somewhere in my room, I guess. “Louis!” She calls, and a man a decade older than me pops out a second later. His hair is dark and messy, like Harry Potter’s. “You okay, Mom?” He asks. She nods her head, apparently unable to say anything. He squints at me, like he’s trying to decide if I made his mom cry because I’m a threat. “Your dad wrote that for you,” I say, waving a hand at the notebook Marie has now clutched tightly to her chest. “And he left this.” “My—” Louis stops talking as he realizes that the bread bag is full of money. A bread bag full of dough, I realize silently, and I try not to laugh at the stupid pun. “My dad?” “I found the book at a yard sale. With the money inside. I read some of it—sorry.” “It must have been in the stuff I donated,” Marie says with a sniffle. She wipes her eyes with her thumb. “This young man—” She pauses, looking expectantly at me. “Tim,” I supply. “Tim. You brought Dennis home to us,” she says. “Dennis?” I blink a few times before I get it. “My dad,” Louis says, and I nod idiotically. I could’ve figured that out.

“It didn’t even occur to me that the guy had a first name—I’d just thought of him as “Louis’ dad.” I mutter. “He’d have liked that,” Marie says, and her cheeks move under her mask. She’s smiling. “Well, thanks,” I say, and hold the bread bag out again. “Thanks? Thank you,” Louis says. He stares at the bag. “Can I give you some of that? A finder’s fee or something? Goodness knows times are hard for people.” I swallow, and it comes down harder than I mean it to. “Nah,” I say, and I fake a smile. Doing the right thing is hard. “But—” Louis’ eyes find the Pontiac. “I got this,” I say. “I’m alright. Besides, your dad saved all that for you.” Louis nods, takes the bag, and then puts his arm around his mom. “Thank you, Tim. Really. I wish you’d known my dad.” “He loved you,” I say. “Read the book. You’ll see.” Louis’ eyes widen. “I know he did,” he answers. I smile for real at that. Louis was lucky. I nod a few times, feeling awkward, then turn and walk down their porch steps. The door doesn’t close; they watch me walk away. Maybe I’m lucky too, I realize as I get back in the car. I’ve got Mom. I’ve got Grand—

Shoot.

I pick up my phone. I’m fifteen minutes late for lightbulb duty. I hit my recent calls, and, not looking at Marie and Louis, start the car while the phone rings. “Tim? Are you alright?” Grandma’s voice is strained; she’s worried.” “I’m fine. It’s a long story.” “You can tell me about it. Maybe…” she pauses, and I put the car in drive. “Maybe over lunch?” “Sounds great, Grandma,” I say. “I’ll be there in ten.”