It was a beautiful night. Outside was not too cold nor too hot, but it was one of those nights where you could sleep with your fan off if you wanted to. The night was going well for Lisa as she was using her laptop to browse the internet and read some emails. It was at that moment her phone rang and to her surprise, it was someone she used to talk to, but only recently reconnected with. ‘Hello’, she answered. ‘Goodnight Lisa, Mario here’. She knew it was him because she still had his number saved to her phone. Lisa responded with ‘yes I know, how are you?’ ‘I’m good thank you and you? ‘I’m good too thanks.’ What was asked next was somewhat of the surprise because he asked her out for ice cream on the Friday night. It was Wednesday night, so Lisa had two days before her date with Mario. She was playing it cool, but she told him she would have to check her calendar. You see she already knew she was free on Friday night, but she did not want to accept so quickly. After supposedly checking her calendar, she told him she was free and accepted his invitation. They were both excited because he seemed happy that she was free. They exchanged pleasantries and hung up. That was not the end of the conversation however, because texts followed. He first asked if Lisa had any food allergies and he also told her to bring two jokes for the evening. It was at that moment Lisa was a little nervous, but in a good way. She was mostly trying to figure out what he had planned. In addition, she did not know where she was going because it was a surprise, even though she tried to trick him into asking him what the attire was for the evening, to get an idea of where they may be going. Mario told her what was acceptable, but she still did not know where she was going, so she just gave up and waited until the Friday night came. There was no doubt as Friday drew near, Lisa got excited, but she was trying not to have high expectations because of the brief history she had with him. When she met Mario, she thought they hit it off good, however, he suddenly told her he was unavailable, so she was ‘threading lightly’ in this situation. It was shocking to her that now he was calling and wanting to go out, but what did she have to lose? In the meantime, Lisa looked for the two jokes and even asked a friend if they could think of any jokes. Eventually she found jokes and she decided to take four jokes instead of two, if the first two were not as funny. The Friday evening came, and Lisa was ready for her date. Again, she was excited, just not overly excited as she wanted to see how it would go first. Mario picked her up and so their date began. Mario to her is very caring. He usually asks her how her day was and what she did and things like that. When she got in the car, she said good evening and he said it back and like she suspected, he asked her how she was and how her day was. In return, Lisa asked him the same thing and he told her he was good, and his day was good as well. An anxious Lisa then questioned where they were going, to which he responded, ‘down the hill’. You see, to get to Lisa, you must drive up a hill or walk if you are taking the bus. After failing at trying to know where they were going, as well as being told to just sit back and enjoy the drive, Lisa waited and did just as she was told, but it was a good drive. They arrived at their destination, which happened to be at the beach. Lisa does love the beach and it turns out so does Mario. It is not only the beach they love, but the love for the sunsets and realizing the different colors the sunsets surprise them with, they love. There are as well, the different colors of the water that surprise them. It is safe to say that Lisa was discovering a few things about Mario that she liked so far and is looking for in a guy. Mario had the entire date planned. In Lisa’s mind she was just thinking she was going for ice cream and maybe just talk and get to know each other, but Mario had a board game, an obstacle game and of course the ice cream and to end it he had pieces of his real Christmas tree branches, along with pieces of newspaper in a can to burn to end the night. First to start off the evening was Lisa’s first joke. It was funny and Mario thought that it was also. He took out the first activity for the evening and that was the game of snakes and ladders. Lisa could not remember the last time she played that game. It really brought back childhood memories. She believed that almost every household in Barbados had a game of snakes and ladders, monopoly, dominoes, playing cards and the checkers board game. Those games were almost the staple games growing up in Barbados as a young child. Nonetheless, it was good to say the least that he brought that game and even better, because Lisa won. After the game, they ate the ice cream he brought. Unfortunately, he brought an ice cream that Lisa was somewhat allergic to, so they had to exchange. His flavor ice cream would not have been Lisa’s first choice either, but it was the safer option, I mean, who can go wrong with rum and raison? The other flavor was coconut. That type of ice cream makes Lisa feel sick and only when it is plain coconut ice cream, because Lisa ate coconut ice cream before, but it had bits of shredded coconut in it and it did her nothing. However, Mario was understanding, even though he probably thought to himself that he asked her about food allergies, and she told him she had none. He did not mind exchanging and Lisa was kind enough to still offer him some of her ice cream. Lisa realized something about Mario. She realized he was a planner and that he sticks to the time he allotted for. It was a little surprising to her, mainly because of the way he showed it, but it was also something she came to understand that it was just him. Everyone wants to be accepted for who they are and so Lisa was doing just that; learning about him and accepting this was who he was. Lisa considers herself as a planner too, however, she is still a little spontaneous, somewhat of a balance she likes. After all that was her zodiac sign-a Libra. Time came for the next item on the list which was the obstacle game. They left the bench and started to walk on the sand while Mario explained what Lisa had to do. There were two sticks and Lisa had to try to balance them while walking on the sand. She was to see how many steps she could take by balancing the sticks. She did a couple tries before she finally got it done. In the end, Lisa outdid herself because she got 100 steps and was able to balance the sticks. You could imagine how proud she was of herself. Mario too, was proud of her and said he was impressed. He then explained the moral of the game was to be persistent and be patient. That was impressive to Lisa how he thought about that game and just how much effort he put into the date. He thought of every detail, including having a sweater for her if she got cold. Indeed, she did, and she was able to use his sweater. To end the night, they found a spot on the beach to burn the pieces of his real Christmas tree. There they talked about different things and they even ended up singing. Let’s just say Lisa was so comfortable that she was willing to embarrass herself by singing. That was how Mario made her feel; comfortable and this was the first date since he came back into her life. From that date, Lisa was amazed by him and the same for Mario. He was so amazed that he planned for another date the Sunday. If Lisa could rate the date, she would give it a 10/10 because it was thoughtful and more importantly fun and it was after that night, she got excited because she felt like this was the beginning of something new and she was ready and hopeful. By Jalasheia Harewood


At the house at the edge of the woods there lived a Woodsman and his three children. The youngest of these children was a newborn baby boy. Upon the baby’s birth, the Woodsman’s wife died quickly and quietly. The Woodsman grieved this loss enormously, and for many days and nights could hardly bear to touch his tools.

The Woodsman’s oldest daughter, Tove, took notice of this. She kept herself awake into the wee hours of the darkness, peering at her father as he trained an empty gaze on the fireplace night after night. Each new day, his tools remained untouched and the woods grew thick and the food upon the dinner table grew thin. At school, Tove kept quiet, praying silently that when she returned home her father would be in good spirits. In her mind, the hearth swelled and her siblings lay on their bellies on the floor playing with newly carved toys. She would set the table just right for her father, and he would serve them all a hearty supper smelling of warming spices. The growling of her stomach shook her from the daydream, and her ears perked as she overheard a group of schoolchildren whispering amongst each other.

She approached the circle of little huddled bodies wearily, listening closely to the disjointed chittering.

“Glowing eyes all the better to see you with!” “Razor-sharp claws all the better to catch you with!” “A big bloody mouth all the better to eat you with!”

Tove poked her head through an open cranny in the circle and murmured. “Who?” The children went quiet, all their pointed gazes landing on her at once. Tove suddenly felt much smaller than she was, and tucked her chin into her chest.

“Only the big. Bad. Wolf .” One child sneered. “The most horrible, most wretched, most enormous creature in all the woods! He guards the forest’s heart, ready to gobble up any naughty children who wander alone.”

Tove gulped. She did not care much to hear about what monsters lie in wait just outside her house. She shook her head and turned to leave the huddle when one boy chimed in.

“They say if someone’s brave enough to slay him, they’ll never go hungry again, that they’ll always have fresh meat at their door.” Tove stood still. She thought of her growling stomach, and wondered if that same gnawing feeling stewed in the bellies of her father, her sister, the baby. They were in no condition to face such a beast. And so Tove took to the woods.

Between her malnourished smallness and matured face, worn heavily with violet strokes under her eyes, Tove looked exactly her age; all of seven years old.

With trembling ankles and wrists, skinny and jutting with days of ceaseless hunger, the girl trudged across the frozen dirt, snow-damp leaves sticking to her little shoes. Gnarled branches twined sharply in the sleeves of her shirt, pinching at the loose fabric as she passed by. Her head swam with chill and hunger and exhaustion, but she was not afraid. The forest contained no greater horrors than did the four walls of her home, of this she was quite certain. Even if the wolf was so terrible as the schoolchildren said, she would not allow herself to cry.

As Tove drew deeper into the woods, with fingers frostbitten and stinging wrapped tight around the handle of her father’s hatchet, she happened upon what she knew to be the heart of the forest. For it looked like a heart indeed. A convoluted knot of roots, all gnarled and endlessly weaving, towered above her. It was at least three times her height. She squinted at it, considering that at once it may have been many trees, which grew too closely together and eventually could no longer be differentiated. The heart thrummed with life. At first she thought it to be a trick of the light, but as she inspected it closer she was certain that the system of roots was moving. Its pace was lethargic, but all the same rhythmic and predictable; the mass of roots curling in on itself then expanding, curling, expanding, and beating just as true as the heart in Tove’s own chest.

After so many arduous and monotonous hours of exploration, Tove’s fingers twitched about the handle of the axe, longing to be of some use. But the little girl steadied herself; she had no quarrel with the heart, only the dreaded dire wolf which guarded it.

“Only call him once and he shall come…” Tove whispered to herself, her lips slow with chilling numbness. She stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled as her father did to call her to supper - when they still held supper of course- and waited. In the permeable stillness of anticipation, Tove found that perhaps there was some fear in her yet, as the back of her neck prickled with something awful. She was reminded of all the things the children had whispered about at school: an uncountable many teeth, yellow lamp-like eyes, monstrous claws larger than her head, a growl so deep and so terrible that the very ground trembled in its wake. But Tove heard no such growl. Instead, slowly approaching, her ears perked at a cool and tremulous mewling accompanied by a damp thumping of paws. She craned her head and peered into the darkness, the hatchet poised behind her head.

“If you be the wolf, then show yourself!” She cried, sounding only a bit braver than she felt. From that spot of darkness crawled a creature which was only remarkable in its thinness. A wolf, yes, but neither big nor bad nor frightening. Frightful, perhaps, in its hollowness; strange and wan with a coat of matted and silvering fur. The girl stared at the weary thing, perplexed, lowering the axe of her father.

The wolf seemed to take notice, but did not bare its teeth in reply, instead offering a slow and deliberate nod towards the blade in Tove’s hand. She glanced at it and felt suddenly quite sick with herself for boasting to kill something so obviously pathetic.

“You have come to slay me.” The wolf spoke, its voice laden with grit and gravel, heavy with disuse. The girl winced, but was not want to lie, and nodded apologetically. The wolf slowly blinked its large dull eyes and continued. “Well, then.” Tove stared at it. If she were to kill this creature it would be no great victory, no brutal slaying, but a merciful and swift death. With childish curiosity, she found herself approaching the thing with an outstretched hand. The creature did not flinch away, and Tove felt no fear as she lay her hand upon its head and scratched affectionately behind its drooping ears. Touching it, she was startled to find its body cold as ice beneath its meager coat.

“You’re cold.” She said plainly. The wolf nodded solemnly.

“This winter is especially cruel, little one. You are wise to wear such a warm coat.” Said the wolf, its nose pointing to her grandmother's hooded cloak, passed down to her as the eldest child. Tove had not grown into it yet, and it hung heavy and limp about her tiny shoulders. The girl considered this a moment and unfastened the clasps of her coat before wrapping it about the body of the wolf.

“Oh child- I cannot accept this.” The wolf protested as it was dressed, but it lacked the strength to shake the cloak from its shoulders.

“I’m not so cold.” Tove lied, her teeth clacking sharply together.

“It is a waste to bestow warmth upon something so near to death as myself.” The wolf said, though it held no sorrow in its voice. Tove’s brows creased. She was not so downtrodden yet to believe the lies of grownups; knowing that even the most fleeting moments of kindness mattered greatly.

“You are to die?” Tove asked.

“You are to kill me.” The wolf answered.

“Is that what you want?”

The wolf sighed, its slight shoulders heaving under the weight of its breath.

“I have watched these forests since I was only a pup. For many days and months and years I wandered here, guarding her heart.” Its eyes flickered to the gnarled mass, beating slow and constant. “But I am old and weary now, not so strong or brave as one such as yourself. There are powers too great now for me to defend her against.”

The corners of Tove’s ears burned at the compliment, but she was thankful for the warmth.

“I am not strong.” She muttered.

“But you are brave.” The wolf said, a graveness creeping into its voice. “You came all this way. You have heard the stories. You know what must be done.” Tove blinked in awe at the creature. She was certain she did not want to kill it, and yet she recalled the day she found a deer in the wood just outside her home. The poor thing had caught itself in a bear trap, its legs bent at unnatural angles, mewling in pain. Tove watched her father take a hunting knife to its throat, joyless and somber. He had explained later that it was a kinder death, if a bit more expedient. The wolf was not so different, only a bit more dignified, nobly bowing its head, accepting its fate.

Tove’s fingers twitched tighter around the handle as she raised it slowly above her head. She sucked in a deep, frozen breath, steeling herself. The wolf met her gaze, its eyes dark and enormous. She grimaced, mumbled a prayer, and swung the hatchet. It sliced through the air and landed against the wolf’s head with an ear-splitting crack. The blade stuck on the lip of its cranium, and Tove wiggled it free, bits of blood and fur flecking the snow. She raised the hatchet and swung again. And again. And again. Until the wolf lay in a muddled heap. She breathed hard, the cold stinging her throat and nose. Her arms ached, trembling with strain, and the axe fell from her little fingers. She stared at the remnants of the wolf with wide eyes in disbelief of her own strength.

As she looked on, a smell wafted past her, warm and gamey and inviting. With a sinking feeling she realized it was the fresh meat she was smelling, raw and bloody. Her stomach churned with hunger. The sensation bubbled past her ribs, her throat, her mouth, consuming the whole of her body. She dropped to the ground. In a mad frenzy Tove took handfuls of bloodied muscle, tearing into it with her baby teeth. It was tough and ugly and yet she carried on until she was stained deep crimson from her chin to her fingertips. She licked clean the bones, picked pieces of flesh from fur, breathed in the remaining smell as if it would fill her belly all the same. When the meat had all gone, and still her stomach rumbled, Tove looked down at the tarnished snow. Before her lay two coats; that of the wolf and that of her grandmother, side by side.

Her eyes flickered between the two as the gravity of her deed began to settle in her mind. She conjured the image of her father, staring blankly into the fire, her sister scraping a fork along an empty plate, the baby crying out in its crib. She would not allow them to starve down to nothing.

With a final lick of her lips, Tove shirked her clothes, but the cold hardly registered. Over her head, she draped the silvery pelt of the wolf, and as it enveloped her twiggy limbs she felt it grow heavy. The fur seemed to expand as if it were breathing, each silvery hair lifting and falling, its color shifting from dull gray to a deep dark black. The edges of the pelt knit together with some invisible thread, stretching across Tove’s slight frame. She closed her eyes and breathed in the winter’s air, but no longer felt its sting, no longer hungered, no longer starved for rest.

Tove opened her eyes. The wolf stalked away.

The house at the edge of the woods held one less soul in it that night and a great and terrible emptiness was felt at the meager dinner table. For hours, the Woodsman wandered the forest in frantic search of his eldest child. He turned every stone, marked every tree, kicked up any patch of leaves or snow which her little body might be buried beneath. In the late hours of the day, as the sun drew itself into the earth and set the forest floor ablaze, the father knelt in the snow at the sight of something familiar. But as he looked upon the ground, what was born as hope swiftly twisted itself into a horrible and all-encompassing grief. Laid before him in the snow was the coat of his mother, passed down to his daughter, stained rusty red and stinking with old blood.

When the Woodsman returned to his children at the house at the edge of the woods, there sat on the stoop of the door a bundle of meat. Great hunks of venison, still bloody-fresh and wrapped in twine stained the ground. And every seven days, exactly when the last of the meat ran out, the Woodsman would find another fresh bundle at the door.


Huff… huff… huff… I cannot lose her now. I won’t stop. I cannot stop. I cannot get tired now of all times. I saw her after 10 years since middle school. I have so many questions for her. But she looked different from how I remember her. Even if it turns out to be someone else I won’t stop before I know it for sure. A young man is running in a neighbourhood chasing after the glimpse of a girl. She seemed to look like the girl whom he had proposed to in the first year of middle school. They were good friends at that time. He asked her to reply when the cherry tree in their school blossoms. But unfortunately, due to weak health he had to be hospitalized for a month and when he returned things weren’t as he had thought them to be. The girl had transferred schools. She didn’t only leave the school but the city as well. He wasn’t able to get in contact with her ever since then. After catching a glimpse of her in the crowd of Christmas celebration he didn't think twice before chasing her. When he finally found her in a park, which he didn't even know existed before, she stood there. She had a faint smile on her face. She still looked pretty in his eyes though it was night time and there wasn't much light to make out the details of her appearance. She was wearing a traditional kimono, which was sort of unexpected. Her hair were long but appeared unkempt. Her eyes weren’t shining as he remembered as well. They appeared to be quite distressed. After catching up with her, both of them stood there staring at each other for quite some time. She was never the type of person to chatter nonstop and neither was he. Some time passed and she finally started to leave the park and went towards the street. He kept following her and before he knew it, they had reached his apartment building. Both entered the building and he asked if she had shifted into the recently occupied apartment and she ran away ahead of him into the building. He was so happy to see after such a long time. when he returned to his apartment he first went to the balcony and as he had expected she was also in hers looking towards him. They both kept meeting for a few days but it was always him who did the talking. Maybe something happened to her due to which she isn't able to speak, an accident or some kind of trauma. He didn't ask and chose to wait for her to open up. One day his colleagues came to him and asked why he hasn't been going out for a drink after work with them recently and he told them that he has to meet someone whom he came across not too long ago and that she's always waiting for him outside the office. But they told him that they never saw anyone with him because one day they looked down from the office window to see if he had finally found the girl of his life. But they didn’t see anyone, he was alone. He was surprised to know this and when it was time for him to finish he looked down from the office window, and there she was, standing and waiting for him but when he asked his colleagues to look again, they said they don't see anything. In order to not raise any suspicion in their minds about himself that how he has always been overly sensitive to the so-called paranormal beings, he said that he was joking with them and ended the topic with a laugh. Though it didn’t end but start in his mind from this point onwards. When he came down he had a serious look on his face and couldn't keep it in anymore. He asked her who she is? Is she really the girl he thought she was? The faint smile from her face disappeared. She didn't say a word. He was getting more and more annoyed and irritated. He left her behind and went straight to his home. After reaching his home the first thing he did was to draw the curtains. He went to bed and after turning and tossing in his bed a million times he was finally able to sleep. Though he didn't get much sleep last night it was no excuse to miss work. He left his bed and got ready to leave for work. When he came down to the street he saw her standing before him and looking towards him with hopeful eyes. A night’s sleep had helped him to clear his mind and made him able to look at things from a different perspective. He shook his head trying to get his thoughts in order and the first thing he asked her was if she was still alive and thankfully she nodded. He was really relieved to know this but she still looked distressed, so he again asked about her purpose for coming to him. But she didn't say anything, as he had expected. He asked if she can't speak then can she write instead but she shook her head in negative response. He said then if he asks a question can she reply by either nodding in affirmation and shaking in negation, and she agreed to it.

After thinking a lot, he asked very selected questions to help him figure out the situation. Lastly, he asked if she wanted to take him to some place and the reply was affirmative. He couldn't ask her where it was since she can't speak but at least he might get to meet the actual person he has been longing to meet all these years. He asked her if she will show him the way where she wanted him to go and she gave a faint smile in affirmation. He went to the office to ask for a week long leave since he didn't know how much long it will take for him to go and come back. Next day, they started on their journey to an unknown destination. They changed a number of trains and buses. Where they reached was a valley he had never been to before. It was a very remote area. There weren't many people around and not many modern equipments were at disposal. When he turned his head towards her to ask about which direction to go from hereon, she was nowhere to be seen. He was suddenly overwhelmed with many different emotions but had to keep all his confusion to himself. He asked around using her surname, which was from her maternal side but no one knew about any family with such name. While he was asking around if anyone else knew something, then he heard people talking about the misfortune of a priest’s family and a shrine maiden who was hospitalized and had no family member left to care for her. When the priest's name came in the conversation he realized that it was her father's name and came to know that she belonged to a priest family. He never knew about what type of family she came from and assumed that her family was just like his.

When he asked the people for more information, they first hesitated to disclose information about anyone’s family to a complete stranger but when he assured them that he meant no harm and was looking for a friend, they agreed to tell him about the family. They told him that the priest’s wife left him not long after their marriage for unknown reasons but he never divorced her. At that time they had no child. But he never married again and continued his duties at the shrine. Many years passed and one day, he brought home a teenage girl with him introducing her as his daughter and told everyone that his wife had passed away so his daughter will now live with him in the shrine. Then he began to train his daughter the duties of a shrine maiden and she took up several duties at the shrine including assistance of shrine functions such as the sale of sacred goods (including amulets known as omamori, paper talisman known as ofuda, wood tablets known as ema and among other items), daily tidying of the premises, and performing the sacred kagura dances on certain occasions. She continued her education in a local school and stopped after graduating from high school. But two years ago the priest passed away as well leaving her alone in the big shrine with all its responsibilities. Then few days ago while performing a ritual suddenly an earthquake came and the shrine being very old couldn't survive the disaster and collapsed like many other buildings in the village. A lot of people died and many got severely injured in that disaster. Though they were able to find most of the people but some were still missing. He then remembered watching the news about it. He asked about the hospital in which she was hospitalized and went there as fast as his feet could take him there. He asked about her room number at the hospital’s reception desk but he wasn't given any details since he wasn't a family member and his appearance also made it obvious that he wasn't from this village. But then an elderly person asked to tell him since everyone was looking for their loved ones during such tough time. He thanked that person with a deep bow and went towards the room. When he reached at the door he was reluctant for a minute trying to mentally prepare himself before entering. She was lying on the bed and was connected to ventilator. It was really her. He held her hand which was cold compared to his and before he knew it tears were flowing down his cheeks. But why did they have to meet like this.

A nurse came in to check upon her and when he asked her about the chances of her survival she told to be prepared for the worst. As she was about to leave the room she heard some mumbling sounds coming from the patient and at once went to call for the doctor. He was relieved that she had opened her eyes which was supposedly a good sign. She was trying to say something but he couldn't hear properly so he brought his ear near her. She gathered all her strength and said " Thank you ". As soon as she uttered those two words all her strength left her body, her eyes were shut and only a faint smile was left on her face as if she was satisfied to finally have him with her in the final moments of her life. It appeared like she didn't want to leave before seeing him and was asking God to fulfil her last wish. He fell on the floor as if all his strength had been drained from his body and couldn’t stop himself from crying because she had gone silent again and wouldn’t even show any movement. The doctors came and checked her vitals. They looked at all her latest reports and gave the good news that she was now out of danger. There was no need to be anxious anymore. She would regain her consciousness soon and would be healthy again. Everyone in the room was relieved on hearing this miraculous news. But she still had to stay in the hospital for two weeks at least to make a full recovery and get discharged. He called his office immediately and asked for leave extension which he got but with a cut in his salary. But that was a trivial thing to worry about right now. He stayed with her and looked after her. They reminisced about their past, about their plans for the future and he proposed to her that they should get married and live together in the city after being discharged. Since the shrine was completely destroyed by the earthquake and she didn't know what to do next in life she agreed to back in a relationship with him. He asked the doctor if she can travel to city after discharge and he gave permission along with a long list of precautions to be taken while travelling. When he returned to his workplace with a different aura around him his colleagues couldn’t contain their curiosity anymore and when they asked him for the reason he replied while grinning from ear to ear that …. .


Brightly clothed bodies swirl through Leila’s vision, all loud music and swinging hips. With her hands in the air, she moves to the beat, dancing through the crowd. Her face is pink from the stuffy room and too many free drinks. She loves the free feeling that comes with a night out. It’s all syrupy thoughts and sultry eye contact. A blue spotlight swings overhead, flashing over her eyes. When they focus a young man is standing before her, watching intently. Leila smiles and sways with him. She can’t see his face well in the dim club lighting, but every once in a while that blue spotlight comes back and she can make out a wide nose and easy grin. Her smile back is laden with alcohol. He leans over her head, hot breath fanning across her neck, and Leila shivers despite the pressing heat of the crowd. His lips move against her skin. “In 90 seconds, this place will explode.” Leila blinks. Her mind malfunctions, not at all prepared to hear words she wasn’t expecting. It takes her too long to finally make sense of them, and when she does he’s already talking again. He’s pulled back an inch to look into her eyes, close enough still that she can hear him over the music. “See those stairs behind you? Go down them and out the door. It’ll take you into a back alley. From there follow the signs.” “What are you talking about?” He shakes his head sympathetically. “I can’t explain. Just do it.” Then he’s pulling away, retreating into the crowd. Leila scrambles to grab his arm but her reflexes are too impaired. She curses under her breath.  “Wait!” She calls out after him. “What is this? What’s going on?” The blue light streaks over her eyes and she squints against it. When her eyes adjust the man is gone. She looks around desperately, feeling woozy from her brain trying to work through a haze of liquor. The rest of the club is the same as it was before. Sweaty bodies bump into her and splash sticky drinks onto the already nasty floor. She’s a frozen anchor in the sea of dancers. Then there’s a blinding flash of light that illuminates the dance floor and a boom so loud it’s almost silent. Around her, people scream and swarm toward the exit. That blue spotlight dangles and falls from the ceiling. Leila stumbles, her ears are ringing, and she can barely remember the man’s advice. She shoves through the crowd and pushes toward the back door he’d pointed out. It strikes her as curious that no one else is using it. Her ears rumble with the collapsing of the club’s walls. Bits of debris bite into her skin. She runs down the short set of grimy stairs and shoulders the rusty door open. She stumbles out into the alley, lit by a single flickering streetlamp. The door swings shut behind her and the noise of destruction suddenly falls away. Leila breathes heavily, sends a glance over her shoulder, then examines the alley she’s been deposited into. She finds her first clue in the form of a water-stained poster of a local band tacked to a bulletin board. The logo is a bright yellow curled arrow pointing to the left. Leila runs down the length of the alley and is met with a crooked street sign that says “STAY LEFT.” She follows a jagged path of spray paint and peeling stickers to a door on the back of a closed café. Her hand hesitates on the handle, unsure if she should go in or not. She takes a deep breath, tightens her grip, and steps through the door only to find herself back in the club. The club that just exploded, except it’s not exploding anymore. Everything is exactly the same as it was before the man approached her. Leila looks around rapidly, but nothing strange happens and she heads home soon after. There’s nothing on the news the next day of any such event. Two weeks later Leila has written the whole experience down as a drunken hallucination. She’s at the neighborhood pool tanning on one of the lounge chairs. It smells like sunscreen and chlorine and there’s not a cloud in the sky. It’s the middle of summer and the kids out of school are splashing and screaming while she closes her eyes and pretends to ignore them. The heat kisses her skin and life is good. Someone plunks down in the lounge chair next to hers and she peeks an eye open, then chokes on her own spit and has to sit up quickly and cough violently before she can address him. It’s the man from the club, she’s somehow sure of it. In the daytime, she gets a good look at him. His skin is a shade darker than hers, and he has curly brown hair. He smiles with one side of his mouth and raises his eyebrows. “What are you doing here?” Leila whispers. She eyes the other pool-goers nervously. “Getting a tan, obviously.” He leans back in the chair, arms crossed beneath his head. “The club-“ Leila starts. “Was that… real?” “Real as anything.” Smooth muscles bulge in his arms. He sighs happily and lets his eyes drift shut. “But how?” He doesn’t answer, busy taking in the nice day. Leila watches him until his eyes flutter open finally and he says, “I think it’s going to storm.” It’s a ridiculous notion. The sunny sky is a deep blue and clear of any clouds. “You’re crazy.” “When the storm starts, get in your car and go to this location.” He places a torn piece of paper with an address scribbled on it on her thigh. “This is across town.” “Yep.” He slaps his thighs and sits up. “Well, I’m off.” Leila watches him get up and walk away. She has half a mind to follow him, but reasons it won’t do much anyway. She’s about to lay back in her chair and continue tanning when a breeze whips her face. A minute later dark clouds are billowing in, angry and roiling. The first boom of thunder is so loud a kid in the pool shrieks. Lightning streaks across the sky in a jagged branch. The rain doesn’t start as a trickle. One minute it’s not raining, the next it’s a downpour. Lounge chairs go flying into the pool, sinking to the bottom like strange fish. Tree branches snap and twist through the air. Around her people are jogging out of the pool. The metal gate screeches and wet flip-flops slap against the pavement. Leila stands transfixed, rain pouring onto her head and shoulders, until lightning strikes nearby and the thunder shakes her into movement. She climbs into her car, ignoring the wet mark she’s going to make on the leather. Fat rain droplets splatter the windshield. She takes a moment to put the address from the paper into her phone. The ink smeared a little in the rain, but she can still make it out. The drive across town takes her 45 minutes and to a large warehouse. It’s definitely in use- there are trucks and workers all over the place, but she finds the sign easily. A worker’s entrance on the side of the warehouse with a metal sign on it that says “DO ENTER.” The word NOT has been scratched out. Leila sighs and gets out of the car. It’s not raining anymore but her soaked hair drips water down her back. No one pays any attention to her as she walks up to the door, even though she’s still wearing her swimsuit and dripping onto the concrete. There are no puddles besides the ones she leaves on the concrete. She doesn’t waste any time doubting. Already, she’s coming to terms with this weird new reality. She pulls the heavy door open, steps through, and isn’t all that surprised to find she’s somewhere else entirely. It’s a bathroom. A small one, only two stalls. The floors are wet and it smells bad but she catches a whiff of chlorine. She knows before she walks out that it’s the pool bathroom. She stands and stares at the glistening pool and happy kids. The sun bakes her shoulders, and the sky is a bright, clear blue. Leila doesn’t have to wait long after that for another visit. The man knocks on her door three days later. She sort of wants to not answer and when she does, she thinks about slamming it in his face, but he flashes a charming smile and she lets him in despite herself. “Alright,” she says. “What this time?” “Eager, are you?” He looks around her house curiously. Leila takes a moment to glare at him. He pretends he doesn’t notice it. “Are you gonna tell me who the hell you are?” “Nope.” Leila groans. “Fine. Why are you here? You going to tell me there’s a bomb in my house?” “Not this time.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and leans against the wall. Leila rolls her eyes. The need for information is eating away at her. “Then what’s going to happen? Go on, tell me.” He glances behind her. “I think it already has.” The tang of smoke hits her nostrils. Leila whips around just in time to see the flames climb to the top of her curtains and lick the ceiling. The fire alarms start screaming, the room heating up. She should try to stop it, she knows, but she’s more concerned with the man. He leans forward and shouts to be heard over the alarm. “Run down the block. Find house 3382.” He steps aside for her to leave, and she does, sending only a cursory look back at him before running down the sidewalk. The house is further than he alluded. Her lungs ache and her calves are tired, but she finds the house. There’s no signs or stickers, but there is a chalk drawing in the driveway. A child’s picture of a door with a swirl inside of it. Leila steps around it and walks up to the front door. She debates knocking but decides against it. Holding her breath she slowly opens it and steps through. She expects to be back in her home or somewhere else entirely, but she’s not. She’s in the house she entered, which is supposed to be the normal thing, but in this case it’s not. Just when she’s getting used to the pattern it skitters away from her. Footsteps ring on the hardwood and before Leila can worry about explaining herself the young man steps into the front room with her. “Good, you made it.” Leila narrows her eyes. “How- What is this?” He steps slowly closer. His shoulders straighten and he puts on his best customer service voice. “Thank you, Leila Walker, for your patience and cooperation. You have successfully completed your Anomaly Placement Identification. We’ve found where you belong and are now prepared to return you to the correct universe.” “What?” Leila fights not to let her jaw drop. “When you’re ready, step through this door.” He gestures to a closet door to the left of her. “Anomaly huh?” He gives her a small smirk. “It was nice meeting you, Leila. Maybe there’s a universe out there where we both belong.” She stares at him, wanting more explanation but not getting any. Multiple universes. Crazy. She looks him up and down. “Can I at least get your name?” This little bit of information is something she can have. His posture relaxes and he flips something that looks like a coin to her. “Mason.” Leila nods and turns the token in her hand. There’s a logo pressed into one side and a series of numbers on the other. “To remember me by,” he says. “Do you say that to all the girls?” He chuckles and shrugs. “Nah. Just you.” “This is goodbye, then?” “Yep,” he says. He puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs one shoulder. “Have a good one, Leila.” Her hand is sweaty on the round doorknob. She squeezes and turns, scrunching her eyes closed in anticipation, and takes a step through the frame. When she opens her eyes she’s back in the club. People are dancing drunkenly all around her and the music washes over her. She tilts her head back and joins them. It’s been a good night, she thinks. But for some reason, she keeps looking over her shoulder at a door at the back of the club. She feels like she’s waiting for something to happen. In her palm she finds a token but can’t remember where it came from.


Last summer, we spent a month at my dad's cabin. Just the three of us, hiking and fishing and watching out for bears and moose. A week before we left, my dad took us on a canoe ride across the lake; sitting single-file on the woven seats with Dad in back, me in front, and you squeezed in the middle. Dad and I both had a paddle, but you, sitting between us, didn't, so you just sat with your knees almost up to your chin and complained. You didn't like the spiders that made their homes in the canoe while it was on land, nor the mosquitoes that settled on us and buzzed around our heads, nor the thick, muggy air with moisture hanging heavily. It was June, and hot, humid days were to be expected, but I never said that. I thought the trip was wonderful. So quiet, the silence broken only by the screeching blackbirds on the cattails and the paddles dipping into the water. So beautiful, with trees reflected on the mirror-still surface of the greenish lake, turtles basking on protruding logs, dragonflies skimming over the water and darting around our slow canoe. And so captivating, with Dad pointing out regal herons or overhead eagles and telling us stories about the summers he spent on this lake, growing up. I could've spent all day on that lake, drinking in the surroundings so different from my home in Indianapolis. But we only paddled for about an hour before you grew bored and we returned to the cabin. You're always like that, you know. Oh, I can hear you arguing about it, insisting that you're not that bad. And you aren't. Peace and quiet, all alone on the lake, just isn't meant for you, even if we had it in Indianapolis (we don't). But I let you drag me all over the city, exploring and having your kind of fun, meeting new people and trying new things, so haven't I earned a little time for my own style of fun? Sometimes we're so different, in a way I can't always place. *          *          * Take Halloween. We always go trick-or-treating together, although this year we were too old for that and handed out candy at your house- eating most of it ourselves, of course. I was glad to skip the tradition. Sure, it's fun to dress up, but visiting all those houses, talking to all those near-strangers, having the same conversation thirty times in one night? It always sapped my energy. But you insisted we attend the Halloween party hosted by one of your friends (weren't we too old for that stuff? Never mind), so there was no getting out of it, after all. I was an owl, you were a tarantula. You helped me apply the gold eye shadow and brown-and-white feathers, and I put on your extra four arms and six eyes, but we took most of it off when we arrived and found that almost no one was wearing a costume. Always the braver one, you strode into the midst of the party, laughing with friends you probably made on the spot; while I lurked by the snack table with the sugar cookies and orange punch, hoping I looked like an ordinary girl and not an owl or a weirdo with heavy eye shadow and a lightly feathered sweater. At first, it wasn't bad. A few of my other friends were there, and I sort of enjoyed talking to people I barely knew, but the chaos gave me a headache, and my energy petered out. I spent the last half of the party alternating between the bathroom and the far wall. You came back for me, of course. You spotted me hovering at the snack table, feigning interest in the Halloween treats so that no one would approach and try to speak with me. I was too drained for any form of social interaction. You came up behind me and whispered, "We might as well go. This party is boring," as if you were the one sick and tired of people, and not me. I nodded once, as if the idea of leaving had never occurred to me, and we slipped out the door, halfway back to my house before I thanked you. You rolled your eyes and said, "It was my fault for making you come. I guess you don't really like that stuff." "Not really, but it wasn't so bad," I lied, and we chattered our way down the sidewalk, putting it behind us. And I never, ever- still haven't- held it against you, just like how you never held it against me for being so antisocial. *          *          * Remember last February? While pink roses wilted in vases and discarded valentines papered the school's hallways, the last winter holiday over and forgotten, we all felt a little droopy. Like the old, slushy snow piled on rooftops and beginning to melt off again, I could feel you start to sag. I felt the same way. And so, when your mom offered to drive us to the butterfly gardens that had opened at the zoo last summer, during our time at Dad's cabin, even you agreed. Maybe butterflies were for babies, but we were sick and tired of winter. You and I looked up and up as we found our way through the snow-capped iron gates of the zoo and all the way to the butterfly gardens. They were inside a big, plain-looking building with only the sign over the doors hinting at the presence of butterflies. We shivered inside and found ourselves in between doors- the one we'd just gone through, and a second glass one right in front of us, a paper taped to it. Blind as a mole- always have been- you stepped up, squinting, to read it. "Don't let out the butterflies," you read. We shrugged at each other, and I think Mom shrugged too, behind us, and then we entered. Instantly, we were smacked with warm, sticky air. The gardens were just that- gardens- with shaggy plants and trees arching over the path. At first, I didn't see anything special, but then you pointed, and I craned my neck to see a big yellow butterfly. Then I saw another, which we hurried to look at before it fluttered away, and another, and they kept on coming. We watched them flit around for ages. There was a butterfly in every color, and a case filled with examples of the different life stages of butterflies, and a big poster on the wall charting the different species and what they looked like, and one or two butterflies smushed into the path that I didn't look at. You got tired after a while, and resorted to looking up butterfly facts on your phone, though you must have been enjoying the warm air as much as I was; I, however, kept on wandering and watching the butterflies come and go. When we left, we noticed that one had attached itself to your shirt, but after removing it we kept going. I was buzzing with energy from the great time I'd had, but you seemed unaffected by the experience. I noted this, aloud, and you just shrugged, saying, "I like butterflies, but it wasn't that exciting or anything." I couldn't see why something had to be exciting to be fun, but there's no arguing with your shrug. At least you didn't hate it. We're very different people, you know. Maybe that sounds too philosophical, but it's true- you take energy from classes and parties and conversations with random strangers, while that would kill me. It makes us a good pair, a good team. You handle the real world, I take care of the details. We both enjoy the other's company. And I wouldn't want to make a single change.


Gabby followed her sister, Samantha, and her latest boyfriend to the door and as they were leaving, she said, "Thanks for everything. We absolutely could not have done this without your help. I'll text you soon with the date and time for the cookout."

"Thanks, sis. I still owe you. I wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for you!" The last of the family and friends had gone home and now, they were all alone, just the two of them, and they could not be happier. "I have to pinch myself Gabe, I can't believe we are homeowners. No more trips to the laundry mat and no more lugging the groceries up a bunch of steps."

They finally had a bit of free time to sit down in their new eat in kitchen and enjoy a nice cup of coffee and a piece of apple pie. So many had volunteered, uncoerced, and had been so generous with their time. From packing to unpacking, loading to unloading, they had plenty of help and they were planning on inviting every one of them over for a cookout in a couple of weeks. Gabby looked over the top of her coffee mug and said to Gabe, "Do you mind if I go to the antique store tomorrow and see if I can find a plant stand? While you and dad were out getting some supplies from the hardware store yesterday, mom and I took a trip to that Greenhouse that's just down the road. You would not believe that place. They have some really nice house plants and I think they will add a nice touch to our living room." "That's a great idea, Gabby. While you are there, see if they have a nice wooden table and chairs to replace this one. We did promise your sister we would return it when we had something to replace it." "Sure, although I don't believe Samantha really ever wanted to get this table back". They both laughed. Gabe and Gabby sure loved each other even though they could not have been any more different in their likes and their dislikes. Gabe preferred the traditional church hymns while Gabby preferred the sweeping and uplifting worship music of Phil Wickham and Chris Tomlin. Gabby beamed with joy when they would receive an invitation to a friends' wedding. Gabe? Well he would pretend to be excited too while secretly conniving a way to get out of going. On date night, Gabe's eyes would scan the restaurant menu for the weekly special while Gabby was all about seafood. Gabby would opt for a nice glass of Savignon Blanc. Gabe? He would opt for a water. They both loved dessert though so the server would bring a nice slice of key lime pie and a couple of forks.

The vast differences touched every area of life. Even the grocery shopping! They loved fruit ... grapes, oranges, tangerines, bananas, strawberries, blueberries. And then there were apples! While the other fruits were pretty much limited to one variety for the most part, apples had a wide variety to choose from. Gala, Red Delicious, Macintosh, Granny Smith, Cortland, Idared, to name a few ... and the granddaddy of them all ... Honeycrisp. Galas were what Gabe liked to buy. They were just the right size, sweet, aromatic and best of all, a good apple for the money. Gabby? She wanted Honeycrisp and nothing but Honeycrisp. Sure, Gabe liked them too. The Honeycrisp apple was very sweet and very aromatic and of course, had a nice crispness to it. But Geesh, they were huge, and they were heavy, and they were priced way higher per pound than the other varieties. He could get eight Galas for the same price as two Honeycrisps.

But that was what Gabby liked and when she gave him a list for the store and apples were on it, well, as much as it pained him to do so, that's what he got. Well, truth be told, the one time he came home with Galas instead of Honeycrisp to save a few dollars, Gabby grabbed the keys, the apples and the receipt and off she went. "Sweetie, I'm sorry, I'll take them back!" .. but it was too late. He was waiting for her when she returned. "Gabe, I don't consider myself to be selfish but I don't think it's too much to ask to get the apple I love, even if it's a little bit pricier than the others. By the way, I didn't have any cash with me so I put the $8.46 difference on the credit card." Gabe knew better than to say what he was thinking. So, he just said, "That's fine sweetie, I wish you would have let me take them back". "I'm sorry too for acting like I did. By the time I got to the store, I was feeling pretty bad". "Well then, let's celebrate. Hand me one of those apples, please!" It wasn't too long after they had moved in that money started to get tight. His job paid well but the overtime he was accustomed to was stopped because the company was having a bit of a financial crisis. Gabby worked two part time jobs which paid more than minimum wage, but not much more. First, there were a couple of little things. The water heater sprung a leak, so it needed replaced. And not too long after that, the built in microwave quit working. Then there was the root canal. The dental insurance unfortunately only covered a part of that cost. The big hit though came when the transmission in the truck went out.

Gabby came home to find Gabe sitting in the dark and staring out the window. "Gabe honey, is there something wrong?" "Yeah, I did something today I never thought I would do. I feel so guilty. I try telling myself I am better than that. But I can't kick this guilt". All his life, he had been honest. There was that time, for instance, he got his graded paper back and was surprised to see he got an A. Looking at the marked-up paper, he realized the teacher had not done the match correctly, that the grade should have been a C. When the bell rang, he waited until everyone left the room and once, they had, he told the teacher what had happened.

"Well sweetie, whatever it is, I can confirm you ARE better than that. You'll feel better once you confess. So, tell me sweetie, what did you do that's bothering you so much?" Gabe loved Gabby and how kind and considerate she was.

"Okay, you know you gave me a list for the grocery store. You also know as well as I do that things are pretty tough right now. When I got to the produce section to get the apples you had wanted, I .. Oh geesh, I can't believe I did this. I put the Honeycrisp apples on the scale and when it asked for the code, I looked around to make sure no one was looking and then I put in the code for Galas." "Hmm ... just a second, I will be right back. I need to use the bathroom." Once out of earshot, she did her best to suppress the laughter. She knew her husband and she did know he was better than that. "Okay sweetie, here's what we are going to do. First of all, you need to thank God for forgiving your shortcomings. And after that, we're going right back to the grocery store, and we are going to buy a bunch of groceries and take them to the Food Bank." Gabe looked at her and finally, he felt the burden of guilt lift from his shoulders, and it felt good. "Okay honey, that's a great plan. Now let's have a couple apples."


I clutched my coat tighter around my shoulders, the normally gentle snowfall turning harsh once the sun came down. My eyes, tears pouring from them, blurred everything in front of me. I couldn’t blink. Then they’d freeze shut. A cough overtook me for a moment and I stood, hunched over the sidewalk like a dramatic child, trying not to throw up what little I had for food the day prior. The storm would only worsen as time passed; I have to find somewhere safe. I seemed to stumble across a park of some sort. Few trees, now dead and covered in snow lined the area, a few benches placed few and far between. All covered in snow and offering no shelter from the weather. Nothing but panic overtook my senses. No sign of anywhere sheltering me from the blizzard. No one rushing over, tending to my infected wounds or cupping my face and telling me it’s alright. I brought my hand to my cheek, putting in the effort but lacking the emotion of a mother comforting her child. It was cold. Covered in holes and fraying in every place possible, my gloves did a bad job at keeping my hands warm. Everything I touched seemed more cold than the last. I almost hoped they’d fall off just so the tingly sensation that filled my fingers would finally end. My face burned where my hand had lain. I dropped it and continued walking. Corner shops had been closed a few days prior to this. In anticipation of the blizzard, people stocked up on gas, got fuel for fires, and bought non-perishable foods. And some of us searched and scraped the bottom of the can for any last bits of change that could be spent on some place to stay. I looked down to my pocket, the faint clinking of a few pennies and dimes all that kept me grounded. My head darted up. All I should be hearing is the wind, howling in my ears so loud it’s deafening without. But there was something else. Now painfully aware I haven’t succumbed to the weather, I turned my head, my neck flaming up in response. I could barely move anything now. Another one. Smaller. Lighter. Maybe some loose change, hitting something from the wind? The possibility of money got my attention. I heard it again. Clear as day. My legs sped up, though my body cried for a moment of stillness. I fought every urge in me to sit on the nearest bench, and walked around one of the few alleys in this town. A cat. No, two. A cat and a kitten. The kitten, just a small pile of black fuzz thanks to my blurry vision, lay huddled against the other, probably its mom, crying out to it. There was no movement from the other. Probably dead. A thousand things hit me like a truck. First, the inside of this alley was surprisingly sheltered from the weather. But not for long. The snow would build up and pile in soon.

Second, this kitten could not be more than a few weeks old,

judging by the size and baby fuzz. It would take a couple of miracles for this thing to live without a mother. Third, I was still cold. Thinking about it only made me shiver more. I could barely crouch down to get a better look at the kitten, and I didn’t make it back up. My body gave out. I collapsed next to this fuzzball, the screaming pausing as I came into view. Obvious frostbite had taken over both of us; I wouldn’t be surprised if neither made it out. I scooped it up with my free hand, the static my nerves gave off shooting fire into my veins at the small amount of added weight. The kitten barely made it to me before my hand dropped, and I unbuttoned my coat. The inside couldn’t be too much warmer than the outside, but the kitten seemed convinced otherwise. It darted into my jacket, whole body shaking from the small breeze that made it into the alley. I couldn’t help but laugh. Laugh? I’m about to freeze to death, and I just found a dead cat with a kitten that will die with me. How is any of that funny? I laughed despite the logical part of me being confused. The laugh turned to a cough, and the cough turned to a croak. I curled myself around this tiny ball of heat; though not much, it offered quite a shock to my system to feel after a long time. My thoughts grew warm, the light breeze reminding me of all the summer air I had felt throughout my life. Hell knows how much I’ll miss that. The gentle rocking of the body reminded me of fishing, the boat rocking back and forth and occasionally throwing me side to side. The bright flashes of color dulling down reminded me of a fun day coming to an end. Laying down to rest after playing in the mud all day, small scrapes and stories being all that ran through my mind throughout the night. I smiled, the cool air biting my teeth and I woke from my trance. Still in the alley. Still holding a kitten. The world around me grew fuzzy again, and I made sure to stay still just in case I could forever stay in this dreamy wonderland. All that came over me, the soft blanket of grass coating me as I rolled down a hill, picking up clumps of dirt and pebbles, grinning as I waited for the bottom of the hill to hit me. But it didn’t. I kept rolling, and rolling, but my body slowed. The rolls turned into painful heaves of breath, My arms moving on their own as I tried to tuck into another roll. The warmth stayed, though. I blinked and I was back in the alley. The warmth stayed. My eyes glanced to both sides, tears beginning to freeze as they ran down my cheeks. Something changed. A large, white rectangle with a red stripe through the middle obscured my vision of the outside of the alley. Maybe a vehicle backing in, and it’d run over me so this painful hallucination can go away. Blobs of white and red broke off from the box, quickly moving towards me. Odd. A ringing sound lightly filled my ears, one of the blobs leaning down to my eyes. It came into focus. A person. I tried to move the kitten. Maybe if I opened my coat more, they could see it, and we’d both be better off. My arms stayed at my sides, like someone poured tons of concrete mixture through the openings of my clothes. The ringing in my ears muted as I was abruptly turned over, the kitten jolting to the side and falling out of my coat. That’s good. They’ll see it and hopefully help. I got rolled onto my back again, now cold rods supporting a thin strip of cloth underneath me. I hissed in pain, though I couldn’t hear myself through the muted yelling. A few more of the blobs came closer, all going to a corner and lifting the rods. My sudden elevation brought the sky closer, and for a second, I wished it would forever lift me up. Something warm got shoved under my arm. I could barely feel my arms through the painful movement of the people, but I hoped it to be the kitten. What else would it be? I used to be a paramedic, they don’t usually put something under your arm. Unless it’s for an IV. This isn’t for an IV. They lifted me into the white rectangle, now recognizable as an ambulance, and the white lights on the ceiling brought me back to my previous state of delirium. The bright lights kept me sheltered from the howling of the blizzard outside. Warm, loving hands rushed over my body, checking for any infected wounds. A hand grabbed mine as they inserted an IV, the slight prick nothing compared to my previous experiences. They squeezed my hand, with the caring touch of a mother, someone with both the effort and the emotion thrown into the touch. My eyes closed. It was warm.


The bright lights and constant moving seemed to shove a sense of euphoria into the air. Excitement bubbled from every corner. The crowd flowed like wind, dashing from one stand then slowly ambling onto the next. But the crowd was a crowd. Another mere object that hindered my movements. Walking through it was growing exhausting. How long had I been moving forward? It was late, and the new moon in the sky allowed the lanterns and colors to light up the night. I sat on a bench, beside a large tent. Children's squeals of joy sounded from inside. It was a reptile exhibit, though everything else was too loud to allow me to hear any snakes. Across the road—which was emptier now, since a show was going on in the catering section—I watched two faceless children exchange a bill for a bag filled with cotton candy. It was overpriced. Ten dollars for such a small bag. But within the elation of the festival, prices grew irrelevant until the next day, when regret emerged. Cotton candy. How long had it been since I'd ever had any? I stood up, reaching into my empty pockets. The woman beside the cart watched me closely, though I couldn't see her face. She gestured for me to come closer. I insisted that I had no money, but she offered me the bag regardless. As I reached out, I paused. I couldn't allow myself to be swept up in festivities. I needed to find my way back. I shook my head, pulling away. The woman wasn't fond of my decision. She didn't yell, nor did she chase me when I left, but I could feel her unhappiness. Like everyone else, her expression was blank. Her face was blank. Nothing but a slab of solid color. I wondered if I appeared that way to them, too. If they were all so swept up in their own worlds that I was as blank as everyone else. I shook my head. Regardless of what everyone else appeared to be, I needed to get back. I passed a man. He wore a purple suit and a matching top hat. Even without a face, I could feel his plastic grin as he shouted for everyone to gather around. For a moment I wavered, watching with the rest of the people. He conducted a few simple magic tricks that everyone knew how to do. Still, the crown was amazed. Then came the box trick. He needed a volunteer from the crowd. Every magic show was the same. There was nothing special about this one. Nothing new, except for the volunteer. His long arm outstretched in front of him, his index finger the only one left out. It pointed at me. I shook my head, backing away. I'd seen enough. I had other places to be than such a ridiculous magic show. Still, the crowd turned to me. Every face watching, even without eyes. They pushed me forward, towards the stage. I continued to shake my head. They ignored it. And when my feet stood firmly on the wooden stage, I faced the magician. He waved his arms toward the box. So I ignored him. I walked passed him and down the stage, back to the main path. No one stopped me this time. Much like before, their feelings of despondent seeped into the air. I hurried away. How much further would it be? More people watched me as I walked now. Their faceless heads following my every movement. The crowd was no lighter. It seemed to be growing more and more, as if its goal was to waver me. I maneuvered around, taking different paths to avoid the crowd. And at last I had made it. I could see it. The distant parking lot. It was empty, behind a fence with a closed gate. And behind the parking lot, a house. My house. My home. As I ran across the grass—when had I started running?—the crowd grew more desperate to stop me. They grabbed me and shouted at me. They more intensely attempted to offer me food or prizes. I shouted, too. But unlike theirs, my shout was of fear. I pulled away, kicking at anything that tried to root me down. And when I was free, I continued running. They didn't follow me away from the festival. As if the booths and stands marked a border that they could not cross. I looked away from the faceless mob. I wouldn't allow myself to go there again. Over the fence. Across the street. To the house. Finally, I was home. As I grabbed the doorknob, I froze. Why did I want to go home? How did I know this was my home? I had no memories of this place at all. For some reason, it just seemed like the place I needed to be at. Not the festival. I opened the door. And, as if I had opened something within myself as well, a memory returned. A memory of myself, existing in that house. Of myself, cowering in fear beside my bed while my parents weren't home at night. And when they returned, they refused to acknowledge my presence. And I remembered the festival, every year. The only place that I had actually felt happy. Even just standing in front of it, with no money to pay for a ticket. Because it seemed to give off an ambience of excitement. Of happiness. I had watched everyone walk in, focusing more on their feelings than their identities. How many hours had I stood longingly outside the gate, watching the joy of those who entered? And whenever I'd asked my parents to buy me a ticket, they'd yell at me. They'd say we couldn't afford anything like that, even though they left the house every night. I would listen to them. I'd have to. Otherwise, they'd be mad. It's okay, though. I was happy, just watching the festival. Yet, one night, a man had been kind enough to buy me a ticket. He said that they were cheap, and it wasn't a problem at all. I had thanked him genuinely. And, even though I couldn't participate in anything, just walking around that night was amazing. To be within such joyfulness. To stand in its center. A feeling I never wanted to forget. When I returned home, my parents asked where I had been. I told them, and they got mad. They said I shouldn't beg other people to pay for me, and that I wasn't worth paying for. I listened to them. They were usually right, after all. And even when I agreed with them, they were still mad. More mad than usual. It was scary. What happened after that? I can't remember... But why had I wanted to return home so badly, even after being in the festival? I looked beyond the door. The house was normal. The rooms were as they always were. And my parents were gone, as they always were. I was afraid, when they were gone. When they weren't there to protect me. I called for them. There was no answer. But something walked down the stairs. I don't know what it was. I can't describe it. It seemed so unfitting, as if it shouldn't exist. Simply a dark gap, a deleted reality. And it didn't speak, but I could hear it. It was telling me to leave. That I had to leave. It was time, apparently. It wanted me to go with it. But it wasn't a discomforting, ominous call like the people in the festival. It was more welcoming, and I knew it had no malicious intent. When I asked it a question, it turned to look at me, although I wasn't sure if that was its face. "It's time for you to go," was all it answered, and so we went.


It could be said that she spent more time than most seven-year-olds thinking of biblically accurate angels. She was pleased by her name for the first six years of living, especially when spoken from the lips of her mother,  “Angel, my love.”

She thought the name rang to a similar tune of angelic concepts such as beauty, elegance, femininity, and light. Until that bright Sunday morning. “Angels,” Pastor Dave preached, “are God's warriors. The way we depict them is an injustice.” Angel, who usually took church as an opportunity to doze off in the cold metal folding chair once a week, was attentive to this particular sermon regarding her namesake.

“Our protectors ain't rosy-cheeked doe-eyed fragile women and babies! No!”

The crowd murmured its agreement, a sudden epiphany fed to them by Dave. They took it hungrily.

“They’re ferocious beasts that bare four heads: a lion, an ox, an eagle, and a human. Wild wings and sporadic eyes. Humans should shutter with fear at the terrific sight of them!” His voice reverberated off the thin walls and into the ears of his audience, echoing between her skull all the way home.

When she arrived in her bedroom, she looked in the mirror and screamed. Screamed and screamed until she coughed up blood and choked on it. Where she had once seen a halo glowing over her head in the reflection, she now saw an ox ripping through the flesh of her collarbone, fighting to make her neck his own.

That day was just the start, ten years later and she still cannot look in the mirror without seeing them: the ox at her collarbone, the eagle pecking at her eyes until they bleed, or a lion when her face should be.

Ten years is a long time, and she’s since conceived ways to sedate the hallucinations. The first way is avoiding mirrors, which is easier said than done, but she manages most of the time.

Other times she has no choice but to face the glass. Cases where she needs to check an outfit, curl her hair, or clean the surface. So, she simply wears a mask: a ceramic piece she'd painted to look like a doll, a cardboard bunny with long floppy ears, or maybe a replica of her favorite celebrity made from plastic, complete with yarn hair. Her collection is endless.

Angel finds an odd solace in making the masks, a tedious repetition that comes with the rhythm of crafting up her wildest dreams to tame the nightmares that sometimes bleed into the day. She adores every step of the process, from the initial sketch made on her pink bedroom floor, to adorning herself in the masks that serve as her own type of armor. It is important to note that Angel is not aware that these visions in the mirror are hallucinations. No, Angel believes them to be real, and since she never told anyone, she never got help. She was too embarrassed to tell anyone what she really believed; that she had been cursed by Jesus Christ himself. A punishment for her sins, and that she must atone and take it in stride or else risk eternally burning in hellfire with the lion, the ox, and the eagle that haunt her. The masks make her feel safe from the angels, but they also provided protection against the other war that had been waged upon her, beauty. It could be said that she spent more time than most nine-year-olds thinking of her figure and face. What had started as pure admiration of women festered into jealousy and insecurity. It haunted her, the golden locks and tight waists that she saw in the Sunday morning cartoons and behind her eyes when she wished for rest. She felt vanity coursing through her veins with every beat of her bitter heart. She didn't know what she looked like. Not truly. The few times she caught a glimpse in a mirror she was too petrified by the blood flooding from her eyes to really focus. The one time she permitted her mother to take a picture of her, Angel had sobbed and refused to leave her room for days, dry heaving and dizzy with disorientation and confusion. Her proportions were all wrong and her face was like that of an unfinished puzzle.

Now, at seventeen, she is seeking validation and beauty, so she signed up to compete in her town’s annual pageant show. With a week left until the show, Angel struggles with one major problem: Lucy Colette.

Lucy is known as the most desirable girl in town. With her shiny hair, bright eyes, and a small, curved nose she is delicate in every sense of the word. Everything that Angel is not. Angel has been watching Lucy since eighth grade. Watching her apply lip gloss through the crack in the stall door, sketching Lucy’s face on her pink bedroom floor for a mask, following her home from school just to watch the way her hair catches and reflects the sunshine, even on gray days. For all her watching, Angel didn’t know much about Lucy Colette, just that the boys consistently rated her a ten, and that Angel was usually a five. And if the boys at school thought that, what would the panel at the Pageant Show think?

Angel knew she had to act fast, so she did. After inviting Lucy Colette over for tea to discuss the Pageant, “girl to girl”, Angel swiftly cracked Lucy in the back of the head with a high heel. Hard. Angel can’t quite remember how she dragged Lucy down into the basement. All she can focus on now is the way Lucy is awake again, screaming and screaming. And oh- no! That won't do! Now she's coughed up blood all over her pretty chin and long bouncy curls. Angel doesn’t want to hit the girl again, that would be cruel. Plus, she really needn't worry about her parents hearing, they never paid any mind to Angel’s screams.

So Angel says, “shhhhh” and “here, let's get you cleaned up”, while rinsing the blood from the girl whose eyes keep flickering from her chains, to the stairs, and back to Angel again. Don’t look at her like that! She’s only doing what must be done, Miss Colette.

Suddenly, Angel is very excited about the opening of this new Beauty Shop in her basement. She sets out to work. She carefully selects a mask for her task, deciding on the one she made of Lucy’s boyfriend. Yes, yes, that should help comfort her. She sets Lucy up in the chair in front of the mirror, and gets her tools out. Angel doesn’t know if it's because of the mask, or the sudden buzzing sound, but Lucy begins to scream again, and Angel really doesn’t have time for this. She turns the radio up and takes the first swipe at Lucy’s hair. Feathery gold floats down to the ground leaving a stubbly scalp in its wake, and oops, best not to move Miss Colette! Now you’ve nicked your skin and you're bleeding. Maybe it's for the best that you get used to it. Now that Lucy’s hair is completely gone, Angel moves onto the eyebrows, plucking and collecting each strand, but she takes care to switch to a different bag to store Lucy's eyelashes. It’s essential she doesn't mix the two up or the whole scheme might as well be thrown out! By the time she gets to the left eyelashes, Lucy's voice is but a rasp and her tears are sticky, but fickle. Good! She’s converted to the righteous, and knows her sacrifice is for the better. It’s almost time for the Beauty Shop to close, but there's a few finishing touches that need to be taken care of because Lucy has beautiful red nails and Angel has no polish at all. Lucy takes a nap while Angel sings a soft lullaby to the beat of her work. Cutting and pulling off all of Lucy's nails until all ten are accounted for. Her work is almost done.  But oh, how Lucy’s skin glows like pearls, clear as virtue and pretty as those magazines! She picks up her crafting knife and gets carving, the screams come anew, but end as abruptly as they started.

After hours of sewing blonde hair, gluing pearly skin, arranging eye brows and lashes, donning red nails, and crying and laughing with her stolen lips, Angel finally stands on the pageant stage in a brand new mask. Complete with the final thing she stole, bright unseeing eyes. The crowd erupts in applause like she had never heard. Whistles and cheering, with a first place trophy for the most desirable girl in town.


I never did think, despite all past events and unexpected turns, considering what I know of the world and of myself, against all odds, that I would be the last person on Earth. I have managed to keep myself grounded; my flat is more or less what is was before everything ended, but with a few minor changes. The electric hob is now a small gas camping stove (the hob and oven were hell to get out of the building), and all the useless light fittings are in a pile next to the door. Of course, all the electricity failed as soon as the power stations were abandoned, so I made do with gas lamps and candles where I could find them. It truly is surreal walking down the aisles of homeware stores pushing a trolley like normal, picking out what kind of scent I want, and then simply walking past the deserted checkout stations without a thought to any kind of payment. The candle I keep next to my bed is my favourite. I had it long before, but it has lasted me far longer than any other. Just before I go to sleep at night, I watch it flicker and sway in the dark, like a golden ballerina turning on a music box. I hardly light candles at all, such a precious commodity they are. If dusk creeps upon me, I have to break whatever journey I am on and find a home for the night. Perpetually moving is the only way to survive, for staying still would drive anyone insane. I take any route that will carry me and rejoice at every new town I meet. Perhaps ‘town’ is not the word for an empty settlement. They exist to be outdoor museums at the end of every train line, for me to explore on my own. The little ones are the nicest, those that have kept corner shops and market stalls alive, despite the irony of a much smaller population to serve them. I am making my way to London in the hopes that the resources there will have lived longer than most. Maybe I can find a working car with a little petrol left; the density of the population must mean my odds are better. If my memory serves me well, I will only need a day more walking to get to the north edge of the city. Once I arrive, I will need a better map quickly; travel time is precious, and it costs dearly to walk in the wrong direction.

I must have slept well because the sun is well above the horizon by the time I wake up. My blackout blinds do their job, but with little light to go by in the late evening I have tended to go to bed much earlier than I did when the electricity was still connected. In the early days, it often surprised me how early the sun set, as if the hours of night and day weren’t mirrored either side of noon. My nine-to-five desk job regularly encouraged drinks after work, no matter what day of the week it was. I got up as late as possible every morning and blamed the buses any time I was late for work. I was secretly pleased when everyone abandoned the office to spend time with their families and I didn’t have to set an alarm clock anymore. In my flat, I put the kettle on the stove, filled up with last night’s rainwater. My mother would probably be disappointed by my choice of drink, but I know it’s safe and clean, and any you can’t taste any impurities when it’s used for coffee. Besides, there’s no one else left to judge me. I never discovered cafetieres until my shoplifting trip to the homeware store. Years spent drinking the freeze-dried stuff and I had been missing out on such a luxury. I put a spoon of coffee in, fill up the cafetiere with the now boiled rainwater, and breathe in deeply. I’ve still got coffee beans for months – an abandoned coffee shop ensured that – but the sacks will run out eventually and then I’ll be left empty hearted. That beautiful smell that lifts my spirits every morning, best thing since sliced bread. Enfield is my new favourite town. The road sign, Welcome to Enfield – Please drive carefully! , seemed like a message from God. Round just the first corner is a general store with maps of the local area, train lines, and the quickest routes into the City of London. And sat right outside, a three-year-old Ford Mondeo calls to me with its half open passenger window. I reach inside and unlock it with ease. The driver’s seat is far less dusty than the passenger’s, protected by its fully closed window and a jacket strewn across the headrest. I shove the jacket in the back and sit down. My cart full of stuff is still sat outside and I should really check the engine for any imminent danger, but I cannot help taking the moment to relive a little normalcy of the life I used to have. My first car was a ten-year-old Ford Mondeo, and I fixed it up every time it gave out. I nursed that car when it was sick, and it protected me from the elements when I slept in the back seats on an impromptu road trip. The car I sit in now has none of the quirks mine did, but it feels familiar in a nurturing sort of way. I fumble under the steering wheel for any kind of wires. To my shame, I once looked up how to jack a car and trip the engine without using the key. I was never going to do anything illegal, I simply had access to a car I could mess with and I was curious to see how they did it in the movies. That skill is now my saving grace. I smirk to myself. After a couple of minutes of grunting and fiddling, the engine mumbles and then splutters to life. I have a working car.

Ever since people began rushing home to their families, I began making use of the balcony of the flat across the corridor. Every morning I take my freshly brewed rainwater black coffee and sit in my plastic chair and look out over the deserted town. It’s no buzzing metropolis but the landscape of houses and now dull apartment blocks weave a tight path to the town centre and the shops. From my fifth-floor balcony I can see the high street and the town hall, stacked up next to chain-store clothes retailers and a few different brands of bank. All empty now, and blissfully quiet. When you’re the last person, it not longer feels like stealing. Everyone else bailed, ran to their friends and family, revved their engines and drove off leaving churned up dust in their wake. Surely, they’d want me to make use of their resources, so that I might survive when they didn’t? Perhaps this is what the girl across the hall was thinking, when she packed a bag in half an hour and chucked her front door keys into my lap on her way out. We both knew we wouldn’t ever meet again so bitterness seemed a little futile in the moment; I was no perfect neighbour and she had no reason to be nice to me. I think of her from time to time, when I sit on her balcony and enjoy her view, and apologise and hope it means something. An earthly grumble startles me. The sound from the other direction and I can see no movement from the balcony. I run inside, put down my coffee cup and make for the fire exit. The lift stopped working long ago so the stairs are the only way up and down from my apartment. Jumping down two steps at a time, my brain rattles through every possible scenario: a burst sewer pipe? Gas explosion? A giant tree crashing down? The sound is so comforting that I sit frozen at the wheel unable to move. The car works: the rhythmic rumble of the engine vibrates through the seat and I feel as though I am inside a living beast. What would be laboured breaths are evidence of life to me. To my left a tower block fire exit swings open and clangs against the outside wall. The unsuspecting blank rectangle leaves a black hole in the base of the tower block. A woman runs out and stares at the car.

Parked outside the old general store is a bright red Ford Mondeo. And carefully, gently, out steps a guy about my age. I stop in my tracks and just stare at the person in front of me. I know I’m the last one because there’s no one else left alive. I tried every way I could of sending a signal, a message, any kind of display that I’m still here, and if anyone else was that they should find me. But that was years ago and I accepted my life for what it was: solitary. Yet here, just a hundred meters from me, was my contradiction. I do not know what to do. Anyone can learn to jack a car, but there are no instruction for this situation. I gingerly raise my hand and wave. The woman briefly waves back. I open my mouth. I am Adam, I say.

Eve, I reply.