It is curious that large places can become small after years of indifferent familiarity. Take this house. I know each crack in the floorboards that run along the living room’s western wall. There is a small hole in the fireplace tile. When I sit just so in the felt armoire that Denise took from her aunt’s home after that unfortunate accident, I can make out tiny pulses of smoke, which unfortunately waft into the house. Rather than patch the hole, Denise forbade me to use the fireplace. When we moved in it felt so grand. But any space can become small, if given enough time. Two people can model their own interiority after the walls that surround them, forgetting the world outside. Forgetting all that had happened. On Monday morning I woke alone in a lopsided bed. Denise’s half was cold. In the kitchen I put five scoops of coffee and two cups of water into the coffee maker. Then I poured the coffee back in the can and started all over, straining to calculate smaller portions that had once been familiar but that were now overridden with years of muscle memory induced by cohabitation. I was instinctually aware of the curious strangeness that accompanied this seemingly mundane change to my pattern. Denise had never traveled for work before. We had never spent a night apart in seventeen years, three months, and twenty-two days. Now a mid-career job change took her to a weeklong conference in Tucson, leaving the house feeling empty. Carl would be landing in a couple hours. He called a month ago, saying he would be in town the very week that Denise was traveling. It was understood that he was asking to use the guest bedroom. Denise had been at the grocery store when he called. The prior evening we had been sitting at the dinner table when she told me that she would be going out of town for a week. She talked about the conference and her new colleagues and the aquarium they were going to visit while she was there and how it really wasn’t that uncommon to have to travel for work one or two times per year.

I went outside to pull weeds and let my pasta carbonara go cold. I decided not to tell her about Carl visiting. “It’s good to see you,” Carl said while I loaded his bags into the trunk. He looked curiously at the interior of the trunk, slightly concerned with what he saw. “Is everything okay?” I said. “Yes, of course.” He let the smile return to his face, as if he hadn’t noticed anything. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” “I guess it has been. What brings you here this time?” But I knew the answer. “Just work.” He gave me a knowing grin. I only smiled back with plain, unstated understanding. We don’t discuss his work anymore. Carl used to visit a lot. When we first bought the house he could be counted on for regular seasonal appearances, ringing in each equinox around the dining room table where Denise, ever the oblivious host, regaled Carl, ever the charming houseguest, with hours-long renditions of her gardening adventures. Carl lived in a city and hadn’t the slightest clue about gardening. Spade or sprinkler, it was all the same to him. But he humored her nonetheless and for that alone he was welcome whenever he found himself in town. I don’t recall who initiated the descent from friends to acquaintances, but it happened. The first night we had takeout and after, beers in the living room. Carl picked at the paper label on his bottle. I saw him peel off a small piece and put it between the couch cushions. I wasn’t sure what to say. My mind was somewhere far. I excused myself to go to bed. In bed I though back on everything Carl and I had left unaddressed over the years. I should have put it all out in the open long ago. Denise too. She seemed to have found her avoidance mechanism with the new job. But me? I stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, unable to fall asleep and unwilling to stop thinking about the series of events that had put Denise and me in this situation. I thought of how different it was before I had met Carl and before I had introduced him to Denise. I thought about how suddenly everything had changed when we learned about Carl’s job. Denise always said it shows shallowness of intellect to discuss only work. I didn’t see it that way. But after I met Carl, I wish I had come around to Denise’s perspective sooner. Things began moving faster than we could anticipate. When we eventually came up for air we bought the house. We started gardening. Then everything just…settled. Carl never pushed the subject. But we knew it was there, always lurking beneath the surface during his visits, liable to be brought up at any time during any one of our dusty conversations around the dinner table. Still unable to sleep, I walked downstairs and saw that Carl had lit the fireplace. The flames threw shadows that made the furniture look grotesque and worn. The whole room drooped under the weight of the flames. “Still up?” I asked. “I guess I’ve become a night owl in the last few years.” “We don’t normally light the fireplace. Denise has a thing about the smoke.” “Tell you what,” he said, “I won’t tell Denise you were lighting fires if you join me for a game.” I laughed. He gestured to the chessboard and then pulled up the second armchair. “What Denise doesn’t know…” “Just one game,” I said. “And then no more fires this week. Seriously.” “That’s the ticket! Black or white?” “You choose.” We started playing and things suddenly felt normal. The room became cozy. The tension between us dissipated, carried up the chimney and out into the world. Carl told me about a woman he’d been seeing. I filled him in on the latest book I had read. He mentioned his volunteering work. Suddenly it felt easy to be his friend. Carl pulled a small silver box from his pocket. It was flat and had a clasp on the front. He flicked it open and placed it on the table. “Smoke?” he asked. “Oh man,” I said, staring at the line of fat joints in the box, “I haven’t done that in a long time.” “So how about tonight?” “Yeah right. Denise would…” “Denise isn’t here.” “I know, but…” “...but,” he said, “Denise is at a conference. You can make choices for yourself.” He grinned that Cheshire cat grin; the same one he’d greeted me with at the airport when he had attempted to get me to ask about his work. “This feels like middle school when Travis Wilson made me drink wine coolers behind the trash cans after fourth period.” He laughed and pulled a joint out of the box. “C’mon, what do you say?” I couldn’t believe I was doing this. Smoking a joint in my living room after such a juvenile attempt at peer pressure. But after the first drag, the only thing that I found shocking was that I hadn't done it sooner. And a lot of other things. Carl and I kept chatting and, ostensibly, playing chess. But all I could think about was how Denise was away at her conference and how much damn gardening I’d done over the years. With each additional toke on the joint I sunk deeper into a mixed up state, half joking around with Carl, carefree as possible, and half chewing on distinct wistfulness that was exacerbated by the walls of a house that I had seen too much of. # The next morning I stumbled into the kitchen like a tired, old bloodhound. Though I could barely open my eyes, the scent of coffee and fried eggs was unmistakable. “Coffee?” Carl asked. “Sure. Thank you.” “Thanks for the game last night. I haven’t had a challenge in a while.” “The only thing I did was move pieces around the board. I could barely keep track of whose turn it was, let alone strategy.” “Well, it didn’t show. You’ve still got it.” We sipped our coffee and ate the eggs. I toasted bread and pulled out a fresh orange marmalade that Denise had made. The coffee was unfamiliar, rich, strong, something Carl brought with him. It tasted nothing like the commodity beans Denise and I bought in bulk.

We ate in silence. I dipped my toast in the egg yolk. Carl sprinkled salt over his plate and then dabbed at it with a paper towel after having poured too much. There was a screw lease on the table leg beneath me. I twisted it tight with my hand. “I’m going into the city today for meetings,” Carl said suddenly. “I’ll see you tonight then.” “Sure. We’ll have dinner. Anything you want me to pick up on the way back?” “No, I’ve got it covered.” “You know,” he said, “you could come with me.” “With you?” “To the city. I want you to come tag along to my meetings.” Carl looked down and started playing with his napkin. The air in the kitchen felt heavy, glutted with the weight of our intertwined history.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I said. I stood to clear the dishes. Carl looked up from his napkin and looked me directly in the eyes. “Where’s Denise?” “She’s in Tucson.” “I see.” “It’s just a conference.” “When is she coming back?” “Saturday.” “Right” “What’s gotten into you?” “What’s her flight number?” “Carl…” “Forget it,” he said, and stood up with his plate in hand, “I’ll be back tonight around six for dinner.” I heard him open the front door and walk down the steps. From my seat I noticed a small crack in the wall left of the calendar. Because of my indexical knowledge of every detail of my home, I knew that it must have appeared overnight. Everything became hazy. Suddenly, the house felt like a foreign land, and I was a stranger within its borders. # Carl didn’t come home for dinner that night. I moved cold butternut squash and lamb chops to a glass container and put them in the refrigerator and went to bed. I struggled to fall asleep, my mind a warren of what ifs and if onlys as I flipped through Carl’s proposition that I join him during his meetings. Occasionally I drifted into the thin fugue state that separates wakefulness from the unconscious; that fitful place in between where absurdity and reality blend in fluid matrimony.

Knocking at the front door drew me back to awareness. “Sorry if you were asleep,” Carl said. “I forgot to bring my key with me this morning.” “You could have called,” I said. “I saved you some dinner. It’s in the refrigerator.” I turned toward the staircase. “I left my phone too. I promise it wasn’t intentional.” I looked at the small wooden bowl on the table by the door and saw the key and the phone. Perhaps it really was nothing. But I know what happens when Carl is at work. But if I paused for a moment and considered all available evidence it certainly appeared to support his story. He wasn’t lying, but he was soaked in rainwater.

“It’s no problem. Come inside.” I brought him a towel and lit the fireplace. “What kept you late?” “C’mon…” “I want to know.” “But you already do. You know how these things go.” “I want to hear details.” “No you don’t. Look around you. Denise is happy here. What interest could you possibly have in resurrecting all of that?” “You were the one who invited me to join you downtown for meetings today.” “I know. I shouldn’t have done that. It was stupid and I apologize. In fact, I think you should just leave things the way they are. You have a good life .” “Sometimes I don’t know.” “What are you talking about? Don’t say things like that.” “Denise isn’t happy. Her new job, this trip, it’s all…just…” I paused and looked at the fire. Carl was picking at his beer label again, waiting for me to continue. When I didn’t, he took another sip of sip. “Coming back to work wouldn’t make things better,” he said. “It’s kind of like being the chauffeur to a millionaire. You get to see the lifestyle, but it’s not actually yours.” “But at least you get a taste of it. Isn’t that perspective useful? Doesn’t it keep you…I don’t know…alive?” “You and I are different. This is all I know. I don’t have a family. I don’t have a wife. I don’t think I could. I’ve gotten myself in too deep. You’re lucky, you just don’t know it.” “Maybe,” I said. But I didn’t believe it. Although I didn’t know it at the time, I had made up my mind about Denise and Carl and the garden and the whole damned situation. I excused myself and went to bed. This time, dreamless. # The next morning I didn’t bother waking up to meet Carl. I couldn’t bother seeing him and being reminded of it all. I waited until I heard him close the front door before going downstairs. “Damnit! Start already!” I looked out the window and saw him swearing and trying to force the ignition on his rental car. The vehicle sputtered. Dead battery. Carl came back inside, looking flustered. I pulled my beater from the garage, but the battery was indifferent to Carl’s schedule. “Just my luck,” he said. “How easy is it to get a cab here?” “You’d be better off walking. You’ll get downtown faster than a cabbie could find his way here.” “I hate to ask this…” But ask he did. Albeit with a genuine apology wallpapered to his face. We transferred his things from the rental to the trunk. Once again, he lingered when I opened the trunk. He arranged his things. Some items looked familiar, but a lot had changed. We drove for an hour in virtual silence. As green faded to concrete I felt an acute sense of loss, of something left behind. But as I looked ahead at the city before me, this feeling was replaced with tremendous vigor. “We’re close,” said Carl. “You can drop me at this corner.” “That’s okay,” I said. “I can take you all the way.” “You’re sure you’re okay with this? I really don’t mind walking.” “I know. It’s not a big deal.” I turned right into an alley, which opened up into an internal courtyard between the dilapidated backsides of several high rise buildings. A a couple dozen people were standing about. They seemed to cover every possible intersection of life. Young, old, different races, different genders. Designer handbags and rags. Some with the vestments of religion. No one spoke, no one moved, and they each had found a unique spot on which to affix isolated gazes. When Carl stepped out they lifted their heads and locked their eyes on him. They were transfixed. Each seemed to lean forward, drawn to Carl like flowers pulling themselves toward distant sunlight.

Carl nodded politely and then unloaded his material from the trunk. The courtyard was bare, save a single black door. He placed his things just beyond the dark periphery of the doorway. “Well,” he turned the crowd with a comforting smile, “why don’t you all come inside and we’ll see if I can help you.” The people moved toward the door, some with more confidence than others. More than a few paused before crossing the barrier and took large, preparatory breaths. Soon the courtyard was empty, except for me, sitting in my car, both hands on the steering wheel. He walked toward me. I sat frozen, looking forward, unwilling to match his eyes. “Thanks for the ride,” he said. “Don’t mention it.” I kept looking forward. “I told you I don’t have any ulterior motive here. But…” I didn’t need to hear him finish the sentence. He had seen inside the trunk. As I look back on it, I clearly had made no effort to hide it. He knew my duffel bag was in there. I don’t remember when I packed it and left it there, but Denise never said anything about it. At some level she must have understood this would happen. “I need a change, Carl.” He nodded. “This is a big step. There is a lot more ahead of you, but once you go inside, all of this is over.” He gestured around him, to the world I had spent the last seventeen years definitively tied to. “I know.” “Denise, the garden, everything . It all changes once you step through that door.” He looked at the door. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” I stepped out of the car. I didn’t stop to think. One moment I was sitting, the next I was at the trunk, popping it open and grabbing my bag. I stood next to Carl. My lungs shook when I exhaled.

“It’s going to be alright,” he said. We walked slowly toward the door, the duffel between us. At the entrance I paused to look at the sky, one last time. In that moment, at the precipice of old and new, as I stood ready to plunge into forever, the only thing I could think of was that I had forgotten to water the houseplants that morning.

I stepped into the blackness.


“I See” “What do you see? What I see and what you see, could it possibly be, that we may see is differently? That doesn't make me right and you wrong we're just willing to stubbornly stand alone. We can agree to disagree which is so weird to me. What solution have we come to? Is there something else we can do? It’s through the eyes of the beholder. Ask her, ask him exactly what do you see? To the question must be asked whatever it may be. Perspective or perception? What is really to blame and be it to our shame? Because what we’re really saying, is the same”. The End     James insisted on my reading this poem. I tried to see it his way. He thought this poem would help, but it didn’t, not at first.  You’d think it would have, he’s my identical twin brother. We are so much alike in so many ways but there are times we just don’t see eye to eye, and this is one. It started back when we were freshmen in college both of us majoring in psychology. I wanted to be a doctor, James wanting to be a college professor. Well as in most psychology classes the subject of relationships comes up one way or another. I perhaps should stop here and introduce myself, I’m John. I know it sounds like the beginning of the names of the twelve disciples. We were teased throughout grade school for our names. We come from a religious family so there goes our names. My mother Mary thought James and John would be easier to pronounce and Paul and Saul didn’t sit right with her. My father Peter Powers was the assistant youth pastor at the First Baptist church we attended. So, you can imagine we heard all types of sermons, etc. The one that most intrigue me and my brother were the ones about love. This is one of the many subjects we agreed on but at the same time we didn’t. We didn’t realize how far apart we were in our perspective on love until we were older.     Love, itself is a word that’s hard to explain, James would say. I always said that love is just love and what’s hard about that. I love you; you love me. James’s argument stayed true, but what is love. While in college this was our monthly topic of discussion, especially whenever one of us got involved with a young lady. Whenever one of us got serious in a particular relationship with the young lady and the word love came up. James and I took many of the same classes. We however tried our best to take them on different days and at different times. Our friends thought we did that so not to confuse the professors, which was totally not true. We did that so we wouldn’t be confrontational with each other on certain subjects of which we may not have agreed. Because as I said though we were identical we didn’t always agree.    James while in college had many relationships none lasting very long. He never got serious with any one girl like I would. One of my relationships lasted a whole two years. James longest was a semester. He felt especially as freshmen we shouldn’t get too serious too fast. He felt we had lots of time to find the right one. James ran from any girl that would use the L word, love. I felt he had a point to a degree. Myself, when a girl told me she loved me I’d say it right back, because I did. I loved them as a person. I wished them well and no ill would come to them etc. I felt like I did love them. Weil, James would get upset with me. On more than one occasion he’d tell me I did not love those girl and I should be ashamed for telling them that. I’d argue, “well what was I supposed to say, nothing. Oh, yeah, I’d do like you James, I’ll call them as soon as I got home from a date and break up with them with no decent explanation except that they said, I love you? James would say, “boy you don’t have the slightest idea what love is.” He might have been right. I don’t think I did in its truest sense. All I knew is that God loved me, Jesus loved me, James and my parents loved me. But did these girls love me. I would have like to think so. So, I made up in my mind the next girl that told me she loved me, I would ask her how she knew she loved me. There, I thought would be my quest to try and figure out James’s philosophy on love. Why did he feel it was hard to explain and why did he run from it? It wasn’t until years later that he shared it with me, and I better understood his stance on it. He later in life did get to the place where he would say I love you back. However, he would make it clear he was not in love with them. And of course, that would start an argument. The young lady could not understand that.  To those who would take the time to listen to his explanation. They would learn that to James love was a sacred word and it wasn’t to be used lightly. He matured and wasn’t running away anymore as he did in college, he simply felt it necessary to make it clear.     He shared with me the different types of love. His love for our family was different from his love for his wife. Yes, James finally married, and it was to Jerri Lee-Powers he was able to say, I’m in love with you. How he became so particular about love I don’t know, I guess it was all the sermons we heard and the psychology classes we took. He even once told me he never uses the word love when it came to inanimate objects. I asked him to explain that. What he said next blew me away. He said love is a sacrificial word. He continues and says like John 3:16 “For God so love the world He gave His only begotten son, that whosoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.” God sacrificed His Son, His son Jesus sacrificed His life. Why? because they loved us. So, I don’t ever say I love something that cannot sacrifice for me. I was as I said blown away. That was deep, I thought but it made sense. So, I try my best to never say things like I love a particular food or car or whatever.     He is a smart dude, good husband, father, son and brother. He’s the oldest but not by much, a couple of minutes or so. And I Love Him.


I'm a human who was born in a nation where boom shelling and body burying were commonplace. The entire day and night felt like a nightmare. My friends, relatives, and neighbours have all died. The secret boat made its way inside the flesh and blue zone. Food, water, and oxygen are in short supply. This appears to be a roller coaster ride, and the distance seemed to stretch on forever. The beautiful and pure sea waves push against the boat, making me feel alive. I haven't seen land in almost a week, and all I can think about is crying, food suffering, and the scent that surrounds my body. I had a good night's sleep, dreaming about resting my head on my mother's feet and eating home-cooked meals with delight. My family showers me with kindness, and my mother tells me stories. Everything was fine, and I was having a nice time. My brothers and sister forced me to wake up and play with us after water blasted on my face, which I was enjoying. Meanwhile, heavy, deadly rain begins to fall. People were moving and the boat was shrivelling. When I awoke and saw that we were dating in the heart of the blue water, I began screaming and shouting. A man walked over to me and helped me get up, pulling water out to save 1000 lives. A team was transformed into a group, and members of the group clasped each other's hands. We were moving into a fleshy surface as the boat sank into the sea. Perhaps a big giant wave and boat came toward us. Throwing an orangish air filled wheel for us and shouting to gap that and swim towards the boat. We have no choice and are ready to become a prison on that boat. A man dragged me upon the boat and told me to move to the middle round mark and sit. In the country of sand, food, and water, I develop as a victim and live as a slave. Assuming the role of a prisoner and living as one for the rest of my life. This journey was never going to finish. Some young people who had previously aided me offered me the opportunity to flee to Europe. Where we can live, work, and eat with justice and a respectful manner. They scrolled and slapped me when I answered yes, let's go. I screamed and argued with them, and they subsequently apologised. We broke out of prison, hid in a truck, and revised our strategy and plan. Without a car or support system, you can only get halfway. Finally, I discovered a boat that others had reserved, and I hid among them because we didn't have any extra cash to pay the human smugglers. The travel will be joyful because of the excellent people on board, but the weather was not. For the first time in my life, we travelled to meet a water cyclone, but it was a dead end. We were gone in the open blue sky and sea since the smugglers forgot the path. A weekday and night spent with an empty stomach and dry lips in the sun, surrounded by dangerous sharks. People who were eager to land and take their first steps on European soil were slaughtered as a result of the illusion. It's like a narrative, but it's based on my real-life experience of travelling with strangers and turning to friends. We all noticed an island and wanted to land there after a month without a guide, but the people who came there to enjoy the weather and fish pushed our rubber boat away and screamed at us to return. The mother of a newborn requested that we land on their territory, but they shouted and pulled our boat away. They don't want us to live among them and earn money in their country, as a matter of fact. I questioned myself, knowing that we were both humans, but that our faith was Islam. Our entire country was burning and collapsing, but they were unwilling to save our lives by giving us a shelter where humanity exists, whether the word humanity exists or not, whether human rights exist, or is it just a name? The course of events had been altered, and we were once again on the open sea, with individuals attempting to enter the country in the dead of night. We all agreed and patiently awaited our turn. We attempted to enter, but when we arrived, individuals were still waiting and performing out their obligations. Another boat approached us and sought permission to feed our babies, but they refused. We set out in search of another island where we can all land and live in peace. After a week, some of the refugees noticed a site where we were all getting ready to land and decided to look for food for the women and children. As we arrived, there was a steel wire gauze-enclosed barrier on the uphill side. There was a tsunami of refugees fighting there, and they were shelling an eye-burning boom to force the people to retreat. We were all part of the hunger strikers' gang. I've always observed that Hungary weakens men to the point that they can even eat human flesh. It was a true storey, another battle outside of our country for adopting us and providing us food and shelter instead of our hard work. For the purpose of obtaining a living among strangers, "strangers are supporting strangers." "Strangers' help for Hungarian women and children " What a life experience. Which began with violence and destruction and may finish with violence and injustice. Oh, mother, your kid is suffering, yet he is not alone. Oh, father, your boy is powerful, yet he is hungry. Because I'm injured, I'm missing my smile, dear brother and pretty sister. I'm missing you all so badly today. I was unable to find a peaceful location for myself. But, mom, all of the strangers are nice people, and one of them is holding my head up and asking for a first-aid kit. Don't be concerned; Mom I’m alright in the society of strangers, but not in the hands of devils. We all need your prayers; please pray for us to understand and learn to love the strangers who live in our midst.


The ground rumbled. A plume of moon dust rose in the distance near where Samantha was collecting samples. Ed dropped his instrumentation and headed toward the west ridge of the Sea of Serenity crater. He opened his comm to alert ground control. “Sam—Lieutenant Harris, check-in. Do you copy?” “Captain Seran, this is ground, we are showing sharp spikes in Harris’ vitals. She’s not responding. What’s going on up there?” “Samantha Harris, check-in. Do you copy?” Captain Ed Seran continued toward her last location. “Ground this is Seran. Harris was collecting rock samples on the west Serenity Ridge just about forty meters north of my location. I’m headed that way. Looks like a landslide. Do you copy?” “We copy. Approach with caution, instrumentation shows her suit may be damaged. There’s been slight depressurization. Likely a puncture. Keep us informed.” “Copy,” Ed responded through the lump in his throat. Aware ground monitored his vitals as well he worked to slow his heart rate. “Ed,” Sam’s ragged voice, like welcomed rain in a drought, radiated in his helmet. “Copy, Sam. I’m on my way. What’s your situation?” “I’m caught. Large boulder. Think I was unconscious. Wind . . . knocked out . . . of me. Landslide. Got my coordinates? Copy.” “Ground sent them. Lay still. Breathe. I’m ten meters out. Ground, you copy?” “We copy. Glad to hear your voice, Samantha. The doctor here has some questions.” Ed listened intently as he closed in; he could see the rubble. The damage was dramatic. Small rocks mostly, but that boulder was a bone crusher. Ed worried. This was Sam. His Sam. No one knew of course, but they did. He’d need to watch what he said and did if they were to have any career after this. But all he wanted to do was to tell her what he’d never said out loud. She would only object if he had. They couldn’t be in love, that would be a sin they couldn’t recover from. “Ground, I have her in view.” “Copy.” He knelt and took her hand. A moment passed as they searched the other's face for any hidden signs. They both smiled. “Captain Seran, can you elaborate on her condition?” “Uh, yes. It appears the smaller rocks can be dealt with. The issue is the boulder. Good news her leg is free. Bad news, the suit is caught underneath. Moving the boulder or the rocks in front of the bolder is impossible without risking the rock rolling onto her. I’ll have to cut the suit away. Which is the other bad news. Any advice? Copy.” Ed looked at Sam her eyes which showed sorrow more than fear. He grabbed her hand. “We’re going to get you out of this, back on the rover, and to the airlock. You understand. WE ARE.” She nodded with pursed lips. Her faint whimper of repining nearly pierced his heart, but he kept working at removing all the rocks from on top and left of her being careful to not disturb the boulder. “Okay, Sam. This is it. We have to cut your suit away, so the boulder stays put.” She nodded with closed eyes. “You’ll depressurize. So Ground suggests that as I cut, I apply suit tape. Between your tape and mine, I think we’ll get by.” “Duct tape. Fixes everything,” she smirked. “Don’t use yours. You may need it. Then what? We both die? No.” “Good thing I outrank you,” he winked. “Now as soon as you’re free, cover the tape. Apply pressure.” She motioned him closer. He put his helmet on hers. Tears fell toward her ears. A weak smile faded as she mouthed the words, I love you . Words never spoken. Two large splashes hit his visor and rolled downward as he lowered her protective visor. He drew a heart in the thin layer of dust. “Ed, this is ground control. You need to proceed.” “Copy.” The cutting tool sliced the thick outer fabric and layers with more ease than Ed expected. The duct tape held. Painstaking patience set her free, while the rover never moved faster. Once in the airlock, they listened to the cheers of Ground and smiled as they removed helmets and gloves. With the red light still signaling their need to wait in the airlock, Ed knelt and pulled away the silver duct tape observing just how close the tubing came to being crushed—how close her leg . . . He wound the tape into a crude band and slipped it on her left finger. “I love you, and I don’t care who knows or what it costs us. I love you and I want you to be mine forever, starting now.” She shook her head, yes. They embraced. Years later they sat on a bench having retired and celebrated many anniversaries. He fiddled with the duct tape band still on her hand. They looked at each other and remembered. They would never get over the moon. The following day they flew to Houston. Ed held a duplicate ring in his chest pocket. A time capsule would be placed on Mars. Each astronaut present had been asked to bring an item from their missions which would inspire the crew once they landed on Mars. Sam stood as her name was called and crossed the stage. “Well, I almost died up there on the moon. Rocks fall, stuff happens, but you always see each other through.” She held up a patch of her suit with it’s large, jagged tear. The crowd there clapped as she put it inside the time capsule. Ed had joined her, and he held up the duct tape wedding band and her left hand holding the original. "She wouldn’t let me put the real one in, but this duplicate is proof that when all goes wrong, duct tape fixes anything." Their story had been heralded as one of the great love stories at NASA. The crowd laughed and clapped. Ed added, “We will never be over the moon. But we are so hopeful for Mars to find love too.” He placed the duplicate inside the time capsule and kissed his moon souvenir. She kissed him back as she showed off her duct tape band.


Nine brothers—a full baseball team. From ages seven to eighteen, their presence turned a group into a crowd. Each personality differed from the rest, making it impossible for anyone to mix them up. Even the twins, Reece and Rivers, made sure no one dared mistake one for the other. Each day was a new, undiscovered game to be discovered. Though they all favored their own sports in their own seasons, spring was the time when all schedules aligned—baseball season. Arlo, nine and a half years old, stood over home plate. It was after school, just before the season started, so the wind was bitter and rosy noses were visible under their hats. Sawyer prepared his next pitch, the ball shifting in his frozen fingers. The twin’s tall figures loomed over left and right field, all eyes watching, waiting for the next move. Sawyer wound up, the ball flying from his hands. Despite his young age, Arlo's fingers itches at the bat. When the bat and ball connected, it felt to Arlo as if he had hit it to the very clouds—which could have been very possible with how low they sat in the sky that day. “Run, Arlo, run!” Micheal shouted from first base. Arlo realized he had stood stationary, his bat still in hand, watching the ball soar. Not his first homerun, but certainly one of his favorites. His fingers and toes numb, Arlo ran as fast as he could. The boys in the outfield were shouting to those in the infield, but the ball was nowhere to be found. Out of breath and smiling, Arlo ran back to home plate. “Where is the ball?” Judah shouted behind Arlo, his catcher’s mask on the ground. Judah’s curly hair stuck out at odd angles from underneath his hat, just like Arlo’s. Rivers and Everest had jumped the weeded-over fence at the back of the field, disappearing into the trees. Several minutes later, they hadn’t returned, so all the boys remaining in the field made their way towards the fence. Reece and Sawyer peered over, calling out to locate Rivers and Everest. Judah, the eldest, hopped over the fence to look for them. “Stay here unless I call for you—they probably are looking for the ball farther in and can’t hear us.” Leaving with those instructions, the remaining six boys stood around Arlo congratulating him for his hit. Ten minutes later, according to Moses’s watch, neither Judah, Rivers or Everest had returned. No longer did they concern themselves with the excitement of the homerun, but the missing brothers. “What should we do?” asked Sawyer. “Go look for them, of course,” Replied Reece, already half over the fence. “But Judah said to stay,” Moses whined anxiously. Arguing ensued. Arlo, Reece, and Owen all wanted to go look for them, while Sawyer, Moses, and Lincoln were nervous and undecided. “Maybe we should go tell Mom?” Lincoln whispered, his small round face near tears. The brothers stopped their arguing, looking at him like he was insane. Lincoln turned red and buried his face into Moses’s shirt. Rubbing the back of his neck, Reece rejoined the group on their side of the fence. “Maybe only half of us go?” He offered, still not backing down but calming for Lincoln’s sake. “But what will the rest of us do if you don’t come back?” Sawyer questioned, crossing his arms. “Go tell Mom?” The boys remained silent, thinking through the plan. “We will all go. That way we can search faster and keep an eye on everyone,” Sawyer decided for everyone. Moses and Lincoln looked at each other nervously, but agreed. Looking above the high fence, each one made his climb. When Arlo found himself on the other side of the fence, nothing was different from the times he had climbed over before; weeds covered the ground and sunlight shone through the trees. Rivers, Everest, and Judah were nowhere to be found. “Let's look towards where the swamp should be…the one with the alligators,” Reece suggested, walking away from the fence.

“ Alligators? ” cried Lincoln. “Yeah—well, not really. Blake next door said he hopped this fence once and hiked all the way towards a swamp three miles away,” explained Moses, following Reece. “And apparently it had alligators.” The boys searched for forty more minutes until they found the missing brothers. Judah, Everest, and Rivers had found the ball—and a dragon. Reece, Arlo, Owen, Moses, Sawyer and Lincoln stood with their mouths open. The tiny red dragon romped through the fallen leaves, the beaten baseball in its mouth. Everest was on his hands and knees, miming a dog to play with the dragon. Rivers held a stick, trying to pry the ball from its mouth. Judah stood nearby, the tips of his hair charred and black. “Did I really hit the ball this far?” Arlo exclaimed, grinning at the ball in the dragon’s mouth. Laughing, Rivers shook his head. “We have been following this little guy for hours—Judah almost scared him away when he found us. The ball was only a little ways beyond the fence.” The brothers stood in a circle in awe of the dragon. “Why didn’t you call for us? We were worried you were abducted by aliens,” Moses fretted, though not entirely concerned, instead watching the dragon spit shoots of fire while prancing about the ball.

Each boy took his turn rolling and tossing the ball for the dragon, losing track of time—except Moses of course, who had been checking his watch every few minutes. Thankfully for the sake of childhood memories of the young boys, Moses kept his mouth shut as the hours passed by. It was only when the bottoms of their bellies began to rumble that they decided they must bid their goodbyes. Promising to return the next day, if the weather permitted, the boys climbed back over the fence. At the back of their minds, they hoped the dragon would follow them home—even though they knew that their mother would make them send him back.


"... give us a call at your convienience." The last of the message plays on the answering machine, sending a cold chill down my back. It's been a few months since the painful dissapointment that I didn't make the company so I was forced to move on. Exchaning tights for suits hadn't been easy but I had almost convinced myself that I was going to make it. Untill this moment, this message. With a growl and slamming of the front door I make my way down to the gym, glad for the late hour, the company of my thoughts and a quick stop at my locker. The cold encases my body as I fly through the water, the action reminding me too much of the weightlessness of dancing. I don't dare stop though, convinced that I can somehow escape the sudden mess this single call has caused in my life. It's takes me almost an hour to allow myself to breath properly, still no closer to a sulution than when I left the comforts of my apartment, still pissed. One shower and restless sleep later I am once again slipping into one of the many carefully tailored suits my father gifted me with. Proud that I didn't fuck up the family name by prancing around on a stage. "Only a few more years and then all this is yours, son." He hadn't called me that while I was dancing. I had ceaced to exist to him because I hadn't grown out of my phase like he thought I would. "You were born to do this, not prance around in tights. Lucky for us you came to your senses." How a parent could rejoice at their childs failure I would never understand. Then again, he had never understood my need to perform so he probably wouldn't count the success either. I didn't even bother with a reply, nor to tell him about last nights call. It wouldn't matter either way. Two weeks goes by before there's another message, this one I delete before it can get past the greeting. I can't be late to dinner and that's excatly what's going to happened if I allow myself to indulge in fantasies. Despite the fact I take too long in the shower and find myself ten minutes late, taking a seat next to my younest sister while trying to ignore the look on my father's face. A glass filled with amber liquid dissapears as quickly as it appears in front of me and as it's refilled I contemplate if a hangover is worth it. "You might want to slow down." JJ's slow drawl breaks the silence that's been hanging since I sat down. The conversation I want to have runs through my head and once again the glass is emptied as I realize I'm not smart enough to avoid the growing fight. It's not like I was ever smart when it came to dissapointing my father and I'll be damned if I start listening to commen sense now. "Tyrece!" I don't have to look at my mother to see the dissapointment that's clear in her tone. The glass is filled a second time and somewhere in the back of my mind I note that I'll have to thank Edna for not disclosing my slight drinking problem to the new server. Catching the look my father sends the young woman I know I'm most likely cut off for the night but it doesn't matter. None of this is going to matter in a few minutes. "I got a call today." My voice is much more steady than I feel, emotions threatning to bubble over and I'm not sure I want to keep them in check. "The same one I got two weeks ago." I figure I must have imagined the look of horror that passes over my father's face because there's no way he would know where I'm going with this. "Is this call really worth drinking yourself into a coma?" My mother's ever dramatic side emerges and I finally will myself to look into the dark pools that match mine. Once upon a time they managed to calm me down but tonight they seem to spark the slow burn of bullshit I've been dealing with most of my life. "Apparently." The word hangs in the air as I take a rather big sip of my glass. "Apparently there was some mistake in the selection and by some mirical I did make the company after all." Dead silence fills the room as I gage their reations. JJ looks somewhat pleased and I'm sure it's not because he's proud of me. No, he'll be all to glad to step in where I fuck up tonight. Clean up my mess, like he's been doing since we were kids. Natasha looks somewhat shocked but I know it's a knee jerk reaction and she'll have a unwanted talk with me later. Lauren is the only one who still looks at me like I haven't been treated like a major outcast all my life but even that isn't enough to calm me down tonight. "How did this happen?" I can hear the careful contained explosion in my father's question. It's the kind I spend my entire teenage years trying to avoid without much sucess "Error of judgement." "So, you're suddenly good enough?" He's patronizing me, this much I know. "I was always good enough. Some asshole just didn't see it." "Can you just get to the point?" JJ demands, clearly annoyed that I wasn't fucking up fast enough. Every bit his father's son. "Yes, that I can. I won't be taking over the company any longer." This is what sends my father into the rage I was hoping for since the moment I sat down. "You ungreatful simpleton! After everything I've done for you? The best education, the comfort of this house, even indulging in your twisted fantasies. This is what it comes down too? You would rather prance around in tights than be respected by the elite of the world?" His words are punctuated by his fist slamming down on the table, the sound defening to the room. "Everything you've done for me? The only thing you've done for me was treat me like I was some kind of fly not even worthy enough to gather shit. If it wasn't for your precious image you would have disowned me the moment you found out I wanted to dance for a living." I'm a lot more calm than I want to be but I'm not loosing it tonight. For once, this isn't going to be my fault. "Don't you dare talk to me that way! I did you a favour by paying of that bitch. Can you imagine? My son, parading around on a stage like some sort of lap dog. Over my dead body." "You did what?!" I'm to shocked to hear what he says to my mother, although I'm convinced it's all bullshit. I catch JJ's gaze, joker's sick smile adorning his face. Natasha looks at me with tears forming in her eyes, emotional to a fault. Lauren's hand finds mine and it's only then I realize how tight I've been clenching my fingers together. "How could you ruin his future like that? Are you insane?" I blink slowly, trying to make sense of this mess, even though it's not all that hard. "The only future he has is taking over the company. My grandfather did not work his fingers to a bone for some ungreatful twerp to defile his name like this." My father's gaze meets mine, it sends a chill down my spine I don't think I've ever felt in any of the winters I've lived through. "This ends here, today. I will not tolarate any talk of dance in this house any longer. Define me any longer and you will wish hell was a vacation destination." Half the people around the room has their gaze set on me, the other half on my father. With slow, calculated movements I stand to my feet, downing the rest of my drink and staring the man across from me dead in the eye. "I'll make sure to send you a post card." When I turn around I stop listening to his voice, something I realize should have happened a long time ago. I know he can't hurt me by taking away my money, it's not his to begin with so he's going to be childish and try to ruin my reputation. Something, I have no doubt, he can acomplish but it's not like I care in the first place. Sheep always follow the loudest voice, or how does that saying go? The first thing I do the next morning is drive down to Garrison and Co. The meeting takes almost an hour and after promising not to sue them for all they're worth I finally sign with the people I've admired since I was six years old. It's almost four hours later, when I'm at home orginizing my clothes that the news come up. First born son of Newclear Inc. disowned? My face displayed on the screen, in HD glory. I almost want to laugh at this, but the sound gets stuck in the back of my throat. Then I feel my eyes flood and before I can blink the moisture away I'm tasting the salt on my lips. Warmth bubbles up inside of me, making me want to punch his face in but I quickly calm down. I'm not completely sure going out and punching him would look good for me right now. The only thing I'm sure of at this moment is that the same blood that runs through my veins runs through his and I know the thought alone is going to drive him crazy for the rest of his life. He's never going to escape the thought of me and while I shine for my five minutes of fame, I'm going to make sure I escape his.


I’m not what you would call the adventurous sort. I have a very logical view of the world. The laws of nature can be described by calculable equations and repeatable experiments. However, I have learned that this way of thinking just doesn’t contain the full story. I was never very superstitious, but once I described the past few days, that’s the only logical conclusion. I could not deny the power of this divine beast.

It was just two days ago that I had seen her for the first time. Nudging around the alley trash cans, her coat was jet black, and not filthy at all, the way you would expect a stray to look. I had been on a smoke break at the restaurant I cook at, and my second cigarette had expired already, so I had to go back in. I honestly didn’t think anything of it, because, with a coat that clean, I was sure someone was searching for it. When my shift ended, I wasn’t surprised to see that the cat was gone.

I started on my way home which was a few blocks away, and I swear shadowy figures were following me. I told myself it was all in my head, but that didn’t calm the beating of my heart. I was speed walking before I realized, and out of breath soon afterward. I leaned against a streetlight to try and center myself, and admittedly, the light would block the shadows. No, not on this night. Not this time. This time, the figure of a horned creature began to wriggle itself to form under the light.

I wanted to run so badly but couldn’t catch my breath. It was like trying to breathe through an IV. Just as the creature was going to reach me, the cat appeared from nowhere and landed directly between the shadow creature and myself, and just as it landed the creature dissipated as if it were vapor. Now I’m hyperventilating and am scratching at the edges of my consciousness trying to explain this phenomenon. The strange thing turned and looked me in the eye as if to show discontent.

“Get ahold of yourself, Master!”

The sun crept in through the curtain, casting a cone of light on my face. I’m lying in bed, let out a yawn, and sit up. I’m sweaty, so sweaty that I soaked through my pillow and covers and saturated the mattress. Confused, I roll out of bed, and head to the shower, while peeling my shirt off my back, like a banana. I started remembering what had happened and wrote it off as a bad dream. Once I was showered and dressed, I grabbed my work gear and headed out the front door, but when I opened the door, the cat was sitting there in the middle of my welcome mat. I feel this pressure on myself as I get dragged backward, stiff as a redwood, by nothing. The creature walked in, slowly, waving its tail back and forth. The door shut and I was laid gently on the floor. The cat jumped onto its perch on my chest and peered into my soul.

“Why does your heartbeat so frantically? Such a being as yourself should never fear magic.” For what seemed like an eternity, I stared blankly into its eyes. They were human eyes, not the slit feline eyes that should be there. As if sensing my thoughts, they transformed immediately. “I understand now. You never knew of your gifts. You never discovered who you are truly meant to be. No matter, we must get you to safety, and then all else will follow.”

“How are you speaking to me, you are a cat. How did your eyes change? How are you doing all of this!” The feline paid him no mind though and continued to babble to himself quiet curses about my apparent ignorance. “Let me go! I dema-”, suddenly my mouth was sealed shut by some unseen force.

“I really must concentrate; I hadn’t expected you to be void of all knowledge. You were meant to hold the Great Knowledge; you didn’t have any materials I needed for our quick return. Truly, you don’t even remember me?” I had no idea what to say. It just wasn’t logical; it made no sense. The magic cat, the changing eyes, the forces being used on me. But, if all that was real, what about those shadowy things? I wanted to scream, I wanted to run away and hide. This could not be reality. “Well, I know this all must be pretty stressful to take in, but- oh goodness,” at that moment the pressure released off my body. “See, I am not here to hurt you. You really must come with me; I promise I will explain everything just as soon as we are safe.

I looked at the door and decided escape was futile. This thing would just pin me down with his magic. I pointed to my mouth to indicate my need to speak. With just a blink, the Cat released my lips as well. “Before we go anywhere, I need to know who you are, and how you came to be. I have a life; I can’t just go hang out with some illusion my mind created.”

“Master, surely your closest ally, and student, does not strike you as mere illusory tricks. This must be some kind of spell.”

“I have never met you before, much less, experienced anything half so crazy as these last 12 hours.”

“Look, I’m sorry, but I insist you come with me.,” with that she spoke a few syllables, and suddenly we were pulled upward in a spiral. I saw the full spectrum of color stretch out and lose pigment. The very fabric of reality was coming apart and flowing back together violently. My stomach felt like we were falling from the top of the roller coaster. I was freezing at one moment, hot the next, and yet this all took place in fractions of a second. The Cat landed on its feet suddenly, too suddenly. I hadn’t expected the floor and came tumbling down hard and rolled a few yards. “Here, in my realm, I can certainly feel the dark energy cast on you. Come with me, hopefully, we can undo this sorcery.”

I barely gained my bearings again, but the cat, whose name was Midnight, was quite insistent that we move forward. He seemed uneasy about the source of this spell he was convinced I was under. We traversed a great desert of this odd-smelling sand. It was a dull grey color and rocky. Something was familiar about that, but I couldn’t quite place it, so I tried to forget about it. Midnight directed my attention to the tower, and I stopped in my tracks. There was something far too weird about the way it was designed, and I don’t know what came over me, I pounced on the cat.

“What the hell is that tower; where are we!” Midnight began opening her mouth, but all that came out were meows. Everything went black, except Midnight. Midnight was turning a deep crimson red with bright yellow eyes, and she grew to be enormous instantly. She lifted a huge paw with impossibly sharp talons fully exposed and swiped at me, except before she could tear through me, I fell through the ground as if the Earth tore apart under my feet. I began squeezing my fists and my eyes shut tightly and let out a blood-curdling scream. At that moment, I knew I was going to die, and so I continued to scream until blood flowed from my mouth.

Once again, I sat up in bed covered in a pool of sweat, only this time my cat, Midnight, was standing atop her scratching tower, where her food tray was bare. I had been in a nightmare. My face fell into my hands, at the edge of tears and I just let reality wash out the taste of the nightmare left on my body. I brushed the blankets aside and swung my feet out to the side of the bed. I chuckled to myself while I considered the absurdity of my dream. With a big grin, I jumped out of bed, and I felt it between my toes. It was cold and crunchy, and I opened my eyes wide, and let out a huge grunt. I jumped right into the used kitty litter, and I wished I returned to the nightmare.


“Isn’t it a beautiful day Emily?” the old man said, holding his hiking sticks, one in each hand. He hit the trail head with a spring in his step that he hadn’t felt in decades. He carried a Blue Northern backpack, the same one he’d used to scale K-2 fifty years earlier when he was a spritely thirty year old man.  It was cold out, ten degrees, not counting a northern wind that blew around fifteen knots but the sky was clear, so perfectly blue that it stung the old man’s eyes just to look at it. His heart quickened a beat at the sight of the mountain in front of him, the same mountain he and Emily had hiked together on their honeymoon sixty years ago. He smelled the pine in the crispy, pure air and he heard a flock of geese squawking above, heading south as fast as they could.  He also heard music – someone nearby had a radio and Bob Dylan’s ‘Like a Rolling Stone’ was playing. “Do you hear that Emily?” the old man shouted. “Remember when you and I danced to that song at Frankie and Elizabeth’s wedding?” “How could I ever forget,” Emily said. “You wore that godawful cowboy hat you had bought in Texas when you were going through your cowboy phase.” The old man chuckled. “I guess I’ve had a few phases now haven’t I?” the old man said.

“I never told you this,” Emily said with a wink. “But I threw that old hat away not long after the wedding.” “Why you devil,” the old man said playfully. He grabbed Emily and hugged her. “That’s why I love you so much. You never could keep a secret from me. Even though some secrets I guess take you sixty years to confess.”  As the Dylan song played the old man began to sing and Emily put her hands to her ears. “You’re killing me!” she shouted. The old man grabbed her and wrapped her in an embrace and they danced on the trail, swaying to the music as the wind rustled through the trees. A young couple coming off the trail head saw the old man dancing and they chuckled. He danced as if he didn’t have a care in the world.  The old man was oblivious to them as they approached him. “You look like you’re having a wonderful day,” the young man said. Startled, the old man stopped singing and dancing and it took him a minute to get his bearings. “I’m having the best day of my life,” the old man said. “I haven’t felt this great in years.” “Make sure you’re careful up there,” the young man said. “A front is coming through and snow’s coming.” “We’ll be fine,” the old man said. “Emily and I have hiked this mountain a hundred times. We came here on our honeymoon before your parents were probably even born. Isn’t that right my dear?” Emily smiled at him and winked at him again. “Are you sure you’re ok sir?” the young man asked. “Absolutely,” the old man said. “We’re just going hike up and come right back down. You folks have a grand day.” With that the old man turned with Emily and began his hike up the steep trail. He wore a pair of his old khaki hiking pants with long johns underneath. The pants were loose fitting, his belt tightened to the last notch but they still sagged. His jacket was an old goose down filled thing that had once been orange but had long since faded to a dull brown. He wore a stocking cap to cover his head that was covered with the wispiest thin of white hair.

“I should have thrown that jacket away too come to think of it,” Emily said. “That’s about the sorriest excuse for a coat I think I’ve ever seen.” The old man laughed. “I can forgive the hat my dear,” he said. “But getting rid of this jacket would have been unforgiveable.” It was his turn to give her a wink. They turned and started up the rocky trail. The pines towered above them and there were patches of snow scattered about in the shadows of the trees. They were about a quarter mile up the trail when they came upon a little lake that had still not frozen over. “Would you look at that?” he said to Emily. “Remember when this was just a stream running through here? Now it’s a damned lake.” “Darling,” Emily said. “Sixty years is a rather long time.” She paused a moment as if trying to find a memory. “I seem to recall us catching quite a few fish when we were here.” “We did!” the old man exclaimed. “I taught you how to fly fish.” “I also seem to recall that I caught a few more fish than you,” she smiled and batted her eyes and the old man felt the butterflies flit through his belly like he did when he saw her at the soda fountain all those years ago.

“Now don’t go rubbing it in,” the old man said. “I also seem to remember a girl who didn’t have the stomach for cleaning all those fish.” Emily punched him in the shoulder and kissed him on the cheek. She put her arm around his shoulders as they soldiered on up the path.  They came up to the base of steep cliff that soared at least three hundred feet straight above them. The trail they planned to take was a series of switchbacks right up that mountain. The local Coloradan’s called it Break Neck Mountain. His thoughts floated aimlessly through his head and the picture of his son Frankie kept coming to the top. He felt a surge of sadness grip him. “Do you still miss him?” the old man asked. As if she could read his mind she nodded her head and the old man thought he saw a tear at the corner of her eye. “I think about him all the time,” Emily said.

“God took him too early,” the old man said. Emily hugged him tighter and he felt his knees go weak. The memories of Frankie flooded his mind and he started to weep. Emily wiped away his tears and held his face in her hands and stared deep into his eyes. “Remember the silly way he used to dance?” Emily asked. “The way his used to gyrate those hips? Remember those silly faces he used to make when you gave him the sour balls from the vending machine at the grocery store? Remember the look in his eyes when we held him just before he passed?” The old man nodded and thought his heart would burst at the love he felt from her at that moment. “It’s important to remember. It keeps him alive in your heart. It's how we know we're not alone.” They stood and held each other and the old man had no idea how much time had passed.

They started moving up the trail again and the old man noticed the sky was darkening and the air was colder.  A storm was coming and his legs were starting to hurt. He needed a quick break. He sat on a rock and Emily sat beside him. He slid the backpack off his shoulders and reached in and took out two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  Snow began to fall in horizontal sheets. “I made your favorite lunch,” the old man said. “Jiff’s peanut butter with some Smucker’s Strawberry Jam.” Emily smiled at him but she made no effort to reach for the sandwich. “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked her. She gazed into his eyes. The sky grew even darker and the old man began to hear wolves howling somewhere close by.

“I hope you know how much I love you,” Emily said.

The wind stiffened and the old man shivered. He pulled his arms in close to his body. Emily didn’t look cold at all. And that’s when he heard a faint voice in his head. It was a voice he hadn’t heard in years. He used to hear it all the time – it used to be loud and clear and it would speak to him whenever he thought about something, or read something, or whenever he tried to reason out a problem. “Emily’s been dead for twenty years,” the voice said to him. The old man shook his head and Emily was fading in front of him like mist. She mouthed one final word before she was gone forever. “Hurry.” The old man screamed into the darkening sky. The wolves were closer now and he could hear them howling into the wind as the wind blew what felt like near hurricane force winds. “Where have I been for the past twenty years?” the old man asked. “I don’t know,” the voice in his head said. “But it was dark there. And it was silent.”


You could have knocked Bill down with the proverbial feather. A small and inconsequential feather would have done, something from the hind quarters of a robin would have been just the ticket. You could have blown Bill down with a mere whisp of breath. Barely touched him with a fingertip and uttered “timber!” In this frozen moment, he stood there in this most precarious of positions and without a clue as to what had happened to render him so. “Pardon,” he said after the shock had reached its half-life. It wasn’t a question. It was a word he said because he knew he had to say something. The word itself didn’t matter. He needed to kickstart himself and saying a word seemed like all he could do right now. This word of Bill’s was a reminder that he was alive, if not at all well. “No alcohol,” said John the Barlord with a finality that would have made Bill’s eyes water if there was liquid to spare within the parched man swaying at the bar like a punch drunk boxer. Right now, boxing was the only way Bill was going to get drunk, but he was half-heartedly raising a guard of denial up in the hope that he could secure a pint of the amber stuff, even if his footwork had gone to pot.

Surely this was a joke? A stitch up that everyone was in on. Bill certainly felt all eyes on him, and no wonder. This was not normal, nor was it run of the mill. This was a travesty of the highest order, and confusion mercilessly rained down upon him as though monsoon season had come early, to entirely the wrong country, and in having got it so wrong was now drowning its sorrows in this pub, in a halo of ghastly moisture that swept downwards, surrounding and smothering the hapless Bill. “The Milford IPA,” Bill said uncertainly. John’s eyes narrowed, “not today, Bill.” “Then when?” asked Bill, doing his best not to allow desperation to creep into his voice. He failed in his attempt at setting this boundary as the insolent desperation was partying everywhere else and insistent that it should contaminate his voice too. “February,” John told him with a crushing finality that was a bit over the top as far as Bill was concerned. When had the meeting taken place where this terrible eventuality was decided, and why had he not been invited to said meeting? It was Bill’s eyes narrowing now, he was trying to read John. Reading John was all he had, because he knew better than to ask him why. Asking why would open floodgates he wanted left closed. He felt wet enough as it was. Asking why had the greatest of potentials to be utterly humiliating.

Besides, he could hazard a hazardous and quite toxic guess why. New Year’s Eve. A contributory factor to this disastrous tragedy of titanic proportions was that Bill wasn’t as young as he had once been. This was an obvious truth that he was in firm denial over. This denial of the matter of his years presented him few problems, but one of those problems was festering and reaching out with grim tendrils. Now one of those tendrils was here and was making a nuisance of itself. Booze was a strange and wonderful substance. It worked magic and some of that magic was of the darkest sort. There was also a price to be paid for that magic. Hangovers got worse as a person got older. That was just how it was. And so the price paid increased over time. The sordid reality of inflation insinuated itself into all drinkers’ lives and any that told you they were immune to the dreaded hangover were out and out liars and that was all there was to it.

The good magic of the alcohol was the social side of things. Alcohol as a social lubricant was interesting, because everyone knew that it also lowered inhibitions and therefore increased the risk of someone saying or doing something that they really should not. There was something in that upped ante that created a frisson and it was that enchanting frisson that drove conversation on a magical mystery tour that never disappointed. The magic of the beer was where Bill was currently doing the majority of his speculating. The reason for his having to speculate was another of booze’s powers; memory loss. Memory loss was yet another tithe that a seasoned boozer had to pay to the god of all things merrily alcohol imbued. For most, memory loss didn’t really kick in until beyond their thirtieth year of aging. Before then, there were other odd side effects that followed an evening’s pleasant quaffing. In the early years of drinking, as the tipsy soul retired to bed, their bed would rise a half inch in the air and then it would spin. For those in the know, a leg dropped out from the bed covers, and a foot placed on the floor, would create an effective tether that prevented any further spinning and afforded the occupant of the bed a state of unconsciousness, sleep being something that only sober people indulged in. Then there was the wayward bladder. Mostly, this was a minor inconvenience as the bladder made itself known in the early hours of the morning and continued to be a nuisance until it was taken on an impromptu visit to the toilet.

A large glass of water by the bedside was a very good idea, as in tandem with a full bladder, the drinker would in all likelihood experience dehydration. This dehydration, if left unattended, would escalate to the headache from hell, and that hellish headache would pay a visit first thing in the morning and stick around despite all the polite requests for it to do one. The most unwelcome of visitors hanging around with the one objective of ruining the day.

Bill had family members who emulated hangovers. They haunted him despite his best black sheep act, and this was why he had never bought a property, preferring to move around between rented accommodations, in sufficiently short time frames, so that even when he did share his address it quickly went out of date. Still the blighters found him. There was no escaping hangovers in whatever form they chose to take. For all his faults and foibles, Bill was a dedicated professional in his chosen field. Drinking was a complicated venture and certainly not for the faint hearted. It was a journey which lacked any certainty when it came to its destination. A person donned their drinking boots, strode out into the world for that opener, and the intent to follow it with a snortorino, and then add a snifter to the proceedings, and around that point, the back of the wardrobe would fall away to reveal a fantasy land that promised much, and delivered on that promise for just as long as the drink flowed. Bill had been on many a journey and had a grim determination to journey further, but the grimness of Barlord John’s determination outstripped his own. With a sigh of contrition, but not defeat, Bill ordered a diet coke drink. The sort that sprays from a hose pipe with a natty multi-buttoned nozzle and is made from gloopy syrup.

John nodded, “ice?” “Do I look like a polar bear?” Bill asked him. “More like a dishevelled penguin,” said John before doing the honours. Bill took the jibe and filed it away. It was half decent and well worth recycling. John placed the drink before Bill, “put it on my tab,” Bill instructed him. “There is no such thing,” John said as he raised his hand in the international gesture of beggary. Bill eyed the hand and sighed defiance at the capitalist dog before him. He did not push his luck though. Bill knew to pick his battles. Instead, he raised his own hand and placed a fiver in the palm of the Barlord. John turned his back on Bill and retrieved shrapnel from the till. Usually, Bill would pocket said shrapnel without a word, nor with any real acknowledgement of this part of the transaction, but the weight and frequency of the scraps of metal was lacking, and so he looked down at the sparsity of coinage, “twenty p?” he questioned. John did not flinch, “twenty p,” he echoed. “But surely there has been some sort of mistake?” wailed Bill. “There has been no mistake on my part, and please refrain from calling me Shirley,” John was not smiling at this pilfered quip of his. Bill’s face crumpled. The crumpling of Bill’s face was due to a two pronged attack from reality. One was that coke was more expensive than beer and so

not drinking

was going to be more expensive than drinking. The second was that John wasn’t half as funny when Bill was sober. The prospect of a mirthless John was like a spear wound to the side. It hurt and it made life that bit more difficult. Retreating to a corner table, Bill took a seat that afforded a view of the entirety of the bar. He placed his very expensive soft drink before him. Then he ignored it for the best part of five minutes. Then he spent a further five minutes staring at it balefully. “Attempting to emulate our goodly Lord?” said a familiar voice. Bill looked up at Tom, “what’s that?” “Water into wine,” Tom told him. Bill shook his head morosely, “tis the only way I’ll get a proper drink in this establishment, until the name of the month is changed to February.” Tom nodded sagely, “you should count yourself extremely lucky,” he told his friend. Bill opened his mouth to ask why that could be, but Tom was already making his way to the bar for a pint of his usual, a strange tasting traditional ale called Swanky Swan. The strange taste was due to the secondary fermentation the cask ale experienced in the barrel, and the reason for that second go at fermenting was that John the Barlord bought older stock and was not aversed to allowing it to age far more than your average cellar keeper would think was sensible. John’s philosophy in this matter was not restricted to the business of running a public house, in addition he held with a simple maxim;

since when did sensible apply to booze?  Bill had never envied Tom his too-strong beer. He did not agree with Tom’s own economic strategy in this matter. But now, he would relinquish his moral higher ground for just one of those pints of Tom’s, for, as far as Bill knew, Tom was the only one who drank Swanky Swan and not often did he exceed four pints in one sitting. Others had tried to go beyond two, but had lost the use of important motor skills before they ever got to the end of their second pint. Bill leaned in towards Tom as his friend took a seat opposite him, “you couldn’t…” he began. “I couldn’t,” agreed Tom, narrowing his eyes just as Barlord John had done, “I see you’ve not been counting yourself extremely lucky, despite the benevolence of our fine and upstanding Barlord,” Tom observed. Bill glanced towards the bar and the man that Tom was referencing. The Barlord was polishing a glass in about as aggressive fashion as was possible. Bill swiftly averted his gaze, feigning nonchalance. “It’s hardly…” he began. “You could have been barred for life,” hissed Tom uncharacteristically, “and maimed into the bargain.” Bill scowled at the hissing goose before him. “Don’t you take that tone with me, young man!” exclaimed Tom, “February is not all that far off. You got off with a light sentence this time.” “This time?” asked Bill not pausing adequately to add a protest to his voice. “We both know you’ll blot your copy book again,” Tom assured him. Bill didn’t nod agreement, but neither did he refute his friend’s words. He was in a cognitive no-man’s land thanks to any absence of recollection of the actions that had brought about this parlous state of affairs. What he did know was that without any idea of his transgression, he could not estimate the probability of further occurrences of the misdeed, and so discretion was the better part of valour at this time.

At long last, he plucked his lukewarm glass from the table before him. Tom took the opportunity to raise his own, half-drunk pint of beer, “cheers” he said, tapping his gloriously proper drink against the expensive imposter. Bill harrumphed and then poured some of the warm and pricey liquid into his gob. It fizzed, and in its fizzing, it imparted undue sweetness upon his unsuspecting taste buds. For the second time that evening, Bill scrunched up his face. Tom laughed. “It’s not funny,” Bill grimaced, “this ridiculous drink cost me four pounds eighty!” “Daylight robbery!” gasped Tom in sudden, shared aggrievance. “I’ve been mugged!” agreed Bill. Tom shrugged and drank more of his pint. A pint that cost less than four of the king’s pounds. Bill watched him and felt an odd sort of loneliness. Their Brotherhood of Beer was lost to him, for at least the next four weeks. Four long and desolate weeks. “Will you continue to frequent these premises during your barren spell?” enquired Tom. The lads had an affinity that approached the rarefied heights of mind reading. Some uncharitable souls would say it was more that they were creatures of habit treading well worn paths. Simple creatures who were oblivious to the fact that they were as they did, and were therefore booze-soaked simpletons. Not one to break the habit of a lifetime, Bill did not pause for thought, “yes I will.” “Good man!” said Tom, tipping his glass at Bill, and in so doing, rubbing his enforced drink diet in by pouring more of his own beer into his mouth, “will you be driving?” Bill growled in the next instant, “don’t you dare!” “Whatever has brought this foul mood on?” enquired Tom, leaning away from his friend’s ire. “Your attempted manipulation of my fragile and exposed state!” protested Bill. “That is a malicious slight!” said Tom in an equal approximation of protest. “I will not be your chauffeur for the next month!” hissed Bill. Tom shrugged, “it would be the honourable thing to do.” Bill spat the initial bar of a laugh across the table, “you really take the biscuit sometimes!” Neither of the lads went as far as to explore the practicalities of Bill driving. This was a far-fetched eventuality due to the absence of a car to drive as well as Bill’s inability to actually drive. The nature of this interaction exemplified Pub Discourse, Pub Discourse being the grandfather of Fuzzy Logic. Not that Fuzzy Logic was aware of this part of its family tree. Pub Discourse put it about quite a bit and had fathered a great many concepts and ideas, but never took much interest in or responsibility for them, what with being ridiculously fond of its local locale and what is universally known as

the craic. Tom shrugged again, “talking of biscuits…” “You’re not?!” gasped Bill. “I like them,” he said as he eyed the jar of large dog biscuits on the bar, biscuits that came in all sizes and colours, “especially the red ones.” He also liked them because they were free. Free for the punter’s dogs. Tom focused on the free aspect of the biscuits. Barlord John took another, dimmer view. This was a source of some conflict. Bill thought he had the hint of a glimpse of the New Year’s Eve proceedings and felt something tug upon him. There wasn’t enough to go on, but he had the seed of a suspicion and from that seed a sprout of blame reached forth and pointed at Tom. Bill drank more of his fizzy brown drink, “do you think people actually enjoy this?” he asked Tom as he waved his glass around between them. “They know no different,” Tom told him. But Bill thought he knew different. And he intended to keep pulling on the fine thread he’d now spotted. He’d come back here to this pub, a pub he considered to be as much his as anyone else’s, and he would come here just as regularly as he once had. Returning to the scene of his illusory crime until he pieced together what it was that he was supposed to have done.

He smiled to himself as he drank some more of his exorbitantly expensive coke. If his quest for the truth of his unfair and unjust demise failed, he’d celebrate his enforced dry spell at the Desert Inn with a big session to make up for his time away from one of the loves of his life; beer.

His smile remained as he thought of one of the other side effects of drinking; flashbacks from previous boozy journeys. The truth. His truth. It was only a matter of a few pints away. Tom was getting up to buy another beer, “another?” he asked his friend. Bill looked at his glass and realised he’d absently necked the majority of it as he made his plans, “yeah, why not?” he replied. Tom leant in and winked conspiratorially, then he whispered, “John the Barlord’s wife. Never knew you had it in you, you old dog!” Suddenly, Bill was as white as a freshly laundered sheet. He watched his bestest friend, and partner in beer-crime, depart for the far shores of the pub’s bar. He became whiter still as his eyes inadvertently locked with the glaring and vengeful orbs sunk in the depths of John the Barlord’s skull. January was going to be a very long month, if that was, he managed to see the month through to its bitter and barren end.


Poor Wilson! One day his friend caught the perfect climate long awaited to go after his tail. Before he could even realize that what seemed to be his stroke of luck was really one of fate’s dirty little tricks. This happens the moment you are a slipshod to a quaint you never thought of coming. After twelve years to wake up at midnight and a thought of revenge comes creeping in. Raga staring at the rotating fan of his ceiling, jaw clenching, and his fist rumpling the sheets of his bed, reminiscing. What was thought to be oaf is now repulsing, like a respirator on his mouth, his heavy breathing caused not by a tremor now but of his merciless anger.

Twenty, now twenty years of age to finally get out of the cage.

His consistent moving and packing, the loudest of his crying woke a father that was sleeping. “What are you doing?” father asks, "Son, where are you going?" one eye open as the brightest light disturbing his sight.

“Back to the old place, father” to get some things done, something felonious, as he slip a pistol inside his bag secretly. “Oh, well, send my regards to Mr. Wilson’s” rolling over the bed and cover himself in sheets, a smile on his father’s face that knows nothing but of this Wilson’s fake grace.  Regards?! You might as well say goodbye for this fellow will soon die.

Quickly packing to go on his journey, a conquest it is. As the ground rumbles and stone stumbles, the train arrives to get him back to the past, to go and make an end of an unfinished past. To think of this eight years old Wilson’s smiling face, cheering from a success of making him piss, the thought of it every second adds to the urge of Raga’s vengeance.

The train is moving so fast like a portal way to this memory, a flashback of an eight year old Raga, a quietude in his third grade and Wilson is there too, of his obverse. Like the head and tail of the coin, the same world of different faces, his opposite occurs.

Throwing papers to someone who didn’t do, nothing, to make a boy cry with no reason, he doesn't know why. Wilson seems to be fast to get on his nerves. After twelve years, only after twelve years, why wait twelve years? To wait being twenty to suddenly get the urge to go on his way and make a move, make Wilson out of this way. Only then he get to stand straight on his own, his eight years old self was a turtle to never get out of his hard shell, lost and alone. The rumbling stops at the station. He have arrive, taking the first step out the train following by more steps and more, fast and quick like he got wheels in his sole. His sight paste on the white house at the end of this old street, walking as the hindsight playing. Staring at the house with the brightest light in the neighborhood, a sight of ghostly figure of kids playing while, it was then, he was whining, his anger seems to never be stop but keeps on forwarding and growing, and growing. There, behind the bushes, he put his bag down and cover closed with leaves, reloading his gun, practice a perfect aim and how to pull the trigger, and hide it in his jacket he goes on and on. Continue his walking, his jaw clenching all the way, his fist rolling, with a fine black suit, he looks to be like in a mafia, he is now finally ready. Unstoppable as he goes, standing in this fellows front door, one knock, two knocks, and three. Holding the pistol inside pocket, his finger is holding the trigger, preparing a pull, he is very ready. Waiting and wondering if this Wilson can still recognize the face of this kid’s sad eyes. The door creaking, could Wilson be the one opening? Standing and waiting, and then a bald man appears after opening the door. “Mr. Wilson?”, yes, it’s him, there’s no one else. This young man’s face changes through the years, the eyebrows in his face disappears, but a frown on his countenance is in sight. Who was once healthy and active boy to never stop running around and picking on other kids, is now battling from cancer after all those years. “Is that you?” Wilson, squishing his eyes trying to recognize a fellow he always long to find. Staring blankly, a long pause, of what he sees in front of his eyes, his teary eyes, trying to not show and sympathize. But no, he must go on and continue, for years and years of suffering by his doings, he must go on. He is here, standing, so close to his goal, pulling out the pistol and then the trigger...there's no going back, he is here, present and the past standing in front of him, there is no way of going back. Bang! Bang! Bang! Shooting him in the head three times, in Raga’s head, he is now dead. Bang! Bang! Bang! Another shot he whispered to himself, he is dead, he is dead, he is finally dead. “Raga, is that you?” this young man ask again and clarified. He doesn't seem to talk because a lump in his throat cause and blocked. Raga, as silent as he always was, never said a word, one step back and three steps down, walking away, he is to going back home now. “Raga?” he wonders again, as to only see the back of his friend slowly walking to an end. Down he walks of their childhood street, as tears finally drop, not from fears. It has been reprieve, that was it, replenished. To see a friend is what it mean, always been. That was why, after twelve years he have to go and see him even if it is only to drop by.

Looking back at his old house where he find the eight year old Wilson throwing stone at his window from the backyard, to go off and run with him through the night, to laugh over anything with no sense, two kids who are opposite to become friends in an unexpected ways, a bully and the bullied to end up as best friends. For one who rarely to socialize and one to running his mouth all day. One day to go and separate their own ways, Wilson to have another friend. And Raga, who became another lonely lad at high school as hate emerged of why, he seem to not understand why, but envy, he is suppose to stay. Walking back home, to the present, and to realize that he was his long lost friend. After he moved to another place, only then Wilson, without the other face of his coin, he have no one to call a best friend. For a social butterfly, Wilson, after Raga left, he have never want to see just any other passerby. -END-


The snow day is loaded with children making snowmen and teenagers sleeping in. Fifteen-year-old Abby isn’t sleepy. Safe and warm in her bedroom, clothed in her favorite pajamas, she stands on a chair rearranging books on her beloved bookshelf. Her dad made it for her tenth birthday. It’s her favorite thing in the entire world and every time she looks at it, she thinks of him. "Your father couldn't read," her mom blurts out of nowhere.  Startled, Abby turns and drops the book she was holding. Her mom is standing in the doorway, wearing one of her hideous Christmas sweaters. She's carrying a Christmas themed plate of cookies in one hand and a mug of hot chocolate in the other. "What did you say?" Abby asks staring into her mom's brown eyes. They're filled with the familiar sadness she often gets when she talks about Abby's father. Her mom sets the snack down on the desk and sits on the unmade bed. "I said, your father couldn't read." She shrugs her tiny shoulders. "Daddy couldn't read? That can't be true. How is that possible? We used to read together every Saturday at the kitchen table.”  Abby is dumbfounded and hopes this is a bad joke. She cuddles up next to her mom waiting for her to explain. "Let me rephrase that. Your father couldn't read above a second-grade level,” she says, pulling Abby close and tucking her underneath her chin. "I don't understand how that's possible. How did he get through school and life?" "He slipped through the educational cracks. His childhood was unstable and his family moved all the time. When he worked his friends would help him. I would help him at home. He could write his name, pay bills, and read enough to get by,” she said. "Why didn't he ever try to learn?" "I tried to teach him and he went to a few adult literacy classes but, he would get frustrated and quit.  He loved spending Saturday mornings with you. Listening to you read,” she says, picking up the plate of cookies and offering it to her. Abby loves her mother dearly but the woman cannot cook or bake. They both know it. Her mom keeps trying anyway. Abby swipes one and bites into it. It’s terrible but she schools her face into a smile. It's sweet that her mom tried to soften the blow with cookies. "I followed the recipe." "Sure, you did,” Abby says, rolling her eyes.  "Ok, so why'd you wait so long to tell me this?" "He didn't want you to know. He was embarrassed.  Then one day you came home with an A on your book report. You were so excited but, he couldn’t read it. After that, he was determined to learn. You do have a gift.” "Of course, you're going to say that, you're my mom.” "Maybe but, I love everything you write because you put your whole heart into it. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I guess I wasn't ready yet and I didn't want to change the way you remember your dad. But I think you needed to know. Why don’t you take some time and think about it? I’m going to finish the rest of the cookies.” Her mom gives her a tight hug, grabs the plate of burned cookies, and disappears downstairs. Abby didn't know her father couldn't read and now she doesn't know what to feel. Her mom just dropped this bomb on her and then went to burn more cookies. What is she supposed to do with this information? When she was five, she asked her parents to get her a library card. Every week they'd take a trip to the library. She would listen to storytime with the other children. Mrs. Cook was her favorite Librarian. She did all the best voices. After storytime, she'd take her time choosing several books to read. Mrs. Cook would always give her colorful book-marks.  She would always save one book for Saturday mornings. She would read and sometimes stutter through new words while her mother corrected her. Her dad would sit there quietly, with a cup of coffee and smile. When she was finished reading, he would tell stories about his week. It's strange knowing that he could tell the most colorful stories but he couldn't read or write them. Throughout her childhood, the storybooks with pictures disappeared and gave way to novels that got thicker and thicker. Still, every Saturday for an hour or two she would read to her father just like Mrs. Cook. As she got older, she didn't need help with the words anymore but, it was still something special between them.

Her father died when she was twelve. Saturday mornings were never the same. She stopped reading at the kitchen table. She missed her father and the strong smell of his coffee too much. Thinking back on that time seems different now. Her father was illiterate. Abby can't imagine not being able to get lost in someone else's adventures or nightmares and cheer them on as they pull themselves out of a hairy situation, or read on in terror. No one should ever be deprived of that feeling. If her father was alive, she with the help of her mother and anyone else willing to help would make sure he learned to read. You're never too old to learn. Suddenly, Abby thinks about the school book drives she volunteers for, the school paper that she writes for, and the time she spends helping the school librarians during her free period. There is no literacy program for adults at the local or surrounding libraries that she knows of. She'll have to ask Mrs. Cook about that next Saturday. She may be too old for storytime but she still spends her Saturday mornings there. Although knowing all of the history, wonderful journeys, and funny stories her father missed out on, she's glad that she knows his secret. She’s been thinking of pursuing a teaching career on and off. She can’t think of anything more satisfying than helping others travel to different worlds within the pages of a book and maybe create some of their own. It’s something to think about.


Mary was grateful for the cold, white light of the full moon as the car lurched down the potholed driveway. Branches and briars from the overgrown hedges scraped the car like nails on a blackboard. The skeletal black shapes of bare trees swayed in the gusty wind, sending grotesque shadows dancing across her line of vision. She pulled up in front of the mansion, slumping in her seat with relief. Parking in front of an impressive set of stone steps which led up to the front door, she sat for a moment, eyes closed, taking deep breaths. A knock on the driver’s window startled her. It was her friend Vickie. She eased herself out of the car, staggering backwards as Vickie hurtled towards her for an embrace. “I am so glad to see you,” Vickie exclaimed, beaming.  “Me too,” said Mary, laughing as she disentangled herself. “This is exciting. It’s not every day that my best friend inherits a mansion.” Vickie grinned. “Come on in.” Grabbing her overnight bag, Mary followed Vickie up the moss-covered steps into a cold, echoing entrance hall. The heavy wooden front door slammed behind them. “Sit down and I’ll get you a drink,” Vickie said, leading the way into a large gloomy sitting room and indicating an armchair near the marble fireplace. There were rickety stacks of books on almost every square inch of the floor and every surface was covered with a jumble of bric-a-brac. Mary cautiously threaded her way through the maze and plumped down in the armchair, sneezing as a cloud of dust puffed up around her. She shivered. A small fire was burning in the grate but doing little to dispel the chill. A moth-eaten stuffed fox glared at her from the corner of the room, its glass eyes glittering in the firelight. “I hope sherry’s okay,” Vickie said, handing her a glass and sitting down. “It’s all that’s left of Aunt Phyllis’s stash. I haven't had a chance to restock.” “Cheers,” said Mary, smiling appreciatively as she took a sip. “The line was so bad when you called that I could hardly make out what you were saying. I tried calling back, but I couldn’t get through.” “Cell phone reception’s almost non-existent here. Thank goodness there’s still a landline but the phone is ancient.” She pointed to a large black rotary dial phone with a thick braided cord on a side table. “This whole place is like a museum or a time capsule,” said Mary, gazing around the room at the dingy oil paintings, solid Victorian furniture and threadbare brocade curtains. “So, what’s the story?” Vickie took a gulp of sherry. “My great aunt Phyllis died a few weeks ago and left me this place.” Mary whistled. “Not bad. Were you expecting an inheritance from her?” Vickie shook her head. “No. She was my father’s aunt, but she had a falling out with my parents.” She indicated the clutter. “As you can see, she was a hoarder, and they tried to make her get rid of her stuff. She wasn’t having any of that.” “This place would be special if it was renovated,” said Mary. “I can’t wait to see it by daylight.” Vickie poured some more sherry into both their glasses and took a deep breath. “Well, you may have guessed by now that I do have an ulterior motive for inviting you. I think the house would make a really great hotel, but I’m going to have to go through all this junk one item at a time before I can even plan what to do. Aunt Phyllis didn't trust banks and I’ve already found quite a bit of money stashed here and there, so there’s no way I can just toss the whole lot out. Since antiques are your business, I need your expertise to tell me what's worth keeping.” Mary grinned. “I love a challenge. Tell me about the house.” “Grab your bag. I’ll show you to your room.” They went back to the entrance hall and up the stairs which creaked and groaned at each step, carefully stepping over more teetering piles of books and dusty boxes. The landing opened on to a picture gallery of severe looking Victorian faces peering out of tarnished gilt frames. “My ancestors,” Vickie said. “My great-great-great grandfather made his money in cotton mills and built this house a hundred odd years ago, but the local historical society people told me there have been buildings on the site for centuries, including a manor house during the English Civil War. There was a convent here before that until Henry VIII put an end to it. He tossed all the nuns out and confiscated the place.” Vickie led the way down a narrow hallway and opened the door to Mary’s room. The moonlight poured through the window, showing a shabby but elegant room with a large four-poster bed. Vickie turned on the bedside light and pulled the curtains. “I decluttered a couple of bedrooms and the bathroom and cleaned like a maniac.” Mary gazed around. “Are there any ghosts?” Vickie shook her head. “No one has said anything about the house being haunted and I haven't seen hide nor hair of one." Mary pulled a face. “What a shame. There are so many possibilities. A White Lady from the convent, a Cavalier from the Civil War, or perhaps a child from the cotton mill. Or a headless horseman coming out of the woods...” Vickie laughed. “For the last fifty years Aunt Phyllis lived like a hermit with no one except a housekeeper and the tradespeople from the village coming in. The gossip is that she was jilted at the altar and never recovered from it. Whether or not that’s true, she was a cranky old thing with a hair-trigger temper. Ghosts would probably have been afraid of her.” “Not to mention bored silly if there was no company here to scare,” said Mary. “I’m exhausted. If you don’t mind, I’m going to head for bed so we can get started bright and early tomorrow.” Vickie hugged her. “Of course. I'll show you where the bathroom is.” She led Mary further down the hallway and flung open a door, laughing. "Speaking of museums..." Mary blinked. The white tiled bathroom contained an immense claw-foot tub and a high porcelain commode with a mahogany seat. "Good grief. I'm going to feel like Queen Victoria on the throne on that thing." Vickie giggled. "I know. No showers, of course. Plenty of hot water though, and some nice bath salts. Feel free to have a nice long bath. The plumbing makes some weird noises but everything works." She hugged Mary. "Thanks again for coming. It was very daunting to face all this by myself." “That’s what friends are for,” Mary said. “Goodnight.” Mary could not remember the last time she'd had a leisurely bath. She soaked until the water began to cool. As she dried off, she was startled by a groaning noise emanating from somewhere deep in the pipes. She glanced around, heart racing, before she remembered what Vickie had said about the plumbing. "Stop it. Your imagination's running away with you," she muttered to herself as she scurried back to her room. The bedroom was cold and she wasted no time in jumping into bed. Stretching contentedly under the blankets, she soon drifted off to sleep. Next morning, she found her way down to the kitchen. A modern coffee maker was burbling on the countertop, standing out like a sore thumb next to the ancient enamel kitchen stove and ceramic sink. Vickie greeted her cheerfully. “Good coffee was a necessity,” she said with a smile. “There are fresh muffins over there.” Mary filled her mug and sat down. “How did you sleep?” Vickie said. “Like a baby,” said Mary, sipping coffee. “It was so sweet of you to check on me last night.” Vickie frowned. “Check on you? What do you mean?” “I was almost asleep when someone tucked the covers around me and whispered goodnight,” Mary said, faltering as she saw Vickie’s expression. “Wait, that wasn’t you?” The ticking of the clock on the wall reverberated in the silence as they stared at each other.