You’d think they’d promote me like Beyoncé. But they’d rather I be dead ‘n’ gone. No, man. Don’t go! Please stay. I don’t get much company and never anyone my age. Nah. I won’t hurtcha. That’s for sure. Look at these little arms. Li’l chicken wings. That’s what my brother calls ‘em. I know you think you know why I’m here - but do you really know why I’m here? I mean really ? A WITCH? You’ve seriously got to be kidding me. Good lord! That’s really what they say? Dang! That’s cold! Well, when they’re talking to me, they say I have a gift. G-I-F-T. But you ain’t heard that, I bet? Hey, I just noticed. Your English is sharp! Aren’t you Italian like everybody else around here? Oh. I see. That’s cool. I never met anyone from there. So, what’s your name? Paolo, huh? Paolo! That’s cool. I’m Daisy. Daisy Johnson. Nice to make your acquaintance. Ok, so you want to know why all this is this, right?! Man, let me take it from the top for the 10,000 th time. I’ll be quick cause they ain’t gonna let you stay long, and I don’t want you to get in no trouble. So, I was born in Commerce. Commerce, Texas. It’s a little town, kinda close to Dallas. My people have lived there, well, for as long as I know. Anyway, when I was 6, we had this crazy storm in Commerce. I don’t remember much about it, really, but I do remember it was a wild … like outta the Wizard of Oz wild … you know that big storm at the beginning when everything’s all black and white. Well, after the storm, folks started noticing that I was a little, well, different. I sorta had a gift. I first used it on daddy when he was real mad at momma. He calmed down right quick. I never plan to use the gift. It just sort of happens. But everyone knew about it. My cousins kept pushing that Jimmy Bledsoe in front of me whenever he was being ornery. I got so sick of making that boy treat people better. I don’t know why he couldn’t learn. Oh, no. My gift don’t hurt nobody. Nobody at all. I just have a gift for making them see the pain they’ve caused others. Most people do the right thing after that. Don’t ask me how I do it. I have no idea. Ask that storm, I guess. Ok. So, there I was a sophomore in high school. I played the flute in the Tigers marching band. That’s our team name. I know they don’t do high school teams over here. Anyway, somehow my school gets this invitation to perform at some big event in Rome … Expo something something. But we have to pay our way over here. Man, did we wash the cars and sell cookies. Eventually a local car dealer gave us a big donation. We all packed up and headed to Europe. I even got a passport. First one in my family ever. We all flew over here. Man, did we party! That was fun! Anyway, we were all lined up ready to perform at this Expo something something. We were next to some kids from Belgium, and another group from Korea. We were supposed to be in Rome but we were actually in Vatican City I came to find out. Ok. So, I’m sure you remember hearing about what happened next, but they cut out my part completely. We could see the Expo folks, some politicians, and the Pope waving their hands way off in the distance as the first band passed by. Like outta nowhere, this truck comes around a corner, and runs right over maybe 10 people. These scary guys jump out. They’ve got machine guns, knives and bombs. They’re shootin’ everybody. I see Jimmy Rodriguez our drum major cut in two. I mean cut in two. We’d been in school forever. I must have known that boy since he was 10. I saw Karen Schmidt fall next. Remember I said that a local car dealer gave a big donation so we could come over here. Well, that was her daddy. There were others, too. People were dying all around us. Kids from my school. Belgians. Koreans. Old folks from the crowd. Babies. No group left out. That’s when my gift flashed on . It hadn’t flashed on like that before. Hadn’t ever flashed, actually. But it flashed. Man, did it flash. Those evil men just stopped in their tracks. Some of them dropped their guns. I heard them crying. Crying with shame. One of them shot himself. But I didn’t make him do that. It must have just been his reaction to feeling the pain he had caused. I guess he couldn’t handle it. I can see why. About then these security guards showed up. Someone told me they’re called the Swiss Guards. Well, they started shootin’ and all those guys died. But my gift was kinda in overdrive. Those Swiss Guards dropped their guns, too, and started crying. Everyone I could see was crying. About something. I’ve seen a video of me standing there, holdin’ my little flute all still, band cap knocked to the side, crying Swiss Guards, bodies and blood everywhere, and everyone else either lying on the ground or running away crying. They never showed that video on the news. I just wanted to sneak back to Commerce and pull the covers way over my head, but everybody knew I had done something. Those Swiss Guards looked at me. My bandmates cried out my name. Those dang Belgians and Koreans were screaming stuff, too, and pointin’ at me. Everyone was lookin’ at me. Next thing I knew, I was taken to some police headquarters for questioning. But I had fixed everything and made it all better, so why ask questions? But my gift was still in overdrive. I couldn’t turn it off. No matter how hard I tried. Seems funny now, but most folks I met just started crying and then hugged someone or got on the phone to a loved one. I don’t really know Italian, but I think I now know the words for love, please, and forgive me. I heard those words so many times that afternoon. But I got no idea what they all wanted forgiveness for. I guess everybody’s done something to somebody else. Well, I guess it don’t come as no shock. If you’re in a Vatican police station, and you seem to have a crazy special power, someone’s eventually gonna call a preacher. It is the Vatican after all. We ain’t Catholic back home. Got no problem with them. I just don’t know what all their fancy outfits mean. I think I was visited by a priest first, then a cardinal, then a bishop. But maybe I have that order wrong. I don’t know. All I know is that just a couple of hours after it happened, they were taking me to see the Pope. Funny. But those Swiss Guards were loaded for bear. I’m not sure what they thought a skinny little 16-year-old gal from Commerce, Texas in a messy band uniform was going to do to the Pope. They even took my flute away. At the time nothin’ seemed funny. But it was damned funny if you think about it. The Pope was nice. He was real nice. I can see how he got the job. But it was weird. He kept asking me – but not straight out – if I was an angel or something. I stole way too much candy from Mr. Ralph’s fillin’ station to be much of an angel, and I told him so. He let out a big belly laugh, and then he got serious again. He asked me to use my gift on him. I asked him if he was sure he really wanted that. I heard a click somewhere way back of my ear. My daddy has a powerful huntin’ rifle, and I know I was a wink away from having my brains splattered all over the Pope’s carpet. It was a pretty carpet, too. He told me he was sure. So, I did what I could with my gift. He stirred for a second in his chair. Then he started crying. I told him I was sorry. He said that he was the one who was sorry and that nothin’ was my fault. In fact, he thanked me. I still have no idea what made him cry. Then he thanked me for what I did during the attack. He said I was very brave. That was the first time anyone thanked me. Actually, I think it was the only time. The next thing he said scared the shit out of me. Oops. Sorry. He is the Pope. Anyway, I got a serious, serious chill up my spine when he asked me the next question. He asked me if I knew that I wasn’t safe. Safe? You mean from all those crazy guys? But they’re all dead. Oh no, he said. From every government in the world, especially yours, I think. We had just finished reading Miss Evers’ Boys in school, and I kinda had an idea what he meant. Now, I was scared. Really scared. What did I ever do to anybody? “Would you like to be in the protective custody of the Holy See, Miss Johnson?” Some red-suited dudes behind him raised their voices, but he waved them away, saying, “We have a duty, brothers.” I didn’t quite know what I was agreeing to, but I could tell he knew lots of things that I didn’t know. And I was beginning to understand that my gift was a big, big problem. I'm sorry. I guess. So, that’s when it all started. The Americans demanded that I come back. (I’m not sure they wanted all of me back. Certain parts only would do just fine, I bet.) I heard that a bunch of governments wanted me killed. Put to sleep like a rabid dog. Then other religious leaders started complaining, too. They wanted me dead or they wanted to own a piece of me. The Pope eventually allowed them to send representatives. Most of them are weird. I mean weird. No. Cold. Well, they don’t seem like preachers. They seem more like scientists. Mad scientists. But I like the Buddhist guy. He’s funny and he makes me think, and Father Benedict is kind. Superhero? You’re funny, Paolo. A superhero name? Seriously? Ok, to be clear, I’m no Catholic hero either. Some professor in Germany at some priest school wrote a big article about how I undermined free will, made a mockery of salvation, and might as well have come from the devil as from Commerce, Texas. I guess that professor guy never saw his friends gettin’ killed before. I’m sorry, I guess, that I have one of Jesus’ gifts, but I didn’t steal it from him. Blame that storm. So, my life seems to depend on some big debate among a bunch of smart dudes who I’ve never met and who don’t know me -- at all. Well, except for one little thing about me. Eventually, they put me here. I didn’t realize the Pope had so many nice houses. Oh, sorry, villas. Of course, I can’t leave. But those tutors they’ve given me are really good. I had no idea how bad my old school was. Man, I got A’s and B’s at my old school, but when they started tutoring me here, I had to go back two grades. I know folks back home want good schools. I don’t understand why they don’t get ‘em. Hey, Paolo, I just thought of a superhero name for you. I’ve been taking a Latin class with Father Benedict. So, I’m learning something really new. I’ve also seen some documents that I think are talkin’ about me, and I think they call me something like et dederit compassio veraque . Not sure if I said that right. So, you want a superhero name? Call me “VeraQ”. That’s way more bling than Daisy Johnson! Oh, you get it now, right? I make folks feel the pain they’ve caused other people, which makes most of them want to stop causing that pain. Somehow this gift threatens the world. Or at least the folks who run it. Weird, right? I didn’t get it at first. But now I do. Well, kinda. Much as anyone could, I guess. If I busted ass and sent dudes up yonder, I’d be a superstar. I’d be 00J. Johnson. Daisy Johnson. But I don’t hurt nobody. I make the desire to hurt stop – and that makes me a big threat. Ain’t that sad? I sure they’ll eventually get around to plantin’ me in the garden or looking the other way while some dude slips a pill in my juice. That old Pope won’t live forever, and I’m not sure he calls the shots for everything anyway. I gotta get out of here, man. So, Paulo, wanna help me bust out?


Author's Note Regarding Sensitive Material: this submission contains discussion on the struggle of infertility . I peer anxiously at the silver spigot of the decanter as I top off Aunt Marge’s glass of sweet tea, wary of a single droplet escaping through that precarious seal on the teal glass. Today has to be perfect, and heaven knows that the last thing a beautiful buffet table needs is three gallons of iced tea dripping all over the burlap tablecloth. Sweet iced tea, of course. This is South Carolina; around here, unsweet tea is only good for flushing down a drain. Aunt Marge cackles at my fervent concentration and shakes her head before plopping a wrinkled hand on the lacy shoulder of my dress. “Everythin’ is perfect, honey,” she reassures me in her natural drawl, bringing her face close to mine as she takes a satisfied sip. “Even the tea is perfect! She’ll just love it. She’ll love it all, and she loves you, Lizzie. She’s just so happy that today ever came.” I gulp at her last words, and quickly unclench my jaw as she pats my arm before sauntering toward the gift table. She doesn’t know; I can’t really blame her. To her credit, Aunt Marge is proved right. She knows her grand-daughter, my cousin Cassie, and her tastes well. That’s why I enlisted her “advice”, such as it was, for the shower. She spouted off ideas over the phone: a pink candy bar! Little pink flamingos decorating the lawn! A banner of pink and gold ribbons on the mantle! Won’t that just look lovely? Pink cups for the tea and punch! I wrote it all down, like a dutiful niece. A few hundred dollars spent and many boxes of cheap plastic arriving on my doorstep later, and my two-bedroom condo was transformed into a parade of pink to welcome Gracie Abigail – due to join us in just eight short weeks, as Aunt Marge and Aunt Jennie (my real aunt) and, of course, Cassie, remind us all the time. I hold myself straight, I pin a bright smile on my features as soon as Cassie bounds – a bit unsteadily with her seven-month belly – through the door and wraps me in a hug before gushing about the bouquets (“where on earth did you find pink hydrangeas this time of year?”), the garlands, the piles and piles of gifts weighing down my former kitchen table. “It’s all perfect,” she exclaims, running her fingers over the soft petals of a blush rose. But when I give her a sharp nod, her smile fades immediately. She quickly scans the kitchen doorway to make sure our various female relations are still gossiping around the iced tea decanter before wrapping an arm around my shoulder again. “I know today is hard,” she whispers. “I so appreciate what you’ve done today. It took so long for us, too. We’ll celebrate for you too, hun. I know we will.” My throat closes as she gently presses her forehead to mine. I say nothing; there is nothing to say. Besides, today is already perfect; what could make today any better? I surely can’t think of anything. So I jerk away from her as the doorbell chimes again. I pin my smile back where it belongs as I graciously welcome the next round of squealing, frenetic women climbing into the condo, each laden with gifts. An hour later, the two dozen or so ladies have drunk nearly their fill of sweet tea and pink punch, muscadine wine from the Midlands, and naturally, champagne. No champagne for Cassie though; Aunt Jennie hands her box after box of gifts, cards upon more cards tucked into pastel bags. Cassie gasps with every toy, blanket, trio of onesies she opens. I am tucked awkwardly between her and my fireplace, my ballpoint pen trembling as I try to focus on each thoughtful present and jotting down the lady who gave it; Cassie has to write thank you notes, after all, and Aunt Marge says I’m just so great at getting the details right. I giggle at the little jokes (“you can never have enough diapers!”), and gently arrange each item beside me on the hearth once Aunt Marge takes a picture of Cassie holding it with a brilliant smile. After the first round of presents goes by, my mind retreats to a comforting haze. Listlessly, I pretend to add up all the gifts in my mind, in terms I can understand. Thirty dollars for a wooden set of alphabet blocks: that could have bought three pregnancy tests. The really good ones, the ones that tell you “early”. Not that it ever makes a difference. Eighty-five dollars for a rotating baby monitor, with two cameras included: that could have paid for my Clomid prescription. The one we gave up on months ago, after Dr. Samir threw his hands up and admitted that we had to try something else. Two-hundred and fifty dollars for a car seat: that could have bought the medications from Germany, the ones that my insurance won’t pay for, according to the assistant at Dr. Samir’s office (“I’m so sorry, ma’am, but advanced treatments aren’t covered under your plan. Of course, you can always pay out of pocket!”). It might have even paid the shipping, too. I snort a little at the four-hundred dollar stroller, the convertible one (of course, Cassie needs the convertible one): that much wouldn’t even pay for the first IVF appointment. I sip my sweet tea, impervious to the little gnat already drowned in my glass, and shake these terrible thoughts out of my mind. It’s not Cassie’s fault, or Aunt Marge or Aunt Jennie’s fault. It’s nobody’s fault. It definitely isn’t my fault. I manage well enough with my stock smile as the ladies meander out of my doorway a couple hours later, whispering their congratulations to Cassie for the hundredth time amid a handful of glances back at me as I thank everyone for coming today. As I expected, almost no one pays much attention to me; why would they? I’m just the hostess – the young lady serving the tea. Almost no one, except for Mrs. Davidson, the pastor’s wife, who leads the married ladies’ Sunday School at church. All of the others are filing out, mostly in pairs, dispensing hugs to each other when Mrs. Davidson suddenly leans in toward me. I draw back anxiously as her watery, dark brown eyes come alarmingly close to my face, but the effort doesn’t spare me her query. “Have you and Johnny thought about trying?” She leans in even closer, her eyes now brightly inquisitive. Trying . The word ricochets around my mind as my fingers go numb. “You know,” she continues slyly, “trying for a baby of your own, I mean.” I swallow quickly, and grip my palms together at my waistline. Had we thought of trying ? Had we thought of anything else but trying ? Was trying all we ever did? When would we run out of money to keep trying ? Any of those would have been more incisive questions. They would surely be closer to the truth. But those aren’t what she asked, and God knows, she does not want the answers, either. I will the muscles around my lips to curl into a smile as I reply: “We’re thinking about it.” Several hours later, I am alone in my condo, which is now covered in torn up bits of shiny paper, white and pink tissue galore, and the occasional sprinkle gone rogue from whichever cupcake it started the afternoon on. Now that the shower is over with, now that I have nothing to do, nothing to keep me busy, the space which I decorated so meticulously feels strangely foreign. The champagne-stained pink napkins strewn about, the ribbon garland bearing the words “IT’S A GIRL!” now detached on one end and slung lazily across my hearth. In truth, it feels offensive. I should clean up. I know I should. I always know what I should do, after all. Somebody has to clean up, and Johnny won’t be back from his deep-sea fishing trip until tomorrow night at the earliest. I told him to take his time, to go have some fun. He deserves it; like the shiny paper all over our floor, he’s torn up, too. But I can’t seem to move. All I can do is stare at the glittery golden words in their great slant across my fireplace: IT’S A GIRL! My mind fixates on those words as I draw a deep breath. I press my sore palms into the hardwood floor around me, and push myself to my knees, then my feet. Slowly, like a trance, I wander to my bathroom as the all-too-familiar cream tiles come into view. How many mornings, afternoons, nights have I said on the linoleum floor, hoping, waiting, begging anyone who might hear me to make my only wish, the only one that matters, come true. I wrench open the glossy white drawer, and pull out a test from its pink and purple box, wrapped in waxy paper: one of the “good ones”. I’ve only got this one left, I’ll have to buy more, and they aren’t cheap. But I have to try.

It’s early; my cycle isn’t due for days. I already went through these same, tortured motions earlier in the morning; that’s the best time of the day to try, they say. This is foolish; it’s a waste of $9.95. It’s too soon, or too late. It’s never the right time . Everyone always says, “it’ll happen at the right time !” But I have to try. I can’t not try. It doesn’t take me long to wet the stick; I’m practically an expert at using these little plastic sticks by now. I sit down in my spot, once again, and hold it, and wait. Five minutes. Then ten minutes. It’ll be negative, I tell myself, over and over again, seeing the image repeated in my mind that I’ve seen in my palm so many times before. Once the timer on my phone buzzes at fifteen minutes, I switch it off, and look down. NOT PREGNANT. There it is, in plain English, black and white. Not pregnant. I quickly catch my breath, I gasp as the tears I’ve held back for twelve hours now fall in earnest. My God, if only I could have back all the minutes, all the hours I spent crying on this floor, all the times I hid from Johnny, all the times I avoided his eyes at breakfast, all the little plastic sticks tossed in the garbage. But the phone beside me buzzes. I exhale sharply, assuming that the timer has gone off again, when I see it: one unread message, from Cassie. I click the green icon, and get it over with. Thank you so much for such a perfect shower! I can’t imagine a more beautiful day than today was, and I can’t wait for all of us to meet Gracie. She will be so very loved by her Cousin Lizzie!

I shake my head as a fresh round of tears falls. But then, a quick scroll reveals the rest of Cassie’s message: I love you so much, and I’m praying for you. Pray for me, Cassie. Please, pray for me.


Terry Sinclair boarded his private jet alongside his security team. He sat down and poured himself a glass of Domaine Leroy Les Beaux Monts. “Ahh,” he sighed, savoring a large sip of the wine. “Where to now?” His bodyguard Lance confirmed the itinerary. “Heading to Paris, then London. We’ll be there in less than two hours, sir.” “Great, I can get some sleep,” Terry yawned and rubbed his hands over his neatly combed, auburn hair. His young face was handsomely impassive as he stared blankly out the window at Berlin’s twinkling lights. A small amount of stubble grazed his upper lip and chin. After take-off, Terry went to his bedroom on the plane, and passed out in his fine suit on the plush duvet.

*** Landing in Paris was somewhat of an issue. Terry needed to be in a meeting in less than 20 minutes. He exhaled deeply, why was landing a private jet always such a hassle? He told his PA, Sarah, to pay the hanger an extra few thousand to land immediately. He looked through the window as he sipped his wine. They were scrambling to remove a plane from the landing strip below. “Come on, Sarah! I won’t be late for this meeting, tell them to get a move on!” He shouted from his seat. “Of course, sir.” Sarah frantically dialed on her mobile and shouted at someone. After five more minutes, the plane below was moved off to the side, and Sarah announced they were clear to land.

*** After another lengthy meeting in London, Terry double—no, triple checked with Sarah that his itinerary was now open. She kept repeating “yes sir, yes sir,” bobbing her head like one of those silly figurines people stuck to their car dashboards. Terry wasn’t convinced. Just last month, he'd arrived at his mansion outside Toronto when he got a call saying he was supposed to be in Sante Fe that night! He couldn’t believe Sarah had botched his schedule so badly. He’d almost fired her. But sadly, it was hard to find good PAs.

Terry spent almost the whole flight home on the phone. Business calls assaulted him for hours, until finally, Sarah announced they were done for the day. “Great, I’m going to sleep. What time will it be when we get home?” Terry asked the nervous-looking PA. “Um, 3 pm sir. But Mr. Sinclair, sir… Laurel is trying to get hold of you.” “Can’t it wait till we’re there?” Terry groaned. “Well, we did say we’d call her on the way home.” “Fine, dial her,” Terry grumbled. The last thing he wanted was an irritating woman in his ear, but he couldn't really avoid it. Between Sarah and Laurel, he was never going to get a quiet moment. Sarah handed Terry the mobile, “Hey baby, yes I’m on my way home now. We’ll be there around 3 pm. Everything’s fine, I want to sleep before I get there. Okay, yep. Bye-bye.” *** Terry arrived at the country mansion at 6 pm. He immediately went to the kitchen and fixed himself a drink. His mobile was ringing. Damn Laurel, he thought, irritated. “Are you home yet, honey?” his girlfriend asked when he picked up the phone. “Hi, yes, I just got in the door.” “Oh! Okay… you said three, so I was going to surprise you, but no one answered the gate.” “Yeah, you know what.... I'm beat. Can we just cancel today and I’ll call you tomorrow?” “Oh! Yes, of course… I understand…” Laurel’s voice trailed off. He could tell she was disappointed.

“Look, y’know I want to see you. But I’m so jet-lagged, I need some time to myself.” “Okay… but you’ll call tomorrow, right?” “Yep.” *** Laurel sat in her tiny apartment in Burlington, scrolling through Netflix on the TV. She understood Terry had been travelling a lot lately, and really, she did feel for him. He must be exhausted, with all the commuting and meetings. She couldn’t understand why he had to be there in person so often. Didn’t they invent video conferences for a reason? She opened her computer and googled the distances Terry had travelled the past week, out of curiosity. Laurel didn’t understand anything about the corporate world, so she tried not to question things. Who knew why he had to be there in person so often, but he did, and she had to deal with it. Truly, she tried to be understanding. She wouldn't be aggravated now if he hadn’t cancelled the last ten plans they’d made together. Ten. In a row! Although, with Terry being a CEO, cancelled plans were inevitable. Things came up, she understood. But how was she supposed to have a relationship with a man, if he couldn’t even keep one appointment with her? She hadn’t seen him in-person for about three months… and now he was home—a mere 30 minute drive away, and he didn’t want to see her… Tears threatened to sting at her eyes. She decided maybe a new lingerie would be a nice surprise for Terry, so she grabbed her purse and headed for the mall. Two days later…

Laurel was crying. She sat in her empty apartment, her dark hair done up in curls. She was wearing a pretty, red bodycon dress, which complimented her curvy figure. Her mascara and eyeshadow were smudged, and she kept dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, vainly trying to preserve the rest of her makeup. Her apartment was neat and tidy, apart from the shopping bags piled in a corner. A large lacy bra, a Gucci clutch, and some elegant clothes spilled onto the floor. Laurel dabbed at her eyes again, picked up her cell, and texted: Terry, are you still busy? i’m off work today i could drop by now?? haven’t seen you in months, baby i miss you! 😘 Four hours later, Terry texted back: Sorry babe come over now if you want!

“Now?!” Laurel screeched. She was in the middle of making pasta for her lunch tomorrow, and she had to be up at 6 am the next morning for work.

Laurel bit her lip and texted: Ok! be right there. She then rapidly turned off the stove, placed her half-cooked pasta in the fridge, fixed her makeup, and threw on her new lingerie and the red dress she’d been wearing earlier. She was getting good at getting ready fast.

*** Terry got the text from Laurel as he came out of the shower. Awesome, Laurel was coming over! He would convince her to spend the night. He knew she typically didn’t stay up late because of her ridiculously early shifts at the café, but she could call in sick if she had to. Terry ruffled his hair with a towel, threw on a t-shirt and shorts, then waited for Laurel in his massive living room. He put on YouTube and set a bottle of whiskey on the table. Hey, why not do shots once Laurel gets here? Terry opened the bottle of 18 year Macallan Scotch and set out glasses and ice.

Not long after her text, Terry got a call from his front gate. He buzzed Laurel through and, slightly tipsy, opened the door. She came in looking like she was ready for the club, and threw her arms around him.

“It’s so good to see you, finally,” she gushed. “Yeah, sorry, but… y'know, I have business in town to deal with too,” Terry replied. Finally? It hadn’t been that long since he’d seen her, had it? “Your hair is longer,” he commented. “Well, it’s been three months,” she replied.

“Really? Well, hey—time flies, let’s drink.”

“I have to work tomorrow morning, I can’t drink.” “Oh, c’mon,” Terry teased and wheedled until she took one shot with him. One shot led to a couple more, which led to the bedroom.

After a while, they stumbled back downstairs and put on a movie. Laurel was in a silk nightgown and Terry in his boxers. After a few minutes, their conversation began to turn a little sour. It started with Laurel asking when they could spend more time together, which irked Terry.

“Laurel, I’m spending as much time with you as I possibly can,” he said, a little aggressively.

“Okay, I understand, I do. But… the thing is you say one thing and then you do another… or another thing happens. Like, you didn’t call or text me for two days after you got back! What am I supposed to think?” Laurel stated, trying not to get upset. “You’re supposed to think I’m busy and I’ll call when I can .” “Okay, okay! But, don’t get mad—” “I’m not mad, you’re mad for things that aren’t my fault!” Terry shouted. At some point he'd stood up. Laurel stayed seated on the couch and nodded, “No, no. Just… you say I’m your girlfriend, and you say you want a committed relationship with me—but you also say we’re going out this night or meeting at this time… then you never show up! Half the time you stand me up and you don’t even call to explain!” Terry grabbed the whiskey and poured himself more than a shot’s worth. He downed it and looked at her, “You have no idea the kind of pressure I’m under. I don’t need you giving me crap.” He walked out through the sliding door onto the deck.

Laurel followed him and noticed he’d taken the bottle of whiskey along. “Hang on! I’m not giving you crap. I’m just saying maybe there are things we need to work on, especially if we want this relationship to continue.” “So you’re not happy?” Terry countered, sitting on a patio chair. “Not happy spending my money? Not happy with the clothes, the makeup… I can see every shop you go to, y’know. It’s all there on the credit card bill.” “What?” Laurel said, taken aback. Terry had never raised this as an issue before. “I— Terry, if you don’t want me to use the credit card, I won’t! I don’t use it for food or bills… I pay those myself, I—” He cut her off, “That’s what it’s about, eh?” He chuckled. “You want me to pay your rent? I will, I’ll pay for everything. You don’t have to work at that stupid coffee shop anymore…” “It’s a book café, not a coffee shop! And I like working there! I don’t want to quit. Why does my job mean nothing to you?” Terry laughed, “Because it’s a frickin’ joke!” Laurel started to cry… why was he being such an asshole? She tried to calm herself and wipe her tears, as Terry took another swig from his whiskey bottle.

“Look, Laurel,” Terry stated, “If you’re not happy, buy another purse, or y’know what? Another one of those lingerie things like you wore tonight. Buy whatever you want, okay? I don’t care, I’ll pay your rent—or you can live here. Whatever will make you happy…” And how could she argue with that? Terry thought smugly, as he lit up a smoke. He tried to stand, but was a little wobbly, so he sat again. When he looked back up at her face, Laurel seemed angry, hurt, sad… anything but happy.

“ What is your problem?!” Terry said, or maybe he shouted it. He didn’t mean to shout. But this was frustrating, damn it. He offered to provide for her, offered as much time as he had for her… he was stretched thin as it was. What more did she expect from him? “You… you jerk,” Laurel whispered.

“Sorry, what?” Terry asked. Then suddenly, Laurel erupted with tears and angry words, “You jerk! I don’t want you money, I don’t want you to pay my bills, I don’t want to quit my job! Why are you treating me like I’m some kind of gold digger? I didn’t ask you for anything. You offered me the credit card, and I only use it to buy clothes and stuff, to look good for you! Asshole !” “Jesus, Laurel, I didn’t mean it like that… what do you want then?” “You! I just want to spend time with you… I want a relationship. I want to do things together, and not be stood up for months on end with lame excuses!” “Excuses!” Terry stood now and shouted back. “I’m working! I’m not screwing around or cheating if that’s what you think… like I’d have time even if I wanted to!” “No, I never thought that! But why did you make a commitment to me, why do you promise me things if you know you can’t deliver?” “Promise you things?” Terry was confused. Did she want an engagement ring or something? “Whatever you want, just buy it. I don’t care, you can have whatever you want —” “I’m not talking about material things, Terry! Damn it, you missed my birthday, you stood me up dozens and dozens of times— I’ve lost count! If you won’t make time for this relationship, then why did you commit to it? Why promise you’ll be there for me… when I need you, I can’t even get a hold of your PA!” “I’m busy—” “I’m sick of waiting around, being understanding, and never having any support from you. Can’t we at least talk about changing things? That’s all I’m asking.” Laurel began to calm down. These thoughts had been silently consuming her for months. It felt good to let it out.

But Terry, who found this conundrum more difficult to solve than his itinerary, business meetings, or his private jet maintenance, was done being patient with the situation.

“You know what Laurel,” he said coldly, “Get your things. Lance will drive you home now.” *** Several days after things went south with Laurel, Terry remembered something important. He sat on a stool at the marble counter of his home bar, staring at a paper bill in his hand. He’d registered the MasterCard he gave Laurel under her name. It was to help build her credit score, it was under her social insurance number…

Knowing full well that she couldn’t pay off the bill, he sent a text to Sarah: Send the Platinum MasterCard bill to Laurel.

He received a text back immediately: Are you sure? I thought we promised to pay it each month? Terry stared at the word that both Sarah and Laurel had used: promised . Laurel’s voice echoed in his mind for the hundredth time. Why do you promise me things if you know you can’t deliver…

With a rush of anger and spite, he texted his PA back: it’s under her name, it’s her bill i’m not paying it. SEND IT. Three dots indicated Sarah was typing. The dots stopped. After a minute, the dots were back, and Sarah’s response appeared: Of course, Mr. Sinclair.


A stranger comes up to me on the subway. “Hey, your watch is pretty sick, do you mind if I ask you a quick question?

 “ Yeah, sure I don’t mind.”, I said. “ Should I go to my office Christmas party?  Well, for years I’ve worked at M&M publishers. My coworkers are nice and I get along with them, but it’s never been like how it was at my old office. I used to work at a different publishing company, Ross Publishers, but they didn’t make enough to pay bills and work efficiently, so I got laid off. It was the best there, I loved everyone, and I knew them from when I went to school. We're like a big family, or I should be saying, we were like a big family. One of my friends suggested that I send my resume to this new company that was supposed to be promising, So I did, and here we are. Trust me, I'm glad I got the job, but it’s just not the same. It’s about that time again, the holiday season. I normally don’t like this time of the year because the whole office, no, the whole building goes all out. I hate it, not because I don’t like Christmas because trust me, I love Christmas, the games, food, and gifts. I love it all. It’s just, we did that at my old job and I already think about it and miss it on a regular basis, so seeing all of the Christmas cheer and spirit, it just makes me miss it even more. I never go to parties or participate in Secret Santa or White Elephant or whatever they do. I just can’t bring myself to do it. Usually I go home, pop some delicious popcorn, and put on Home Alone or something. But the problem is I always find myself going on Instagram and seeing all the pictures and fun my coworkers are having at the party, and it makes me feel alone a lot of the time. I would like to go but I don’t want to accidentally forget my old company and the fun we had. I’d feel like I would be betraying them. It’s almost December first and I'm dreading the decorations and activities because it’ll be November 30th and the next day it’ll look like the north pole exploded all over the place.  It’s November 28th and I’m going home from work and all of the traffic that’s coming back from Thanksgiving is brutal. It’s bumper to bumper out here. The road rage is scary and the language is even worse. I'm just minding my own business because frankly I don't want to be involved in the mess. Finally red turns to green and I let out a sigh of relief because I'm almost home. I start to go and I hear a sound, it sounds like screeching. I look over and a car rams into my car. Suddenly my life flashes before my eyes, I know it sounds corny and like every book or movie you’ve ever seen. But it really did happen to me. The crazy thing is though, I didn’t see much. All I saw was me sort of dreading getting up and going to work every morning, and going to the job that isn’t the same as my old one. After my flashback I heard sirens and saw my airbags went off. I mostly forgot what happened and I saw someone coming to my window. Turns out the guy who hit me didn’t do anything wrong, somehow, someway, both lights turned green at the same time. Those sort of things never happen, but it did. I had to stay the night at the hospital because they wanted to check on me, but I was fine. A couple days later I went back to work and I overheard my coworkers talking about the Christmas party. I kind of feel a little left out because I know I'm not going to go. Weeks pass and it's December 20th, the night of the party. They’re talking about the party and what they're going to wear and gifts and all. It’s getting sort of annoying since it's all they ever talk about. I get off work and the party starts at 8 but like I said I'm not going so it doesn't matter. Once I get home I put on Home Alone, I have to start early so I can also watch Home Alone 2 before I fall asleep like every year when I watch the movie. It’s like 7:00pm or maybe 7:30pm and I hear a knock on my door. I open it and I see that it's Grace, my office partner. We live in the same apartment complex. She starts to ask me if I’m going to the party. Obviously I’m not, and I tell her that, but she's one of those “ I don’t take no for an answer” kind of people.

She said “ yes you are, because you have to.”  “ What?”, I said.

“ I never go, and I’m not going this year either.”  “ I already told them we were coming together”, she said.  “ Well that’s too bad, looks like you’re going alone.”

“That’s it, I’m done, I’m doing this anymore, this sad depressing act needs to stop.”

“ I’m sorry, what did you say?” “ No, you heard me, if you don’t put yourself out there again, you will never get through the past.” I want to argue with her so badly, say she’s completely wrong, but I can’t, she’s right.

“ Who made you the boss of my life?” “ Oh stop it, we both know this needs to end, just put some festive clothing on and meet me back here.” Honestly she’s scary when she means business so I do what she tells me to do. Mostly because I thought of my crash and how it left me feeling worthless, maybe this stupid party might be my saving grace. I found this sweater with reindeer on it and it says, “ Don’t give two bucks!”, and blurred out paws like he was giving the finger, well two I guess. “ Does this work?”, I said.

“ Sure, that works, now let's go, we don’t want to be late.” When we went there, I felt like a kid on the first day of school. You could tell on my face that I didn’t want to be there. We walk in and everyone just stops what they’re doing and just looks at me. I hate it when people do that. I swear you could hear a pin drop. The silence got too much that Grace said something to break the awkward silence. “ I brought drinks!” I didn’t know how to feel but it didn’t matter because everyone started to cheer and went back to what they were doing. When I think of a party I think of everyone doing their thing and then me just by myself on the couch or something. But within seconds of me getting there, five people called my name to come join them in hangman, drinking, and cornhole. At the moment cornhole sounds like a lot of fun, so I went with Riley, James, and Rachel at cornhole. We talked about all kinds of stuff and really got to know each other. Like James, he has 3 kids and 2 dogs, and then Riley, he likes to ski and play basketball in his free time. Lastly Rachel likes puzzles and singing. She even won awards for it! It was really nice and James and I ended up winning which was relieving because it was like a conversation starter. “ Hey guys, how are you doing, good, that's good. How am I? Well I just won cornhole so I’m doing great!” It was perfect. I ended up getting some drinks and playing a couple more games and I asked someone what time it was and they said “10:30pm”.

“ 10:30pm! Wow I guess time does fly by when you're having a good time!” I got like ten compliments on my sweater and get this, my smile too. Yeah, people said they’ve never seen it before and it was really charming. I’ve never felt so good before. To end out the night we did some Secret Santa, I didn’t participate because they picked names a week ago, but it was fun watching. We were getting ready to leave then my coworker Charline comes up to me and gives me something, it was a watch, I guess her Secret Santa was someone who thought a watch would be a great gift. She said to look closer, it had engraved inside, “ you are so loved”. She said she wanted to give it to me, I said, “ why? Isn’t it your gift?” “ Yeah but I want you to have it because you are so loved, because we love you!” I never cry, I mean never, but let me tell you, December 20th, 11:48pm, I cried. Maybe from being overwhelmed with emotion, or maybe from the onions in the dinner we had but either way, I cried. Grace gave me a ride home, since my car was still messed up from the crash, but before she walked to her apartment, I gave her a hug. I simply said, “ thank you, you really were my saving grace.” She said, “ no, thank you, you made so many people happy tonight!” I went to bed that night so good and relieved and I finally felt the click. The same click I had at my old job, the click that tells me I finally belong. I felt whole again, and it's been awhile. “ So does that answer your question?”, I said. “ Um, actually I think it did.”, he said. “Yes, I think you should go to your Christmas Party, it changed my life in so many different ways, for the better.” I said

“ Thanks man, I was really unsure about going but with your story, and your help, I’ve made my decision, I’m going to go.” “ It’s kind of funny because I’m going to my party for the 7th year in a row. Every year it’s as fun seven years ago, wow I’ve changed. If it wasn't for the party, or Grace, Charline, or even cornhole with James, I definitely wouldn’t be here, the man that I am today.


The rhythmic thumping of heels on the pavement is descending upon me at an accelerated rate. As the tapping sound escalates, the rapid echo of my pulse reverberates with a thunderous boom in my ears.

At the thought of being followed, my hands grow clammy while I struggle to keep a steady breath. Picking up my pace, too terrified to sneak a glimpse over my shoulder, I opt for crossing the street with as much casualty as I can muster given my wobbly knees.

The footsteps fade as if retracting in the distance, flooding my bloodstream with sheer relief as the adrenaline begins to recede. I release a shaky sigh and sneer at my ridiculous overreaction to this apparent false alarm. I have spent the last three days in attendance at an Interior Design trade show concluding with tonight’s award ceremony. I am silently berating myself for not choosing a hotel in closer proximity to the convention—being that there wasn’t a single taxi cab in sight and finding myself having to trek the twelve blocks back, in an unfamiliar city, at night, no less.

Not that I was afforded much time to prepare. Expletives towards my co-worker, Jan, are swirling through my gray matter on an incessant loop since I wasn’t even supposed to be here to begin with. She had had a last-minute change of heart about attending (specifically a spontaneous jet-setting invitation to Mexico) and true to form, used her flirtatious relationship with our boss to her advantage, squirming her way out of her obligations without consequence.

Queen manipulator that she is, she convinced Mike—whom she calls Magic Mike , further fanning the flames of his ego—to assign me to go in her place, making it feel as if a bounty had been put on my head.

Never mind that I, myself, had had plans for my only niece’s first birthday party. Now I am left with visions of pink balloons evaporating into thin air like a distant memory. And never mind that I had a hot date to boot (which in my world is as rare as a bona fide live Unicorn, rainbows, glitter, and all).

For starters, I’m much too dedicated to my career as an interior designer for luxury homes. Coupled with the fact that, as much as I despise admitting it, I have a propensity of being categorically socially awkward when it comes to half of the human race—particularly the opposing gender.

Therefore, it’s safe to say my dating life is practically non-existent. To miss out not only on a date but a hot one at that, is getting my Irish up. Declaring that I am miffed about the sudden turn of events would be a gross understatement. The under-exaggeration of the decade, quite frankly. Feeling silly for having crossed the street in an attempt to ditch my imagined stalker, along with regaining a sense of safety (my spewing disdainful thoughts towards Jan and Mike excluded), I make my way back to the opposite sidewalk.

Immediately, the same click-clack of fine Italian leather soles on the concrete returns sending prickling chills up my spine. Out of primal instinct, I spin around so fast to confront whoever is tailing me that I nearly lose my balance.

Fear is now replaced by a palpable anger thick as mud. An eerie sensation mixed with the fragrant aromas of nearby restaurants, the fumes of car exhausts, and the stench of alleyway dumpsters hijack every cell of my being. I’m frozen in place of the lack of comprehension that not a soul is remotely to be spotted behind me. I tense in confusion because my intuition keeps flashing its warning lights from the deepest well of my gut. My attempts at shaking this off and chalking it up to the last few exhausting days bustling from vendor to vendor are obliterated as a man dressed all in black steps out from behind a lamp post. My heart lurches back into overdrive. “Miss, pardon me for startling you,” his tone is warm and matches his charming demeanor.

From the flickering, buzzing light above, I’m able to discern his handsome features. He begins to take a step forward, however, upon observing my unease, remains rooted in place. He extends his hand slowly, “You dropped this back at the conference hall.” he says, producing a kind smile. In his open palm lies my business card wallet that I could swear I had slipped into my pocket, leaving the venue. My hand impulsively shoots up to pat the empty side of my trench coat. On closer inspection, I notice his all-black attire—slacks, buttoned, collared shirt, vest, and tie—is the same uniform as the catering professionals working the award gala. Suddenly, the memory of taking a mini quiche hors d’oeuvre off his tray earlier in the evening hits me, quieting the distrust and assuaging my nerves. “I don’t understand how I could have dropped that. You wouldn’t believe how lost I would be without it. Truly, thank you.” I manage to force out the words that had been lodged in my throat, yet my voice is breathless and low, registering barely above a whisper.

Reaching to retrieve the wallet, I let out a small light hearted laugh. His reaction is to flash me a nonchalant smirk as bright as a thousand-watt neon sign, the effect further settles my jitters. “This may sound foolish but I thought I was being followed. Then I started to ponder if I was merely overcome by a case of paranoia. I apologize for being so jumpy.” I offer, not knowing what else to say in this bizarre situation. “It was my fault, I should have called out. My intention wasn’t to scare you.” With his hands in his pockets, his eyes glance down to his feet in a sheepish manner.

He seems almost embarrassed to have inflicted fear upon me. He looks up with a dimpled grin and with slight hesitation, generating the effect of innocence, and offers to walk me the rest of my route. After a tiny beat, I accept, being that I don’t sense the smallest inclination of menace exuding from him. The walk back to the nearest corner of my hotel whirls by in a flash with easy small talk exchanged between us. I feel like I’m in a daze as if my body has turned liquid or is gliding under the surface of water. I figure it’s probably from the rush of emotions and the spike of epinephrine swimming in my veins, all in just the last half hour.

As we arrive, a small voice chastises me for allowing him to escort me. I hush the voice, reminding it that this guy is harmless. “Well, this is me. Thank you again for chasing after me to return my wallet. And for accompanying me back.”

“Without being too direct, would you care to continue our conversation over a nightcap?” He ventures shyly. “As much as I would love to, I am spent and have an early flight in the morning. Potential raincheck for the next time I’m in town?”

His composure begins to change, he hardens in a way so imperceivable that it could easily be missed. His smoldering gaze darkens right before my eyes as he pulls something shiny from his pocket. I figure it’s his cell phone, wanting to exchange numbers.

As he stammers insidiously that he had hoped for a different outcome, I realize too late that he is holding a taser gun. Everything fades to black and my last thought is Fucking Jan, I hope Mexico was worth it.


White and Gold Hi Greg, Can you hear me? Good. Take it easy, big guy. You’ll be able to move again when I leave your mind. I have chosen you because you’re exemplary. That’s not a compliment. Perhaps, if you can change...forget it. I feel like sharing. Look at me. Let’s start with the dress. The dress. It was meant to be funny. Which, objectively, it was. I’d been away. I’d popped off down the spheres to hear the sound a forgotten promise makes when it passes through the heart of a living star at the speed of rage. There was a symposium afterwards. I come back, and all you mayfly ingrates have forgotten my name, even though I left it right there . So, I played a little trick. Incidentally, Greg, as your friend and honest broker of chaos, I must warn you: after any time spent in my company, it’s wise to check your wallet. To test your bones for marrow and run your mind over that cheap bridal train you call a past for any remaining memories of summer. Give me your attention and I’ll take everything else. I digress. My trick. The dress, Greg. Pay attention. The dress that was blue and black. The dress that was white and gold. Remember? Pandemonium! Delicious, delightful, pathetic, humanity to the hilt. I particularly adored the articles that it extracted from otherwise competent scientists. “It’s...well...the light receptors in your eyes…” It was sweet in a way. To be clear: it was magic. Cheap magic, if we’re being honest. I was pretty spent after my expedition and thought my clearest path back to power lay through virality. When you’re right, you’re right. Which is how you and I met, Greg! In the same living room where your Grandpa Heinrich died seven years before, in the middle of Super Bowl XL while the paramedics worked with the TV still on and not-quite-muted. Go Steelers. You were with Shanna then, your last girlfriend, looking over her shoulder at a picture on her laptop that told you either not to trust your eyes, or not to trust the person you slept beside every night. You laughed but you were scared. The two of you argued about something that should have been obvious and knowable. You started out on opposite sides, but by the end you were both black and blue. Sweet consensus.

Eventually, you all just accepted it, forgot about it. You looked at a picture and saw a different dress than your spouse, than half your friends, sometimes than yourself twenty minutes later and still you accepted an explanation that you didn’t understand. The world is no longer comfortable with obvious truths. I meant it all gently enough. Gods do not feel remorse. Let's dispense with that notion before it makes a full circuit of your meaty brain. If we allowed ourselves that indulgence, we would do nothing at all and we’re supposed to be the heroes of the deistic fan fiction that 3/4 of you build your lives around. Price of power.

So it’s disconcerting to feel the ghost of regret sneaking in on the tail of the tidal rush of untrammeled power that fills me each day with holy potency and alchemical fire. Unlike many of my peers, I was a man once, or a boy at least. We all change as we must. There aren’t that many gods left, you know. Not locals, anyway—most have sought greener pastures. Nevertheless, one would have thought the internet strip-mined for power ages ago. Certainly there are some auto-heirophantic God-Head-Zillas lurking in plain sight, tucked away in the corners of The New Town Square. You should see the Goddess of pornography, for example. I mean, you have, everyone has, you freak, but her true face. It isn’t actually varied at all once you know her and we go way back. She has scales now, and she scares me a bit, but she’s up for anything. Anyway, enough about her, let's talk about me. It turns out there’s some digital real estate left and by lucky instinct, I cornered a lucrative market with my little sartorial gaslight. The potential was already there, rumbling under your discourse, thriving in your isolation. All it took was my innocuous joke. As the pebble to the avalanche, once the earth beneath you started shifting it began to erode your very belief in a shared reality. Certainly, by the time events truly escalated, you were alone. Living in an empty house stacked to the rafters with memories. Walking the same beetle-brown carpet you crawled on as a child. The world a mass of nebulous threats, family passed, love abandoned as just another scheme. You were alone with your truth. It was the work of the barest whispering spirit to make some of you, enough of you, believe and spread anything the right stranger would tell you. Because it meant you weren’t alone anymore. No holy warrior is. I am Edison. You do the work but I own the patent. I am the truth-monger. “InCelibacy! Pax Anti-Vaccination! QAnonymity! Step right up!” Such was always the business of Gods.

I am become legion.

It’s intoxicating. I accept your harrowing as so much passive income. Draped across an electric nervous system of paranoia, resentment, and ferocious need, I lay back, gorge myself, become gravid with bile and purge that shit right back onto the wire.

You’re mine, bitch.

I mean, where are you going to go?

Yet now, on the precipice of some second ascension, I feel that something is amiss. You have splintered yourselves and the edges...are sharp . I was never a blood god. Not that I’m prejudiced, some of my best friends are blood gods. HAHAHA.

There’s this moment of calm before...The Storm.

Get it? I was only ever trying to tell a joke . It’s just… Help. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Once, when I was very small and clothed in flesh, I had a doll. It was like me and I loved it. I held it to the fire, only to see what would happen. Afterwards, I was inconsolable but my father held me and let me weep. You could leave it behind. I told you the truth, Greg, what remains of it. I had to tell someone.

It hurt the first time. The old priests tricked me, and it hurt. I persevered, they got what they asked for. Apotheosis isn’t for cowards. This, on the other hand, feels so good I may never stop screaming. Ah, well. Look at me. Calm down. Fuck your feelings.

LOOK AT ME,


A dusty, faded black & white photograph of a teenaged girl holding a baby, tightly swaddled, with the upper right corner bent falls from an old family bible that was buried beneath newspapers in the attic for decades. Irene wistfully picks up the photograph and runs her thumb across the girl’s face with her forced smile, eyes squinting against the sun, wiping away the dust. She rubs the photo on her pants leg to clean it off. The old woman looks at herself looking back at her through time. A moment not forgotten but buried deep within her mind. She flips over the photo to read the writing on the back, ‘Irene and Ella Norris, 1960.’ Ella was Irene’s first and only child, born to her out of wedlock at a time when such things were taboo. She was only seventeen. Irene was young and in love with a boy her parents disapproved of named Billy Winston. To Irene, he dripped cool with his slicked back hair, leather jacket, and cherry red ’57 Chevy convertible that he worked to pay for himself. He was nineteen and she was a sixteen-year-old who had a thing for the bad boys despite her good-girl appearance. She was rebellious and had a spirit for adventure, something that didn’t sit well with her father, but Billy found attractive. The two teens were inseparable. Billy was exciting and treated her like a woman, opposed to her parents who were dull and treated her like a child. Irene loved the thrill of the drag races that Billy participated in. She loved the celebrations that followed even more, quite often stumbling in late at night drunk and reeking of smoke. She fought constantly with her parents who felt she was setting a poor example for her younger siblings. Punishments never worked until her father nailed her window shut. That led to Irene agreeing to move out west where Billy had a cousin who would take them in until they got on their feet. Billy picked her up from school one day and they hit the highway leaving St. Louis in the rearview mirror. Irene smiles as she recalls how free she felt when she stood up in the topless car, her hair blowing in the wind, and howled like a wolf as they sped down the road. They had a cooler full of beer, a carton of cigarettes, and each other. The radio blasted a song she can’t remember, but she remembers how her father’s voice echoed through her head, “You’re wasting your life on that boy.” At that moment she felt like she was just beginning to live. Irene scans the attic, her eyes settling on a dirty old trunk hidden under a mountain of filthy boxes. It strained her old bones to maneuver the boxes around enough to get to the chest, but she desperately wanted what was in that trunk. She clears away the boxes and opens the trunk. Inside, folded nicely, is the onesie Ella wore home from the hospital. Next to it was the stuffed pink lamb that Ella slept with every night. They were placed on top of a shoe box that contains random trinkets that she sits aside to go through later. At the bottom of the trunk is a tattered-looking scrapbook. She shuts the trunk and has a seat, opening the scrapbook to the first page which is a picture of her and Billy leaning on his car right after he bought it. She runs a finger over Billy’s image and says, “You always did like the bad ones.” She flips the page and continues to reminisce about a time in her life she wishes she could go back to. As the sun was getting low, Billy pulled over in Springfield looking for a drag race for some extra cash. He didn’t find word of anything, but people were talking about a cave where the farmers gathered to see the local boys perform country music concerts. Country music wasn’t their music, but a concert in a cave was something they wanted to see. Irene reminisces over the evening, remembering how huge a cavern that cave was. It fit an entire stage inside, well lit, surrounded by stalactites and stalagmites. It was cool inside, so she wore Billy’s jacket like she did most evenings. When the music started, they were taken aback by the whooping and hollering that followed. Men and women began to dance. A nice woman led Billy out to dance where he was polite enough to kick up some dust. The lady’s husband politely extended his hand, inviting her to do the same. She and Billy were reunited for a slow song. She couldn’t help but notice how he looked at her that night. It was like he’d been digging for gold his whole life and found diamonds instead. After everyone left, they curled up in the back seat of the car with the top down and fell asleep under the stars. That was the best night’s sleep Irene ever remembers having. The next day they stopped at a little diner in Oklahoma. The diner had tourist brochures as they walked in. Irene picked one up. Flipping through it she found a park with a seventy-seven-foot waterfall where visitors could swim, hike, and explore more caves. She pleaded with Billy, being as cute and flirtatious as she could be, saying she’s never seen a waterfall. The park was well out of their way. She had to use all her girlish charm to chisel away at Billy’s male bravado, but she broke through, and he promised to take her swimming. When they arrived, it was more crowded than Irene expected, being a popular swim hole for the locals, but it made her day not only to see the waterfall, but to swim over to it and feel its mist in her face. Irene smiles back at the moment, thinking about how happy they were, splashing at each other, dunking one another, wrestling, and kissing. They dried themselves off by sunning themselves on the beach before hiking back to another cave where they climbed rocks and listened to their echoes. That night they returned when the park was closed to bathe each other’s naked bodies beneath the falls. They made love on the beach that night, falling asleep. A park ranger ran them off in the morning. In Texas, they pulled over to camp at a state park that bordered a canyon with cliffs over eight hundred feet high. They frolicked down the trail to the bottom of the canyon where Billy used a rock to etch the initial BW + IB (for Irene Baker) into the side of the canyon wall. Irene shakes her head as she recollects no frolicking on the way back up. It was a steep climb, and they were both hot, sweaty, and thirsty. It was the first time in their relationship where neither one wanted to touch the other. Looking back on it now, that heat could have killed them. They were lucky. She grins at the memory of Billy sticking his head under the spicket at their campsite, his dark hair spilling down on over his face, sweat glistening over his finely toned pecs and abs. When they went up to the shower house, Irene remembers sneaking around to the men’s shower and surprising her boyfriend. The water was cold and refreshing, but the water was the only thing cold in that stall as she recalls. Billy found plenty of street racing in Albuquerque. He put them up in a motel room that had a pool out front for three nights. Irene liked seeing him doing what he loved most, and he brought in good money each night. They would party with the locals until the wee hours of the morning, sleep in until lunch, walk over to the adjoining diner for a bite to eat, then lounge around the pool until it was time to race again. Irene remembers talking to Billy, telling him how much she liked the people in Albuquerque, how she liked the life they were living. That’s when he said it was time to go, that she would love San Diego all the more. Billy dreamt of sun and surf and the dessert only offered one of those things. He promised her sincerely that he would make her the happiest woman in the world once they got there. Irene had no doubts. With the extra money Billy made racing, he wanted to take a major detour. Being one-fourth Cherokee, Billy had always had a fascination with Native American history and culture. There was one place he was dying to see and there was no way Irene was going to deny him the chance to see it: Cliff Palace. They shot their way north and, to Iren’s surprise, Billy let her drive. He had to give her a little lesson, but she caught on quickly and they got back on the highway in no time. Irene laughs at the memory of being nervous and excited, petrified when Billy covered her eyes. She gripped the wheel and tightened every muscle in her body to hold the car straight. There was nothing around, not even the gentlest curve. It gave her a bit of a rush, but she let Billy have it anyway. When they reached Cliff Palace, Billy’s machismo was swept away as a guide led them through a city built into the side of a cliff by the Pueblos centuries ago. In its place Irene saw a boyish enthusiasm that she had never seen in Billy Winston before. Upon seeing it, she knew in that moment, that he was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Billy drove through the night, making it to Pheonix. They checked into another motel. Irene swam while Billy slept, then they went looking for races. They stayed a couple nights, pulling in cash and partying before driving straight in to San Diego. Billy was right. Irene loved San Diego. She thinks back on some of the friends she made while living there, the restaurant where Billy cooked and she served, their little apartment downtown that was a quick drive to the beach where they learned to surf as she flips through the pages of her scrapbook. It was life lived to the fullest, even if she did have to quit drinking and smoking because of the baby she was carrying. They had only been there a month when she started feeling sick all the time. It was a couple more weeks when it dawned on her she was late, really late. Billy took her to the doctor, and it was made official. She was six weeks pregnant. Irene continued to work for several months, but by month seven, eight hours a day on her feet was too much and she had to quit. Billy went back to racing for extra money to compensate for the loss of income. It wasn’t as much as Irene pulled in on tips every week, but it helped them scrape by. Even though Irene was swollen, sore, and tired, she went to every race to cheer Billy on. When they lined up, she would kiss him for good luck. It had never failed. On this particular night, she didn’t. Billy brought a lawn chair for her to sit in and she didn’t feel like getting up and waddling over there. She listened as the boys revved their engines and watched as a friend of hers dropped her arms, signaling the boys to go. Tires screeched with the smell of burnt rubber. Billy pulled into the lead and a loud bang, like gunfire, was heard. Billy lost control of his car due to a flat tire. He swerved into his opponent's lane. When his opponent hit him, he sent Billy rolling. When the Chevy came to a stop it went up in flames. Fear consumed Irene as she sprang from her chair crying out her boyfriend's name. She ran as fast as she could, a mob of spectators streaking past her. She could see people trying to get to Billy as he screamed in agony, but the fire was too hot. When the screaming stopped, Irene dropped to her knees and wailed in inconsolable grief. Her friends had to help her to their car and take her home. Irene didn’t know what to do after Billy’s death. She laid in bed a lot. Sometimes she slept. Sometimes she ate. She watched as bills piled up with no way to pay them. She hit a low so low that she picked up the phone and called her mom. Her parents refused to help in any way and demanded she come home; that they would drive out there and take her home. Feeling that she had no other choice, she agreed. Irene flips the page and can’t stop the tears from coming. There, looking back at her are the big blue eyes of Ella in an 8x10 photo that was taken in the hospital. She remembers how tiny she was, just six-pounds two-ounces. The bonding experience of breast feeding her child was more than just a memory, it was an instinct gone dormant that tingled its way back to life at the sight of her child. For a month she cared for and protected that baby, watching her grow so fast. She played with her, fed her, bathed her, slept with her. Ella was her entire life and her last remaining piece of the man she loved. Ella had her father’s eyes, and Irene felt that Billy lived on through her. Irene’s parents ignored the child. She tried to get them to interact with their grandchild, but she was always sent away. Instead, they complained about the noise, the cost, and what other people thought. They laid it out plainly, either Irene put the baby up for adoption or, since she was seventeen, they both leave with them immediately calling child services on her, putting Ella into foster care. Irene’s face flushes with anger at the memory of how smug her parents looked as they told her that giving up her baby will teach her to be more responsible in the future. She feels nauseous as she relives having to make a decision she didn’t want to make. She can see it as plain as if it were just yesterday; her, tightly holding her baby, rocking back and forth, crying, pleading with her parents not to do it to her. They were stone cold, unwavering in their decision to punish their daughter for her rebellious tryst halfway across the country, shaming them. Irene turns to the back page where four empty corner tabs are all that are there. She returns the picture that was taken in front of their home before her father took Ella to the adoption agency. She closes the scrapbook and returns everything else to the trunk, deciding she wants to keep the scrapbook at hand to remind her of a time when love and happiness were real. Her parent's actions left her hating them. She ran off with the first guy to come along just to be rid of them. He gaslighted her and abused her, causing three miscarriages. At first Irene thought she could fight back, but when the realization that she couldn’t sank in, she felt helpless and didn’t know where to go. She stayed with him until nineteen-eighty-two. With the help from a shelter for battered women, she was able to get out. She eventually found a job and a place of her own, but her trust in people had been destroyed. She made plenty of friends later in life that she calls family. She traveled and did things that she might not have done if she had remarried and tried to have kids again. At the end of the day Irene is a happy woman, but never as happy as she was with Billy or Ella.


Finding Mr. Evans Written by Jay Kappas Edited by Oliver Hagemann “Come on,” my best friend Charley shouts. “Let's go!” “I’m coming, I’m coming,” my other friend Matt yells. We were running as fast as we could to the tree house fort by the stream; the same stream where we found Mr. Evans. When we got to the tree house, we didn’t notice him. We ran to the rope ladder and climbed up. I grabbed my telescope and looked through it to see if anybody had followed us to The House. That was what we called our tree house fort. The House.

“Do you see anyone?” Matt asks. “Nothing,” I reply. “Wait, what’s that?” I say as I look at the stream with my telescope. “What is it?” Matt asks. I don’t know,” I say. “Let's check it out. Come on!”

We scramble out of The House, and run over to it. “It looks like a body!” I shout as I get close. Charley and Matt ran up. “It is a body!” Charley gasps. “But whose?” I ask. “How should I know?” Matt snaps. “Let’s flip it over to see who it is.” Charley suggests. “On the count of three.” I say as we grab the body. “One! Two! Three!” We flip it over and gasp as we see who it is.

“Mr. Evans?!” Charley gasps. Mr. Evans is, or rather was, the father of a girl in our class named Ava. “What’s his body doing here?” Matt asks. “The real question is who put his body here?” Charley says. “Murder by the looks of it. Single bullet to the back of the head. It looks like it’s from a Ranger 10/22. Dead within seconds.” I say. They stare at me. “What? I watch a lot of murder mysteries and true crime.” I reply defensively. “Okay, if you say so.” Matt says.

“What do we do now?” Charley asks. “Obviously, we tell the authorities.” Matt says. “No, we should try to solve this ourselves.” I say. “No way! We are not doing that!” Matt argues. “We are going to tell the authorities about this right now!” “Can we at least try?” I plead. “How about we give it a try and if we don’t find anything within three days, we’ll tell the authorities.” Charley interrupts, “I’d like to investigate. It’ll give us something to do. “Fine, three days.” Matt huffs. “But if we get in trouble, it's not my fault.”

Within two days, we found something. I was walking home with Matt, and we were crossing the street when a Ford pickup truck came roaring down the street, music blasting. When it saw us, it screeched to a halt. And who got out but Mr. King. Heavily tattooed, smoking and looking enraged, Mr. King was very intimidating. “What are you doing, crossing the street without looking!” He yelled. “Sorry sir.” Matt apologized. “You better be!” King shouted. As King turned to walk back to his truck, I noticed a bulge in his pocket. “Did you see that?” I asked Matt as soon as King was gone. “What, the fact that his tattoos look super ugly, or the fact that he’s slowly killing himself by smoking?” “Well, both of those are right, but what I’m talking about is the bulge in his pocket.” “A pistol.” Matt whispers. “Which means he’s a suspect.” I say.

By the end of the week, we had a list of 5 suspects. Abigail Ramirez hated Mr. Evans for accidentally hitting her with his car and never forgave him; her friend Mary White had a gun so Abigail could’ve borrowed it and say she was going hunting. Mr. King was a competing bait shop owner. And as you know, Mr. King has a pistol and probably a hunting rifle. Pete Lee, John Thompson, and Emma Young all thought he was rude and disliked him. All of them had at least a hunting rifle, and maybe a pistol.

When Matt, Charley, and I met up at The House, we went over the list of suspects. “I think it was Emma Young,” Charley said. “I mean, she’s always saying how much she dislikes Mr. Evans and she has a gun. “We should go to the authorities.” I say. “Yeah, we should. This isn’t our job.”

So we went to the sheriff’s office and told Officer Allen about Mr. Evan’s body and gave him our list of suspects. “This is some good work you’ve got here,” Officer Allen says. “But you should’ve told us as soon as you found the body.” “Yes, officer.” I say. “Now show me where the body is, and we’ll go there in my squad car.” Officer Allen says. When we got there, we all got out and walked toward the body and the stream where the body was found. Officer Allen looked at the body and whistled. “Well, you’re not wrong. This is definitely murder. I’ll call some backup to move the body. You stay away for a couple of hours while we check the scene and move the body. Okay?” “Got it.” Charley responded. “And be careful. The murderer could target you for figuring them out.” “Be careful.” “Okay.” I replied. The next day we came back and scoped out the area before we entered. Then, one at a time, we ran over to the rope ladder and climbed up as fast as we could. When all of us were up in The House, Matt took the telescope and scanned the surrounding area. “I don’t see anyone.” Matt says after a minute or two. “Wait! I think I see someone! They’re coming up! Quick! Ready the weapons!” “What weapons?” Charley asks, sounding confused. “Whatever weapons we have!” Matt says. We grabbed as many rocks as we could before Mr. King appeared holding a pistol!

“Put down the rocks, now!” barks Mr. King. “Okay! Relax.” I say as we slowly set down the rocks. “Now tell me how you figured it out.” Mr. King demands. “It was sort of easy.” Charley admits. “You have a gun, you both own competing bait shops, and Mr. Evans’s bait shop was making more money than your bait shop the last few months. Now, goodbye.” “What?” Mr. King asked, confused.

And at that second, Officer Allen appeared behind Mr. King, holding a gun of his own. “Put down your gun, please.” Officer Allen said as Mr. King slowly turned around. When Mr. King saw Officer Allen and his gun, he set his gun on the floor of The House. “Thank you.” Officer Allen said right before tasing him. ZZZZZZZZ! Mr. King dropped to the floor with a THUD!

“How did you know he was here?” Charley asked. “He was our main suspect, and we were following him. When we saw him coming here we knew it was him.” Officer Allen said before he pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt and knelt down to arrest Mr. King. We followed Officer Allen down the ladder and helped him carry the unconscious body to the cop car. And as we watched Officer Allen drive away, I said to Matt and Charley, “Investigating this was the worst idea I ever had. Even worse than filling my mom’s car with Orbeez. Man, I got harsh punishment for that.”


We will be delighted to see you at the Trafalgar Hotel for the Re-Opening before the Re-Opening . It had been done the old fashioned way, through the post, and with little cards bigger than a credit card but smaller than a postcard, that pointed to them being specially made. There were little blue and gold chevrons at the corner, and an artist’s impression of the Hotel. But there was also a little personal note, in Sally’s distinctive handwriting. Somehow you could never quite decide whether it looked untidy but was really neat, or the other way round. “ Hi, Dora, can’t believe it’s been over four years now! But Don and I have decided that our little family, the January family, will get together before we re-open to the public. All on the house, of course! And you will have your old bedroom. We can’t wait to see you again, but please let us know either was ASAP. Lots of Love, and hopefully see you soon! Sally and Don”. Dora still wasn’t quite sure how they’d found her, as she had used an old address and a false surname when she was at the Trafalgar. Well, an assumed surname. But there were ways of finding people, weren’t there? She was torn between being a little unsettled by the fact that she had been found, and touched that Sally and Don were asking her back to the Re-opening before the Re-Opening. With the rest of the January Family. She couldn’t remember who had first used that expression, but there was nothing outlandish about it. Or was there? They weren’t a family, after all. And it wasn’t even as if they’d stayed in touch. But she only needed to close her eyes to see them, with that strange logic of the mind’s eye. There they were, in the breakfast room of the Trafalgar Hotel. Peter, whom Sally called “Part of the furniture, but in a good way!” He was the kind of man who had probably been called “The elderly gentleman” since he was in his fifties, and whose old fashioned courtesy and innate shyness were sometimes pierced through by a dry, slightly wacky sense of humour. He was an utterly undemanding, self-effacing man, but Sally saw to it that he always had his own special tea , at breakfast. Dora never found out what was so special about it, nor what would happen if any of the others, herself included, had asked for it. He was the most long-standing resident, and apparently one of the stars of a local pub quiz team, though Dora had never heard about them taking part in any competitions. She had once, briefly, been in a pub quiz team herself, but had no particular wish to do so again, so didn’t mention it. Jules was a travelling salesman, but not just any travelling salesman. There was something vaguely exotic about Jules. He was from Switzerland. At times Dora did pause to wonder about this. She didn’t see much evidence of the little town on the English east coast having a significant trade relationship with Switzerland. Chiding herself for stereotyping she reflected that she had never so much as seen a cuckoo clock in one of the souvenir shops, nor fondue in offer in any of the cafes. It was true that a couple of times, on the little table in the lobby where the post was put, she had seen a couple of communications from Switzerland – either a letter, or a larger, A4 envelope that presumable contained some kind of forms or order sheets or whatever. And there was the odd phone call coming through at the breakfast table, though presumably he took most of his calls in the privacy of his own room. Dora spoke French and had told Jules so he would know that she understood what he was saying. He had nodded and thanked her, and it was never anything of any particular significance or that he wouldn’t have wanted people to hear. Dora made a point of being scrupulously honest about small things that didn’t matter. She had this notion, though she wasn’t quite sure she believed it, that behind her back folks would say things like, “You can trust Dora. She’s honest.” Olive was revisiting the scene of childhood holidays, though Sally and Don hadn’t owned the Trafalgar then. But they had known the previous owners, and still visited Mrs Cynthia Harper, who was the kind of woman people called indomitable in her nursing home. There was even a picture of her and her mild looking husband Clive in the reception area. Apparently Cynthia (with Clive in tow) had pulled the Trafalgar up by its bootstrings (that was the kind of phrase people used but Dora was never quite sure what they were) and transformed it from a Boarding House to a Private Hotel. Over the years, the word Private had been dropped. But Don and Sally had further transformed it. Sometimes Olive reminisced over her lightly boiled egg and muesli (perhaps there was a Swiss influence in the town after all!), “Back in the day,” (she was fond of the expression back in the day ) “you never heard of a hotel except the very posh ones having private bathrooms and TVs in the bedrooms. But don’t misunderstand me, I like it.” Olive valued her privacy and the others respected it, but she seemed to thoroughly enjoy these chats in the breakfast room. Dora wasn’t quite sure how long she was staying. But the fact was, all of them were staying longer than you normally would in a hotel. It was the kind of thing you didn’t discuss and just accepted. Dora was sometimes mildly curious, though she accepted the surface explanation of Peter being part of the furniture, and Jules being on long-term business and as for Olive – well, plenty of old ladies and gentleman spent the winter months in Spain, so why not in Lincolnshire? Anyway, the same respect for privacy applied to her, and that suited Dora very nicely. We knew each other better than a lot of families did, in some ways, thought Dora, and yet we didn’t know each other at all. Though it was in a seaside town, the Trafalgar was not on the promenade. It could not, and did not, promise sea views, though it was only a few minutes’ walk away. Dora’s own room, her own old room that Sally had said she could have again, was at the back of the building, and looked out over a street. It was the kind of street that looked very prosaic and even a little shabby in the daytime, but at night when the streetlights both illuminated and concealed, there was something picturesque about it, and you could almost imagine that the buildings were in some Dutch painting. She didn’t envy Olive her room that overlooked the garden. It might have been different if night didn’t fall so early. But it was, after all, January, and though the shortest day was past, on the East coast light faded while it was still afternoon, and the streetlamps smudged the wheelie bins and the cracked plaster and enhanced the contours of the buildings and the rain that had accumulated in little pools in the potholes. She wasn’t the kind of person who was concerned about internal décor, but she rather liked the fact that the colour scheme, inasmuch as there was one, was blue and grey, reminding her of the colours of a school uniform she has worn long ago, and there was something appealing about that, even though at the time she had liked neither the uniform nor the school. Dora still doubted she would have made any request for a different room. Dora was the ideal guest who was no trouble, but who tempered it with occasional sharp shafts of wit. Though she had never been the kind of person who was the class clown, she had a way with words and contrived to just avoid being bland. And the truth was that though the comparison to a Dutch painting held a certain appeal for her, that wasn’t the kind of thought she lingered on, even when she left the curtains open. She did a crossword, watched some wallpaper television, sometimes read a book, drank an amount of wine that most would have considered too much, and ate packet sandwiches or sometimes filled a noodle snack pot with water from the kettle. She managed to signal that she kept herself to herself without being remotely stand-offish. But she was glad the Trafalgar didn’t offer an evening meal. It once had. It had when Cynthia and Clive ran it, and as Olive reminisced, “It wasn’t actually compulsory, and I think you could come to some kind of an arrangement, but I never heard of anyone who did. To be honest, it wasn’t that great. Cynthia could do a lovely breakfast, but otherwise she was a cottage pie and boiled cod sort of cook, and I’ve never cared much for either.” Sally and Don had briefly carried on serving an evening meal, but then abandoned it. Dora was sensible enough to know that though nobody would press her on the matter (though sometimes she wasn’t quite sure about Sally, whose friendliness had not tipped over into nosiness, but at times had come too close for comfort) some explanation had to be offered, and she kept it simple and believable, though the truth was neither. She was having work done on her house . The others may have thought it was an odd time of year (and she wasn’t terribly pleased to discover that Don’s brother was a builder) but no-one made an issue of it. There was no work being done on Dora’s house. For all she knew there could be squatters in it, and it could have been burgled, and the drive would most certainly be overgrown. It was the kind of drive that got overgrown very easily. The damp patch in the ceiling may well have got worse, or even turned into a hole, letting water gush in, and more slates may have been dislodged. I should have gone further away , she sometimes thought, uneasily, and decided that the time was coming to move on from the Trafalgar. There was no real reason for her to stay. Not even the January family. But it was easier. And she had got used to it. She liked hearing Olive’s stories of bygone days at the Trafalgar – she was an interesting raconteur, and also knew when people had had enough. She liked swapping bits of trivia with Peter, and sometimes talking French to Joules, who was complimentary about her language skills. As for Don and Sally, they were sometimes positively parental, which she knew in her heart of hearts was ridiculous, as she was certainly older than they were. She could always find a reason to put off moving on. But she supposed she could, and would, cope with that one day. Going back was another. She didn’t know if she agreed with Sally when she said it didn’t seem like four years since the January family were together. More than four years, because now it was May. She had sometimes thought it was fanciful to say that time was relative, but it certainly seemed to play tricks. At times January in the Trafalgar seemed more like ten years ago, as if it had happened – well, before other things had happened, instead of after. At others it was as if she had left it only weeks ago. It was also both more real and solid than the life she was leading now, and like one of those contradictory dreams that are “realistic” and have nothing surreal or fantastical about them, yet, on waking, seem to have been stranger than any vivid surreal landscape of mythical beings and either the best or the worst that could happen. She couldn’t help the thought that Olive and Peter must still be alive. Don and Sally would surely have known that or had checked. Well, it wasn’t so surprising. They were old but not ancient, and while Olive had plainly been hale and hearty, Peter had been spindly and stooped, but that was not necessarily a manifestation of fragility. And would Jules really come back from Switzerland? From – where was it he had said he lived? – near Lausanne. Or perhaps he had never left. Oh, he would have left the Trafalgar, of course, but perhaps he had stayed in the area. Dora had stayed in other hotels and guest houses since, when she could afford it (or even when she couldn’t) and when they weren’t closed down in lockdown. But she had never really been on holiday. And she hadn’t been back to the Trafalgar. She had thought about it, and told herself there was no reason that she shouldn’t, but she hadn’t. It had been part of that hiatus between two realities. And that was something that you couldn’t recreate. Dora was the kind of person who rarely complained about repeats on TV, though she had to admit that the Yesterday channel took it to extremes. It reassured her to watch something that had no nasty shocks or no disappointments, where nobody would act out of character or reveal something unsettling, or question a fact she needed to be true. Like many people who are generally indecisive, Dora had spells when she made up her mind quickly and was relieved to have the making up over with. She replied that she would be delighted to be at the Re-Opening before the Re-Opening. But this time it would be different. She would not be seeking a refuge after she had let her home go to rack and ruin, and after she had discharged herself from hospital because she couldn’t stand to be there any longer. She need not be in fear of someone well-meaning reporting her as a missing person and expressing concerns for her welfare. I am not different any longer, thought Dora, and the thought both disappointed her and made her give what a certain type of book called a rueful smile as, of course, she was, but it was easier to hide it now, and nobody had ever known how hard it was to hide it then. So she made her way to the little town on the East Coast, to the little Lincolnshire town that was still shabby and down at heel, but still had an atmosphere about it that kept people coming back to the guest houses and holiday camps and mobile homes, and kept them shopping in the little souvenir shops. To the town with the tall clock tower on the Promenade and the old-fashioned pavilion in the sunken gardens. To the side street and to the Trafalgar Hotel. She didn’t have a key for her room yet, of course, but saw that the front door was open – that was typical of Sally and Don. And she knew that they wouldn’t mind in the least if she stepped into the hallway, or even into the lounge. They would give her a good telling-off for standing outside, especially Sally, who was decidedly stringent about being easy going. There was a familiar scent in the air – the lavender furniture polish that Sally favoured. Dora had never been able to make up her mind whether she really liked it or not, sometimes she found it too sickly and heady, and at other times, especially as it had been winter then, she was glad to breathe in the halfway convincing redolence of a synthetic summer. It would have been wrong, somehow disconcerting, if she had changed her furniture polish, and if there were a scent of vanilla or pine forest or whatever. She heard voices in the lounge, and they were voices they knew. “It’s so typical of Sally and Don to organise something like this,” Olive said, fondly, “though letting people have rooms for nothing might not be terribly sensible.” Dora smiled. Though she was a redoubtable old lady in many ways, and not someone you messed with, Olive was not one for castigation and condemnation. One of her most “vehement” criticisms was that someone had not been terribly sensible . She had a new hair style, Dora noted. Her hair wasn’t twisted up into a bun, but she’d had it cut short and put in soft waves. It suited her. “Especially as they have a little one now,” said Peter. “Young Elizabeth – Betsy they call her – three years old and as bright as a button. I never thought I’d be a godfather in my life, and I was so honoured when they asked me!” “You deserve it, Peter,” said Jules, fondly, and his slight accent was still there, but seemed less pronounced. Yes, it was wonderful news about Betsy, thought Dora. She had known that Sally and Don longed to have children, and hadn’t been finding it easy to conceive. I wonder who she looks like, mused Dora – round faced and with curly dark hair like Sally, or tall and fair like Don. “I’m glad they’ve given the rooms a makeover,” Olive said, “Not my place to comment, but I never cared much for that blue and grey.” That’s a pity , thought Dora, but as long as the view was the same, it didn’t matter. “Just one thing that’s such a terrible shame and so sad,” Jules said. “Indeed,” Olive said, with a sigh. “Poor Dora. I only found out later that she discharged herself from the hospital, but she still wasn’t at all well. It was no age. Such a tragedy, she was a nice girl, though I could never quite fathom her.” And Dora fled silently up the stairs to her room, and it was still furnished in blue and grey, and a January snow was falling as the light faded.