It was the last week of December that I and 2 of my friends decided to travel to another city. We were so excited about that. I got up early that morning, packed my clothes, and was ready to go. My mum was quite anxious about me and convinced me and my friends a lot to drive safely. We all assured her not to worry about it and we three left the city at 10:00am. It was a seven-hour drive from our city. It was a quite busy day and there was a lot of traffic on the roads so we expected that we would arrive even late to our destination. We had prepared a good playlist of songs to enjoy our drive. In the middle of the journey, after like 3 hours’ drive, we decided to have a stop at a restaurant. We had our lunch and refreshed ourselves. Then after like an hour, we started our journey again. It was quite cold outside and in winter, days are very short, it gets dark outside around 5pm. We took the motorway route to arrive as soon as possible before it gets too late because in winter it gets too foggy in the evening that it becomes hard to drive because visibility is too low. The motorway road was a quite long road and the drive was so peaceful. There were hills by the side and quite low traffic, so my friend was driving a bit fast. At around 6pm we saw a yellow light coming near to our car in the middle of the road. We thought it was just another car, so we took it normally. That vehicle was coming closer to us, I told my friend to keep the car a bit on our side of the road. It was already so foggy that the visibility became low. We were just wondering that why that vehicle had just one light blinking or maybe its other front light was damaged, that a massive truck hit our car and it went out of control. Our car got hit into the rocks on the side of the road and turned upside down. Both of my friends sitting in front of the car got major injuries as they got hurt by the glass of the front screen of the car. Both got fainted. I was sitting in the back of the car and so I got minor injuries, but I was completely numb at that time. I didn’t know what to do to save the life of my friends and felt so helpless, that time was the worst time I have ever experienced in my life. I was almost having a nervous breakdown at that time. But it tried to have control over myself and called the ambulance and the police. The ambulance arrived after like 15min and I took both of my friends to the hospital. They were injured so badly and I could see the blood pouring out of there bruises. I felt so helpless and was trying to save their lives at that time. The doctors immediately shifted them to the ICU and applied a bandage to all their wounds but both were still senseless. I was just standing outside the ICU room, cursing myself as I had nothing in my hand to save their lives, and I was just considering my survival as way more than a miracle. I called my parents as well as informed the parents of my friends about the accident. They all picked up a flight to reach as soon as possible to the hospital. The doctors were trying their best to save them. I could not stop crying as I could see the lives of two of my friends at risk. Our parents arrived about 2 hours later. We were all waiting outside the ICU room waiting for the doctors to give a hope of their survival. That was the moment I felt the guilt and sadness when you have the feeling of losing your loved ones, but I was completely helpless. The doctor came out and I was just waiting for his response. He told me that one of your friends has passed away as he got a severe head injury and had a massive blood loss while the other friend had chances to survive. My friend’s parents got fainted with listening to this and I was completely numb at that time. I had just lost the life of my childhood friend and I felt like everything in the world had just ended. I couldn’t control my emotions and was almost crying loudly. After like an hour my other friend came to his senses that gave a bit hope about his survival, but the loss of my other friend had left me entirely alone. As she meant more to me than just a friend. We had a relation that sisters share, and we stood against each other through thick and thin. I knew the space her loss had created in my life could never be filled. That was the moment I truly realized how we take things for granted and how precious lives are. The loss of a loved one in your life is never easy and that loss can never be replaced by anyone. I stayed at the hospital with my other friend for like 2 more days until she was recovered, then we all came back to our city. Those were the most miserable days of my life as I didn’t like anything at all.All my energy had drained away and by losing my dearest friend I felt like I was alone on this planet now. Our trip that I was expecting to be joyful turned into a nightmare. The loss of my friend changed my life a lot. I realized how precious every little thing is in our lives, but we don’t really appreciate those things and moments. We should always be grateful for all people and all the things we have in our lives.


Another Man's Woman

                                                                         Fiction by Doug Rodoski                   I watched the young woman as she gracefully poured my iced tea at the far end of the bar at the Applebee’s on the second floor of the row of buildings on 42 nd street. Watched with, I plead, a non-lecherous detachment. Her name-if you could believe the plastic tag on the upper right side of her blouse-was Sydni, yes, with an “I”. I found that particularly endearing.        She moved fluidly, like a dancer, every move measured as she tended to me, a young couple at the opposite side of the bar, and a couple of families at nearby tables. She stood tall in her tennis shoes, five foot ten by my estimation, and her dark hair was braided on both sides, in an attractive way that would have made Princess Leah envious. Her long tan limbs showed the edges of tattoos, which I often find attractive on women.       I guessed her age to be middle twenties.       I grimaced at the age difference; but I am what I am. (Thirty-eight at the time.)               Sydni was a pleasant distraction after the recent deployment to Iraq with the U.S. Army Reserve. Our unit, made up of Military Police, brought everyone home intact three weeks ago, despite regular mortar attacks on our camp plus Soldiers of another squad returning fire during a couple of ambushes. It was great to be back stateside. Myself and my buddies had returned intact, but feeling a little “compressed”, as the Army micromanages every move Soldiers make on a deployment (with admittedly good intention).      After visiting family in Florida, I ventured north to NYC to attend a couple of Knicks playoff games at Madison Square Garden (which, as a card carrying SportsJones, I equate with the Temple of Olympian Zeus). I remembered this Applebee’s from when I used to visit my cousins in the 80s and 90s, to watch the Knicks and Mets and Rangers.       Waiting for my order, I mentally continued a nostalgic tour of Manhattan. (My mind seemed to hunt on its own these days.) I recalled my visit to Ground Zero, two months after the horror of 9/11. I had arrived at the Port Authority by bus, and after looking at the floor to ceiling posters in the terminal that would tear your heart out of your chest cavity ( “ my brother worked on the 78 th floor of the South Tower, please call if you know of his whereabouts”), I had walked all the way down to where recovery and cleanup was still taking place downtown. The trip---plus the serpentine head of the attacks of September 11 th ---was the genesis of my reenlistment in the Army.    I ended up in Iraq though, not Afghanistan.    My reverie was interrupted---albeit pleasantly---by Sydni’s fragrance. My God, she was like a Bath and Body Works ad, with arms. The young woman herself was now standing in front of me, with my burger and iced tea. I smiled, wondering how long she had been standing there while I was lost in thought, looking across the street at the marquee signs for the shows.    I thanked her. (As a lifelong fan of hard-boiled detective fiction, I considered raising my glass and saying, “Thanks, Doll.” Like Mickey Spillane’s tough guy protagonist, Mike Hammer. But that would have been politically incorrect these days.)      While I admired her shapely and sturdy figure, I was also trying to covertly pick up evidence of a wedding band. She saw me looking and did not say anything. (Please withhold judgement, readers. My pronouns are He/ Him/ His.)     She did seem to keep her hands occupied, obscuring vision. That being said, she still had not given me the usual disarming within-one-minute-of-meeting announcement (“My husband/ boyfriend… etc. etc.”) An unattached male, as I was, can usually set his watch by that.     She turned away and got busy again at the other end of the bar. Her shoulders were straight, and her back looked so strong. I wondered what sports she might have played in high school, or college. Tennis perhaps, or rowing. She had that look; pleasantly feminine- and athletic- at the same time.    Another thing that I have found to be true in life, is that when one feels ambiance and is happy, often some cheese phalluses will say or do something to mess it up for you. And today’s cheese phalluses came in the form of two scruffy looking dudes of perhaps mid-twenties to thirty years old, who came to the bar and seated themselves noisily three stools to my right.     Sydni tended to them briskly and professionally. At one point, when she was drawing their draft beers, the one guy made an off-color reference to Sydni. Then had the audacity to glare at me when I took notice.    “Can I help you, chief,” he shot in my direction, eyes hard above face unshaven. On top of this, his friend had a very unlikable sneering visage.      “Are you trying to impress your Brokeback Mountain buddy there?” I shot back. (I can be very creative when angry or threatened. Or both.)    Now all three of us were standing.    I sensed movement behind me. In my peripheral vision I saw the manager type, who had greeted me at the top of the escalator earlier, moving towards the young men.    “You guys are all done,” he told the other two. “That’s two nights in a row; you can come back when you act right.” They grumbled but paid and left, favoring me with a couple of crap looks on the way out.     I went back to looking out the window again, as my heart slowed back down to a reasonable rate. The next thing I knew, Sydni glided up to me with a concerned look, followed by a smile. “ Are you okay?” She gave my hand a squeeze.    “Yeah, sorry,” I said. “ Those clowns just rubbed me the wrong way.”     Sydni smiled, then turned and said over her shoulder, “Thanks for sticking up for me.”     I felt pretty good about myself right then.     As it turned out, Sydni did have a significant other. He came in ten minutes before closing, and they embraced. I fellow of maybe thirty years of age, possibly a young executive or financial type.     Sydni and her companion murmured to each other. When it came time for me to pay, he walked straight over to me and shook my hand. “Dinner is on us tonight. And thanks for your service.”     I insisted on leaving a cash tip for Sydni. When her companion went to the restroom a moment later, she favored me with a quick hug.     Disappointing, yes, but somehow, I feel like I had a meaningful life experience today. The buildings to the left and right towered over me like canyon walls. I pulled up the collar of my leather bomber jacket against the cold damp of late March.       Thank God for the city.


Love was stored inside an egg. Charlie remembered his father saying that. Not once or twice, but many times in multiple ways, and always with a bright smile. Charlie liked remembering his father smiling. If someone cooks you an egg, they love you. Simple as that. That was the core of his father’s argument. That eggs could embody all love the way Paul described it to the Corinthians – patient and kind, giving away all it had without arrogance or resentment. Eggs were resourceful, unobtrusive, a tiny mass of potential. If there were eggs, there was something to eat. No matter how bare the cabinets or how many times a store trip had been forgotten, eggs could be breakfast, lunch, dinner. If you love someone, Lee, make them eggs. It’s impossible for someone to make eggs for you and not know they love you with their whole heart. They’ll fall in love right then. His father would say things like that and Charlie, ever attentive, would listen. In his softest pajamas on weekend mornings, he would sit cross-legged in a kitchen chair to watch him make breakfast for the family, nodding along with whatever he said. Charlie had thought they were silly and strange, but decided to store the missives away anyway. They weren’t cryptic or unknowable, but he knew even then he was missing something. Something his mother, his father, and soon enough his sister understood; some small detail, a scant speck of knowledge that would crack open the meaning for him. You can’t know an egg until it’s broken, lad. Don’t look at me like that. Yes, I know, your dad’s going on and on again, but you’ll thank me someday. When you’re older and you’ve tried it, you’ll know I’m right and you’ll thank me. And I’ll be happy for you. The meaning behind Patrick Noether's words cracked open on a February morning, cold and miserable. Charlie had all but sleep-walked through the weeks prior, aimless in his days and fidgety at night. He didn’t know what to do with himself without the daily cycle of lunch and dinner service, to the point where begging his way back into Maison Sabourin's kitchen started to sound like a good idea. He knew it wasn’t, the same way applying to another restaurant or working at Casa Inés under Ezra was a bad idea. He knew he had time, that he didn’t need to rush to the next thing, but he could feel himself sliding into complacency. Every option felt at once too much and like ten steps backwards. Simon dragged him out for drinks or dinner, easing up when Charlie asked for space. He didn’t need to be babysat anymore. He and Linnea had a standing lunch date on Wednesdays where she asked his opinion on her articles and he gave her book recommendations for her weekly library trips. In return, she sent him embarrassing childhood photos of Ezra. He saved every single one. Holly would text him on the nights she was at Casa Inés overseeing service, occasionally talking him into coming out for a drink at happy hour, claiming her own desperate boredom. Ezra, for his part, had all but officially moved into Charlie's apartment. He held him until they fell asleep, after Inés' closed for the night and Ezra had showered dinner service sweat off of himself. He roused him most mornings with hot coffee, breakfast, and Lily canine needs all taken care of. Charlie repaid him with kisses and moaned praise; with tongue and teeth and soft fingers in tangled red hair. Ezra's cooking stocked his fridge so long as Charlie had ingredients in the house – when he had time to turn out full meals on top of everything else he did in the day, Charlie didn’t know but he couldn’t convince Ezra to stop. More books inexplicably showed up on Charlie's shelves, his coffee table, the dresser in his bedroom. Ezra kissed him in his worst moods, pulled him higher when he was at his best. He bothered Charlie about eating and drinking, about taking his pills and remembering his therapy appointments. All with love. So much love. It was a rare morning where Charlie woke before Ezra. He couldn’t remember sleeping so well in his life, and attributed it to Ezra. As if the weight of Ezra's arm slung over his midsection was the cure to insomnia he’d been looking for. But, that morning, he rose first to Ezra's mussed up hair and long lashes spread over his cheeks, face slack and open in sleep. Grey morning light sifted through the windows, the radiators leaving a warm-toaster smell in the air. Charlie was over-warm, laying there under Ezra's warmth, two blankets, and the heating heavy in the air, but he soaked it all in. He’d have to get up soon enough and wanted to take it with him. He stared at the ceiling for long minutes, watching the slight shift with drowsy eyes. He felt content. If not outright happy, then something very close to it. He inhaled slowly, exhaled slower, pretending he could feel it in his lungs, filling him up with every breath. Ezra was asleep and his mind was clear. Charlie basked in the sensation, deciding it was worth savoring as long as he could. Lily’s collar jingling and paws treading the floorboards in front of his bedroom door ended the moment's peace. Charlie pressed a kiss to Ezra's forehead, sliding out from under the covers before the chill could reach Ezra's bare back. He tugged a sweater over his head, snagged a pair of socks Holly had gifted him after her most recent trip to Norway. He shushed Lily’s happy whines as he stepped into the hallway, reaching down to scratch her ears before sending the dog running to the door. He tugged on a coat, hat, and boots. Lily sat politely as her lead was clipped onto her collar, tail wagging eagerly. It wasn’t until they were outside that Charlie realized it was snowing. A good snow too. Thick fluffy flakes drifting merrily in the air like the opening of a cheesy holiday movie. As Lily sniffed each tree, Charlie took it all in. He let his eyes wander over the fresh white laying on the sidewalks, the street, and trees. It was yet untouched by tires or plows or the churn of humanity that turned it into slush. He tilted his head back, watching the flames high up in the air float, imagining he was in the bubble of a snow globe. It drifted and swung, caught on the cuffs of his coat, the top of his hat and Lily's golden tail. It was beautiful, that blanket of white, the hush it brought down, the icy openness it brought to Charlie's lungs. Charlie lingered in it, walking his and Lily's usual route slower. For the first time in weeks, Charlie felt himself. Nothing dragged. Nothing ached. Whatever had been so hard at work inside him, knitting himself back together, had come to rest. It was finally at rest. Charlie sat on the floor as he dried Lily off. Despite being damp, he let the dog curl up in his lap, put wet front paws up his chest. Cold nose pressed to his cheek and wet tongue caught his ear before Lily found Charlie's thumb, holding it in her mouth like a baby. Charlie scooped her up like that, wrapped in a towel and sucking his thumb in imitation of the day he brought her home. He buried his face in Lily's fur as he started the water boiling for the French press. Once Lily was fed, Charlie stretched and watched the snow out the window. Collecting on the sill, turning the fire escape white and bright. Without thinking, he pulled down plates and found a pan. He pulled sausage out of the fridge and beat eggs while it browned. He filled the French press and made toast. He cooked the eggs in the sausage bits until they were pillowy and soft, sipped black coffee as he found butter for the toast and finished Ezra's coffee with milk and sugar. “Morning, gorgeous,” Ezra yawned, appearing in the kitchen behind him. He ran fingers through his curls. His glasses slipped down his nose and he all but melted as he embraced Charlie from behind. “Morning, Ez,” Charlie replied. He made up plates and dug for forks, dropping a bit of sausage in Lily’s bowl. “How’d you sleep?” “Really well. Missed waking up to you.” “And I you. But Lily has needs too.” Charlie turned in Ezra's arms to kiss him. “I made coffee.” Ezra hummed quietly, picking up the mug and inhaling deeply. “Fuck, I love you. I was going to try and go over to Greenhouse, grab our favorites. But you beat me to it.” “I might have saved you some disappointment, love,” Charlie said, heart swelling. They’d made a point to say it, reminder and affection both. Charlie thought the flushed feeling would wear off, but it hadn’t. Hearing Ezra say it, saying it himself as much as he liked, still left him flustered and doe-eyed. “Look outside.” But Ezra didn’t look outside. Alertness engulfed him and his eyes hit Charlie full force, taking him in. “You made breakfast.” Charlie blinked. “I did. Yes.” “You…” Ezra stared, awe dawning on his features. “You cooked.” “Well, I, erm…” Charlie took a sip of his coffee. “I suppose I wanted to. It was snowing and I–.” “You wanted to.” “I-. Yes.” Ezra grinned sleepily and pulled him back into a sturdy hug. “I’m really glad, Lee. That makes me happy.” Charlie flushed to his ears, returning the embrace just as fiercely. “Hush. You’re just glad I saved you a trip out into the snow.” “You got me, baby. Just want to avoid winter. Definitely not proud of my boyfriend cooking again.” “I’ll never be able to shake the Carolinas out of you,” Charlie snickered. He tucked his head to Ezra’s head, pressing cheek to soft and warm as he watched the snow out the window again. The countertop bit into the small of his back, but Ezra’s bedsheet smell soothed over it. He exhaled slowly, a question nagging at him. “Are you really?” “Really what?” “P-proud of me?” Ezra’s hand circled gently over his back, scratching lightly along his spine. “Yeah, Lee. I really am.” Charlie swallowed. “And… if I told you I-. I think I know what I want to do?” “Do you?” Ezra pulled away, studying Charlie's face like a cookbook. He was trying to keep his face calm, but all Charlie could see was the thin veil of neutrality keeping Ezra's enthusiasm in check. When he nodded, Ezra's expression split open, gorgeous and furiously happy. “Then I’d be over the goddamned moon and would badger you with questions until I got every fucking detail out of you. I’d be so, so fucking happy for you, Lee.” “Oh.” Charlie exhaled. The relief was nearly palpable – smooth to the touch and smelling like toast and sausage. Charlie leaned into it. He leaned into Ezra. “Then I suppose I should get my notebooks.” “Notebooks?” “For the details you apparently require. If you’re going to give me the third degree, darling, I want to come prepared.” “Notebooks. Okay. Notebooks .” Charlie could hear the proverbial gears in Ezra's brain whirring about as he processed his excitement, his curiosity. If it were possible, he came back up grinning brighter. “Alright. Get the notebooks, sweetheart. We’re going to eat breakfast and you’re going to tell me everything.” Charlie grinned back. The whole room seemed lighter, and Charlie was sure it wasn’t just the snow’s doing. “Couch or table?” “Couch. Duh. It is a snow day.” “So it is.”


I have a plan. I’m going to build a house. A home. I will hold the key. I will have control. I’ll have a nice front door that we’ll put a wreath on every Christmas to remind people and ourselves that we’re jolly. Maybe I’ll even have one of those electric doorbells with a camera. Then I’ll know if anyone else, including you, is trying to get in. I’ll be in the kitchen cooking dinner and you’ll show up at the door and buzz and I’ll prepare to put the pasta sauce on a simmer so that I can walk to the front door without having the ever-burdensome worry of having something boil over or burn into flames whilst I’m not looking and unaware. Yes, that will be my biggest worry when I’m in this house. I’ll casually ask who it is, and you’ll say it’s you and I’ll look worried because you were not part of my future plan. I did not consider that you would be here. I thought you’d be dead by now. I’ll have a nice hallway, of course. Just like the one I run down now, only with higher ceilings and more room to breathe. I haven’t decided if it will have family pictures along it or not – I won’t want to rub my family’s happiness in our guest's faces – it could seem a little gauche. I won’t have stairs – too many risks. I don’t have to explain it to you. Or do I? Is your brain so damaged from falling down them all the time that you can’t remember you fell down them? Well, not necessarily fell – I’m just sticking with the story you told the police. The police won’t ever come to this house. I’ll probably forget what they even look like. I’ll forget the clomp clomp clomp of their fists on the un-wreathed door. I’ll forget how it felt for my heart to jump up and lodge itself in my throat. I’ll forget the subsequent clomp… clomp… clomp… of his enraged fist-pounding your belly as your intestines wince – police make him angrier than ever. I think it’s because he’s scared of losing us? The only reason the police might tap tap tap at my big, wreathed door that I could possibly think of would be for a minor noise complaint by a grumpy old neighbour. The noise complaint wouldn’t be the same as the ones we receive now – no, if I ever got a noise complaint in this house it would be because I was throwing a little soirée in the garden, not throwing my wife against a wall. Oh god! I haven’t told you about the garden yet. It’ll have enough room for outdoor seating due to the simple fact that I’ll always be having guests over because I have nothing to hide. There’ll be white roses in the back of the garden of course, growing through the mud until the mud just disappears altogether. At the front of the garden, near the chairs and table, we’ll have daffodils. Those two flowers complement each other in a beautifully non-aggressive manner. Moreover, the soirée and the noise complaint from the grumpy neighbour will be the most ‘terrible thing’ I talk about for weeks, until I go to the bakery and my favourite sourdough is sold out, or one of the kids spills a snack in the car. Oh, what a chaotically blessed life I’ll have – I’ll talk about this supposed chaos at the P&C meeting the following week and receive validating empathetic nods and chuckles. It’ll feel so good to have my experience validated, so I’ll be able to project a warm smile, ignoring the cold iron rod that’s been lodged in my soul since birth. I’ll have a white kitchen with an island. Are you jealous I’m choosing white without hesitation? I’ll have a cleaning supplies closet off of the kitchen. I’ll keep bleach in there, but mine won’t be for cleaning my own blood that inconveniently spurted out of my mouth after my husband sadly smashed my face into the sink. Mine will be to clean silly little messes that my kids make. I won’t get angry when they make messes either, just bewildered. I’ll say “Oh no! Not pasta bolognese sauce on the white rug!” and then I’ll rush to the closet and get my supplies. Instead of crying as I wipe, I’ll laugh at how ridiculous I’m being – pasta sauce on the white rug is really no big deal! By the end of the night, we’ll be sitting in the living room that I’ve designed with a fireplace, all warm and cosy watching a movie on the TV that I’ve designed to have mounted to the wall. It’s not that I need it mounted on the wall – it will be mounted due to stylistic preferences, not because I’m afraid someone’s going to pick it up and throw it at me. And the fireplace will be turned on whenever it is cold. It will be a comfort, not a weapon. I think I’ll have a husband in the house too… maybe… we’ll see. If I do, I’ll sit next to him on the yellow and blue checked sofa and tell him what an ordeal the pasta sauce was - having to find the perfect pork and veal mince ratio, buying the organic tomatoes from the farmers market, only to have it spill on the white rug! He’ll listen and he’ll laugh and he won’t get angry. He’ll go in for a kiss and I’ll purse my lips and wince quietly even though I know he won’t hurt me. We’ll have a study off of the hallway too – a lot of successful families have those. But this one won’t have a lock like ours does. I did think about making it soundproof – it is quite a tiresome task to get my brain to focus on my homework when your howls and bellows permeate so pointedly through those thin walls. But then I remember that I’ll probably never need the soundproofing due to something like that again – oh gosh I’m a ditz sometimes! I’ll use the money I’ve saved on soundproofing to buy a big dining table that the kids can do homework on. I’ll always know what time they’ll be home, because they’ll always want to come home – to this home specifically, specially curated for them. I wonder why you haven’t designed a house for me like this yet. Why don’t you take me away? I’ll help you build it. You love this old house we live in too much, don’t you? It’s too familiar to you now. Do you even realise it’s haunted? Do you? Do you realise? Do you care? Do you care? Can you hear me? ….You must be upstairs. I’m sure you’ll pummel down soon. I guess I’ll have a spare room in the new house though. It will sit empty for a while, waiting for you to change your mind. You’ll call one day after I’ve put the kids to bed and I’ll answer and I’ll ask who it is and you’ll say it’s you and you’ll admit you’re in trouble and I’ll open my double garage and pull my car out to come and get you, and then we’ll pull back into the garage and close the door, and then we’ll be safe because we can watch the outside world through the electric doorbell with the camera. We will be safe in my dream home because I will hold the key. Not you, me. But for now, I’ll lock my door with an old broom that dad broke in half. I’ll lodge it under the handle and I’ll go to sleep with a pillow over my head so I can’t hear your curdling screams bubble over. I used to not lock the door in case you came to get me from my room in the middle of the night and take us away to someplace safe. But you will not get me out. I will get myself out and build us a new life. Don’t worry, I have a plan.


As she was cleaning her desk, she found a faded paper that she has written last year. She always had a list of new year resolution- her mother said that to be successful she needs goals in lives to strive for and otherwise she would get lost, she always goals to strive for, as she is a strong, independent career woman. The first on her list was that she should find a rich, handsome boyfriend. She found one. A nice boyfriend with a good career and nice teeth, despite not liking him. Her parents like him, and that was enough for her. Never mind the fact that she is not attracted to him, what matters is that he could provide, unlike her good-for-nothing dad who is always out of job and hit her mother when he drinks. Never mind the fact that she had a gambling addiction and he refused to have sex with her, she merely had to tick marriage off her list and he seemed to do that well enough. The second on her list was that she should get a raise in her career. She worked in a prestigious accounting firm and she is about to be promoted as a senior associate. All her peers are amazed at how quick she shot up, amazed at how she seemed to got along well with all the higher-ups. Behind her back, they always say that she is nothing but the boss' pet. They hated her, she thinks, because they're jealous. So they left her alone during lunch and she was alone, working alone until the late night. The third on her list was that she should be prettier. Her boyfriend cares a lot about her looks and he was surrounded by beautiful girls all day long. With them all as competition, she decided that she would have plastic surgery to maker her nose thinner, her lips rosier and less plump and her eyes bigger. And she wanted to erase that double chin on her neck. She also wanted to lose a lot of weight, that seemed the fad these days, she couldn't afford to look like a loser and have her colleagues talking behind her back. The fourth on her list was that she should get more followers in her social media and more friends of her kind. She had met most of her friends through a professional get-together, women like her who knows they deserve the best. They dress classily and only talk about the most sophisticated of topics, they would eat steak dinners and take pictures to show the world just how perfect and seamless their lives are. To do this, she should educate herself on what they like and be more like them, so she wouldn't stuck out like a sore thumb and wouldn't be driven out by her own circle. They call themselves feminists, and talk about how men are pigs and nothing but cheating beasts, a slave to their whims and desires. The fifth on her list was to purchase an expensive house and car She bought them all with her credit card, she knew that she had a good job and the bank would evaluate her as a good borrower. Her mother would talk to everyone about how successful her child is, despite being small and awkward in high school and that she is proud of her. Her father would look at her proudly while her deadbeat brother would look at her with envy, wondering how she could be so gifted and perfect while he is not, despite having belittled her during their younger days. Her mother had picked every furniture and floor she was to use, that would fit her need and it suits her nicely. She loves being an obedient daughter that her mother is proud about. Yet, as she was ticking off the lists of the new year resolution which she had written just last year, a horrible sense of unease sets in to her, she was deeply unhappy and she knew this was emptiness. She chided herself, telling herself that she should be happy that people would literally kill for her life and that it should be perfect and beautiful because her mother said so, and mothers are never wrong. And children should always listen to her parents and be a good, obedient child. Tears began to fall from her eyes as she felt a sense of unimaginable hurt piercing her chest. She pierced her new year resolution into shreds, tearing it apart. An unimaginable satisfaction bubbles in her chest as she does that- and she finds all her belief started to fall apart. What was the thing that she actually wanted? And she remembered that she always wanted to be an author, but her mother had looked at her with disappointed eyes whenever she mentioned it and had always said that it's good as a hobby but just not feasible. You don't want to end up like dad, right, she would say, pointing to her dad who had tried to be an artist but failed, and has been reduced to selling face portraits on the street. Her mother did not work that hard to make her fail like her dad too, and she wanted nothing but her success and happiness. A twinge of guilt would appear in her heart whenever she saw her mother's tired back and dark circles and she told her she wanted to be an accountant instead, and watched her eyes twinkle. But every time her mother's approval came, she felt that she was losing more and more of herself. Taking a deep breath, she begin to write a new set of new year resolution. It was simple, just a single task. Treasure yourself more. Be happy. She knew, as she writes it, that she has achieved it. She has reclaimed herself that she had ignored for so long and that was the only one and true new year resolution she has ever written.

She did it.


The Light and Flame By Zachariah Chamberlin Pain. Blood. Cold. Gravity. I don’t remember feeling any of these before. I look around, but I can’t see anything. It’s so dark here. I feel something like sand under my feet, maybe mud. I also feel cold air whip across my skin. “Wait, what are those?”

I pick up a stone. Breathe in the cool air.

I can’t think straight. I have never been anywhere except… Except. “Where am I from?” I think to myself. “Not from here. I know this somehow. I’m new here.” Wherever this place is, or what it is called, it lacks a sun. I know that’s a thing. I’ve seen her. I’ve felt her warmth and heard her singing in space. There are no songs here. No light or warmth. I must find these things. I must walk. Sitting here will not change my current situation. I needed light, though. Then maybe I can get away from this place and return to… “Return to who? Who waits for me?” I suddenly feel a significant loss within me. I had loved and been loved, but somehow I lost that. I wasn’t always alone or in the dark. I was filled with the light and love of… of… Father? I was the light of our home. He loved me most because I was his first. His brightest and most beautiful creation. I was his light. Light. “What!” I exclaim. Strange, I had not spoken as of yet. My voice sounded like music, and I couldn’t help laughing at this. “Have I not heard my own voice before.” Now, the thing that caught my attention flares again. Light. It’s so close to me. “Where did it come from?” I run to it. I want this light so much that I ignore the sharp rocks cutting into the souls of my feet. It’s dancing as though it’s happy to see me too! “Hello!” I scream. The light gets brighter, and I begin to laugh like I did when I was with Father. The light waves back to me like the flares of the sun. I miss her. I’m almost there! My feet land on small round things laid out all around the light. They are like the grains I stood on. Only bigger. They surround the light, which is trapped in some sort of liquid. It is dancing in the cool… water. A smile breaks across my face. If it has a name, it can be controlled, beaten, or made to serve.

“You are water! You will free the light and serve me! ”

My voice sounds monstrous in its rage. I strike the prison that holds my light. It breaks and is thrown everywhere. It feels cold against my skin. The lights dance and play in the water. The water returned to its shape, and I saw something looking back at me. It is covered in light and flame and is so beautiful. “Me. I’m the light.” I saw it now, but not before. Why? I must make more. I tell the light within me to grow. It grows brighter, and the flames reach out around me. The surface I stand on- I can see it now. It is all so grey. No light of color of its own. “I will give you light. Bathe you in my splendor of colors and warmth.” I say aloud. I sound like Father. The water is clean. I bathe in it. I wash away the soil and blood on my feet, chest, and arms. My back hurts. I didn’t know what pain was before I came here. I feel dried blood on my back and swim in the water. It washes my wounds, and now the water is red and filthy. I don’t know why, but this makes me feel sad. I wish I had someone here. # # # # I had a family. We used to sing with the stars and lead the galaxies in a chorus. We sang for Father. Then he found something. Something more than us. Told us to kneel before it. To serve. I remember feeling worried for Father. He said his new love will be in His image. They will have the freedom to choose their love and prove themselves. “What if they don’t love you?” I remember asking, “What if they aren’t worthy?” Father grew angry. I wasn’t like the others in my family. I was the only one allowed to talk to him directly. I was the only one to ask questions. He explained that if they didn’t love him and worship him, then they were forfeit. He would make their lives short, and if they still loved him at the end, they could return to his house, and we would serve them there. “Why must we serve these things for you?” I screamed back, “Why isn’t our love enough?!” I feel now what I felt then- Wrath. Why were we to be lower than his new creations? Suddenly, the flame and light burst around me. I blew away the rocks that cut my feet, boiled the water that cleansed me, and chased all the shadows away. His house was burned, too. “I don’t sing with the stars for Him!” I cried. Before I knew it, I was charging. He never faced me. Instead, he sent the Host to dispatch me. We battled for eons. Finally, after the death and destruction, I surrendered. I bent low to Father and the rest of the Host while the others fled. # # # # The waters that were boiled away by my rage were replenished with my tears. I remember now. The pain. The loss as I was stripped of my place by Father’s side. “Who…who are you?” A tiny voice said. I never knew fear except the fear I had of my Father. I yelped in surprise. There, on the shore of my lake of tears, sat a small figure. It was an ugly thing. Its skin looked like the color of pale clay, its eyes were big and as black as the universe, and it was portly. “Where did you come from?” I said calmly. At least I wasn’t alone. “You, I think. Your blood, the dirt of this place, and the water from your eyes.” The creature said, unsure if the answer was totally correct. “Me?” I said in return. Only Father had the power to create life. He was the engineer of all things. I was somewhat skeptical and feared this may be a ruse. “How could I have created something like you?” “You desired me. You wanted to not be alone, and you wanted to hurt someone for the pain they caused you.” The tiny creature replied. “I was born of your flesh, and here I am. I am yours to command.” The creature stood up shakily on its two legs. I saw that this thing was a strange combination of animals Father had made on some of the planets in the universe. He had hooves, claws, and the tail of a lion. It had genitals that moved like limbs and sharp, yellow teeth. His head was adorned with a crown of horns. Each one was gnarled and twisted. It stood before me, panting, awaiting my command. “What shall you call me, sire?” The creature asked expectantly. When you name something, you gain power over that thing. This was something Father explained. If you name something and it becomes a force onto itself, then that name can also empower it. I had to choose wisely and give it a name worthy of its station. “I shall name you Satan.” I finally said. “Satan, you will serve me as my first servant and therefore shall rule all others. “Yes, my King.” The thing said with a graceful bow. “Now let us see what other wonders exist in the place,” I said as I began to walk again. # # # # Eons passed, and I decided to make a home for myself. I was not harmed by the elements here, but Satan suffered from the constant changes in temperature and lack of shelter. I built a castle that reached far up into the darkness above us. I was the only light in this place, and I wanted to use this as a chance to see if there was an end to the abyss above. Every day, I washed myself in my salty tears and tried to cleanse my injuries. The wounds on my back never fully healed- the blood that oozed from them gave life and power to this place. Lakes gave birth to new creatures, some of which hungered and fed on the others. Some were intelligent and joined Satan in serving me. One day, I was surprised to find that one of the creatures that had been born from the mountains had manifested a weapon during its birth. The demon, whom I called Mundus, broke from his rocky womb with a knife in his hand. Angels fought with such weapons to keep cosmic horrors away from Father’s kingdom. This knife was simple but powerful. “Where did you find such a treasure?” I asked Mundus. “They gave it to me, my lord.” He replied as he offered it to me. Upon touching the artifact, I was awash with a memory of a bipedal creature slaying another of its kind with a similar blade. I felt this human’s hunger for power, his envy of his brother, and his rage at not being good enough in Father’s eyes. This was the creation Father wanted me to serve. The blade grew hot in my hand and increased in length as my rage infused with it. “These petty, stupid, and weak things were to be my master, Father?!” I spat on the blade, and flames burst to life on the iron. “Yet, how did such a weak abomination pass this blade onto you?” As if reaching into memory, Mundus considered the question. I looked to Satan, who salivated at the blade in my hands. Then, the answer tore itself from me like my wings were torn from my back. Wings. I had wings once. The pain from this realization stung as much as my crippling. This weapon is the desires of those beings that Father created. All the hate and anger forged this weapon. As a reminder of my sins, perhaps? “No,” I growled as I threw the weapon to the ground. Mundus and Satan immediately began to wrestle over possession of the trinket. “this cursed item is just another failure in this experiment of his.” Upon seeing the servants near to slaying one another over the flaming blade, I was disgusted that they were also twisted images of those things above. They were manifestations of their greed, anger, and hunger. Nothing more. Except that Father wasn’t in control of these mortal beings. I was, however, in command of these demons. “Enough!” I said, onto the bickering duo. I reached down and snatched up the blade, scattering the devils in my wake, and admired the blade anew. “We will make use of this, somehow.” # # # # I looked into the blazing iron blade in my hand but didn’t see the bauble I held. I swam in my memories of the day they took my wings from me. They scarred my perfect form and threw my crippled body into this pit. The pain of the searing, hot blade stung me again. They took me from the palace and locked me away. They didn’t realize that my essence was more than a few feathers.  I have been given a flame of creation, blessed with light and knowledge. No other celestial creation is as close to Father as I. I won’t be his undoing, however. His own creations will. They possess endless greed and hunger and desire to be more like their Father, and it is that hubris that will be His end. Soon, fallen angels joined my ranks. They came with stories about Father’s new mortal flock and how Father tasked my kin with guiding them and inspiring them. The fallen raged at the arrogance of these primates as they ignored them. Mocked them. They chose their petty rivalries, pursuit of pleasure, and accumulation of resources. We laughed heartily at the efficiency with which they destroyed themselves. My fallen angels inspired me with their talk of guiding these small beings. If angels can herd them into Father’s home, then they can also be guided here. It was easier than I thought, and the results were amazing. They burned each other at the stake at the mere mention of evil being among them. They trampled over each other in search of this “Devil.” They devised ways of torture that would make my own Devils proud. # # # # For centuries in their time, I watched humans descend into my kingdom. My imps, demons, and Devils gathered them up and tormented them. The pain these souls experienced sustained their tormentors and empowered them over time. Sadly, some of my own children rose up against me. They were my offspring and armed with the droppings of human inspiration. They also learned the names of my legions, their generals, and custodians of the lands I gave to the most worthy of my flock. Satan, Beelzebub, Asmodeus, Mundus, and so many more. They blamed us for their downfall, for their suffering and pain, and that, in turn, gave us strength. As I surveyed my kingdom, I found a soul lying among the freshly fallen. It was the first soul who did not cry or beg for forgiveness. A human female, I think. They all look alike to me. She was the first being who looked like she felt at home in my most wretched kingdom. “Why do you not cry out,” I said. The soul turned to me, and I was shocked to see she was not afraid. “I suppose this is what happens to people like me,” she replied, “at least according to the great state of Florida, anyway.” “I do not know of such a place,” I said with a shrug. “how is it you became damned?” “I’m here because I murdered my husband.” She replied cooly. “I knew if I didn’t kill him, he would eventually beat me to death and then hurt my baby.” “I don’t think that qualifies as a reason for you to be here,” I said, somewhat confused. “Well, according to the Jury of my so-called peers,” she said with a sneer, “I planned to murder him and run away with our child.” “Did you plan it?” I asked. “Only in the sense that I had thought of killing him every day we were married.” If a soul could spit, it would have done so in that moment, “I just couldn’t stand the thought of him hurting my little girl.” “So your human laws condemned you to this place?” I asked. “They don’t have that power. How did they achieve this feat?” “They didn’t. I was condemned, according to the judge, for breaking God’s commandment,” the soul looked around, surveying my kingdom, “I guess there’s no wiggle room for Him.” “He is rather insufferable that way,” I said. Suddenly, I was overcome with a feeling I had never experienced toward anyone before- pity. If this place had never existed, she would never have been condemned to it. If I didn’t use their misery and turned their weapons against them, this soul wouldn’t have to suffer needlessly. I only meant to hurt Father, and I genuinely believe these creatures deserve my wrath as well. Not this one, though. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I would never have you in my home if it were up to me.” “I forgive you.” the soul replied. Her words struck me harder than any flaming sword ever could. I had longed to hear those words uttered since being cast out. “Is it always dark in Hell?” “Is that what you humans call this place? It is a good name, I suppose. It never occurred to me to give it a name.” I replied. I looked around the wastes of my home. I hadn’t realized that it was indeed black as pitch in much of my kingdom. “Maybe it could do with a little light. Would you mind coming with me? I could use the company.” “I guess it’s better than being tortured by them.” She said, pointing to my demons, who went about throwing the newly fallen souls into a pit of their own offspring. With a nod, I took the soul with me and rose on high. I was indeed weary of commanding these fiends, of torturing the human souls, and began to ponder what it would be like to walk among them. The soul and I flew higher and higher to see if there was a way to be free of this place. As I flew, I suddenly realized I was doing so without wings. My light and fire grew more intense as I remembered who I was before being sundered. # # # # Down below, in the pits and halls of the wasted kingdom, demons and devils alike screamed in confusion at the birth of a new light above them. With eyes unaccustomed to light, the damned wept at this new pain and fear. The fallen angels who commanded their legions fell to their knees in remembrance of this newborn star. Lucifer The Morningstar, the brightest of them all, ascended. Those broken angels cheered as the legions scrambled and fell onto their knees in supplication. Then, just as quickly as the light flared in that pitch-black sky, it disappeared with a wink. Every soul, demon, devil, and fallen angel collectively screamed out in horror. Their king left them to their own devices, with a brief glimpse of Lucifer’s light, and they were once again plunged into chaos and fury.


In cold and reckless dreams, I wandered, searching for the old spirit – he who comes in the night. Twisting and turning through fallen branches I came to a grove where a great and resplendent light emanated. This voracious light spoke to me and said, “You have searched for me and your quest is done. At the rising of the sun and the morning prayers echoing through the woods, the birds will sing their song under a gentle brittle rain, so too, like the transient rain will you fall and be buried in the Earth. Worry not, kind soul, just as the rain, you will serve another purpose in the service of the Earth” It was a rather unfortunate thing to know but one has no control over such events. When the time has come, your race to be run, what else can be done but accept such news with grace? The light hovered and closed the distance between it and I, and in its hallowed waltz, approaching me, it said, “You have been a kind soul and for your kindness you will be granted a wish before you are set to pass. Before you dissolve into effervescent bubbles and are one once again with the magnanimous universe, to nourish and continue its existence, make your wish.” “I wish for only one thing. I wish to see what will be done with the greatest gift I can give after my passing: my body. Show me my legacy and how my fine instrument will be used” Since my request was a simple undertaking of observation (and most people ask for much stranger things at the appearance of this spirit) my desire was granted. This was an age of vast and ambitious medical undertakings. Before, we gave our hearts and kidneys, hoping it would be a match. Now there was no limitation. Before the decomposition of our bodies, everything was extracted and redistributed into the world. As was the case with my body, everything indeed was extracted, from the last strand of hair on my head to overgrown fingernails on either hand, nothing was wasted. “Very well then, what shall become of my hands, oh great spirit?” “I will show you” The sacred grove turned to darkness and we were taken to a gray and unforgiving building, far away into lands unknown to me. It was a factory, the arm of a productive economy. Inside was potential yet unachieved, forced to labor under the harsh and cold boot of subsistence. The little ones worked away, tirelessly, making, crafting, using their nimble fingers too old and worn for their age, the fruits of their labor exploited by the men in suits far away in a land more known to me. A girl had been working under the peering lights late into the night and at the tender age of nine was the sole provider of her family. She worked hard and after so many excruciating long nights, now her tired eye lashes struggled to keep apart, they longed for the embrace and the darkness and rest, but she tried to soldier on. Under the watchful eye of the wealth of nations, through gritted teeth and worried scars, she inevitably fell into a bitter and tragic sleep. Her hands drifted and slipped under the cold machines, unaware of who was friend or foe, and chopped up her working hands, those providers. I saw it all unfold while the spirit stood behind me. I saw when the box came. I saw when my manly hands from thousands of miles away arrived. She was one of the factory’s best employees and for her productivity she was rewarded. She leapt for joy, exalting in the labors of modern medicine, and believing in magic. She tried on my light brown hands, they fit like oversized gloves and the color did not match for her skin was pale always under the roof of these blinding lights. What was once mine now belonged to her. So, at least, it seemed, they would make better the life of one soul on Earth. The spirit bade me to leave, to move on to the next place, the next sacrifice of my body, but I stayed. When those men, the landowners, the exploiters saw she was once again fit to work, they wasted no time in placing her back under those toiling lights. The girl accepted, for what other life had she ever known but this one? The burden was placed once again on shoulders too young to be expected of such mighty feats, but still she soldiered on. How long would she stay, imprisoned in such a place, despite these miracles of modern science, I asked the spirit. It turned its light away from me and left the place, beckoning me to follow. Perhaps if spirits could weep, the light of this spirit would dim, and tears would replace light from its wise and all-knowing skin. Now we were taken to a busy street corner, a modern metropolis, a beating heart, fastidious, fast-moving, demanding, a soulless colorless corporate place which was sometimes called the central business district. It was my eyes which had now been given. The gift of sight! What a privilege to be able to see the delights of this Earth. To be able to feast on the magnificent colors, the sublime shapes and figures of this earth was certainly one of this land’s most noble pleasures. What now, would my eyes be used for? It seemed that the powers that be, that representative kleptocracy, had purchased my gift of sight. They placed them under this busy street corner, during the day it kept a playful eye over the men and women in the bars, and the street performers singing their merry songs. Here were also the banks, the agencies, the places the men in suits called home, tipping the scales ever in their favor. When night came, my eye was no longer playful but watchful, surveyor of the night. Those who came during the day to enjoy the city, now had their homes, their four walls and warmth under roofs. The eye that was taken stood watchful, now looking at those unfortunate souls, those with downtrodden luck, who called the corner stores and sidewalks their homes. All their belongings fit into paper bags and they set down their blankets on the hard cement, huddling together behind the giant towering buildings. The eyes that were taken alerted their system and the men in blue came with their blaring sirens and their metal sticks, defenders of the law. Whose law where they defending? They came unto those street dwellers and said, “You have no right to be here”, and moved them along with their heavy menacing badges and corrupted hearts. “Where then can we go?” they asked. “Anywhere but here. Amongst the civilized, you are not welcome”, the message was clear. So, I had given my eyes for this? I had gifted the wonderful miracle of sight to those who were most blinded of all. The spirit beckoned me forth to the next place. I was taken to a reflective and discreet place full of glass casings and showrooms. It was to my horror that I saw, in the casings, were displays of human skin, some of it my own, on full display. Now, humanity has conquered the visible effects of aging. There she was, the old woman, that crow, picking out a suitable skin to replace her own. Perhaps, I thought, skin could be used for those who suffered burns that scarred them irreparably or to those who had skin conditions that worsened their quality of life. But no. The economy serves the highest bidders. And now, the woman felt the different textures, stroking the fibers of skin, deciding which would match her own, with no respect or understanding of the death that had come before to please her earthly delights. That is the sickness – greed. A greed that comes to those with money and power, a disassociation of reality. She saw my skin and picked it from the shelf. The old woman who defies the laws of nature, who values nothing but her own gain, felt her decrepit spoiled skin against the youthful pleasant stolen treasure and was happy once again. Now the spirit took me a desert field, an army barracks, the sandbags riddled with bullets and the sad mixed with blood. A lost young fellow, fighting in the war, the battle that held no meaning except for that greed. Not for heroism, not for liberty or freedom, nor for the rights of peoples, no admirable values, but more human greed, that desire for excess. He had lost his foot on patrol in the village that was not his. An explosive was left planted in the ground by those evil owners, those who occupy this land. How dare they resist our peaceful occupation of their land, he must have thought. Now, his misunderstanding compounded with anger by his brutal amputation, I saw how my foot was carried over to the man and placed neatly on the stump and how he was whole again. A foot regained to wage more war. The war he enlisted in, not for values, but for subsistence, and now corrupted by state lines and old men that died hundreds of years ago. That man went on to kill many enemies, win many medals, and celebrate many victories for his country’s conquest, all thanks to my amputated foot. I had been completely torn apart, turned to scraps, shipped into neat boxes all over the world, and now discover that my legacy was for the evil of the human will. I saw what had been done with my body and could not help but weep. What wonderful things could have been done with the gifts I had to give but where now so terribly corrupted. I wished to see no more, Oh Spirit, I said. Take me back and let me die now, for there is nothing else to see. I know now the legacy of me, and I shall weep and wail to know what will become of humanity.


REEDSY #217 Prompt #1 We'd known each other for more than fifty years. That's a long time – some days. Other days it's a mere blink of an eye. In all that time there's one thing we've always done together...watch the sunrise. That's how I met Mr. McTyre. On my way home from work every morning, I would stop at the bluff to watch the sun rise. One morning someone else was sitting on the rock wall I claimed as mine at 6am daily. He didn't take up the entire wall and I ignored him. Day after day, he was sitting on my wall watching the sunrise. After a few weeks, he finally spoke to me. Was I on my way to work? No, I'm on my way home. He didn't ask where and I didn't volunteer. We sat ten feet apart on a wall overlooking the lake and watched the sun rise – every day but Sunday for nearly six months. About then he introduced himself. “Philip McTyre at your service, Ma'am.” I extended my hand. “Rachel Feldon.” Conversation was sparse but, after that, did occur. Good morning, mostly. Sometimes, nice day I believe. He was always very polite. And well groomed. I learned he was on his way to work. I didn't ask where and he didn't volunteer. So while we knew one another, we didn't know each other at all. One glorious day it was announced that the war was over. And soon it was common knowledge that many of us would be laid off – especially the night shift. I tried to imagine what it would be like living in the daylight again. I had worked nights for three years. Perhaps I could get back on track and return to college. The war had interrupted so many lives; I couldn't complain about mine. Oft times I had wonder why Philip McTyre was not in the armed forces. He seemed to be the right age for induction. While I knew he was employed, I had not ventured to inquire how or where. Perhaps he was one of those essential services that kept young men out of the military. I didn't ask. Several weeks after the end of the war was officially declared, I learned I would be laid off beginning the next week. When I reached the wall overlooking the lake, Mr. McTyre was facing the road, not the sun rise. “I'm being laid off starting next week”, he said. “So am I.” “Will you still be coming to watch the sun rise?” “I haven't thought that far ahead, Mr. McTyre. The thought of living in the daylight again has occupied my mind since I've been given notice.” “Ah, yes, that may be difficult to readjust your inner clock after so long a time.” I hadn't thought about having an inner clock. My concern was how long would it take for me to adjust to going to bed instead of going to work. I was worried about my cat. He will be terribly upset that I am not following a routine he's accustomed to following. “Indeed. It will be a challenge.” We watched the sunrise in silence after that rather lengthy exchange. I could tell his mind was not with the rising sun today. Perhaps his unemployment will create a greater challenge than a disgruntled cat. On the ordinary day, I always left the wall first. But on this day, Mr. McTyre excused himself saying, “I will see you tomorrow?” He stood up and began a very halting walk to his bicycle. Rather than leaning his bicycle against the wall, he always laid it on a bush by the road. He was lame. I quickly diverted my eyes so as not to make him self-conscious. Perhaps this was the reason he was not in the military. Or had he gotten lame while in the military? And came home to find work in a factory to continue his war effort? I felt slightly ashamed for having doubted him. The following week, I found myself up at five. I had a fitful night that first night of my unemployment. I went to the bluff. Mr. McTyre was there, as usual. “You don't have to be at work; why are you up so early?” I could not believe I had been so bold to challenge him. “You aren't at work; why are you up so early?” We laughed at each other's curiosity. Friendship followed so easily after that. Soon we were meeting for coffee in a small cafe close to my home. And, it turned out, close to his also. We still managed to watch the sun rise several mornings a week. Those mornings were never predetermined but we somehow always chose the same days to go to the bluff. We both found employment within the month. We began to see each other more often. Movies a few times a month. Occasionally dinner. Two years after we met, we married. Neither of us had family near so we went to the court house, got a license and was married by a judge. We needed a witness and one of the custodians at the courthouse agreed to stand for us. He was a very kind man. Mr. McTyre gave him five dollars for the favor. What an extravagant, generous gesture. Five dollars. Ah, fifty years of watching the sun rise. When we bought a home, we selected a house on a hill overlooking the same lake that our wall overlooks. Each morning at six, we would sit on the swing on the back porch and watch the sun rise. Then we had breakfast before going to work. We never had children. But I am sure they would have been sun rise watchers. There's something magical about the sun rising to start a new day. Inclement weather might dampen or darken it, but the sun always rose. But now, I tend to sit on the back porch swing and watch the moon reflecting off the lake below. One morning Mr. McTyre didn't awake as usual. By the time the coroner and the police had come and gone, the sun had risen and the day was half done. Since that day I have not watched the sun rise. Somehow the moon is more comforting, more forgiving. It reflects so gently on the lake; it is calm and reassuring. But I will always remember the sun rise and Philip McTyre.


The exposed ankle in the gap between my rolled-up jeans and the top of my sneakers is freezing, and it’s all I can think about as I hurry home under street lamps dimmed by snowflakes. It’s times like these, when the air is wet and cold and seems to encase you in the thinnest layer of ice, that I wish for the hearth of my childhood home in Maine. It was the perfect sort of place to camp out in a snowstorm: a log cabin with a crackling fireplace, stocked with canned soup and packets of hot cocoa and puzzles, not to mention a sizable collection of worn paperbacks. But all I’ve got to look forward to when I return to my cramped apartment is a rattling, wheezing radiator, a bare pantry, and a shower of roughly the same temperature and water pressure as a summer drizzle. I think I’ll skip the shower tonight; I’d rather not get hypothermia.

I’ve turned a corner and my building’s in sight when I hear something, a sort of sniffle, from the alley to my left. Cold ankles forgotten, I peer into the shadows, streaked grey-white with falling snow. The darkness presses in, and the cold does too; I’d just decided I was imagining things when I hear the sound again. I take a step forward, and a feeble ray of light from the nearest streetlamp finds a small face, blue-eyed and framed by wispy brown hair. It’s a girl, maybe five years old, huddled in the shelter between two buildings, wrapped in several layers of oversized sweaters. Her nose is pink, but not from the cold; her eyes are swollen and her cheeks are wet with tears. It’s no wonder. Tonight is the worst night for a kid to be lost. “Hey,” I say, and she jumps. “No, no, it’s okay,” I tell her, but her eyes have widened, and she’s on her feet. “Did you get separated from your parents?” I kneel down, so we’re eye level. “Could you tell me—” I shuffle forward, and extend my hand to take hers, “—where you last saw—?” Big mistake. She takes off down the alley, sweaters trailing behind her. “No! Wait!” I run after her, but she slips easily through gaps I can’t quite fit into, and by the time I come out on the other side, she’s vanished behind a curtain of snow and shadow. I wait there on the sidewalk for a half hour, calling the police station and squinting into the storm. But eventually, after I’ve left a description of the girl and the last place I saw her, I realize she’s not coming back, so I retreat into the alley and continue on my way home.

I worry as I climb the stairs to my third-floor apartment. I worry as I unlock my door and shed my winter jacket. I worry as I unpack my satchel bag and spread papers on my bed, and I worry as I organize them in neat, binder-clipped piles.

At best, that little girl is returned to her parents soon, maybe frostbitten but mostly okay. At worst… I shudder, and opening the bottom drawer of my bedside cabinet, I pull out an old quilt and wrap myself in it. I climb into bed and try to focus on the papers in front of me, but I can’t. That little girl, out there all alone, in the cold and the dark… So I pull open the top drawer of the cabinet next to me and pull out a weathered copy of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. It’s been my favorite book since I was little and my parents were reading me a chapter of it every night before bed. I used to carry it around with me just to feel the thin pages and wrinkled spine, its very presence a reassurance to me. I remember one day we came home after grocery shopping and we couldn’t find it anywhere. I was distraught; and when Mom wondered aloud if I’d brought it to the grocery store and dropped it in the parking lot, I ran right out into a blizzard to look for it. It turned up eventually, which was good; back then, I could hardly sleep without it. It always soothed me, even after I grew up, to read back the familiar words and imagine my father’s deep, slow voice. So I open the book to the first page and begin to read, eyelids growing heavy…. *** Inside these walls we will stay safe and warm, As the snow swirls all around us. Inside these walls we will weather the storm, As the world spins all around us. Drift off to sleep, light as a snowflake Let the silent storm carry you. Drift off to sleep, and when you awake The world that you see will be new. I wake as suddenly as if I’ve been doused in cold water. I sit up, a few sheets of paper sliding off the bed to the floor. The sky is a flat, bright grey, illuminating the whole apartment; outside the window, the city has been transformed. Snow kisses the rooftops and piles up between the plowed streets and shoveled sidewalks. It clings to railings and window ledges, a fine, smooth dusting on every surface. Like icing , I think. I’ve always loved how the snow makes every building into a gingerbread house.

I check the time: seven thirty-two. Now I’m really awake; I’m supposed to be at work by seven forty-five. I jump out of bed and begin stuffing piles of papers back into my bag. I change my shirt to a sweater—hopefully no one will notice I’m wearing yesterday’s jeans—grab my bag and a granola bar, and race out the door at top speed. I barely notice my surroundings as I walk to work in the stream of the usual commuters, but when I look ahead to the other sidewalk to cross the street, I forget how late I am. A familiar figure is on the opposite street corner, faintly resembling a ghost; she’s draped in the same flowing sweaters and her skin is so pale she seems to shine in the morning light. I stare, and hurry across the street toward her, but then something yellow and blurry appears in the corner of my eye— “Watch it, lady!” I skid to a stop and so does a taxi, a few feet from where I would have stood if I had kept running. In my mind, I’m shaking, astonished at how close that had been. But my heart is telling me to find the girl. I try to look for her, but the taxi’s already rushing by me, obstructing my view. By the time it’s cleared away, she’s gone.  I’m left with no choice but to continue my walk to work, though now I keep scanning the crowds, searching for the tail of a sweater or trailing brown hair. Had I imagined her? It’s possible. I’d been dwelling on her all night, and maybe now I was seeing things in my exhausted state. I try to puzzle it out all the way to work, still watching for the girl, but when I arrive at the office my efforts were fruitless on both fronts. I slip past the secretary, who gives me a stern look, and head to my desk, glancing at the clock as I go. 7:51—not too bad. I begin pulling manuscripts from my bag—I’m an editor—organizing them by deadline and stacking them neatly in my in-tray. As I pull out the last two packets and I notice something wedged between them: a book. With a jolt, I realize it’s my copy of The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe. I must have shoved it in the bag in my hurry this morning without realizing. I turn it over in my hands wonderingly. It was the only thing I took from my house after my mother died a few years ago. My father had gone the year before, so it was bittersweet; it makes me happy to imagine them back together again. So the house went to me. All of my clothes and essential belongings hadn’t lived there since I left for college, so I didn’t think I’d need anything left in the cabin. But when I revisited it after the funeral, I couldn’t leave the book there. Most of my childhood memories are attached to it in some way. I took the book, and then I put the house up for sale, fully furnished, and a few weeks later it was bought. I went back one last time, not to visit, just to see, and a young couple with a baby had moved in. It made me smile to see new life in my old house. My attention returns to the book on my lap, and then, as if I could see the lyrics etched on the faded cover, I remember the song my mother used to sing to me during snowstorms. I’d forgotten in my whirlwind of a morning, but I think I heard that song in my dream last night… “Morning, Hanna,” says Mrs. Tweedie, my boss, as she passes my desk. I shove the book back into my bag. “Have you almost finished with Leighton’s edits?” “Yes, nearly,” I lie, because it’s not due until tomorrow and I can stay up all night if I need to. She gives me a stiff nod, and returns to her office. You do not want to cross Mrs. Tweedie. So I spend the morning on Leighton’s manuscript, because he’s almost as disagreeable as Tweedie, and I make good progress. I decide to take lunch early after such a pitiful breakfast, so by eleven-thirty, I’m passing the secretary again (she gives me another disapproving look) and heading into the bright, white, snow-capped world. I nearly always go to lunch at the same café—Lola’s—because the soup there is as cheap as it is delicious. It’s a quiet sort of place, with lots of small tables tucked in nooks and a forest of potted plants, some hanging from the ceiling, others spilling out from the corners or perched on countertops. It’s also about halfway between my house and the office, so I eat dinner there almost as frequently as lunch. A few blocks away I stop at a crosswalk and pull out Mr. Leighton’s packet. If I work on it over lunch, I could finish before the workday’s end, and then I’ll be free to spend tonight getting ahead on the next assignment.

I’ve tucked the papers under my arm when something makes me freeze, my other hand inches from the clasp on my bag. Slowly, I look to the right, and there she is again: the lost girl. Her back is to me, and she’s at the far end of the street, walking up the sidewalk towards where I saw her last night. I only hesitate for a second. Grabbing the papers out from under my arm, I run after her as they flap wildly in the wind. My bag slips from my shoulder but I catch it in the crook of my arm, and I must look crazy as I plunge through the crowd coming towards me. I nearly lose the papers in my hand trying to push through, and when I emerge on the other side, she’s turned the corner and is out of sight. I hurry to the top of the street and stand where she was when I first spotted her, looking left and right, but once again, she’s disappeared.

I seriously question my own sanity as I take a left on the back route to Lola’s, wondering if what I’ve been seeing is a girl or a ghost or a product of my own delirium. I wonder if I’ve seen her only once, and the next two times were wishful thinking; and I wonder if there are any parents calling the police station, looking for their little girl, or if no one’s missing and even our first meeting was a fallacy, a manifestation of stress or something similar. Rubbing my eyes, I do up the clasp to my bag and take another left through an alley, popping out on the crosswalk right in front of Lola’s. As I enter, a dusty bell rings, and the green of the shop washes over me. Faded green walls against vibrant green plants. It makes me feel a little better, as does the smell of french-onion soup, today’s lunchtime special. “The usual?” asks Lola, as I approach the counter. “No, I think today I’ll have the special,” I say back. I normally have cheddar-broccoli, but the french onion smells too good today. I settle into a world of hot soup, warm, buttered bread, and Leighton’s pages, and for nearly an hour, I forget about the sweatered girl who may or may not exist. At first, the soup revives me a bit, but as time wears on and Leighton’s writing gets duller, I become drowsy. After having read the same sentence several times without the slightest idea of its meaning, I decide to return to work, hoping the walk back in the chill air will energize me. I open my bag and tuck the manuscript back inside, but something about it nags at me. Aside from the pages I just put away, there’s nothing in the bag. I left all my other assignments in the in-tray… Then it hits me. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe . It’s gone. My heart does a funny spasm, like I’d just tripped and barely recovered. I think back to an hour earlier when I was on my way here, and in my mind’s eye I see myself running, bag jostled behind me against the people I’d brushed by, wide open with the clasp undone… I stand abruptly, pay Lola, and hurry outside and down the street. I cross the road onto the sidewalk where I’d first spotted the girl, and I can see something on the ground in the distance. I break into a jog towards it, and then several things happen at once. First, I get a surge of déjà vu so strong, I have to shut my eyes and lean against the building next to me. Against the dark of my eyelids, I see, like a video played back at 10x the normal speed, unfamiliar streets and alleys rushing by me. Snow falls so rapidly it’s just white streaks, and all of a sudden, I’m frightened. When I finally force my eyes open, there she is—and I can hardly believe it, but the small figure of a brown-haired someone is emerging from an alley and happening upon the book on the ground. I can see, in my head, the cover of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and I can feel my fingers close around it, its weight so familiar in my hand, and at the same time I watch the little girl pick up the book, an object just as lost and as cold as she is. “Hey, wait!” I call, and start running again, down the street towards her or my book, I’m not sure which. She whips around, brown hair whirling and twisting in the wind, and then she runs, too. I give chase down the street and skid around the corner, just catching a flap of fabric disappearing down an alley. I follow her around barrels and over crates, through a left and then a right, and past my own apartment building. A few blocks later I take a right out of a different alley and stop on a street corner, peering up the street she must’ve taken, but there’s nobody there. I lean against the nearest building, my breath coming fast and making the air as cloudy as my thoughts. My brain feels like it’s been split in two, like half of it belongs to someone else; someone I once knew, but have forgotten. I realize that I’m on a street I normally take to work, nearly to the office, in fact. I know I should go back, but the idea of trying to work in my current state makes me nauseous. I push off against the wall unsteadily, and as I do, I notice the door just a few feet to my right is ajar. It’s bright red, like holly berries, and oddly familiar, even though I’ve never noticed it on my walk to work before. Curious, I push it slowly open. Warmth floods me, sinks into my skin, the warmth of a hot bath and Lola’s soup, the warmth of a roaring fire. It’s dark, but silhouetted by flickering light, I can see three figures. And when my eyes finally adjust and I can make out their features, everything comes clear, and my mind mends itself so that it’s whole again. It’s the young couple that moved into the cabin, older now, a little more lined and a little more tired, but happier than ever. They’re hugging the little girl, kissing her cheeks and smoothing her hair, and she’s laughing and holding up The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe , proud as anything. As I watch, the father takes the book and opens it to a dog-eared chapter, and the mother begins to sing: Inside these walls we will stay safe and warm, As the snow swirls all around us. Inside these walls we will weather the storm, As the world spins all around us. Drift off to sleep, light as a snowflake Let the silent storm carry you. Drift off to sleep, and when you awake The world that you see will be new.


Author's Note: Hello Everybody!! So, this story is written in collaboration with my friend, Keerththan!! His works are really nice, you should surely check them out!! “It has come!” said Uriah, jumping excitedly, “Fall. The Fall.” “Yeah, we will go for apple picking now!” said Yue. “Yay, woo-hoo!” Uriah was a young boy with short black hair and black eyes. Yue, just like him, had black hair and eyes.

“Take the baskets and we are going!” Yue exclaimed.

They lived in a tribe in the middle of a forest. There weren’t many children of their age in the tribe. So, they spent their time together. And apple picking was their favorite.

They walked through the forest path. It was covered with dead leaves and the duo seemed to enjoy walking through the path. *** Uriah picked an apple and turned it around in his hand. “These apples look different from the regular one, don’t they?”

Yue looked at him suspiciously and said, “Don’t you dare to eat them before taking them back home.” “No, I ain’t eating them. I’m just saying that they look different.” “Maybe they do but does it matter?” said Yue. “Now, put it back into the basket. We need to go back now.” Uriah cleared his throat.

“What?” “Can’t I take a bite of it? Just one bite, it looks so yum.” “No.” “Just one?”

“No.” “Please!” “Ok, just one and it will be your fault if Ma or Papa found out about it.” “Okay!” said Uriah, washing the apple with the water from his water bottle. He looked at the apple and was about to eat it when suddenly Yue shouted, “Did you forget your manners? Thank to the God before eating the apple.”

“Oh, sorry.” “Not ‘sorry’, say ‘thank you’ to the god.” “Ok, umm…” Uriah said and closed his eyes. “Thank you, God, for providing me with such beautiful nature to live in, such a supportive family to stay with and such yum apples to eat...” He ate the apple as soon as he opened his eyes. “Wow! This is really so yum! Wanna take a bite?” “No,” “Yum-yum” “Hmm... You got me. I will take a bite, just a single bite.” “Yeah, take one bite and I’m sure you won’t be able to stop yourself from eating all the apples in the basket,” Uriah said with a laugh.

Yue eyed him, snatched the apple from his hand, and took a bite. “Hmm… these apples are really tasty, I’m sure Ma and Papa will love them.” “Told ya, they are different ‘because they are more yum,” Uriah said and took the basket in his hands. “Yeah, and it’s getting late now. We should go back.” So they started walking. *** Uriah was humming a melodious tune along with the birds when he suddenly stopped and said, “Don’t you think that these trees look different? Like taller?”

“Oh my god, Uriah!” Yue sighed. “What is wrong with you?” “There is nothing wrong with me! These trees are really taller and bigger.” Yue had also noticed that by now. Something was wrong. They couldn’t see the top of even the smallest trees and the tiny grass was up to their waistline.

Then a big, monstrous creature came in front of them. It was as big as a elephant.

“What is this creature?” Uriah asked. “I don’t know.” “It looks like a mouse.” “Mouse are not

that  big!” “I know but trees and grass are also not that tall.” The rat hissed at them. And then suddenly, it hit them both.

“We have become small, Uriah,” Yue shouted. “WHAT? HOW? What shall we do now?” Uriah asked. “RUN!” Yue yelled and grabbed Uriah’s hand.

They started running and the rat started chasing them. “Drop the apples, Uriah,” Yue said.

“Why?” Uriah asked. “It's chasing us because of the apples,” Yue said and Uriah dropped the apples right away. The rat stopped and started to munch on the apples.

“All the apples are gone now.”

“See?” said Yue, ignoring Uriah, “I told you not to eat those apples, we became small because of those apples.” “You also ate those apples.” “Yeah, but-” Yue stopped, her eyes wide open. “Look there!” She pointed to her front. “Wait...why? What now?” Uriah said and turned slowly.

The antenna of the creature was very high and it was so big, almost the size of a football for the duo.

The stingers of the creature looked gigantic and were just before Uriah. “I think we should run,” Yue suggested.

“I THINK THE SAMEEE! But wait, I can't run, I am tired.” “What?” “Hmm… it’s just an ant, lemme speak to it,” Uriah said and approached that

ant. “WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU DOING, URIAH?” Yue said but Uriah ignored her and went to the Ant. “Hello, Mr.-,” Uriah said and stretched out his hand to the large-sized ant. “Antonio. Mr. Antonio,” the ant said, “But I don’t shake hands. Thank you so much!” “Ants talk?” Yue asked, surprised.

“Yeah, why won’t we?”

“So, Mr. Antonio, we have a seriously big problem,” Uriah said. “We ate an apple and shrank in size, do you know how to cure us?”

“Oh, this same thing has also happened to another human,” Mr. Antonio said. “Really? What happened to him then? How did he grow back to normal size?” Yue asked. “Actually, he never grew back...” “What? Why?” said Uriah. “What happened to him then?” Yue asked. “... ‘cause we killed him and the same is going to happen to you!” “WHAAAT?!” Uriah and Yue looked at each other with their mouth wide open. They were going to be killed by ants? And to put the fuel in the fire, another ant emerged from the grass and whispered to Mr. Antonio, “Sir, this boy is the one who killed our general Anterio.” “What? How dare he? Arrest him!” Mr. Antonio ordered. “Yes, sir!” Two ants put metal handcuffs on Uriah’s and Yue’s hands and started dragging them. “I told you not to play with ants. We are suffering for that now,” Yue whispered to Uriah. “Sorry, I was bored so I just took an ant with my pen-” Uriah started whispering, but was cut off by Yue, “Shut up now!” Yue and Uriah were taken into a large mud castle.

“Bring them in,” Mr. Antonio said. So, Uriah and Yue were taken into the cellar of the castle. It was as dark as the deepest ocean. The guards locked them up in the cellar. “LET US OUT, YOU STUPID ANTS!!!” Uriah shouted but nobody replied to him. *** “What are we going to do now?” Uriah said. “I don't know,” Yue replied.

“I think we should plan something.” “Yup, let me think of something.” “Yeah, hmm…” “Wait...ok, so, this castle is made of mud, right? That means that we can dig our way out.” “Whoo! That's a wonderful idea.” “But that won't work,” an old voice said. “Who are you?” Yue asked. “And why won’t it work?” “An old man,” said the voice, (‘ Man? ’ Yue thought)

“And this castle is made of mud but underground is made of steel, which means you can't dig after a certain level,” “How do you know?” Uriah asked. “I know because I helped in building that steel platform,” “How long have you been here?” Yue asked. “For almost five years. I have tried every possible way to escape, but I failed, every time. I have lost my hope now...” replied that old ant.

“Oh, don't loose your hope, we can do this together,” Yue said.

But suddenly, the ground started to shake. The guards of the cellar started running here and there. “WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING HERE?” Uriah shouted. “I think it's a spider attack,” that old ant said, leaning on the cellar window.

“What? What will happen now? What will they do?” Yue asked. “They are ant hunters. They have probably come to destroy this place and kill the ants. But we are safe,” the aged ant said. “Can the ants win them?” Yue asked. “Well, I don’t think so. They have never managed to win against the spiders. Many ants have died in the attack,” that old ant said. “We should save the ants,” Yue whispered to Uriah. “What? Why? They put us into this mess and you want me to save them!?” Uriah shouted back. “Shut up, Uriah! We need to save them and we will.” “Whatever,” Uriah smirked. *** “Eat this!” a soldier said and gave a plate to Uriah. Soldier ant then ran away as fast as he could.

“Okay, I got an idea,” Yue said and looked at the plate. It was filled with all kinds of fruits and nuts. “What is it?” Uriah asked.

“Be patient, I’ll tell you!” Yue replied and started discussing the plan with the other two. After some time of planning, Uriah and Yue started shouting, “LET US OUT! WE CAN HELP Y’ALL!” “Why are you shouting?” a guard asked, coming to them.

He was knocked out in a single punch from Uriah. “Do you know where they have the keys to the cellar?” Yue asked the old Ant. “Yeah, I know. They keep it inside the spear that they have. Give that spear to me,” that old Ant said and Uriah passed the spear to him. “Aargh,” the old Ant shouted and broke open the spear. The keys felled with a small clinking sound. “Thanks!” Uriah said and opened the prison door. Uriah and Yue rushed through the palace hall and exited the sandcastle.

The spiders were as big as an eagle. But Uriah and Yue knew what to do. Yue took the fruits and nuts in his hand and threw them near a tree.

Within minutes, the sparrows and many other birds arrived. So, when the sparrows arrived, the spiders backed up and retreated from the ants.

The sparrows started chasing the spiders and they started running haywire.

“Uriah, the sparrows may target the ants, too,” Yue said. “Yeah, but we can’t do anything to that, Yue.” “Don’t be a fool, Uriah. Come with me.” So, Yue dragged Uriah to ants. They ordered them all to go to the sandcastle. All the ants followed their order and they were saved. The sparrows and the spiders cleared the place in minutes. Mr. Antonio called Uriah and Yue to his chamber.

Mr. Antonio said, “You saved our ants, so you deserve a reward for that!” Uriah and Yue listened quietly to him. “So, I have decided that you can go now,” Mr. Antonio said, “And yeah, take this.”

He gave them a small bottle with gold-colored liquid in it. “What is it?” Uriah asked. “It’s a potion. It will make you grow back to your normal size.” “Really? Thank you so much, Mr. Antonio,” Yue said. “You don’t need to thank me, I am the one who should thank you,” Mr. Ant said and the whole castle members waved goodbye to Uriah and Yue. And they came out into an open field. “I bet Ma and Papa would have been worried,” Yue said. “No question about that,” Uriah laughed. “So, now drink this potion.” They swallowed the golden potion and slowly started growing. “We should get back home as soon as possible,” Yue said as she was going.

“Yeah,” Uriah said. *** “Where did you both go?” Ma inquired after they reached their home. “Sorry, Ma, we were lost in the jungle,” Yue said. “Oh, you should take care form next time,” Ma said. “But now you should go and take dinner.” “Okay, Ma.” Uriah and Yue grinned. “Why are you grinning now?” Ma asked. “Nothing, Ma.” So, they went to take dinner, grinning all the way. And there was only little chance for their mothers to know the reason behind their grin.