The locker room was humid and smelled of sweat no doubt from the soccer team sprawled across the benches. Katie took a sip from her water jug and tried to ease her panting. Luckily, the hot anger crawling under her skin kept her from feeling weary. “What the hell was that out there?” Coach Macintosh barged into the ladies locker room, and the door swung back and forth on its hinges behind her. Katie’s body tensed up. There was one main rule that The Cougars followed above all, don’t piss off Coach . That is unless you actually wanted to do 50 burpees and run laps until both your legs cramped. “Well?” she demanded looking between Katie and the brunette across from her. “Don’t look at me, she’s the one who’s playing dirty on the field,” Katie fumed pointing at the source of her anger. “What are you talking about?” Amara sputtered. “It’s not my fault that you can’t control the ball.” Katie’s eyes widened in disbelief, “You stole the ball from me!” Memories of Amara’s foot swiping between hers and stealing the ball played freshly in her head. “I did not,” Amara rolled her eyes. “You tripped up and I ended up with the ball. Don’t blame me for your poor legwork.” Katie gritted her teeth, she imaged herself wrapping the girl’s long hair around her neck so that she could shut up for once. She shook her head and dispersed the fantasy because it wasn’t worth going to jail over Amara’s life. Coach Mac groaned and pinched the arch of her nose. “You two do realize that you’re on the same team, right? This is the semi-final game. You two need to leave your issues at home and act like a team when you’re out on the field.” Katie slouched back against the lockers behind them. She and Amara had been two of the best players on their team since they both joined as freshmen. The only person who might have been better than them was their captain Imogen. However, Imogen recently left the team due to an ACL injury. The team had been heartbroken about it when they found out. Everyone loved Imogen and she was a great captain. The sympathies were cut short once Coach told the team that she would be selecting their new captain after the semi-finals. There was nothing Katie wanted more than to be team captain. Soccer was everything to her and she was more than qualified. She had the skill, the dedication, and the confidence. The road to her impressing Coach enough to get chosen as captain was clear except for one person who stood in her way. One person who wanted the spot just as much as she did. Amara was a one-person blockade and Katie was determined to crush her. “Half-time is almost up, you have five minutes to do what you need to and get back here. Go.” Coach dismissed them. Katie grabbed her nearly empty water jug and left the locker room to find a water fountain. Different support teams bustled back and forth through the hall. Through the crowd of bodies, she spotted a fountain mountain against the wall not too far from her. She went towards it and popped open the bottle cap, positioning the mouth to the opening. She tapped her foot aimlessly as she listened to the steady trickle of the water filling. Her jug was quite big, so she liked to fill it to the top to avoid running out of water through the day. “Can you hurry the hell up? Coach said we only had five minutes.” She turned around to see Amara standing behind her with her own bottle. Her arms were crossed as she glared down at her. Katie quirked a brow and let her hand loosen on her bottle slightly. It wobbled and spilled some of the water out. “Oh no,” Katie said unenthusiastically, “My hand. It slipped.” Amara blinked in silence. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Katie pursed her lips and shrugged. “Gravity.” The brunette grumbled and shoved her side into Katie causing her to stumble. “What the hell?” “A good captain would put her teammate first, but of course, you wouldn’t know that” Amara taunted as she began to fill her own bottle. Katie pushed back against her and the two began to struggle to keep their bottles under the flowing water. “Get off of me,” Katie growled. “Did you leave your lady speed-stick at home? Because your BO is burning my nostrils” Amara laughed, “Yeah that’s probably just your breath wafting back into your face.” “Ooh, a movie reference. I didn’t realize you were so media literate.” “I didn’t know you even knew the word literate.” A sharp whistle behind them caused both girls to freeze. “Oh my, you Cougars sure do know how to make an impression.” Katie and Amara wore matching scowls as they turned around. The captain of their opposing team, The Eagles, stood smugly behind them. Her jet-black hair heavily contrasted against her pale skin. “Milana,” Amara said tightly. “To what do we owe the honour.” “Oh, I was just looking for a bathroom. I must’ve gotten lost,” she pouted. “Yeah right,” Katie muttered under her breath. “I must say, ladies, I am disappointed in how you’ve been playing out there.” Milana sighed lightly. “Though I’m not surprised.” Katie and Amara exchanged glances. “Excuse me?” Katie voiced. “I’m just saying I already knew your team was sup-par at best, but this entire game has been entirely too easy. I must say, I am getting bored.” Milana picked at her nails as if the conversation was entirely uninteresting to her. Katie could see Amara’s eye twitch from the corner of her eye. “Our scores are tied,” Amara deadpanned. Milana fanned her hand in dismissal. “We all know how the game is going to end.” Katie’s fists curled at her sides. The only person she hated more than Amara was Milana Cortez. She was cocky, stuck-up and thought she was more talented than she was. “Listen Mirana, everybody knows that the only reason that you were picked to be team captain is because your mommy is your team’s coach.” Katie retorted. Milan’s face reddened furiously, “You take that back!” “The truth will set you free,” Katie suggested in fake sympathy as she placed a hand over her heart. Amara choked on her laughter beside her. Milana’s eyes darkened as she took a step towards them. “You’ll regret that. You and your stupid team,” she spat. Amara eyed the girl warily, “Say it, don’t spray it, girl.” If Milana could have gotten any redder at that moment she did. “Ugh!” she screeched. “Wait until I tell my mother about this.” Katie scoffed and then did a fake shiver, “I’m scared. Are you scared?” She asked Amara. The brunette nodded furiously, “I think I might have wet my pants.” They stared at each other in seriousness for a minute before they burst out laughing. They clutched their knees as their laughs bellowed down the hall. When they finally stood up, Milana only stared at them with hatred pooling in her eyes. Or maybe it was tears, Katie wasn’t sure. “Everyone on your team thinks they’re hot shit. But I know what you all are,” she sneered. “And that is,” Amara asked wiping her own tears. “Nothing but a pack of dirty lesbians.” Katie choked on air, “Excuse me?”. "It's literally pride month," Amara exclaimed in horror. “You heard me,” Milana responded. “ Cougars ? More like perverts.” Katie and Amara couldn’t do anything but gape at her in shock. The captain seemed pleased with herself at being able to render them speechless. She flashed them a smile and recomposed herself. “I’ll see you lovebirds on the field,” she said and blew them a kiss. “Toodles!” They watched her sashay away towards her team’s locker room. Amara turned to Katie slowly. Katie nodded. “Yup. I’m going to make her eat dirt .” Realizing they were over the five minutes they were allotted, they hurried back to their locker room with half-filled water bottles. Coach Mac glared at them as they came bustling in. “I’m not even going to repeat what my mind is telling me to say right now. Asses on the bench.” They winced and sat beside their teammates. Katie turned to one of her mates beside her, Josephine. Josie knew gossip about everyone in the entire city, which is mostly why none of their teammates told her any private information. “You know Malina right? The Eagles captain?” Katie whispered to her. Josephine’s brows furrowed, “You mean Milana?” “Same thing.” “Yeah, why?” Amara, who was listening from beside Katie, bent towards them, “She just told us that she thinks everyone on our team is, and I quote, dirty lesbians .” Joesphine guffawed, “The call is coming from inside the house it seems.” “What do you mean?” Katie asked. “I heard from Theresa, who heard from Alison, who heard from her best friend who is an Eagle, whose brother apparently dated Milana, that they apparently broke up because he caught her cheating on him.” “So?” Amara shook her head. Katie was surprised that she was able to follow Josie's rambling. Josie gave them a look. “He caught her cheating with a girl .” Both girl's mouths dropped open in shock. “Well, if it isn’t the pot calling the kettle black,” Kaie said amused. “That’s literally what I said,” Josephine glared before leaning back in her seat. “Eyes up ladies,” Coach Mac’s voice commanded their attention. “This is the last half of the game, time to bring it home, okay? I know you girls can do this, but we can only win if you work as a team. Remember, I'm looking to be impressed. If you think you can step up and be captain, prove it. Don’t let the Eagles leave here happier than they came. Now let’s play ball!” “1,2,3, GO COUGARS!” The team bellowed, rejuvenated from the pep talk. Just as Katie was about to leave the locker room a hand caught her elbow. “I bet if the both of us worked together we could embarrass Milana enough to send her crying to her mom,” Amara suggested with a smirk. Katie laughed as the image of Milan’s tear-streaked face came to mind. “You’re on. Coach will definitely make me captain after I win this for us.” “It was my idea you idiot,” she scowled. “Stop complaining, this is why no one wants you to be captain. You’re so annoying.” They left the locker room and jogged onto the field. The sudden influx of noise was overwhelming. The stands were full of people cheering as they realized the game was about to resume. Half of the people wore red and white in support of the Cougars. The other side wore green and black for the Eagles. The Eagles were to start with a kick-off to start the game. Milana was their captain, so she had the honours. Katie glared daggers at her, hoping she could feel her hatred. In a second the ball was air-borne, and everyone was running. An Eagle player started dribbling the ball to the net, but Josephine quickly stole the ball and changed directions. Katie ran in her direction to support her when she needed to pass the ball. Amara was closer and yelled at Josephine. “I’m open!” Josphine dodged a player in her way and sent the ball to Amara. She caught the ball and continued down the field. Amara was small but fast for her size, she zoomed down the field without letting anyone steal the ball. Milana came running in from behind her. She was taller and got beside her quickly. Katie ran towards them to assist. Noticing Milana, Amara pivoted around her and continued running. Milana rushed in as if to kick the ball from between her legs but instead, her foot went up and kicked Amara right in the crotch. Katie could see Amara’s eyes bulge as she fell to the field. She heard the ref whistling as she rushed over to where Amara was on the floor. “Are you okay?”, she winced looking down at her. “No, I’m not. That bitch kicked me in the vagina!” she groaned into the grass. Katie turned her head to where Milana stood close by. She looked down at Amara in fake shock. “It was an accident," she claimed, but the small smile on her lips said otherwise. “You are such a fucking pervert!” Amara screeched. Milana’s face flushed, “How dare you!” Katie looked at her and tilted her head. “Well, you did kick her in the crotch.” Milana gaped at them unable to form a response. “Is this your idea of foreplay?” Amara asked incredulously as she cradled her vagina with both hands. “Do you have a pain kink or some fucked up foot fetish?” Katie shook her head in disappointment. “No means no, Morina.” “What are you talking about?” She fumed, “She didn’t say no!” Amara gasped, “And that makes it okay?!” “No! That’s not what I meant!” “Before you attack her, wrap your whacker.” Katie chastised her, shaking a finger. Milana lunged for her, but the ref sharply whistled again, finally making it over to where they stood. “Cortez, that’s a warning.” He said and flashed up a yellow card. Milana shrieked and stomped away towards the rest of her teammates. The ref looked down to Amara still on the floor. Her eyes were closed as she still gripped her crotch. “Um, are you okay? He asked tentatively. She blinked her eyes open and looked around. Realizing Milana was gone, she sprung up and dusted her butt off. “Oh, yeah I’m fine.” The ref blinked in confusion but nodded and walked away. Katie laughed as she watched Milana’s coach scold her from the other side of the field. The pale girl was stomping and pointing as they went back and forth. “That was good,” Katie told Amara. “You’re a better actress than a soccer player.” Amara froze and glared at her. “Well, you’re good at neither.” They walked over to their teammates who immediately swarmed Amara. She assured them she was fine and stretched her legs out. Once the team was convinced she was fine they relaxed. Then Amara turned to Katie and jabbed her in the side lightly, “My leg kind of hurts from the kick so I probably can’t run as fast,” she said lowly. Katie scratched the back of her neck. Amara was one of their best scorers and was most likely going to get passed the ball to score in the final minutes. If she got the ball and tried to run, the chances of someone stealing the ball were much higher now. A plan dawned in her mind and Katie smiled, “I have an idea.” Only a few minutes were left in the game and tensions were high. The Cougars were to start off this time after Milana’s yellow card. Josie stood on the edge of the field with the ball. With a strong kick, she sent it flying. The girls raced towards the ball. The Cougars got control of the ball quickly and sent it down the field. As Katie expected, once they neared the net, one of her teammates passed the ball to Amara. She ran with the ball, still faster than most Eagles except one. Milana’s legs carried her to Amara in a matter of seconds. As she came close enough to make a play for the ball, Amara angled her arm as she ran and sent an elbow right into Milana’s boob. “Ouch!” she yelped as she faltered to clutch her chest. That moment created a window for Amara and as the other Eagles came towards her, she expertly passed the ball to Katie who was open slightly behind her. Katie caught the ball and charged forward. Noticing that the ball was headed towards the net, the other Eagles tried to catch up with her, but it was too late. With a hard thump, she soared the ball into the neck barely missing the goalie’s fingertips. The buzzer sounded and cheers erupted from the stands. The game was over, and the Cougars had won. Her teammates rushed her and tackled her into a huge hug as she cheered. “I must admit, that was a solid kick,” Amara laughed. “I was impressed myself with that boob shot," Katie snickered. Amara did a fake curtsy and both of them laughed. The team ran off the field to Couch Mac, who stood proudly on the sides. “Great job ladies!” She congratulated them. “Looks like the Cougars are going to the State Finals.” The team whooped. Amara poked Katie and she turned from the huddle. “Look,” she pointed to where the other team was gathered. Milana was crying snotty tears in front of her mother as the rest of the team looked on in disgust. Her mother shoved a box of tissues into her hand and stormed off the field. Milana cried harder. The girls stifled a laugh, satisfied with the results of their joint efforts. “Now, as promised,” Coach started. “I have decided on your new team captain.” The girls snapped their heads forward. Coach Mac looked between each girl pleasantly and clapped her hands together. “Your new captain is Katie-” “Yes!” Katie yelled in delight. She grinned at Amara’s sour expression. “In your face!” Coach Mac cleared her throat, “I wasn’t finished.” “Huh.” “Your new captain or should I say, co-captains are Katie and Amara.” Coach Mac smiled at them. Both girls froze. They looked at each other, then at their coach, then at each other again. “ What!” they barked.


The gunshots rang in the distance, their cover was getting shredded by enemy rounds and explosives. Private Luke Roberts of the 1st Battalion fought ferociously, his M16 was scorched due to the number of bullets he was firing. However, it was not enough, the situation was hopeless and the squad went down, one by one. Waiting for his time to come, Luke muttered a prayer and continued to retaliate against the army ahead of him.

“Take cover!” The ominous shadow of an explosive loomed over Luke as he dove into the nearby sand. Kaboom! Just as the sand settled back onto the ground and screams of agony nearby started, Luke looked down at the shrapnel in his chest and toppled over.

Luke was brought back to the memory of that fateful day; Tuesday, September 11th, 2001. This was also the day he had rushed to the recruitment center and signed up for the army. Walking to the building early in the morning, a youthful Luke strode merrily as he entered the crowded South Tower. Going up to the 88th floor, Luke greeted his father, the owner of an insurance firm.

“Hey, dad, a great day to doze off at this boring old firm of yours.” Luke joked.

“Oh, I’ll be the one resting, while you are to make me comfortable.” Luke’s father, Ben replied with a warm smile.

The two stared at each other for a moment before Luke’s father embraced him, cracking a few ribs. It has been a while since the two had seen each other and Luke was working a part-time job for his father in order to spend time with him. After greeting him, he went downstairs to his father’s favourite cafe to get them both some breakfast. It was almost nine-o-clock when Luke got into the elevator and he was famished. The young man watched the elevator screen as the floors descended slowly. Suddenly, an ear-piercing screech, followed by multiple explosions was heard from the neighbouring Twin Tower. The violent shaking that followed afterwards caused the elevator to stop. Luke was stuck in the elevator by himself and he desperately wanted to get some food.

“All that I ask for is some food and coffee, but this darn elevator gets me stuck.” Pressing the button for help, nothing but static sounded. Pounding on the door, Luke could hear screams and lots of commotion. Must be that explosion, Luke thought. Using a loose panel from the roof, he wedged it in the crack between the elevator doors and pulled it open. From there, Luke was met by a scene so terrifying his mind stopped working and he just stood still, mouth ajar. Surrounded by smoke, the tail of a plane poked out from the charred North Tower. Sirens sounded from all directions and panicked voices rose nearby.

“That pilot was crazy! He ran straight into the tower!” One bystander shouted.

“It’s the terrorists!” Another conspired.

However, at this point in time, Luke did not care about who and how the plane flew into the building. He wanted to help the people trapped. Immediately, Luke started to descend the staircase when another explosion occurred. However, this time, it was much, much louder, the building shook so hard, Luke thought it was going to topple. A wave of heat passed everyone and Luke’s ears started to ring. When finally, the dust settled, he realized that another plane had hit the building, the very building he was standing in! At that moment, one thing was made clear to every single person, this was not a freak accident; the United States of America was under attack! Luke wanted to leave, but his father was trapped on the upper floors, he could still be alive. Without a second thought, Luke turned around and started to climb the stairs. One floor at a time, he slowly progressed as the temperature rose and smoke thickened. Still, ten floors below, the staircase was blocked by the wreckage and he took a second to catch his breath. Out of the screams and sirens, a sound caught his ears, a kid’s cries for help nearby. Taking a detour, Luke found the boy alone and lost, with a gash on his leg. The kid was bleeding hard and would die if he didn’t get treatment. Between saving his father or this poor kid, Luke was torn. However, before Luke could decide, the floor above started to collapse. In a split second, he dove and pushed the injured boy out of harm’s way. Carrying the child, Luke started to dash down the stairs avoiding jagged pieces of steel and falling debris. With the heat behind him coming ever closer, Luke felt the his hair singe and picked up his pace. The lower he went, the more people started to appear, all with the same goal; get down to floor one. Carrying the boy by himself, Luke was running off of pure adrenaline when he finally found a room where people were resting. There was water and wet towels, kind heroes also handed out rations of food. Setting the kid down, Luke realized that he was unconscious and was bleeding harder than ever.

“Help! I need a medic!” Luke called out in desperation.

No response, only looks of sympathy.

“Medic! Medic! This kid is dying!” After a moment of silence, Luke was about to give up, when stumbling into the room, a tall, middle-aged man appeared.

“I’m a firefighter, I am trained in first aid, be there in a moment.” The newcomer said between breaths. Without wait, the fireman started to clean and wrap up the boy’s leg and started to tend the small cuts on Luke.

“Thank you I didn’t know what I would have done if it weren’t for you. By the way, names Luke Roberts.” He stuck out his hand in greeting.

Giving the hand a firm shake, the fireman started to introduce himself.

“Lieutenant Davis of squad 18. I came here to see my sister, but she was killed in the explosion. I got off easy as I was descending to the washroom when it happened.” “I am very sorry, I came to see my father, but I don’t know where he is anymore.” Luke empathized.

Suddenly, there was a rumbling and from the window, the two could see that the North Building was shaking violently. Then, abruptly, the building started to collapse, one floor at a time, until it was just a pile of rubble.

Immediately, everyone started to rush for the stairs.

“We’re all gonna die!” One man shouted The panic spread, soon, it was just the firefighter and Luke who stayed behind. “We need to rescue people from beneath the rubble!” The firefighter pointed at the wreckage.

“No, let’s start by evacuating the building first.” Luke replied.

With a nod, the dynamic duo jumped to their feet and started to work. Carrying the boy and the first aid kit on their backs, the firefighter and Luke started to descend the stairs, looking for any injured people. The first victim was an old man who was bleeding heavily from the head and bruised all over. By the seems of it, he fell down the stairs and was trampled.

“Sir, are you alright?” “Yes young man, I’ll be on my way.” The old man winced.

However, upon standing up, his eyes rolled and he started to fall. Fortunately, Luke caught him just in time and the firefighter bandaged his wounds. Luke carried both boy and old man as he walked to the ground floor to drop them off to the first responders. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Davis was searching for more wounded and giving treatment. The cycle went on and on, the firefighter would treat the wounds before handing them over to Luke for him to bring to ground level. On one trip to the ground level, Luke stopped for the first time to catch his breath. However, while resting, he took in just how terrifying the charred rubble looked, resembling nothing of the proud tower it was before. The air was filled with a stench, which made Luke puke as he identified the aroma to be burnt humans. Looking around, he could not believe his eyes, a man just fell from the building.

Splat.

The man hit the ground and lay there, an ominous pool of blood started to appear. Frozen in shock, Luke could not move nor think. There was shouting and when he looked up, Luke saw more people falling from the burning building. They were jumping off. As they hit the ground, Luke could not help but think, it’s raining men. It’s really raining men. Starting to go back into the building, a deep rumbling noise could be heard, the tower in front of Luke tilted dangerously. The huge crowd hushed. Just as it seemed like the worst was over, the supports of the second tower buckled and the building imploded. The power of the debris threw Luke around like a rag doll and launched him into the air. Before he hit the ground, he shed a tear for his firefighter friend, Davis and his father.

There was no sound as Luke was falling, there was no smell, then as he hit the ground, there was no sight.

Luke sat up and looked around, he was back on the battlefield. Bullets were still whizzing past his head. He coughed up blood, and he was bleeding out. There were only two more men in the squad left, Luke and his commander. Grabbing a gun off of a fallen soldier, Luke joined his leader in a final stand. Defending their location, the enemy pressed harder, surrounding them. A bullet shredded through the commander’s heart and he fell to the ground, motionless. He couldn’t die now, he has to carry the legacy of the firefighter, his father and now his squad of brave, young soldiers. Subconsciously, he knew he was dying, one bullet after the other shredded through his legs and body. However, his determination would not let him die. From above, a flapping sound grew closer, an Apache helicopter. In a miracle, Luke was thrown a ladder and he climbed with all his might. However, it was like he was not moving up the ladder and the bright light from the copter engulfed him. All was alabaster and shimmering. The dull pain washed away, while memories flooded him.

“Am I alive or have I come to be reunited with my fallen friends.”


The smell hit first, even before my mind’s eye could grasp that I was, in fact waking up from something…when had I fallen asleep? I don't remember feeling at all tired.... in fact, I had been enjoying bouncing around on the back seat.  Urg..that smell, acrid, overpowering. It’s tickling the back of my throat. I want to cough but my throat is just too dry. What happened? I remember being on the back seat. Window down. Enjoying the sun. Mum playing that noise she calls music, loudly, it hurt my ears. I remember her singing too, also loudly, and badly! Mum could not sing, even I knew that, but I didn’t complain. There had been a different smell in the car then as well, but not as strong. Something unusual, sweet yet chemical… Mum sometimes had that smell when she came home from work, or shopping, or, actually, anytime she left the house and came back. But this smell, bugging me now, this is different. This is strong. This is the smell of the stuff mum puts in the car. What is it doing outside of the car? I'm pretty sure my eyes are open now, yet it is really dark, and something is pricking in my eyes. Blinking makes it worse. I can feel tears welling every time I blink. My back hurts and I can’t feel one of my feet. It's not responding as it should. I think its wedged or weighted down. I can’t seem to move. I think at some point; up was down and down was up? I feel sick. I cry out “Mum?” “Mum?”  Nothing.

“Help Me!” “Help!” “Mum!” .   Nothing. Mum doesn’t respond. Usually, Mum would say something, anything, even yell at me for being too loud sometimes, but not now. Mum is silent. I can't hear her moving. I can’t even hear her breathing. Usually, when she’s asleep, she breathes very noisily. Not me, I’m a light sleeper. Anything wakes me. Any sound. It's like my superpower! Sometimes I jerk myself awake with my dreams. This doesn’t feel like a dream though. That smell is getting worse.

What’s that noise? is that new or was that there before? It’s a drip drip drip sound. Its near my head, somewhere but where? Drip… drip… that’s really annoying. And it's making the smell stronger. “Mum!” “Muummmm!” I don’t like this game! “Mum answer me!” I can hear a stranger’s voice. Its far away but it’s coming closer. It’s a man’s voice and he’s yelling something, but he’s not yelling at me, that’s good. Should I call out? What if he’s a bad man? Mum’s always warning me to stay away from bad men, actually, all men generally. He’s coming closer, and there’s yes, there is another voice, a woman’s voice, not like Mum’s voice. Mum’s voice is quite deep and scratchy, and she mumbled a lot. She used to confuse me as I would think that she was talking to me, when in fact, she was talking to herself.   This new voice, this is high pitched and screechy. Oh I don’t like this woman’s voice, she sounds frightened. She needs to stop being so loud. She’s starting to hurt my ears! Why can’t I move!! If I stretch my head back and look over my shoulder, yes, that’s it, yes, I can see one of Mum’s feet! She’s above me, or I’m under her? I'm under her chair! Yes, that’s it, I'm wedged under her chair!

They’re banging on the car now! What are they doing? They’re going to break the windows if they’re not careful!

“Mum” “Mum” “Wake up!” “There are strange people at our car!” “Mum!” “Mum, I can’t help you, I’m stuck!” Oh my god, the man is in the car now!

“Leave my Mum alone!” Leave her alone!!”  He’s, He’s dragging her! I can see her feet disappearing out the car!

“Mum!”  Where is he taking her? How dare he touch her! If I could, just get.. ‘Sshh’ “There's a good girl” it’s the screechy woman, I can’t see her, but I can smell her perfume. She’s on Mum’s chair, I can feel the seat hitting the side of my face . “It's ok, we are going to help your Mum, then we are going to help you” “Sshh, calm down now”.

“Why don’t you calm down! And get off my face!” I'm trying to move.  I'm using all my strength to try to move, but it is as if my body is not fully attached and working, and I now cannot feel my foot at all. I'm trying to manoeuvre my chin around so I can see out of Mum’s open door. I can just see her shoe with her foot in it, on the grass just outside the car. What is he doing to her! He’s hurting her!

“Mum!” I can hear a new noise.  Sirens and they’re getting close. That’s good, help is coming! I like watching the vehicles whizz by with their sirens blaring and their flashing lights. Whenever Mum and I went for a walk around our neighborhood, we would always stop and watch the police car or ambulance go flying by, blue lights flashing off all the shop windows. The fire trucks were my favorite though, big, loud and fast, racing off to save the day. I always felt very excited, but Mum was never keen to follow after them. She always seemed a bit sad, our walks always a bit rushed, that was probably why she was always very thirsty when we got back to the house. I hear the tyres on the ground next to the car. Two doors open and close at almost the same time. More voices now, another man and woman. They sound calm and commanding.

“What do we have?”

“Female, non-responsive, not breathing, CPR for about 7 minutes”

“Okay, we’ll take it from here, is she the sole occupant?” The screechy woman joins in here, “no, we have this sweet girl back here, but she’s ended up jammed in tight under the front driver’s seat. She’s been crying a lot so she’s breathing but likely in a lot of pain”. “We’ll need the fire crews to cut her out, the roof and door are completely crushed around her, shall I make the call?” “Mum I’m Scared” “Don’t let them take me!” “Please Mum” “Nah, not worth their time. We’ll get her put out of her misery. Give the local vet a call”.


This is a topic that I hear a lot of people talk about in different channels. Be it Aaron Doughty stating that you just have to “imagine” yourself in this “parallel reality” in order to “become” that all knowing and well suited lottery winner. It’s as though you already were one. You don’t question the need or want to even become one. That stage does not even exist in this type of framing in order to actually BE the lottery winner. Technically, winning the lottery is possible with time and space manipulation. However, it isn’t as simple as just imagining this. There has to be some energetic force that actually pushes and reveres one to actually physically be in a state to manipulate the rolling balls per se in a lottery machine in order to make it land within the numbers that you imagine in your mind. A lot of people state that you can just use your birthday numbers or some numbers with special emotional meaning tied to you, in order to get the ball rolling with this and see the physical manifestation of this altogether in that lottery station that pushes out the balls in a lottery machine. This energetic force in itself has to also come from some actual spirit force to move the balls for you. You yourself are not standing right next to the lottery machine. Your spirit can’t detach too much in order to do the job for you. Your own soul is still attached to your physical body and living, and isn’t too detached on meth or LSD to sort of astral project this kind of endeavor. It’s probably going to be your dead aunt who oversees you or your guardian angel or spirit guide. That’s if they want to do the job for you. I considered the fact that maybe Elissa could perform this trick the minute she felt wings on her back as an earth angel. “Hey, maybe you can also use your powers to win the lottery!” I giggled as I thought about all the supernatural powers that just came upon her. This would be something that I would have found would have provided that interesting and very helpful incidence that she could literally bring upon into fruition. “I can sense abundance,” she told me. She usually felt this feeling in her stomach when she came upon a rich man who made lots of money. It was some feeling that she would always receive that was a psychic intuition about something. I know that I could probably use some money after everything I’ve gone through over the years. This is because I have inevitably fallen into some sort of money hole several times in my life over the past half decade. I have actually been scammed before by an Indian company that used fraud to pose as the police and got me to provide them with a few grand as a result of not doing my taxes for the previous year. I’ve signed up for online trials that have sneakily trapped me into subscriptions that I couldn’t get out of and inevitably sourced out 30 dollars from my bank account each month. Let’s not forget about the ghost that has clung onto my body for the past half decade and stolen my bank cards and robbed me hundreds at a time every few months. It’s a vicious cycle that I can’t seem to get rid of, since it has played tricks on me even when it left my body, placing hexes on me from up “there” as well to take half a grand every 4 months. I was so worried when I saw this cycle come about the minute I witnessed another unauthorized transaction in my Scotiabank account. I had to close down my TD accounts altogether because of what it did when it clung onto me. It started with a few transactions of $3 wings from KFC. Then it escalated into taking away my mother’s 500 dollar cash bundles in my lucky money envelopes from time to time. Then it was my presto card. When I visited a psychic at Jane and Sheppard to try to remove this entity from my body, I thought that was the end of it. Apparently, it wasn’t. Ghosts can always come back from up there, heaven, and play tricks on others down in the 3D plane as well. They have the power to manipulate space and time now and will do things like make objects move or send you a text message. I found that it had robbed me yet again that fateful day I found half a grand taken from my bank account when I couldn’t find my bank card in my wallet as I tried to check out my groceries at Freshco that day. Thankfully, the card returned to me a day later from an angel. “A hex was placed on you,” Hindu psychic mentioned as he rattled his stones to find out what was behind this mischief. “Whhaaat? I thought it left my body!!!” I responded in shock and horror. “Shhhh! Be quiet! There are spirits around you,” he answered, as I was apparently disrupting the peace and quiet of the atmosphere. To make matters worse, he told me that the spirit liked me, and that it would continue to do this in the future. Great. I can expect half a grand taken from my bank account every 4 months now. In my dreams I tried to resolve this issue by summing up well known earth angel, Doreen Virtue, and her spirit. I met her for the first time in my dream on the TTC subway train. Someone else was calling for her attention at that moment in time, and she felt a tug of war tension between tending to either me or her. When I met her again in another dream sequence, she recognized me and said, “Nice to see you again. Whitney?” She must of confused me with someone else, and I said, “No, Lena.” I brought up the issue with the ghost robber, and she replied, “Well, he’s not attached to you anymore.” It wasn’t until I found a message from an angel the next day that I felt more relieved. There was a text message that stated, “return issued–>” in my cell phone. This cell phone was placed right next to that stolen Scotiabank card that I had miraculously found a day later returned to me. It was pointing to the card. I followed the magical instructions to return this card and cancel the account altogether, and transfer the funds to another bank account. This was what I needed to do in order to break that hex or black magic spell on me. I visited a psychic the next day to get my questions answered as well. She told me that angels were overseeing me on this as she placed a tarot card of an angel on the table. “I see good signs with this,” she mentioned. Okay, that’s good to hear. It’s not like I haven’t gone through enough turmoil with all of this. With the help of all that, I can’t help but wonder whether a fellow angel could manipulate space and time to help me garner up a few million dollars and help me win the lottery. I have thought about it, although it’s really not something that has been placed upon me with too much urgency or need. My angels also repeat bank transaction credits into my new CIBC account whenever I am at a place of low funding, I realized. Just recently, there was a transfer of 400.38 onto my account. It adds up my total amount of money. That’s what gives me the security. I have always lived off of a budget of 2 grand every month, and it has stayed and remained this way for the past 10 years. I still shop at Dollar Tree and Frescho every month. I never eat out. I never buy new expensive clothing. I use products until they are worn and torn before I replace them. It was somewhat doable even with the ghost robberies. It’s not like I haven’t gone through ups and downs with this. I’m too old of a soul to really give into the built-up illusion that money can buy happiness on a linear path that just rises and rises with the rate of satisfaction. Money does buy security and comfort and free will, but the effect does taper off after a point though. More so, I think I’m a bit too evolved and conscientious to really ask for large sums of money. I know that I have to hold back on spending too much and wasting too much. When you’ve gone through enough lifetimes and are very aware of how your actions and requests are affecting others, including angels and ghosts up there.


The sharpie started making that bothersome screech sound as I hurriedly drew out, in large block type letters, the message I desperately needed to portray. I would make two dozen and scatter them around the hallways. One of my signs would strike a chord with someone, it just had to. Should I add color? Something to grab attention. No time for perfection, but these needed to work. All I had, a pack of markers and a stack of white paper. These were my tools. I opted for a blue line under the word LOST. Red could grab attention, but also brought about feelings of a warning sign and who is really interested in reading those? Blue was bright, pleasant, and did not blend into the yellowing white walls of the hurried halls. I tossed my markers in my bag, the emptiness even more apparent, slung the bag over my shoulder. Freshly made printer paper posters and scotch tape in hand I shuffled down the hall and tacked my message on every board and door I came across. I seemed to catch the attention of some, hopefully they glanced toward the message and not just the shambles I appeared to be in. When I reached the second hall, I paused for a moment to check my phone for messages. No texts. No missed calls. No one had found it. Or no one cared to tell me. I continued my process: rip tape, grab sheet, apply tape to top of sheet, press to wall, walk, pause, repeat. On and on through four halls. I had paused at the end of each hall for a phone check. Texts: none, calls: none, email: my frozen yogurt rewards were expiring. The clock continued to tick. Of course, I’m being metaphorical. There was nothing ticking anywhere close to me, my phone was annoyingly quiet. Yet, I still felt that pressure, tick, tock, tick, tock. I needed someone to find it. I had searched and now I had to wait. Well, wait while sitting, listening, note taking, thinking , what time was it? Of course, I was late, I was always late. My hands were empty of papers, so I tossed the tape in my bag and hurried to my destination. Back to the first hall, no one waited for me, but they did note my presence as I quietly made my way to my seat grabbing a spare pencil someone had left on a desktop. I sat down, I was not present in the conversation, pencils are the worst, this is what filled my mind. I found my notepad in my sad bag and scribbled a little to test it out. Oh ,how infuriating that sound was. Could people even hear themselves think with my lead scratches. It felt like a punishment. It probably was. Scribble scribble, pause to absorb, scribble more, repeat. The conversations dwindled and I looked at my hand, a smear of graphite on the side of my pinky finger. So ridiculous. I looked at the clock, time ticking down in my head, but no sound emanating from its face. I had moments to myself, the search was on. I retraced my steps from before the postings. I was always so careful. A place for everything. I imagined my bag felt it too, something was out of place, the process was interrupted, the system was broken. Walking, looking, crouching, peeking, nothing. This was absurd. Check phone, nothing. Think, just think . Let’s try this in reverse, reverse of my current method, so forward. When did I last have it? This morning, first thing. Tick, tock, tick, tock. What happened after that? The thought of my looming schedule was muddling my thoughts. I couldn’t do it without it . I needed to find it. Dashing back to my morning start, think , coffee, I tasted coffee. Did I taste it now, or from before? I looked around, no cup or pot in sight. Before, it was a clue, my mind was clearing. I moved in the direction the coffee taste led me and peered through a door, room empty. I opened the door quietly and I rifled through papers and inside drawers, nothing. Snapping back to reality I realized what I was doing, rearranged all the things that were not mine and left, the door closing with a click. My phone vibrated in my pocket, my heart skipped a beat, the coffee taste vanished and I looked at the message. Appointment reminder. Not helpful. Initiate countdown. I continued on my path, the same path, I had already been here. This was not working. Someone was trying for my attention. I came back to reality, interrupted his question and pointed towards one of my signs. With a laugh he shook his head to indicate “no” and continued on his way. I knew what people were thinking, but I didn’t understand it. That’s how it usually was. Another person caught my attention, looked at me, tapped on her watch and gave an excited expression with her face. I raised my eyebrows and made a timid smile. I was aware of the pressure and importance, tick, tock, tick, tock. I needed to make my way to the room, that room. I frantically searched the corners and hall floors as I made my way to my destination. I passed by people, they patted my shoulder, gave encouraging jesters and attempted high fives. I left them hanging. I couldn’t stray from my task. The ticking became more real, I felt the urgency, I looked up to see an analog clock on the wall. Thank God , it wasn’t all in my head. I made it to the room, five minutes to spare. I halted my search to go over my plan. Routine had to mean something. Routine actually meant everything. I played it through in my head as I had so many times before. I could do this. I had done this. I was snapped out of it by a tap on the shoulder. “Is this yours?” The overly confident voice asked. My eyes were wide, my world came in to focus. I lightly grabbed the pen from his hand, barely said thank you , and he walked away without another thought. My pen, the pen. The search was over. I stepped towards the door, my finger clicked the pen top and my heart was ready.


A serpent slithers through the desert. It drags its colossal body over the crunching bones of ancient victims, swishing torrents of sand in its wake. The earth trembles. Above, a dark cloud appears in the blue sky. The serpent pauses, swivels its head. It fixes a yellow eye on the cloud, watches it darken, broiling with fury, as if dragging in a long-winded breath, readying to strike. The snake doesn’t hesitate, moves fast through the desert, positions itself at the edge of the cloud’s lightning rage. There is nothing but dry, hungry sand stretching wide, and the sharp electric burn of a charged current, the taste of cataclysmic magic hovering overhead. The snake has hunted most of its life for a hidden world in the desert, a way in – looking for some sign, some anomaly. And here, beneath the first cloud to form in one hundred years, it stops. It flicks a forked tongue into the electric air one last time, coils its body. Waits. --- Leven doesn’t notice the dark swell of the cloud forming above. His eyes are on the girl – the one he’s just stabbed. A killing meant for a snake. The knife’s ornate handle protrudes from her gut, the twining vines of two filigreed snakes with inlaid ruby eyes, twin mouths, open and wide, feasting on her flesh. Leven’s hands shake as he wipes a cold sweat from his brow, smearing blood there, the truth twisting in his gut like a hot blade, a tumultuous unearthing of his own. He remembers the queen, who smiled with all her teeth as she handed him the knife. This knife has been made for a snake, the queen had said, the lie taking root, coiling the invisible threads of poison up his limbs. She made him believe the knife was made to kill a snake – but hears the words again in his mind, This knife has been made for a snake. Not to kill a snake. But to do a snake’s bidding. He wants to vomit as the truth washes over him. He replays it all in his mind – the way the magicked knife made itself quiet while he hunted for a snake, leading him here, distracting him with the heroic honor of slain monsters along the way, made him believe he was a god. It pushed its ideas in shallow waves in between its whispered admiration and praise, never letting him discover the prison it was quietly building around him, brick by brick. Until it was too late. The knife had him by the throat, squeezed until the air between the blade and the girl was gone and all that filled the space was a pulsing bloodlust. Leven lets out a shuddering breath. He leans forward, gently lifts the girl into his arms, cradles her. She shifts into him, her breathing shallow. The knife wanted her dead – but its fervor is nothing compared to the beat of his wild heart that wants her alive now, wants everything to run in reverse, wants her skin breathing into his. The knife had him walking in a haze, but now he has returned to himself, and feels the cool thrum of his own voice in his veins. He tucks a tendril of loose hair behind her ear, comes close enough to brush his agonized sorry against her temple. A single tear slides from her eye, catches his lip. The sky cracks. Lightning illuminates them like fallen stars, before they are plunged into the near-dark. At last Leven tears his eyes from the girl, looks up to the vengeful sky. The cloud above is unearthly, seething, cracking lightning fingers. A single drop of water falls directly between them, onto the knife’s handle, still embedded in the girl’s stomach. Leven watches, transfixed, as the water slides like a tear from the jeweled eye of the filigreed snake, hissing against the metal. He holds her firmly as the handle disintegrates, as if the water has become fire, the knife its bone-cracking kindling. Within moments the knife becomes ashes, grabbed callously upward by a vindictive wind. Leven only has a moment to gape at the girl’s wound, now free of the knife, the bleeding miraculously stopped, before the water drops from the sky. --- Death suits her. The sky splits open and reaches down with glossy hands of water skimming up her arms. The water rises, infinite and thunderous around her, but the midnight waves lift her gently, holding her close like a mother shushing into the starlit folds of her newborn baby’s neck, brushing a silken hand to the peach-fuzz hairline, pausing at the temple. She swallows a whole-body shiver, drifts beneath the heady scent of white jasmine stars, petals raining down on her body. She wonders why she waited so long to die, to find this place, like brushing up against a veil of gossamer wings, the whisper of eyelashes blinked against the delicate skin beneath her closed eyelids, a tendril of hair tucked behind the shell of her ear. The blooming night sky is a lid of midnight aloe, pricked with breezy stars to let in the air. She could spend eternity here, in the arms of death. The burning ache in her gut has subsided – no longer white hot with rage. The water presses weightless hands to the knife wound, washes the ache away with careful hands. There is a question beneath the water’s surface, a welcoming. The waves gather her to its watery chest, slides a hand down her face as the priests do for final rites. A re you ready? it asks between thunderous breaths, gentle somehow, then, without waiting for her answer, heaves her into the heart of its muted eternity. She is falling into the abyss. There is water all around her, pressing her in, behind and before, safe, cocooned. Down here it is quiet. She is not chosen, or other, simply a forgotten guest of the infinite seas – a home too vast to remember where all the creatures lie folded into the seams. Those creatures, old as time, brush past her, leaving the shuddering swell of changed currents in their wake, the waters shifting colder, warmer, colder again. She is too small for their notice, an infinitesimal mote risen up from the riverbed’s slurry. Above her, there is a wild crash, frantic arms loop around her waist, a heartbeat presses in the space between her closed eyes. The water pulls, beckoning her, the question still there tingling in its depths – one she can taste like a grain of sea salt pressed to her tongue – but the arms around her are urgent, unrelenting, a plea. And then she is heaved up, out, and the arms are now a mouth, pressing wildly to hers. Her mind reels back, shifts together, focuses on the shape above that is willing life back between the saturated woods of her. She opens her eyes. To him, raven black hair dripping water into his squinted eyes, down his chin, onto her mouth. The man who murdered her. And above him, looming even higher, arched like an arrow, a snake.


My mind was at peace as I was about to begin another day in paradise. It looks to be another glorious day in November. I felt better than usual. Good weather does that for me. The air was fresh, filling my lungs with energy. I breathe in yet again as I gaze at my Weather Bug app, a glowing temperature of 58 degrees with a soft southeast breeze. Nothing could go wrong today, or so I thought. Little did I know, an anomaly awaits me.

It’s about a 23-minute drive to work and back, 46-minutes for me to ponder the events of the day. Lincoln Elementary is a public school in Yellow Waters, Kansas. An urban setting with 503 beautiful students and 38  dedicated educators who cultivate and nurture minds. I am their proud principal, Mr. Douglas Wells, of 29 years. There are good days and bad days. More experience means nothing; there is no such thing as a routine day. Got a love it! I do! Driving up to my school is always a mirific experience.  The school building is all brick, built-in 1902. It’s been updated three times. The community has grown—the need to build on last year gave us additional needed classrooms. I usually arrive 2-hours early. I like to use that time to focus on the details of the day. Although, I was convinced that things would go smoothly. After all, Mother Nature was on my side. As I enter the building, I notice our most critical individual-the building engineer cleaning the main hall floor. I like shiny floors.

“Hello, Dave,” I say, passing by on my way to my office.

“Hey,” Mr. Wells, how was your evening?”

“Pretty good! Isn’t it a wonderful day, Dave?”

“Sure is boss.” “Oh, Mr. Wells, When you have time today, I need to ask you about the musical setup you want.” “Ok, Dave, I will send you an email when we can meet.”

Looking over my schedule, I see that I have a meeting at 7:30 am with my Vice Principal, Mrs. Tiffany Cortelle. Mrs. Cortelle has been an educator at Lincoln Elementary School for 14 years. Two years ago, I saw leadership skills that impressed me to promote her to Vice Principal. She has become an outstanding leader, very knowledgeable about the curriculum and instructional implementation. Teachers respect her. Mrs. Cortelle arrives early with two Grande Mochas, one in each hand. My favorite! Our focus is always to plan out our day. Working as a team delivering the same message is imperative to staff—less confusion. happy people.

“Hello, Tiffany, come on in, I urged.

 “Hello, Mr. Wells, I brought coffee,” Tiffany smiles. “Beautiful day, yes?” I ask. “Gorgeous!” She responds. “Yay, you brought coffee and my favorite! How was your weekend?” I ask.

“It was fine. My daughter is about to drive me crazy!” “What’s wrong?”

“She told me this morning she hates me.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really!”

“She threw a fit because I wouldn’t spend $600.00 for a dress to wear, maybe one time, to her high school prom. In a sincere mien, I suggested she get a job and help pay for it. That suggestion didn’t go over too well, at all!” “Oh my goodness,” hoping that Tiffany would tell me more.

“So, how did it turn out?”

“Well, I m here; She’s there at school, and both of us are a little pissed off; it’s going to be a grand day, right, Mr. Wells!” “The weather sure has indicated a good day, hoping to keep the positive vibes rolling. I guess the saga goes on. I will be excited to find out how it ends.”

“Shall we get started?” I queried. “I think we need to spend some time with grades 3-5 today. They seem to be struggling with their Marzano Instructional Strategies,”

“I think that is a good idea,” Tiffany echoed.

“I will be in a lot of meetings today; therefore, I will take 4 th grade. If you could, please assess grades 3rd and 5th?” “That works for me,” Tiffany agreed.

As Mrs. Cortelle rose to leave to her office, I proposed, “Let’s meet a few minutes after school and debrief our assessment scores from the observations.” “Got it!” The morning continued with little to no problems. Kids are doing well, the staff seems to be chipper, and why not? It

was an amazing day; at least the morning was terrific.

And then, the day started to slip into a darker place like a universal spirit had begun to run rampantly with the ghastly intent of ruining my “GOOD DAY”! It became creepy. I thought surely the walls started to shake down the halls straight into my office like dominos falling sequentially.

Suddenly, my door shot open, slamming into the adjacent wall. I could see Mrs. Cortelle’s hand on the doorknob as it flew open.  Shock permeated up and down my back as she burst through my office door, unannounced...tears cascading copiously down her rosy cheeks. She was blubbering in a foreign language I wasn’t privy to; It sounded like jibberish or pig Latin.

“What in the world is wrong, Tiffany?” Flummoxed. “Is there a food fight in the cafeteria? Did Juan kick someone again, maybe you?” I joked, which was not a good move.

“IIINEETOOOOLEVEMYHUSSSBANISSSSINJAL,” and spit erupted from her lips. It sounded like busted morse code.

“Calm down, Tiffany; I can’t understand a word your saying.” “My husband has been arrested,”

“Oh, My God! What!?” I wailed like a rooster.

“I just received a call from my husband. The police came and took him to jail,” Tiffany shrieked out with emotion! “For what!?” I am now wondering what the hell happened to my lovely day.

“I received a call from Detective Dumass; he is accusing him of lewd and lascivious acts with his student. “I need to leave!” she stammered. About that time, Dave walked in. I guess he thought it was an excellent idea to discuss where to put the rafters. “Not now, Dave, remember, I will email you.” “Sorry, Mr. Wells, he said apologetically and immediately bolted from the room. “Ok, close the door. Let’s slow down a bit here,” I proposed in a calming voice. “Explain to me what has happened. You are obviously upset, and rightly so. But, leaving school in your emotional state will not help; you need a plan.” I suggested.

Tiffany’s weeping was still out of control, but there was some evidence that she was about to slow down her breathing so we could talk in English sentences.

 “Ok, I received a call about 15 minutes ago from my husband. He is in the Fairfield jail. Apparently, a female student of his has accused him of making sexual offers of sex to her. Detective Dumass arrived at Washington High School with a warrant for his arrest. I don’t know much more than that right now. I need to leave! Tiffany whimpered.

“Have you contacted an attorney? “You do know that one is provided for you through the union.” “No, I haven’t called one, but I do know one is provided,”

“I would suggest you take a few minutes and call the union rep. Then contact an attorney. You will need one, anyway, to get him out of jail. “Ok, I will go to my office and call people.”

I flopped down in my chair. I was numb and dumbfounded. What just happened? I whispered. Before I could gather my faculties, another teacher, Ms. Bracket, stopped to inform me that there was a fight on the playground. While she told me their names, Mrs. Cortelle returned to announce, “I need to go see the attorney!” “Sure, go!” Off like a flash. Faster than a roadrunner, she dashed away. Walking to the playground, I reflected, What was I going to say, no? My next thoughts were: did he...did Mr. John Cortelle really do this? I mulled these horrible accusations over and over for hours. My head was pounding like a pinball bouncing around it. I had enough trouble keeping my dendrites healthy without this happening.

Before morning, the local media latched on to the story. It was reported on the 5:00 pm news, “Mr. John Cortelle, a Special Needs Teacher at Washington High School, was arrested and jailed for soliciting sexual favors from a Washington High Student. Detective Dunass appeared on the TV screen, “I have tapes, and witnesses of the amorous incident-justice will be served.” It appeared from the newscast that Mr. Cortelle was guilty. According to the detective, there was plenty of evidence to prove he did commit this heinous crime. People will believe the worst. Guilty or not, his career was over. What about Mrs. Cortelle?

Two months later, Tiffany came to visit. I was glad to see her; but, It wouldn’t be a pleasant visit. I  knew something was eating at her. I started off the conversation, “Bring me up to speed, Tiffany?”

“Well,” Tiffany started, eyes looking at the floor.

“I went to a Washington Girls Basketball game to watch my daughter play.” “You remember that she played for her father, right?” “I do.” “There were very few places for my son and me to sit, but I spotted a place by my friend Sally.” “You remember, her kids went to school here during your first year as principal.” “Yes, I remember.” “You know, Sally was my best friend, so I thought.” “I thought, sitting by her would be a safe spot.” “But, while my son and I were perched in front of her, she made comments about John that were loud enough so I and others could hear it.” Tiffany continued, eyes still facing the floor. She touted loud enough for everyone to hear her, “Did you hear that John Cortelle was arrested and charged with a malicious crime against a Washington High student? What I understand, he did the most unspeakable thing. He sexually assaulted a female student, can you believe it?” “I was devastated; my son was humiliated! You could hear a pin drop in a crowded basketball arena. It was awful!” as tears came down, dropping on the desktop and floor. “Oh, My God! Why would she do that? What did you do?” I cajoled. “Nothing, I got up, turned around…stared at her…and left.” And she is your friend?” I said.

“Not anymore,” Tiffany assured. “She’s toast!” Then I asked, “What is your attorney doing to help John?”

“The attorney’s name is Ms. Peterson, who was assigned to John’s case, by our outstanding and so reliable union rep,” she said sarcastically. “Guess what? She specializes in corporate law. That worthless bitch knows nothing about criminal law.” Curious, I asked, “What did she say or do?”

“Ms. Peterson said she was going to go to the Madison County Jail and speak to him...she didn’t show up...Ms. Peckerhead Peterson said she would go to the arraignment...you guessed it, she didn’t show up, and she sent her office aide. What really pisses me off,  she has canceled every damn one on one meeting she scheduled with us. And only will talk to us on the phone and has no answers yet on how to clear my husband from these ridiculous charges.”

By the way, “We may be going to trial in two weeks.” I glanced up, “Has she contacted any of the witnesses?”

“Fuck, no! That bitch hasn’t even called the Washington High Principal!” Tiffany glowered “Don’t  you think you need to seek a different attorney?” I challenged. “I don’t know if the district will pay for it if we were to get an outside attorney; plus, we just don’t have that kind of money!”

“Well, at this point, what is more important, saving John and his reputation from being castigated for the rest of his life for something he didn’t do or spending the money to get him cleared of these ridiculous charges?” I blasted. “Common Tiffany, think! You have to do something soon. “I know an attorney who is fair, honest, and damn good at defending innocent people. His name is Anderson. I’ll jot down his phone number on a posted note for you,” “Go see him, at least call him!” “Ok, thank you for listening; you are a good boss and friend.” “Thanks, but go call him now!” Six months passed. No trial. Mr. Anderson was hired on the spot; Ms. Peterson was out. As the months followed, Mr. Anderson’s firm discovered evidence to prove John’s innocents. Ironically, it was the same evidence being used to find him guilty. It told a different story. Some semblance of his innocence started to prevail.

After months of delays, Mr. Anderson, John, and Tiffany Cortelle’s were ready to meet with the prosecuting attorney, Mr. Sharpnuts, Mrs. Shithead, and the Howard School District’s attorney, Mr. Nohart.

“Time to fess up,” Mr. Anderson charged.

He began the meeting by reading the rules of evidence. He started the discussion by insulting their intelligence with a recital of the law, “Prosecutors and defendants in criminal proceedings may present evidence in support of their cases. The state has the burden of proving guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, while the defendant may present evidence to challenge the state’s case. Each side should have the opportunity to review the other side’s evidence before trial and object to introducing certain evidence before or during the trial. In criminal cases, defendants may move the court to exclude evidence that the state obtained.”

“Gentlemen, it appears to me that much of the evidence has either been intentionally left out, or some of you need to return to law school; allow me to explain. I am questioning the evidence you have against my client, Mr. John Cortelle.”  “First, can you tell me the whereabouts of the video recordings that Detective Dumass obtained?”

“I do believe that evidence is at the police department, said Mr. Sharpnuts.

“Agreed,” said Mr. Nohart. “According to the Chief of Police, the video is still in the hands of the Haward School District,” Mr. Anderson rebutted.

“That’s not true!” Mrs. Shithead corrected. “Detective Dumass took it on the day of the complaint.” “It seems then we have a quagmire situation, don’t you agree, Mrs. Shithead?”

A quiet pause.

Mr. Anderson continued on with his second point, “During my deposition with Mr. Adams, the counselor reported to Mrs. Shithead, during her investigation, and I quote, ‘He only heard Mr. John Cortelle talking to the complainant about skipping school. I was in the classroom during all but 2-minutes of the meeting.’ “I must say that wasn’t in Detective Dumass’s report or Mrs. Shithed.

You could hear a pin drop...no rebuttal was offered.

“I must say, the video is evidence that the alleged conversation took place. It shows the complainant for approximately 7-minutes per video recording time, which we don’t have available. It also showed that Mr. Adams, who shared the room with Mr. Cortelle, also enters the room 2-minutes after the complainant entered, again no video to prove it. I’m perplexed gentlemen, “where is the video? Who changed the original report?” Mr. Anderson presents his final empirical reasoning, “Gentlemen, I hold up to you, not the incident reports that Mr. Dumass, the school principal, or Mrs. Shithead submitted initially. Someone has deleted the originals and replaced them with the ones in my hands.”

“How do I know this? Mrs. Cortelle made sure to get a copy of the original reports from the school principal and police department.”

“Let me refresh your memory. The police report reads, “The principal, Mr. Newman, calls Human Resources and speaks to Mrs. Shithead to explain the alleged sexual misconduct. She advises the principal to secure the video, contact the police department, and file an incident report, to which he does.”

“He gives a copy of the written report to Mrs. Cortelle. He then surrenders the videos and the incident reports to Detective Dumass. The district union then sends Mrs. Cortelle to an appointed attorney Ms. Peterson, who practices corporate law.”

“It appears the police report has been changed from the original. Based on the evidence’s change and the district testimony, Detective Dumass had possession of the evidence.”

“Is it possible that the only people inside the police department would have access to police reports? I am still curious, “Where are the video and the original police reports?”

“If there is no video available or the original police reports, do you really want this to go to trial?” “Could it be that Mr. Cortelle was assumed guilty?”

Ten long months later, with many twists and turns, the charges were dropped. A civil lawsuit followed. The case never went to court. It was mediated by a judge who ordered the Haward School District to pay the defendant, Mr. John Cortelle, $250,000.00 in damages.

Mr. Cortelle never returned to education. The ordeal had damaged his reputation. No school district would take the chance to hire him, even though the charges were dropped. Mrs. Cortelle returned to work at Lincoln Elementary with Mr. Wells. She is now a successful principal at an elementary school in the same district.

The human resources manager, Mrs. Shithead, left the district for health reasons.

Detective Charles Dumass is no longer employed by the police department.


I regained consciousness in a coffin of cedar, the timeless scent barely becalming my horrendous sense of claustrophobia. And then, rage; for it was apparent that some doctor had a crude sense of jest. Perhaps it was on purpose that I was entombed whilst living, yet I was not an ill mannered fellow and had few antagonists. These thoughts however, were beyond pointless. Moving my arms and legs, I ascertained that nothing was permanently damaged, though there was a feeling of-well from what I've only studied (until now, that is)-the feeling of rigor mortis. My soul and mind knew my limbs remained intact but the limbs themselves refrained from this opinion. I struck repeatedly upon that lid of my confinement, not expecting anything. My faith was rewarded. I lit my tantrum with all the dreams I was too cowardly to do while alive, and the regrets I wanted to die from, down here. Exhausted, I attempted to contain my wrath, for surely the oxygen was sparse, and this, along with the general macabre environment, had me recollecting an event that befell my companions. Never being one for minute spaces nor entrapments, I had refrained from many expeditions into subterranean ruins that my archaeological peers were so fond of, until, not two years ago, in 1872, excavating a crypt from 2516 B.C. on the island of Cyprus, they did not return. There were no claw marks, nor sanguine trails into hidden passageways, and no local unsubstantiated legends to make any cognizance of their disappearance. The queerest thing was the note they had left behind. I could not quite recall the exact words, but it was something to do with following: the most splendid musical compositions, ones never heard before on this planet, we do not want to be down here any more, and the cosmos sees us all. Most unnerving. The recount of this nameless terror, however, was not helping my present predicament. I closed my eyes with determination, recalling the events of the few weeks prior to this abysmal situation. They had gone by as something of an inebriated blur; I had been diagnosed with consumption and the outlook was grim. I recalled the hazy days as if I were staring through the malady: a few doctors around me, mumbling scientific vanity, the appalling conditions of the ward I was housed at-the face of my wife, devoid of any emotion, should would not touch me. The most disturbing fact was some figure in black that I could not remember clearly....then a sheet over my head and the feeling of extraordinary acceleration-into nothing. I ascertained this was when I relinquished command of my corporeal being, for a time. Suddenly, a day or nocturnal dream (for I could not tell the hour) or an apparition (for it could not be a memory) eradicated my current musings on my life above ground. I was on an operating table completely naked-some nurse was cleaning my corpse with some noxious liquid and, my God, opening my throat with a metallic device-pouring embalming fluid down my esophagus-a casket of cedar with a black crucifix-a rather empty funeral, for my wife had committed suicide after the announcement of “death”-the graveyard in the French quarter of New Orleans...through this maelstrom of the subconscious (or soul conscience) living photographs, there was a figure of void black through it all. At times in the foreground, often in the back almost a memory, like a forgotten companion in one's youth, yet always coming closer. I could not meet this figure, I was determined to stay away, but as with many things we dread, my wishes were in vain. The entity loomed over me, it's movements were not mortal they appeared to swim and flow as though a celestial tide from beneath the universe was caressing its formless mass. It placed something in my pocket and I awoke again, beneath that horrid lid. Yet the feeling that engulfed me now was incalculably worse. It was though I could feel the weight of the rotting earth and flesh in tons, pressing down through my varnished wooden box of mortal rot, down past my perspiring chest, down into my very soul. I had to escape. I reached into my tuxedo of death and felt the nine pronged key. My astonishment was so severe that I cried aloud, coughing up formaldehyde. Sliding my finger over it, I envisioned the little white horns and a small elongated skull, though what creature it may have been, I knew not. Though it had been on my person for some time, it was unearthly cold to the touch. I felt every conceivable inch of that hellish container again and twice over, my back itching from the new black suit. Maybe an hour had passed of this activity in agony when the morbid realisation of my death by starvation came upon me. This was it. There was not a thing more I could do. It is sorrowfully amusing how no one thinks to craft a coffin which opens from within. I should just roll over and die. Which is what I did. And my index finger fell upon some miniature hole in the bottom of my coffin. Heart palpitating erratically, I frantically dug out that spectral key of bone and with a few failures, heard the tell tale click. I turned it. And turned again. Attempted reversing, inserting halfway...nothing worked. Striking the key in anger it punctured my hand, blood swimming over it as I grasped it in frustration, cursing whatever deplorable fates had riddled me with this ill-fated existence. Then with an almost vocal sound, worthy of the half imagined apparitions of Tartarus, the bottom of my coffin opened and I fell through, barely managing to cling on to the key before all went black. Well not completely black. There was a tinge of emerald green phosphorescence. I woke, lying on molding earth (or that's what I hoped it was) in a small cavern. I stepped out, stumbling slightly, and beheld a cosmically gruesome scene. It was a phantasmagoric panorama of a rotting subterranean dream: curiously lit flora and fauna were as one, unnameable things swam and crawled through the air, pranced on stalagmites, devoured each other, regurgitated remains, only to try again, and all held resemblance to half imagined necromantic nightmares. I surmised this was not the correct afterlife for me, and I had already begun my retreat, when some imp ghoul hybrid caught sight of me, and ululated a form of repulsive communicae to it's fellow species. All saucer eyes turned on me and in that moment, I do not think I have ever been more paralysed during my life, nor after it. I ran, heart palpitating, a sick radioactivity in my nerves made worse by the unnameable sounds behind me. I ran till, I found a dark crevice, near some abyss, my hand touched something resembling marble and I collapsed. A vibration awoke me. I had hoped to awaken on my bed in my flat near the French Quarter, but I was still in this vile underworld of eons dead. I looked down. And heard the most beautiful music I will ever hear, for now I cannot recall how it went. There were virtoustic masterpieces that they could practise for all eternity. Symphonic and polyphonic. Masses in Latin, Gregorian chant and Sumerian. Even languages that bore no resemblance to the lingua this earth. I heard remonstrances akin to Mozart and Beethoven, Liszt and Chopin, Paganini, even the famed Spanish guitarist Tarrega...yet far more devious and bone chilling, the notes themselves seemed to pierce and become a parasite within the body. Upon closer inspection of these phantoms, I found that horror to be true. Some kind of green phosphorescence was eating away at them, like a symbiotic organism. At them, I mean this parade. At the bottom of a cavernous pit, stretching on for all eternity. An Abyss's Parade. With a blasphemous hairless thing at its head, it had a miter of bone, and stamped it's webbed membranous feet with a hateful irreverence. I dared not look to its eyes, but they burned. And they all marched ever so proudly. It sounded as though all of the great composer had collaborated for decades. And then, I saw my wife. In long dress, and jet black hair down to her waist. She followed them listlessly, like a dying star in the void black of space. She did not looked scared, nor relieved to be done with life, just lost. Unquenchably, eternally, and lamentably lost. “What are you doing down here?” she asked, yet the words seem not to come from her mouth but from beneath, and beyond. “I fell, I conjecture from my coffin. But Angeline, why would you..what of our daughter. What of Isabelle?” “I know not. I know not. I'll always remember... our happiest moments. ” And with that, she drifted down that cosmic parade of souls. I have never seen her again, but on occasion we will share a stroll near the beach, during sunsets, and sit on the shore with the moon, in my dreams. It was our favourite pastime, and in my dreams, where I readily live now, we remain together. *** Shaking my head from this nihilistic nostalgia, I continued through the tides of the dead, seeing history in front, beside and behind me. Suddenly I heard the familiar tones of my old archaeological comrades. I could not believe it. “We went too far my lad...He said you'd get the worst of it.” “Rather, gave me quite a chill that one did.” “What are you conversing about Walters? what the bloody hell is going on-” I stammered. Walters eyes held a pity, like an adult telling a child how the world works and how it does not. “Why Lucifer of course. Him and God made a deal, old boy. Whoever could get the most souls would build and rule the next planet. Very big deal, doncha know. You see, this is his parade. His parade to bring us all down here, for the ending.” “My God. George is this true?” “I'll say, bally unbecoming of those chaps in my opinion. We aren't toys to be tinkered with!” A final fanfare of Death, War and all the little things we hold so closely in our existence, came parading forth in a grand march of Hell's abominations. I stood with my old comrades in that phosphorescent half light, the reverberations of the demoniac denizens receding. And then Walters said. “Why art thou so morbid? One day you shall join us, yet that time has not come. Or perhaps it has. You told us to go into the crypt in Cyprus. And you knew what was down there, waiting since Hellenistic times. That BEHEMOTH, BAAL and ASMODEUS. Remember what you said to us, that god damn chant you were so adamant about. I'll never forget! LUX LUX LUX. LUCRUM INFERNALIS, SALVE ET ILLUMINARE VIA DESCENDIT AD TARTARUM! The thousand faced one ate us all. You're dead too Alec, better get used to it. Have some wine, its quite good. You'll notice the first thing that changes in the afterlife, is the smell.” And by God, the smell!


“So, there’s an elephant in the room and I’m not talking metaphorically!” “Wow! What did you do then?” asks my elderly great aunt as she tries to sit up on the bed with difficulty, her rheumatic joints, notwithstanding. I know that that headline would indeed rivet her attention. “Well, he had got into the check post room in front of us. When there's an elephant in front of you, you don't challenge him. There’s only one thing you do. You stay still inside your car, turn off the headlights and hope he soon retreats to his home in the forest beyond!” I say with a smile. I am recounting to her a pre lockdown road trip to Silent Valley nestling in the heart of Anamalai (Elephant Mountain in Tamil) in the heart of Southern India. She closes her eyes and utters an exclamation. I know she relishes such stories. “So, as we sit tight, we are aware that this isn’t part of the itinerary. Signage all around warns us that it’s best to allow it to play out naturally and patiently, without any attempt to capture it on camera. The flash might startle the latter and there was no telling how it might react. We are watching with bated breath, fascinated, to see a wild elephant at such close quarters, towering over the car and its occupants. We have been told that ever so often this happens- the encounter between elephant and vehicle. The latter is perceived as a potential threat to this enormous creature who is rightly indignant at the fast-moving lighted up little creature who dares to pass his forest domain. “Suddenly we hear a gentle tapping on the rear of our car. Half expecting another pachyderm from behind (she lets out a scream at this point), we see that it is actually a human being gesturing to us to silently get out. We are hesitant but a calm assurance seems to exude even from his silhouette which we can see in the setting sun. We follow him through the dark and thick canopy till we come to a small mud hut illuminated with a single kerosene lamp. A woman in a brightly coloured sari is drawing water from a well, her glass bangles making a gentle clinking sound in response to the splash of the water as the pail comes up. “That was kind. And then?” she presses me. “Oh we ended up spending a good few hours with this Irula (ethnic tribe) couple. We heard snippets from these unofficial cicerones that we could have never got from a tourist guide. And, what’s more, they shared their evening meal of dosai (savoury rice pancake) and thenga thuvaiyal (coconut chutney) with us. It was delicious”, I muse reflectively as I have a pleasant olfactory flashback to the stone quern on which our kind hostess expertly ground fresh coconut, dried red chillies, ginger and garlic pods to make the spicy but oh so delicious chutney and the hot griddle pan on which she swirled the fermented rice flour batter to make a perfectly round dosai, with a few dollops of homemade nei (clarified butter)- a treat which was reserved only for guests. We were indeed honoured that night. By the time the beast had tired of its little tryst with our car, it was a good few hours later. With great trepidation we followed our guide back to the road after that repast. But he was right. Once it had decided that this strange four wheeled monster was really no threat to its territory, it was content to amble back into the forest just pausing to snap off some juicy sugar cane shoots for a late night snack, which we learnt that all elephants love. Actually we too did the same the next day- only our sugar cane fix came in a tall glass from a sugarcane juice vendor whose heavy grinding wheels had squeezed the sweet liquid out with the help of a motor. “You know, I feel I’ve been there with you” she sighs happily. It’s taken me a lockdown to realise that for far too long she has been in a lockdown of her own. Somewhere between being pulled out of school prematurely to help with the home and looking after her many nephews and nieces, that tall, slender young girl became a housebound elderly woman who took up no more than a bed in her widowed sister's household and even less in everyone's minds. As a child, I was more intent on playing with my cousins than to indulge her with more than a few minutes of my time and some rushed answers to her curiosity of the things I had seen in the metropolis I lived in with my family at the time. As an adult now I know, that it is through my stories she has virtually visited so many new places. What's more, she replays my stories so often that she can competently review which shops are a good bargain, which restaurant in that city serves the best food, where one can go for entertainment on a Friday night. All this, within the four walls of that room she has spent almost all her life...But this adventure perhaps has caught her imagination like none else. It is unlike any of my previous tales in busy metros of the world- it is a completely new drama for the theatre of her mind too. I know she is going to have an adventure of her own, doing a maiden visit to this place now. I can already see her visualise the adventure in her mind's eye. She has never been to the next town, leave alone doing a safari in the wild. But, that will not daunt her- she can meander through her new uncharted territory in her own time. I know that in a few hours, she will be narrating it to anyone who cares to listen- her carer, perhaps some kindly relatives who regularly visit. In the version they hear, this story would have happened to her. They all know not to challenge that elephant in the room either.