You know how it feels when someone is watching you? They’re just out of sight or maybe hiding in your peripherals, but you know they’re there. It feels like I’m being watched…but I feel this all around me. It feels like a million eyes staring at me from all angles. I can’t see them, but somehow I just know they can see me… and they know what I’m thinking, too.

I shiver and this awful feeling courses through me. I look down to find that I’m covered in goosebumps while beads of sweat drip down my forehead. My hands feel impossibly cold, like I just dipped them in an ice bath. I wish I could see. It’s so dark in some places and in others, I can’t quite make out what’s happening. Everything looks blurry even through the glasses that threaten to slip right off my nose in this cold sweat.

I hear murmurs coming from my left side—or was it my right? I can’t keep whipping my head around like this. Something isn’t right. I look up and am blinded by fluorescent lights buzzing and flickering above. I squeeze my eyes shut, ready to look down and find my biggest fears in the spotlight. All I see is a large splotch staining my view and following my gaze as I turn to take in the room. I try to take a step forward and feel like I was punched in the gut. The spots dance throughout my vision now. I know somehow that if I keep going, I might not make it back. There’s something out there, watching me, waiting for me, wanting to pull me in and never let me go—like a hand suddenly grabbing your ankle in dark waters. I can feel something getting closer—something that shouldn’t be here. What scares me most is how it’s making me feel like it always belonged. I feel drawn to approach it and let it in. Every step tightens the knots in my stomach yet feels like an embrace from an old friend. It feels comfortable somehow. It wraps itself around my neck and I gasp for breath. I can feel its grasp around my head and making its way inside. It wants to go forward. I open myself to it. I can feel my thoughts turn into something not my own, something I can’t recognize. They spout vitriol at me and tear me down for every perceived fault that has ever been and will ever be. They tell me that I am nothing and will always be nothing, and if I walk through that door then everyone will see. They’ll see me ugly, naked, and cowering in fear and incompetence. The mask will drop forever. They’ll see what I see. Painful memories swirl around me as the darkness deepens. The oppressive presence is inside me now. I remember the time my voice trembled and cracked when presenting my final project my senior year and the laughs that followed. I remember the times I thought about approaching the pretty girl in the room and kicked myself for even considering it. I remember the relationships I’ve lost to neglect and anger, my self-inflicted isolation as the final nail in the coffin. A sound behind me cuts through the voices rushing through my head. It sounds muffled to me among the chaos. I can vaguely hear the words, “You’re on in five.” It feels like there’s a block of lead at the bottom of my stomach. I can feel my consciousness fading as the darkness extends its tendrils deeper into my mind. My instinct is to just let go and let it take over me completely. It feels intentional and powerful. I feel aimless and meek. It seeks out the worst parts of me and makes them its own, clouding my memories and gradually convincing me that this was always meant to be. This is right. This is how it’s supposed to be. Is this how I’m supposed to be? Are tension and apprehension just the natural vehicles through life? They feel safer than whatever is out there. I don’t know what’s out there. I don’t know what people will think of me there. I do know where I stand here. Here, I control my punishments and dole them out before others have the chance to. I don’t need to experience the whiplash and rollercoaster of emotions if I stay all the way down here the whole time. I can’t fall if I don’t allow myself to start climbing. It needs me here. It needs me to host and feed it until it can take no more and explodes in flames of rage and havoc over my life. I’ve let it feed off me over the years until it’s the only comfort I recognize. Trying to break the cycle feels like a betrayal to myself. The voice reappears at the other end of the room and calls out that it’s time. That feels impossible to me now. I cannot fathom moving from this spot and letting it go. It’s the only thing that makes me feel anchored down so I don’t float away. It loosens its grip for a moment, just long enough for something new to come in. This one isn’t a memory, but an aspiration. I used to have shelves filled with them. I wanted to keep climbing so I could see the view others get to see from the start. Now, all I see is the steep drop down if I stumble. I see how the darkness has tried to hide the path in front of me. It has stopped me from exploring too many forks in the road and has led me right back to where I started over and over again. I’m tired of being stuck. I stand up straight and prepare to take a step forward. I brace for the pain. Walking away hurts so much more than walking toward it. It’s time. It punishes me with a punch to the gut. My head starts spinning and my hands shake. It’s getting easier to see where the cloud is lifting. The sharp images in my head of a room filled with people silently despising and criticizing me are fading out of sight. It had programmed my fears to feel more real than memories.

I keep walking forward and feel a warm light on my face again. I hear applause as I step through the curtain and onto the stage. The voice returns to introduce me as the next speaker. I pull the notecards out of my pocket and see that my nervous hands have crumpled and smeared my words. I take a deep breath and realize that the tightness in my chest is gone. The tension in my temples seems to have disappeared. There’s no one in my head screaming at me that all I do is screw things up. There’s nothing pushing me to run away. My voice cracks as I try to squeeze out an introduction. My heart drops. I make eye contact with a man crossing his arms across his oversized sports jacket. He chuckles and nudges his colleague with his elbow. I always knew this was going to happen. At least that gave me a lifetime to prepare for it. I chuckled right back at him and cleared my throat. This will probably happen again, but I think I’ll be just fine next time.


A few weeks ago, on a Saturday afternoon in the beautiful English countryside setting of Devonshire, an event involving about fifty friends and family gathered to mark our latest grandson’s birth. Called a ‘naming day’ it represented a kind of non-Christian christening. Perhaps, partly because I think paganism predates Christianity my son and his partner hoped, like themselves, that everyone would be touched by a deeper and more meaningful experience of creation. Obviously, as infants, we would have been present when our parents had us either christened with names or prayed over with thanks to God. This event was markedly different and more interactively engaging than a traditional Christian service. As the ceremony began all those present were acknowledged as having different religious or non-religious backgrounds. This implied, for me at least, that respect for religious diversity was to be considered as ideal and self-evident. Of-course, along with the friendly picnic beforehand, the ceremony itself was deliberately arranged to blend within the natural environment. Using primitive technology my son set a fire in our midst and his partner, our grandson’s mother, engaged us all in singing. Repeating a simple mothering invocation, (she had recalled from her time in Burkina Faso), we echoed her words as we queued around the fire to greet their son and bring to him our own personal welcome. I imagine that the implicit purpose of the event was our grandson’s celebrated welcome into the world of human community. The setting established a connection with that elemental and indefinable something which had brought each of our own lives into existence. For me it was more poignant because it gave effect to a meeting between two families and many longstanding friends, who would otherwise have remained complete strangers. Their only child, a beautiful child born in their middle years, was gifted to them, as well as to us, as representative of something unusually auspicious. In me personally, the occasion also produced a sense of pathos. I had felt it necessary to keep that pathos under control until, seizing an opportunity to speak, my words were soon stifled as my feelings gave way to deep sobs. As he held his son, I was recalling the thanks I had given to God for him as our own second son. With emotional difficulty, I explained that, for me, my son’s name could never be detached from the peace I had received with God almost exactly nine months before he was born. But this naming day sincerely sought to invoke something profoundly important about the blessings attached to the name of that new person whose life was received by us all because of our familial or friendly connection to his parents. In the Areopagus in Athens the first century A.D. inscription that struck the Apostle Paul as being apposite for his message was attributed to an 'unknown god.' Today, my deeply felt and emotional reflection forces me conclude that such an unknown god can neither be thanked nor be called upon to deliver a blessing. Indeed, such a god is impervious to the truth that creation is the blessed reflection of God's glory and power. I think it true, but largely misunderstood, that no creature, pagan or otherwise, can invoke a blessing upon themselves. The true praise of all God’s creatures must surely involve the mission to recognize a naming day in every heart which does invoke the blessing of joy and peace with God. It is an exalted name indeed! “Therefore, God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name… “ Philippians 2:9. (ESVUK) Discovering the true value of creation cannot be obtained from what is pre-supposed to have occurred with nameless randomness. The value of a name must itself presuppose true meaning and purpose. True meaning and purpose must itself rest upon knowing the name of the Personal Being who gave it that true meaning and purpose. I understand, from one commentary, that "God identifies Himself as Elohim 35 times at the start of Scripture. In fact, Elohim is the only name used for God from Genesis 1:1 to Genesis 2:3.’

“Elohim is one of the most frequently used names for God in the Scriptures. It is this word which is used in Genesis 1:1, “In the beginning [Elohim] created the heavens and the earth.” In fact, the word appears some 2,750 times in the Old Testament.” Literally meaning strong, Elohim suggests the invisible attributes of omnipotence as well as omniscience and omnipresence. By the power of His Exalted Being he not only created all things but transcends all things. By the awesome deeds of creation Elohim ensured his divine signature is writ large upon even the smallest of particles in existence. How is it possible to know and exalt the Person responsible for the value, meaning and purpose of creation? Firstly, the Apostle Paul, writing under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, recorded in his letter to the Romans, how creation supplies its own evidence for who is responsible for its existence.

“For what can be known about God is plain to them because God has shown it to them. For his invisible attributes, namely, his eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made.” (Romans 1:19-20). Secondly, and because I have argued the need to understand meaning and purpose from the point of view of the One who gave it meaning and purpose, there must be potential in man which meets that need. Faith is what is needed to receive the truth of God’s Word. “ By faith we understand that the universe was created by the word of God, so that what is seen was not made out of things that are visible.” Hebrews 11:3. It is considered, by the Christian faith, that there is an exalted name whose value, reason and purpose can be understood and known fully in the Gospels. Indeed, there is no other name which better speaks to every other named person, as being more exalted. “Therefore, God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name…" Philippians 2:9. (ESVUK)


The Last Mess My head is pounding as Jadsy straightens the throw rugs and vacuums the errant crumbs that still remain on them. She is a perfectionist and does everything in a slow, methodical way. This time she is being extra careful I, myself, couldn't care less about the remnants of cake she is gathering with straight, consecutive strokes. Straighten, vacuum, repeat. Straighten, vacuum, repeat. There is a sort of rhythm to her work and it lulls me even further into the befuddled state I find myself in. Straighten, vacuum, repeat. Straighten, vacuum, repeat. The repetition going through my aching head also gives me a reminder of the state my stomach is in. Too much liquor has a way of doing that to someone who does not imbibe on a regular basis. She throws a hurried glance my way as I lay on the sofa, feet propped up on the back cushions, head on the arm of the comfortable old piece that used to belong to the previous tenants. A mixture of blue and purple flowers with dusky green leaves adorn the couch giving the impression that Mr. and Mrs. Elliot who used to live here just might have been color blind. My arm is over my eyes to shield them from the light streaming through the window. I can just barely glimpse Jadsy through the open space made by my elbow. She clears her throat and looks my way again, this time holding her stare. “You could help, you know?” I sense both irritation and sarcasm in her voice. I groan and sit up. I feel both disoriented and dizzy and I can't imagine my cleaning techniques to be up to her standards. Certainly not this morning “What do you want me to do?” I ask, not really wanting to know. She sighs and comes to where I sit. “Get a trash bag and fill it with whatever you find that wasn't here before the party. Paper plates, cups, napkins.” She sits next to me. Maybe she is still upset about what happened at the party. Looking back I mentally shudder, but she seems calm. “ I think the mini sandwiches turned out to be rather tasty don't you?” Is she trying to talk about mundane things on purpose? I don't really have an opinion on mini sandwiches even when I am not battling a hangover. And right now all I can think of is Layla. Layla who got herself drunk on the excitement of landing her dream job as well as on the freely flowing drinks. Layla who danced too close and left the scent of her perfume on my shirt. Layla, who I knew I had to see again. “The food was delicious.” I say trying to come up with a generic comment that doesn't reveal that I really don't care much about the contents of the buffet. Come to think of it, I don't really care much about anything right now except for Layla. I don't think it would be a good idea to mention it to Jadsy though so I get up and retrieve a trash bag from the kitchen and begin gathering the remnants of last nights party. I struggle to think of something that happened at the party that I can mention to make me appear interested, but only one thing comes to mind and Jadsy is obviously not the one to discuss it with. I made a big mistake I know, but when hard liquor mixes with the engaging advances of a beautiful woman, what's a man to do? For a moment I allow myself to think that Jadsy has forgotten it by now. That she really didn't see me ask for Layla's phone number, that she fails to remember the closeness that we shared on the dance floor. But I know Jadsy too well to imagine that she doesn't have every smile, every held hand, and the kiss that Layla gave me as she said good night etched in her memory. I made a big mistake I know. A huge mistake that could result in the dissolution of a relationship. Not that I care that much anymore. It's the coming confrontation that I fear. How could I have been that stupid to do that in front of her. I watch Jadsy take the tablecloth from the buffet table and throw it in the corner, waiting to be washed. I doubt that some of those stains will ever come out, but I'm finding it difficult to imagine it really mattering. To me at least. She seems so calm, as though nothing is wrong while my insides are churning. Maybe she doesn't really care. So much the better. For her, anyway. But a thought is nibbling away at me that things will never really be okay for me again. And it's all my fault. But why does it seem so final? A breakup is a breakup and nothing more. Except when Jadsy is involved. Her temper is volcanic and she has the ability to back even the strongest of individuals into a corner of surrender, trembling and struggling to breathe. Of course I didn't really have a break up in mind necessarily, but if she remembered last night she probably would. “Help me move this table back to the kitchen,” she says as I tie the bag filled with the left overs from the party. I help her without saying a word and wonder if she realizes... But she must, she must know and want to talk about it. What kind of game is she playing? I was never as good as Jadsy at that sort of thing. I wonder what she is up to. I've never known her to exert any restraint over her fierce temper. She screams, yells, and throws whatever unfortunate object happens to be near her. Yet now she is so calm. We both return to the flowered sofa and sit next to each other. “I love you Conner.” She puts her head on my shoulder. “I don't know what I would do if you weren't here with me. I'm so scared.” Of what I am not sure, because she doesn't sound frightened at all. No, not at all. I, however, am shaking. “I love you too.” I answer without much conviction. But she seems not to notice. I am a failure at hiding my fragile state right now, waiting for her to begin berating me for last night. She has every right to, but still I am hearing the clock ticking inside of me, pounding out the seconds until she loses control. A countdown to unmanageable rage. We both lean back on the soft, flowery, cushions and rest our feet on the coffee table. She sighs, a deep sigh of what I mistakenly think might be one of resignation. We sit there long enough to fall asleep and when we awaken the room is full of shadows. I turn on the lamp and look at her. She goes to the kitchen to put on some coffee. When she returns I am still sitting in the same position. My nervousness is becoming overwhelming, and for the first time today, she looks a little nervous too. We sip the coffee in silence. When both cups are empty, she looks around the room. “I think we did a pretty good job in getting the place back to normal.” She says. “At least nobody threw up on the rug,” she attempts a joke. I let a small smile pull at the corners of my lips. But I am in no mood for humor and normal seems a untenable distance away. Then she gets serious and looks down. “What do we do now?” “I don't know.” I answer pushing the hair from her face where it has fallen. “I honestly don't know where we go from here.” As I say this I find myself wondering if I'm talking about the same thing that she is. “We have one last mess to clean up.” And she looks right at me with that unwavering stare of hers that could bore a hole through a concrete wall. She is torturing me more than any bamboo shoots ever could. She maintains this penetrating gaze for what seems like hours. I decide to break the silence. “Look I'm sorry about last night. I behaved inexcusably. Am I forgiven?” This last comes out in a begging tone. Not what I was going for, but it will have to do. A slight grin appears on her face and I cannot fathom what is happening. “Don't apologize, Conner. Everything is just fine. I wasn't exactly a good little girl myself at the party last night.” She reaches out to me and we embrace. I still don't know what is going on. Did she do something last night to get even with me? Did she flirt with some other guy. Is that what she is trying to tell me? Did she do worse? “Jadsy, whatever you did, I probably deserved it. Don't think about it ever again.” Even as I say these words my mind is drifting to Layla. I shake my head to help me concentrate on the moment. “Then you forgive me for what I did?” She asks in a small voice, so unlike her. I want to ask what exactly she is talking about, but I answer. “Of course, I forgive you.” And I truly do. I find myself not caring about anything Jadsy has done. My mind is elsewhere getting lost in the smell of Layla's soft flowing hair, her lovely brown tempting eyes looking up at me. Jadsy smiles one of her most endearing smiles and for a brief moment I begin to believe that everything is going to be alright. I kiss her on the cheek. Part of me feels sorry for her and part of me fears her coming reaction. “You've been forgiven since last night,” she says. “Everything is perfectly okay with us. We're even.” This last statement has an ominous tone to it, but I chalk it up to my nerves and nothing else. And no, Jadsy, everything is not even close to being okay with us. If there even is an us anymore. She stands and grabs both of my hands. “Now we have one last mess to clean up. Will you help me? There is a teasing quality to her words and I stand to join her. “What kind of mess” I ask, looking into her light blue eyes which at the moment are sparkling with anticipation. “You'll see,” she grins, “You'll see” She leads me down the dark hall to the guest room door and stops. She opens the door and turns on a small lamp which doesn't throw much light. I scan the room for whatever it is Jadsy wants to show me. The lamplight is not bright and I squint as I look around the dingy room. And then my eyes find it. I almost faint but hold on to my composure long enough to let a few words tumble from my lips. “What happened.... Why... For the love of God...” My inner disarray spilling out in fragmented phrases. But then what I am seeing isn't your average party aftermath I don't realize it but I am slowly backing away. I suddenly turn and and walk towards the front door. I should be running, but I walk. I vaguely hear Jadsy's wails demanding I return. “Don't you see, we're even now.” she screams, following me. But I don't fully take in any of her words. I merely walk towards the door. I stumble in my shock and bump the end table where a lamp falls to the floor and shatters. As I reach for the doorknob I feel something whiz past my head, and a mug shatters on the door frame in front of me.Then she is coming at me with a deranged look on her face and a kitchen knife in her hand. I slam the door behind me and race to the stairs. For the next hour or so I roam the dark streets aimlessly. My headache is gone and I begin to think clearly on the events of the day. I spy one of the few phone booths left in the city, sitting on the corner ahead of me. The relic beckons me. I anonymously dial 911. “I want to report a murder.”


It was January, and Austria's picturesque beauty was white and wild in its 0–5 °C climatic conditions. I dropped in on Karla Pölzl, Alois Hitler's third wife. She was five or six months pregnant. He appeared and announced himself as "the trekker" from another time. He arrived in time to catch Klara hanging her clothes on the line. She hummed a tune to an opera she loved and knew well; her voice was like a songbird's. "I've come a long way today, and I'm wondering if I might trouble you with a glass of water, please," he said.

She jumped. "Sure. This is my last piece of clothing, so your timing is impeccable." She smiled, picked up the basket, and gestured that he should follow her.

She placed the laundry basket next to the big wash bin by the door, and we went inside.

"So, Mr., where are you coming from, and what's your business here?" She pumped the well, caught the water in a pitcher and poured him a glass. "I've come from another time. And my business is with the mother of a small boy who will become a leader of his people."

"Oh? This man sounds loved and revered by his people if he leads them—what could you possibly come here to discuss with the mother of this boy then?"

"Don't let me mislead you. He leads, but he is far from being revered. He is hated among races across the world. He ostracized and depleted many types of humans from the face of the earth."

"Why? What could possibly have been his reason for such heinous acts and crimes against humanity?" "What would you do if I told you I could show you? In a photograph from my time of some of the devastation that he did while he was in charge, "I guess I'd say, show me."

"Okay, look at this photograph and tell me what you see."

She gasped. "It's a shower and an oven next door to it. In the background, I see dead bodies in mass graves. What's wrong with the people in the photo?" "This leader I mentioned earlier obliterated those people in that picture from the concentration camps. The shower you see killed those innocent people laying dead there," he pointed to the spot where the mass grave was, "with poisoned gas. All stemming from the meniacle thoughts of this madman and his pleasure at knowing they would all die. The guards covered their ears so they wouldn't hear the people scratching inside the gas chamber while the people begged to get out." He paused long enough to see if she was listening still—she was—and continued, "Then the other prisoners who were considered workers were made to load those bodies up and put them into the oven. As they worked, they smelled the burning flesh of their loved ones or others they knew." "Oh, my goodness. What a monster! He should never have been born. Why would he do such terrible things to innocent people like that?" "Full of hatred and fear, his intolerance for other races and people, dissimilar to Aryans, clouded his judgment. The rest of the world never dreamed that his brutality was evil." "But why? What was the matter with his mother? Was she a prostitute? Did she die early in his life?"

"No, neither. The man was simply rotten."

"But surely there was more to it than just hatred."

"Look, Klara, there were 42,500 camps and ghettos the Nazis—and in particular the SS, his private creation of officers that surrounded him—created between the years 1933 and 1945. Do you know how many people he annihilated at that time? Take a guess." "I have no idea. Did you say 1933 to 1945?"

"15–20 million people may have died in the camps and ghettos created by the Nazis during that time. And yes, it only took twelve years for him to get most of his job done before the allies came in and emancipated the emaciated prisoners who starved where they stood."

"The story you tell is devastating and horrific. But what does any of it have to do with me?" She shrugged her shoulders and gave him a blank stare.

He gave her a sheepish look, and his face became stone cold. He looked from her eyes to her belly. She shook her head. Her hand covered her mouth in disbelief as she stepped back away from him and cradled her stomach in her hand. "No, oh no. This is not happening. You can't be serious. Are you telling me that my baby is that man?" "I'm sorry, Klara; I'm afraid it is. I've come to ask you to reconsider bringing up such a child to become a man."

"I brought up such a monster? Me and Alois? Why didn't we know he was evil? Why did we allow him to live?" "Alois hates the child already. And his relationship doesn't get any better once he sees the kid. Little Adolf, the name you chose for him, chose Alois' surname for his own. In the annals of history, the name Hitler would be likened to one of the worst human beings who ever lived." "What do you expect me to do now? Alois will never believe that something could go so wrong this far into my pregnancy."

"I thought about that. There are many babies born with their cords around their necks. There are also emergency births that result in a dead baby. Do anything but allow him to live. You must, Klara."

"I see."

"Do you want to be responsible for all of those deaths? Do you want that on your conscience?"

"No, I don't. But how can I hurt a poor, innocent baby?" "Your son ordered that all children who arrived at the camps be shot on sight. In front of their parents and other family members. And you worry for one baby?"

"I understand. I know what I must do now."

The man watched her fetch something from the cupboard. It was shiny, and he thought he saw a flash. He disappeared the way he came but left a bottle of evening primrose oil on the countertop for her. Left alone, she had time to think. Alois wouldn't be home for days.

She paced on the back porch, watching her laundry blow in the wind. She headed to the washing bin to grab the basket. She folded each piece of clothing as she took it from the line. With each fold, she thought more intensely about her baby.

The man was telling the truth. She had to kill this baby. What other choice did she have? She can't be the mother of such an evil man. She'll have to do something. But what? She passed the countertop and saw the bottle he had left for her. She grabbed it and knew what she had to do. She knew she would have a difficult time with it. But she went to her bedroom and prepared herself for the horrible thing that was to come next. Alois would believe it because of the losses they had endured with pregnancies in the past. She wept. And finished the entire bottle. And waited.


I always thought that people with powers were special. Not on my list. I’m just getting out my teens into becoming a woman, another human being fighting for a survival in a surreal world.

The fist chapter is completed. Went to school, did ny homework, listened to mom and dad, they were proud of me. Was not into drugs, was not a recruit for gangs out in the street. I stayed home, at dawn, when school activities ended, went home, either to finish my homework or preparing for a test. Nope, I was not a nerd. No way, NOT on this life. I felt like that wasn’t my forte, I wanted to enjoy and have fun, school was like going to jail, snd recess where too short. My scaling from reality was drawing and copying cartoons from my favourite tv show. I dreamt with having my own show, or a novel, or a movie, who knows? It sounds like a ‘Cinderella’ story.

I never found my crystal show. My Prince Charming never came riding a white, two tone caramel Brabant horse. Yeah of course, I was the lady waiting for Prince Charming to come and rescue me. Ha, ha, keep dreaming. One night I had like what everyone calls - a premonition. But I wasn’t there. I wasn’t the main character. I was the observer. But I could feel and understand the feelings of what that person was experiencing at that time. I felt like there was a transparent wall, muffling every yell and scream, every bang and kick I used to make that person snap out of the intense commitment this person was about to embark into. I yelled, I kicked, I sweared, I cried out of frustration. Just for a second it seemed this person stopped. This person kinda turned its face towards to where the sound was coming from. ME. This person was way too far for me to recognize it’s expression. Crap. I needed glasses, binoculars, something. My curiosity increased and my body went into a trance. I was woken up by something I felt by the side of my bed. It felt like someone sat on the side of my bed. I tried to yell - help me mom, hey dad! Air cane inside my lungs, but no voice cane out. I tried to convince myself- this is a nightmare, this is a dream.

As I was falling sleep, something touched and started to rub my stomach. If I close my eyes and fall sleep, it will go away. I fell asleep. It went away. Ok, tomorrow will another day, I can see my mom and dad, and specially my brothers laughing so hard when I tell them, I will never ever say a word where s person came just to rub my stomach. Dressed in black. Didn’t look at me, just sadly sat at my bedside and rubbed my stomach. No expressions, no word. No nothing. The next day, after elaborating my embarrassing story and getting ready to accept the humiliation. I sat down at the table. No one said anything. They just ate the breakfast Mom always prepared. I looked at them, but their looks were empty, no emotions, no words, no nothing. I kinda coughed to break the silence served on the table. Here I go I thought, get ready for the morning humiliation’ I immediately sensed a deep sadness. No more smiles, no more stupid jokes from my brother. My other two brothers were away already, one to University snd the other to his motocross tournament. It was a uncomfortable feeling, I tried to find the warming summer sunshine to warm my face. Even the sun was not shining. No more warming embracing feeling. Confident to my core, I proceeded and sat at the table to join the silent no emotion conversation. I sat down. I noticed, I was far from the table. I pulled the chair to get closer to the table. It felt heavy. I kinda tripped, causing the milk glasses and coffee cups spill a bit of its contents. Mom didn’t pronounce a word. Everyone just sat eating. Oh fuck I thought this is stupid. Determined to break the stupidity that was growing in front of me, I de used to break the sad silence. Hey, - you know what happened to me? Did you hear me calling? Was it you Bert coming to bother me? Is this one of your funny pranks? Common brother, you have to accept it was you! Nobody said a word. They just kept eating. No comments. Mom served coffee and sat down. No words. She looked like she about to cry, but she did kept her emotions inside. Being born and raised in Chinese traditions, expressing feelings snd emotions was not allowed, specially for women. No way Mom was to express what she felt. I got frustrated, no way I will keep it to myself. Something inside of me was telling me to say it, no matter what against the prevailing silence in the breakfast room. ‘I think Bert was playing a trick on me. I said. I looked at my lovely brother to see his reaction. Nope. He had the shady look I’ve ever seen. I sensed something was wrong. I was afraid to ask. Instead, I went ‘were you Bert Ora king me again? Bert was the king of the pranks snd I didn’t want ti give him the credit IMO. This one. I kinda felt envy of his prankish accomplishments. Silence made its appearance and was to stay for long. I continued saying, ‘I think Bert did another of his glorious pranks, I’m sick and tired of them! This has to stop, you know!…… Nothing. No words, nothing, no expressions. Even the summer breeze that used to come thru the window and briefly blow the see thru curtains, stopped. I decided to continued after I finished eating my toast with peach jam and coffee. Somebody came yesterday, sat at my side of the bed. Was it you Bert? Is this another if your pranks? You have to leave alone! Let me sleep! Bert just looked at me. Then he looked down at his plate where fried eggs and bacon were waiting for him. My plans to start a brawl didn’t work. I felt I was loosing ground. Crap. What the fuck is going on? I became frustrated- nothing was working. I started to feel sick to my stomach. What hell? I had that dream. Is that a premonition of my stupid stomachache I have now? Ok I go - I need food. 10 minutes later- I think, I broke the silence. I unexpectedly burped. It was an unusual burped. Bert couldn’t keep his exploding laughing, broke his silence. It was you the one that came and sat in my bed! Dad trews his cutlery on the table besides his floral plate and grabs the napkin to clean his mouth. Ok - go ahead, what happened to you yesterday night? If Bert did it again, Bert, you will be punished! You know you have to leave your sister alone! You had to see the big smile my face drew. I fell I won the lottery. Instead, I noticed the sad yin the air. My big accomplishment couldn’t be celebrated. Mom started to cry. Big huge tears came down her cheeks. Bert’s watery eyes along with his red chubby cheeks, were not uttering the truth. I sensed again, something was wrong but could not tell exactly what it was. I felt immensely frustrated. I’m loosing my touch. I was prepared to retrieve, take my supporting forces and go home. Mom stands up, walks towards me and kneels besides my chair. She looks straight at me and spells the truth. You know - Mom says. She took a deep breath and with watery eyes divulged the truth- do you remember Carlos, your uncle? I tried hard to remember him. I was like a human Rolodex, trying to find which of all the uncles I met was Carlos.

I remember a guy that always came to visit me - his favourite niece. Back from his trips, he always brought a souvenir for me. He also took the opportunity to check his car a black Ford, ‘67 black sedan. Aha I got it Tío Carlos’ I said. Mom broke into tears. Mom said to me, do you remember him? U know he lives you so much! Mom sobbed. Tío Carlos died. 5 days ago. He is not coming back again. No more souvenirs for me. The truth of his passing were not revealed for me until a couple of months later, when the mourning of his passing ended. One Sunday morning, when all sat down at the usual Sunday breakfast table, Mom, Dad and Bert together, I decided to reveal my secret. I started by saying, I have something to tell you. Bert said- I difuso anything to you sister! No more accusing me! That stopped a king time ago! I said- chill brother, is not you today. Two nights ago, I felt some one came to play a prank on me. This person sat down, did look at me, but he had his face looking down like being sad and reached to my stomach. He gently rubbed my stomach in a circular manner like when you have a stomachache. I wanted to call you guys but couldn’t. Had ni voice. U froze. Mom turned to me again and said. I have bad news, your uncle Carlos left us. He passed away. There was an investigation done because his death was suspicious. Forensics found out he was poisoned. They have issued a request to expand investigations on who might have been the killer.

The killer was never found they ruled it was suicide.


Mom, This letter may be a surprise for you, I know we haven’t talked in a while. You know losing dad was hard for me, and I had to distance myself because of how difficult it all became. I understand if you don’t want to hear from me after all this time, but you are the only person I have in this world, the only one I can talk to about this. The reality is that I’m terribly unhappy, just like dad back then. I know I judged him harshly and we would fight constantly because of that, but now that I’ve reached the age he had when he started deteriorating, I think understand. In a way, I guess I’m writing this to you because I can’t write to him. Mom, was I happy when I was a kid? I’ve always been sure I was, but it’s been so long since my life became so gray that I’ve started to question even that. For the last 20 years, I haven’t felt any excitement or passion for anything, and my life is just a routine I can’t escape. The last time I spoke to dad he told me sometimes you just accept what life gives you instead of asking for more. I was so harsh to him that day, I told him he was a mediocre man and I would never be like him. I told him I would follow my dreams unlike him, but I find myself in the same place he was even after following said dreams. I can’t believe that was the last conversation we had, it took me many years to realize he was right after all and now we’ll never get to talk about it. I wish I could tell you that is guilt that makes me unhappy because I think that’s something I could overcome with time, but that’s not it. I do feel guilty about not feeling more guilty for the pain I caused him, but I’m ashamed to admit that the pity I feel for finding myself in this state weighs more. The thing is, I don’t know what’s wrong with my life. This is what I wanted, you know that. My business became incredibly successful almost as soon as I started it, and even though I don’t have as many clients as I used to, I’m still in a good position. I am wealthy enough and have a big house, which is what I always wanted. I think that’s part of the problem, I made my dreams come true far too quickly, and I didn’t have a plan for what I would do after that. I know you are wondering but no, I never married. I never saw the point, I’ve always been fine on my own, and the few girlfriends I had proved to be more of a nuance than anything else. I know you would be happier if I had married and had children, but that’s just not who I am. I don’t have friends either. I wasn’t a sad and lonely man who didn’t talk to anyone, I had people around me for anything I needed, but at some point they grew more distant and now I can’t say I have one friend in the world. Hence my letter to you, who probably won’t even read it. I tried taking classes, just to see if I could find a hobby or anything to feel a little excitement for, but it’s been a waste of my time. I tried taking piano lessons, learning German, painting, and even tried dancing lessons! I quit all of them after two or three weeks, I felt ridiculous, and completely out of place. In that, I guess I haven’t changed since I was a kid. In an act of desperation, I even went on a couple of dates, but I couldn’t stand the empty conversations of those women. And you won’t like this, but I even tried hiring some escorts. It wasn’t really about the sex, it was just nice to be able to talk to someone who wouldn’t judge me. I grew particularly fond of one; we would talk for hours, which was probably the easiest money she ever made, but at some point I grew bored of her. She turned out to be very empty too, and I lost all interest. It’s not a nice thing, I know, but there is no point denying it. It wasn’t that long ago but I don’t even remember her name. I got a dog. I never had one before because I didn’t want to deal with the responsibility of taking care of another being, but I didn’t know what else to try. I just thought that if it didn’t work out, I would return it to the shelter, but it turned out to be my anchor when things got really bad. When I started receiving fewer clients and had no reason to get out of bed, my responsibility to take care of it made me get up every morning, and it keeps me company. After everything I tried, and even with the dog, I still find little joy in my day-to-day. I know all this may sound very severe but don’t worry, I won’t kill myself. Even in this state, I find suicide a deplorable thing, I have no desire to end my life so tragically, even if I gave up on trying to be happy. I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to enjoy life. There are people out there who live meaningless lives and seem so content with them. My life is not so bad. I’ve even started to question if the problem is not my job, or my lack of company, that maybe the problem it’s just me. Maybe it’s a genetic thing that dad passed down to me, and it won’t matter what I do, I’m always going to feel like this. Maybe that happiness and joy it’s just an illusion young people chase. I guess all I wanted was to wake up one day and be able to say I feel alive again. I doubt things will get any better, but I’ll accept the fate I was given and learn how to live my life on a scale of gray. I hope you can understand me like you understood dad when he was going through the same thing. I hope you haven’t completely lost your faith in me. Love, Jonathan


The shrill ringing of his alarm clock woke Frank at 7.00 am. He attempted to roll over, to thump his hand down on the small button on the top of the clock, to shut the annoying noise off. That was what he intended to do, but this morning it seemed an impossible feat. For some inexplicable reason, he was unable to do this simple thing. Instead, all he could manage was an uncoordinated thrashing of his limbs. He could feel himself beginning to panic, his heart rate accelerating and beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. ‘Calm down’ he told himself ‘ You’re just not awake properly. Take a few deep breathes and try again.’ Meanwhile the clock’s incessant noise continued to fill the room, making it hard to concentrate or think straight. Frank tried again, but all he succeeded in doing was winding his top sheet and blanket around his legs. He needed help, but although he was thinking ‘ Shout for help.’ He was unable to formulate the words, all that emerged from his mouth was an unrecognisable jumble of grunts. ‘I’ve had a stroke.’ And still the relentless, strident ringing of his alarm continued, and then ‘ I’m going to wet myself’. Almost instantaneously, he felt the rush of warm fluid across his thigh, and then the sheet below him become damp, and then wet as a night’s worth of urine escaped from his bladder. It was still only 7.15 am, he was not due across the road at the factory until 8.00 am. ‘It’ll be hours before anyone comes to find me. I’m going to die. ’ Tears of self-pity, dread and frustration slid slowly from the corner of Frank’s eyes, down his temples onto the pillow, which supported his head. Three quarters of an hour later, his sisters, Dolly and Gladys clocked on for another day at work. The middle-aged spinsters wore matching pink gingham, button-through overalls, and turbans fashioned out of head scarves covering their dyed dark brown, tightly permed hair. They both sported a touch of coral lipstick and face powder. Neither were adorned by jewellery. They carried large black handbags, fastened by fake gold clasps. Sensible brown lace-up shoes completed their outfits. They lived together in a modest house, in a neighbouring street to Frank’s home. The three siblings worked in the window factory, in the centre of a garden village. Their homes had been constructed to house the factory’s employees. Most of the works’ employees lived in the village. Consequently, they all knew each other and their families. The two women made their way to the packing room, where they took their place amongst twenty other women along a long table, littered with cardboard and rolls of extra strong, adhesive tape. The radio was blaring and the ‘girls’ often sang along to the latest hits as they worked. There was always a constant barrage of chatter. Frank worked in the adjoining workshop, where he operated machinery, which formed part of the process for constructing metal window frames. At 10.00 am a single whistle sounded, signifying the start of the morning’s ten-minute tea break. The entire workforce made their way to the canteen, where cups and saucers were laid out, alongside metal spouted, glass sugar pourers, teaspoons and plates of biscuits on Formica tables. Groups of workers either sat or stood around talking as they quickly selected and drank their tea. Dolly and Gladys stood with three other women from the packing room, and were discussing the merits of the village’s newly built Co-op shop, when the khaki coated foreman from the workshop approached them. ‘Morning Ladies.’ ‘Morning Mr Spiller.’ ‘Your Frank not well, Dolly?’ ‘As far as I know, he’s alright.’ ‘He’s not shown up today.’ ‘It’s not like him. We’ll pop round at lunchtime and see what’s wrong.’ ‘Thanks girls. Let me know what’s up with him will you.’ Another sharp blow on the whistle signalled that tea break was over. There was an almost musical cacophony, as spoons and crockery were replaced onto the tables, and the employees began to file back to their workstations. Most went in small groups, laughing and continuing conversations as they went. There was the occasional loner, conspicuous as they walked alone amongst the gaggles of women and gangs of men.

 Dolly and Gladys formed part of the procession, huddled together forming a small, tight unit of their own. ‘What do you think’s up with him?’ ‘I’m not psychic.’ Anxiety was making the older Dolly brusque. ‘He seemed alright yesterday.’ ‘Mmm. Well, we’ll just have to wait until lunchtime to find out, won’t we.’ By this time, the sisters were back at their bench, and they resumed their tasks of packing window hinges for transportation. It was repetitive, manual work and so both were able to mull over their concern for their baby brother, Frank. He was four years younger than Dolly, two years younger than Gladys. He had never married, never had a girlfriend as far as the sisters knew, and had continued living in their family home when his sisters left to live independently. When his parents died, he elected to stay in their terraced home. His siblings offered him a place with them, but were secretly relieved when he refused. Their house only had two bedrooms, and so to accommodate him, they would have needed to share a bedroom again – something they had not done since they were in their twenties. Additionally, by this time, they had lived together for over twenty years and had established their own routines and ways of doing things. To suddenly add their brother into the mix, with his trips to the local pub, smoking and sloppy habits, would have represented a major upheaval to their well-ordered lives.            The ever-pragmatic Dolly wondered if they should stop off at the Co-op on their way round to Frank’s. If he had a stomach upset, he might fancy a bit of soup. He never kept anything like that in his larder. And he might be out of cigarettes (not that she approved of the dirty habit), or perhaps he would appreciate a newspaper. He would probably need his bed changing, he didn’t do that nearly often enough, and that would mean taking his washing back to their house. If his house was in the same state as it was last time she dropped in, she would definitely give him a piece of her mind about that. After she’d put it to rights, of course. And so, her mind ran on.             Gladys on the other hand, worried more about why Frank had not arrived at the factory. Everyone was assuming that he was ill, but suppose her brother had disturbed a burglar as he ransacked his home. He could be lying dead from a stab wound! Or he might have fallen down the stairs, broken a leg, and be laying in the hall unable to get to the ‘phone. Or maybe he was ill, but it was something terrible like a heart attack. Her thoughts were beginning to get out of hand.            Nearly, two hours later, when the factory whistle announced that it was lunchtime, the sisters grabbed their handbags from beneath the table, and rapidly left the premises. They crossed the main road, down an alley between two rows of terraces, into Hunnable Gardens, where their parents had lived and raised them. Walking quickly, hardly speaking they came to the low brick wall, which surrounded their brother’s front garden. Frank wasn’t much of a gardener, so it was an unkempt patch of land, sharply contrasting against his neighbours’ gardens of neatly trimmed lawns and well-tended flower beds. His was merely an overgrown area of straggling weeds and long grass, impossible to tell where their father had once planted bedding plants and bulbs and hoed the fine soil. Through the front gate, hanging lopsidedly on one hinge, layers of paint peeling to reveal previous years’ colours, down the short, cracked concrete path to Frank’s front door. Dolly rapped sharply with the knocker, noting as she did so that, her slovenly brother really needed to give it a polish. As she waited for an answer, she glanced at the downstairs and upstairs windows, and noticed that both sets of curtains remained firmly shut. Receiving no reply, she began to root in her voluminous handbag for her brother’s spare key. Finding it she threw open the door, calling.            ‘Frank! Frank! It’s only us.’ As she did so. Laying upstairs in not only damp, but now soiled sheets too, Frank was aware of the knocking at the door. The alarm clock had finally ceased ringing, and he had been laying in the semi-darkness of his room waiting for help to arrive. He knew that his sisters would come at lunchtime. The hours had passed slowly. Periodically, he had tried to move. He’d attempted to push himself up to a sitting position, using his feet and legs, as levers. In another effort, he had endeavoured to roll himself sideways off the bed. All he had managed was an uncontrolled flailing of his legs and arms. Shouting was equally unsuccessful, the only sounds emanating from his mouth were honking mumbles, more like the sounds of an injured animal than a human. He prayed to a god who he no longer believed in. ‘ Dear God. I’m sorry for all the bad things that I’ve done in my life, but please, please help me. If you’ll only rescue me this one time, I’ll come to church every Sunday, and give all my money to charity. I’m begging you, please just let me move or speak. I’ll do anything, if you’ll just help me. Please, please.’ There was no response. In an effort to distract himself from his hopeless situation, he looked around the dimly lit room and tried to count the roses on the faded wallpaper. He tried to remember the names of all the children who he had been to school with. Until finally with relief, he heard the door knocker, then the door being opened and Dolly calling him. In answer, he tried to call and in agitation squirmed on his soiled bedding. He heard his sisters speedily ascending the stairs, their feet beating a rapid tattoo on each tread. Dolly entered the room first, her nose involuntarily wrinkling in distaste, as the noxious combined smells of stale urine and excreta reached her. Gladys behind, peering apprehensively over her sister’s shoulder. As Dolly neared his bed, he noticed shock pass over her features, and her face become ashen beneath its coating of powder. ‘Glad, go and ring for an ambulance.’ He felt remote from reality, as he saw the younger sister, turn, leave the room and head downstairs to the two-tone grey, plastic telephone, which stood, hardly used on the semi-circular hall table. ‘Frank. Can you hear me?’ His reply was a strange, unworldly, hushed howl. Dolly put her hand on his forehead, feeling the clammy heat beneath her palm. Peering into his eyes, she noted his dilated pupils. They were both vaguely aware of their sister downstairs, asking for the ambulance service, and in a shaking voice giving Frank’s address.

‘It’s all right Frankie, we’ll soon get you to hospital.’ He tried to speak again. His answer was the same unintelligible mixture of sounds. ‘Hush now. Don’t try to talk. I’m here.’ Frank realised that Dolly was soothing him, just as she had when he was a small boy. Gladys appeared in the doorway. ‘What’s wrong with him? Is he going to die?’ ‘Shut up, Glad. Make yourself useful, go and put the kettle on.’ The last thing Dolly wanted was a cup of tea, but she needed to keep her sister busy, to stop Gladys’ dread spreading to her and Frank. As it was, Dolly’s legs were trembling and she was fighting to retain her self-control.

It must have been about 15 minutes before they heard the distant wail of a siren, gradually becoming louder. All the time, Dolly stood holding her brother’s limp hand in hers, whilst stroking his forehead with the other. Throughout, she was murmuring comforting phrases to him, such as. ‘There, there. You’ll be ok.’ And ‘Don’t you worry, help is coming.’ She and Frank heard their sister pull open the front door to admit the ambulance crew, before they even knocked. Then, three sets of footsteps coming swiftly up the stairs to the bedroom. Dolly stood to one side, as the green uniformed man and woman spoke to Frank and began their initial assessment. Gladys followed then into the room, and joined her sister standing in the corner. They clung to each, anxiously watching the proceedings. The female paramedic said. ‘I think we’d best get you to hospital, don’t you?’ Her colleague was already leaving the room, presumably to fetch the necessary equipment to transport Frank into the ambulance. ‘I’ll come with him.’ Said Dolly. ‘And me.’ Piped up Gladys. The ambulance woman was firm. ‘Only one person can accompany Frank in the vehicle.’ ‘Run over to the factory, Glad. Tell them what’s happened and see if someone can bring you to the hospital in their car.’ Gladys was used to doing what Dolly told her to, and so left the house, heading back to their place of employment. Fourteen days later, the two sisters sat side by side, stiffly upright, in a small side-room in the hospital, their knees squeezed tight together, their handbags on top, hands firmly clutching them. They were perched on wooden framed, plastic covered, cushioned, utilitarian ‘easy chairs.’ The walls of the room were grey painted and decorated with posters, which demonstrated the correct way to wash your hands, and gave information about how to contact your local GUM clinic, if you believed that you had contracted a sexually transmitted disease. They could hear the muted sounds of hospital life, as the wheels of trollies and wheelchairs squeaked passing by in the corridor outside, hurried footsteps on the linoleum floor, and staff conversing. The room had that unmistakable hospital aroma of cheap disinfectant, over-cooked cabbage and surgical spirit. A young, white coated doctor sat opposite them, earnestly explaining. ‘Your brother’s condition is now stable. We’ve done all we can for him. There has been some improvement. He has regained use of his right hand and arm.’ ‘Will he get any better?’ queried Dolly. ‘We can never be sure with strokes, but any differences will be slight and slow. He’s ready to be discharged. We’ll start looking for a suitable nursing home, or if you have private health care, they may provide somewhere.’ ‘Can’t he come home?’ ‘He can, but he needs 24-hour care.’ ‘We’ll do it.’ The sister’s returned home. Gladys moved into Dolly’s room. A hospital bed was delivered and installed into Glady’s old room. Dolly went to the factory and spoke to the Human Resources department, explaining that she needed to hand her notice in with immediate effect. Everyone in the factory and its surrounding village knew of the siblings’ situation, and so the woman who she spoke to was sympathetic. She was only two months away from retirement age. The company generously agreed to pay the company pension early without incurring any penalties. The woman from HR added.            ‘Once Frank is home, and things have settled down a little, a member of our staff will come over and see you. She specialises in welfare rights, and will help you to claim any benefits that you might be entitled to.’            Three days after the bed’s delivery, hospital transport brought Frank home. Gladys returned to work. Initially, it felt strange being in the packing room without her sister, but she began to relish the feeling of being an individual. Community nurses visited and taught Dolly how to care for Frank. She reflected that she had always wanted a baby and finally her wish had been granted.       By the time, Miss Baines from the factory called, Dolly was managing independently. She showed the young woman up to Frank’s room. He sat propped up on a pristine pillow on a bed of crisp white sheets. He was facing a window, and in one corner of the room, a small television sat on a card table. A transistor radio quietly played music alongside it.            ‘You’ve got a visitor Frank, Miss Baines from the factory.’ The young woman pulled up a conveniently placed stool to the bedside, and sat down. She took Frank’s hand and awkwardly shook it. He looked at her, and thought how pretty she was.            ‘Now, I’ve brought some forms to fill in. I just need to check a few details. Is that, ok?’ Frank realised that it was a long time since anyone had spoken directly, especially in anything other than a tone reserved for imbeciles. He listened as Dolly explained the extent of his disability to Miss Baines. Her heard her outline: if she heard him shuffling in the bed, she knew that he had soiled himself, and, if he made any vocal noise, it usually meant that he was hungry. He stared at the vibrant, young woman beside him and began to cry. She noticed.            ‘Oh, Poor thing. I think he’s crying.’ Dolly replied.            ‘He does that sometimes. It’s just his eyes watering.’ Frank thought back to how he had taken for granted simple pleasures: changing the tv channel, walking to the shop to buy a paper, lighting a fag. Now, he was trapped in his body, with no means of communication. His sisters looking after him like they used to their baby dolls when they were young. He thought: ‘ This is my worst nightmare.’


It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. The memory she had flash back to where it begins. A woman who started her journey in searching of who she really is and her purpose in life. A woman who looks life differently because the world is unfamiliar to her and the life she had push her to the limits that made her to become the woman she is. Struggles in life, the hardship she encountered and the failure she had.            Often times she asks herself, did I make my purpose in life? Or did I make a difference to a person’s life? A lot of questions that made her question her existence and see herself unworthy in God’s eye. That night tears fall from her eyes and realizing that she’s living her life full of scars and lies. The journey she had in finding who she is was not that easy. She finds herself having breakdowns and giving up but one thing is for sure, life has its own ways to let her continue and smile because she had someone up there who tells her it’s going to be ok.            Someone came to her life, whom she thought would make her realized the love she’s searching for. Love indeed encompasses all but little did she know that destiny play its part in discovering the greatest lesson in life. The test of her faith was tested, between emotion and duty. Discovering that the love she’s searching is in God. Her life is the reflection of the woman that God’s love. He never judge, he continue to love and receive her back. The woman she was twenty four years ago was now the woman who was brave enough to stand and face the world. A lot of things happened but the love she had makes her special.            Going back to the present, as she walk inside the room, she remember the girl sitting in the corner, who was crying and asking God to remove the pain she had. The fear she saw in the eyes of that little girl who knows nothing but the innocent things in the world. She wished to tell that little girl who keeps everything to herself that she is now the girl who was strong enough to walk beside God. As she walk again and look at the door, the paper was still there, remembering the words she wrote. That’s where it started, the word that change her life. Reading it again and then she smiled. The flashback continues, the girl laying on her bed, made a note and wrote something from that little book she had. It was actually a note for herself, a conversation she had from the book she was holding. It became her light, her happiness and her comforts. Something that no one knows but just a relationship she built between the two of them. Isolating herself from the reality of the world and living the life she had at the moment. She continue to read the book she was holding, and something caught her eyes, and it is something that she noticed, a very unique words she created. She was wondering what this could be and she come up with the idea to juggle the words, to group into something meaningful and useful. Then she found it, a message that no one knows. Life isn’t easy for she knows that many will not believe but what if this message will simply put a significant change to one’s life and then she continue doing it.            A person knocks on the door and then she was shocked for she knows that the place to where she was is an empty vacant place. It was a long time ago that the place was preserved and then she slowly open the door. A man suddenly appeared and she looked in his eyes and they met in the middle of the place to where it started. He started to talk and said “I guess this place is just still the same” and then he smiled. The woman was wondering who this man could be for she know nothing of him. She started to ask, “Who are you?” and the man laughed and he said “I know about you” and you know about me. The woman still didn’t understand what he was talking. We’ve known a long time ago, we are bound to meet in this place, to the place which is a very special between us and I think it’s all worth the wait because I found you in this place.            The words you created for me is a very sweet word that lifts me up and the same thing with you. I was in the middle of life crisis when I read the words you left in this door. I think these words will always reminds me that I was the person who I am right now. When things get wrong and when I am in the middle of giving up then I always look the words you left in this note that you put in this door. Funny it is that I have known you for a very long time yet you don’t know me. When you cried, I was there without you knowing. When you’re happy, I was happy without you knowing. When you smile, I find myself smiling. When you’re angry, I wish to comfort you and give you hope. I was there all along and that made me realized that you’re truly indeed a special woman designed by God. She was silent hearing all these things and she was amazed how things works according to the Will of God. She lifted her eyes and look at him and she smiled. She pick the paper she posted in the door and at the back of the paper is the word that says you have come this far, you have showed your best, you always come up with something unexpected and that was all that mattered.


Kate swore that after last Christmas, she would never work retail again. Yet, here she was in her friend's bookstore two days before Christmas. What had she been thinking! Her friend, Ginny, had called her yesterday in tears. “Please Kate. I know you hate retail, especially at Christmas, but I'm desperate. Two of my best staff called in sick and I can't find anyone to replace them. I really need your help!” She pleaded. Kate rolled her eyes. She couldn't leave Ginny in such a bad situation. She took a deep breath and said “Sure, Ginny. As luck would have it, I have the day off today. I'm happy to help.” Ginny practically screamed, thanked Kate and said she'd see in a little bit. The store opened early today and was open late. It would be a long day. Kate sunk into the chair. She thought to herself “What have I just done? I am certifiable. I really need to see someone.” She actually did have the day off, but she had planned to use it to wrap gifts and have a nice relaxing day at home before she went to her family's home for Christmas Day. Well, that wasn't going to happen! She quickly got ready, took a deep breath and walked out the door. Kate took the bus, because she knew traffic would be crazy and she was right. She saw several small fender benders and near misses on her way and lots of road rage. 'Tis the season! Once she arrived at the shop, she entered through the back door, just in case there was anyone waiting outside. It was always awkward going in the front door when the store wasn't open yet. People always looked at you like they should be allowed in even if it's not time. Her friend was already there and looked like she was ready to cry. “Hey Ginny. Never fear – I am here!” she said jokingly. That got a bit of a smile out of Ginny and the two of them busied themselves getting the store ready. The time passed quickly and soon it was time to open the door. They both took a deep breath and prepared themselves. They were not disappointed. For a small book store, the number of people coming in was impressive. Kate counted 20 people in the first ten minutes. Things were running pretty smoothly and they were getting into a good rhythm. Kate was helping people in the store and Ginny was ringing people through the cash. If the day continued like this, Ginny would make a excellent profit. Still, this would be a long day and Kate hoped that nothing to major would happen. Then morning was steady and there weren't too many issues. Some people were looking for books or games that Ginny didn't have, but for the most part people left happy. Ginny was smiling all morning and Kate was feeling pretty good that she had been able to help. After lunch, however, the wheels started to fall off the bus. All the weirdos and their friends were apparently in the store. It all started when one man who smelled of strong cigarette smoke came in and asked for a particular book. Kate tried not to choke on the odour and look for the book at the same time. She couldn't find it and said so to the smelly man. “Are you sure? Check again.” He demanded. “I know I saw it in here a couple of months ago.” “Okay. I'll check again.” Kate capitulated. She looked through all the books in that section and even checked the computer. Other customers were waiting to ask her questions. She went back to where the man had been and he was gone! Kate had spent 10 minutes looking for the stupid book and he left! She turned around angrily only to find herself face-to-face with an odd woman with a bird on her hat. “Excuse me, but do you have a copy of the Magna Carta?” She asked. “I want to get it for my nephew. He's very odd and likes that sort of thing.” Kate looked, but again did not find what she was looking for. She found the woman and told her that they didn't have a copy and received a strange look. “Whatever are you talking about, dear? Why would I want a copy of that old thing?” With that, she left. Before she could even get a word out, a young man came up to her in a panic. “Please tell me that you have a comic book section. The latest X-Men comic is out and if I don't get it, I think I might die!” He almost screamed. “I'm so sorry.” Said Kate. “We don't carry comic books.” The young man's face sank and her ran out of the store crying. Kate turned to Ginny, but she was busy with a customer at the cash. She still looked happy, so she must not have seen any of the weird customers. The rest of the afternoon was equally strange. People were looking for the oddest books, rare books, games she'd never heard of, puzzles, magazines, clothing, food and even hammers. Kate was feeling overwhelmed, almost like she was in an episode of the Twilight Zone. She'd just about had it when an elderly man came into the store. He had an air of calmness about him and if she still believed, she would have sworn it was Santa. Kate walked up to him and asked if she could help him with anything. “Thank you young lady. I have quite a list here.” He laughed and she thought she saw his belly shake. Kate thought that she might be going crazy, but he was being pleasant, so she asked to see his list. He handed her a list of about twenty names. Each one was written in fancy handwriting and there was a gift beside each name. Peter: 10 years old. Any Percy Jackson book. Naomi: 8 years old. Any book about women scientists. Jennifer: 6 years old. A doll. Kai: 12 years old. Pokemon cards. And the list went on. Kate looked at the man and he winked and smiled at her. She couldn't help but smile back. There was something about him that made her very happy. She wasn't sure that she'd be able to find everything on the list, but as luck would have it, everything was there. Ginny couldn't believe her luck as Kate kept bringing the items up to the cash. “Is this all for one person?” She asked. “Yep. This guy came in with a huge list and we have everything on it!” Said Kate. After about half an hour, all the items had been bagged up and rung through. The man paid in cash and smiled at both of them. “Thank you so much for all your help Ginny and Kate. Have a wonderful Christmas!” Said the man. Kate helped him carry all the bags out to his car and waved as he drove away. As she went back into the store, she felt at ease and reinvigorated. The rest of the night went smoothly and as they closed up, Ginny turned to Kate and thanked her for helping out when she needed her the most. “You're the best friend anyone could ever have.” She cried. “Stop it! You'll make me cry.” Said Kate. The next two days flew by, On Christmas morning, Kate woke up to get ready to drive to her parents' place in the country when she noticed something under her tiny Christmas tree. She went over to find a small gift. Feeling a bit uneasy, she didn't touch it at first. How did it get there? Her door was looked, as were her windows and the only people who had keys were her close friends and family. Curiosity got the best of her and she picked up the gift. It was a decent size and fairly heavy. She almost shook it when she felt something in it move! Before she dropped it in shock, she heard a whine come from inside the box and she noticed that there were holes in it. Her hands shook. It couldn't be what she thought it was. Six months ago, her beloved dog Max had died at the age of fifteen. She had loved him so much that she couldn't think of getting another one for quite a while. Recently, she had been thinking more and more about getting a dog. She missed the companionship and unconditional love of a dog. One afternoon, not that long ago, she had passed a street Santa and he had asked her what she wanted for Christmas as she put money into his collection pot. Jokingly, she had replied that she wanted a puppy. She ripped the paper off the box and opened it. Inside was the most beautiful puppy she'd ever seen! She started crying tears of joy as she picked him up and cuddled with him. He immediately peed on her. Her tears turned to laughter as she realized what had happened. She cleaned up the mess and took a good look at her new best friend. “What should I name you, and who brought you here?” She asked. The puppy cocked his head to one side. He seemed to be pointing to the box, so Kate took a look inside and found a note. She couldn't believe it. It read: Dear Kate, Thank you so much for all your help the other day at the book store. There will be so many happy children today because of you. I know that you have had a hard year and I wanted to reward you with the gift you asked me for. This is a special puppy from my home in the North Pole. Have a very Merry Christmas! Yours truly, Saint Nicholas Kate stared at the note. This must be a joke. Santa isn't real, right. She looked at the puppy again and he seemed to smile at her. She laughed and told him that his name was Nick. What else would she name him?


“Meredith,” Her mother called through her daughter's closed bedroom door, “I have a meeting this morning and we're having company over this evening so I need some help around the house. Will you please change out the bathroom towels?” Meredith had to pause in the middle of getting dressed, take a deep breath in, and let it out as smoothly as she could. “...sure,” she answered, keeping her protestations to herself, and dutifully went about the task. She brought the dirty laundry downstairs and headed into the kitchen to have her breakfast. “Meredith,” Her mother called, following her into the room while putting on a pair of earrings. “Will you unload the dishwasher and take out the trash when you're done, please?” Isn't it obvious I'm getting ready too? Meredith thought to herself. “Sure thing, Mom,” was the correct answer though. She was in the middle of the dishwasher when four-year-old feet came padding down the stairs, followed by her mother's voice from the top of them. “I need to get dressed. Will you give Bailey some breakfast please?” “Will you let me get to school, please?” “Mewdith! Mewdith!” Her sister came running in, thrusting a half-dressed doll at her, before she could protest. “Will you help me dress my Barbie?” “You need to eat breakfast first, though.” Meredith politely took the doll, satisfied Bailey's request, and made her a bowl of cereal. Meredith finally got out the door but school was no better. She was a quiet, average student but today she felt like all her teachers called on her for the tough questions. “What do you think, Meredith, was Boo Radley a villain, a victim, or a hero?” in English class. “Meredith, would you show us how to find the quotient with these exponents, please?” in Math class. “Meredith, what is one difference between the presidential office and the British prime minister's?” in History class. “únete al Club Español! Join Spanish Club!” The Spanish teacher exclaimed to no one in particular at a hallway booth during lunch while Meredith happened to be in earshot. She wasn't even in Spanish class. She stopped at a bulletin board hawking various club meetings, event postings, and announcements. She was looking for a specific one: a poster promoting a Taylor Swift club she was trying to start. It was underneath a pile of cheerleading fliers. The culprits passed by while she was clearing away the obstruction. “The party this weekend is going to be wild!” Gwen, the head cheerleader, said loud enough to get Meredith's attention. “Too bad your parents don't let you out after dark, Meredith,” She snided to her, eliciting laughter from her two cronies. “What's the deal this time?” she continued, “Babysitting your baby sister or knitting with your grandma?” The laughter continued. The grandma dig was too far and Gwen knew it. “Aren't you late for making out with the quarterback or something?” Meredith's best friend, Yasmin, cut in just in time. The cheerleaders snide-eyed them and sashayed off. Successful dig returned for a dig. All week the rumor mill had been gossiping about fights and a breakup between Gwen and the quarterback and Gwen hated that there was dirt on her now. “How is your grandma?” Yasmin asked. “Her memory lapses are getting longer and she's getting crankier. She barely remembers anybody and they're giving her a couple more years at best.” Meredith teared up. “My parents are helping get her affairs in order.” “I'm sorry,” Yasmin hugged her. “I know you were close to her.” “Thank you,” Meredith dried her eyes and carried on, tired of her own name by the end of the day. She walked a long route home for some solitude, wishing she could just disappear. Not permanently or by some scary kidnapping or accident or anything. Just maybe invisible. For a day or two at least. She stopped to pick up a penny and then by the fountain in the park where she thoughtlessly tossed it. Her next stop was right outside of her house. She was confused. Mom said they were having company over, but her family's cars weren't in the driveway. Maybe they took them somewhere or picked them up? She shrugged and started inside for more shock. Another random teenage girl was playing with her sister. “Hey, do I know you?” Meredith tried to get their attention. “Hey! Bailey!” They just continued to mind their business, acting out their own stories with the dolls and toys. Nothing in the room was loud enough to drown out normal conversation. She called, whistled, and shouted to them again with no more avail. Giving up, Meredith turned towards her room. Ascending the stairs, she noticed something else odd: the family photos on the wall were different, fewer on display and showing fewer people. There was a familiar picture from her parents' wedding, a normal portrait of the two of them, and a shot of her parents with Bailey as a newborn, but nothing with Meredith. She was there for a family picture after her sister was born. She continued looking around the hall upstairs at the other displays but found nothing of herself; no school photos, no photos of her as a kid, not even family snapshots including her. Her perplexity grew. Where is she? What happened to her pictures? But more still was opening her bedroom door and not seeing her room. Her Taylor Swift and Harry Styles posters were replaced by abstract art pieces. Her plush comforter and colorful pillows were traded for subtler counterparts. The dresser was clean and sparsely filled; her clothes and personal items removed. The closet empty save for linens and toiletries a guest might need. A crazy thought dawned on her as she plopped on the bed but she refused to entertain it. Determined, She shot off the bed to search the family records and keepsakes, determined to find the punchline in this joke. She searched the house all evening only to come up dry. No birth record for her, no old report cards or art projects, no ribbons or trophies from her grade-level achievements. No baby things that Grandma would've made her. All the while, everything she seemed to find was for, about, or by Bailey. Come to think of it, Bailey seemed to have more toys than Meredith remembered. Peeking in her room while the sitter got her ready for bed, the room was definitely a lot more fun than how it was this morning: pink walls with Bailey's in wooden letters, colorful bedding, and toys everywhere. One would think she was an only child. Meredith couldn't remember Bailey ever getting a Kidkraft Mansion Dollhouse and so many Melissa & Doug toys. The Barbie Dreamhouse she grew up with happened to be a sturdy hand-me-down for her sister that eluded Goodwill donation for ten years but now that was nowhere to be found either. Giving up, Meredith returned to the dull bedroom to sleep and try again in the morning. Surely people at school aren't in on this too. Not hearing her name during roll calls felt weird and while yesterday she was all for being a more silent participant in class, today of all days entailed surprise Kahoot quizzes in all her classes. Every announcement about it made her groan. Of all days to be seen! Meanwhile, she couldn't greet her favorite lunch lady serving in the cafeteria buffet line and couldn't find Yasmin in any of their usual hangouts before it occurred to her to check the library. She forgot Yasmin always had more niche interests, but she embraced and respected them if nobody else did. “Yasmin!” Meredith called to her, “I'm having the weirdest day--” As happy as she was to see her friend, Meredith suddenly remembered she was talking loudly in the library and more so that she couldn't be seen or heard. Helpless, she watched her friend, sitting at a table by herself with her back to her, eating lunch from home while reading fantasy novels. Today she seemed to be the minority. Meredith wanted so much to remind her she was there, but it seemed she wasn't. It really was like she was never here. The thought started to make Meredith ache. She was physically and consciously in this world but the world didn't seem to know her. How can that even be? Quietly, she left school before lunch was over—no one would know she was gone anyways. She wandered her way toward the park. The weather was spring-like even though the calendar still said winter: blue skies, sunshine, fifty to sixty degrees, and a little breeze, so the place was busy. Pet families walked their dogs, though none barked at her. Balls and frisbees came her way but their owners wouldn't have seen her helping them. The people-watchers on the park benches wouldn't pay her any mind either, she thought. “Meredith?” That is until a familiar elderly voice crooned her name. It stopped her in her tracks, scanning around for the source, she spotted her grandma sitting nearby with a caregiver. Meredith couldn't believe it though. Her grandmother was forgetting her own name, much less the names of her loved ones. “Meredith!” Her grandmother started waving to her, the recognition registering in her voice and in the sparkle of her eyes. “Grandma!” Meredith ran to her, bewildered but more so grateful for the first recognition she experienced today. “But your dementia...” Meredith started while embracing her, “It's like you recognized me right away. And you see me!” “My mind is going further away than my eyesight, dear.” Grandma clucked. “No, not in that sense. I seemed to have made a crazy wish to disappear and now it's like I never existed! Nobody else knows I'm around...or not around...” “Oh, child,” Grandmother consoled. “You'll have many wishes in life, but your heart never forgets what's important. You and your family aren't always in my mind, but you're always in my heart. That must be how I can see you.” A tear ran down Meredith's cheek. It was the most touching thing anyone had said to her and also the most coherent conversation she had had with her Grandma in a while. “I love you, Meredith,” Grandma thumbed the tear away and kissed her granddaughter on the forehead. “I'd like you to meet my nurse,” she started to turn to make introductions, but at the same time, the nurse turned to her, taking her arm. “It's time to be heading back home, ma'am,” the nurse declared. “Oh, it is?” The elder was surprised, her memory seeming to relapse again. Meredith watched as she was led away. Leaving the park, she struggled with what Grandma said. It almost stung to imagine not being in anyone else's heart right now. Yet, they didn't know she did—or didn't—exist. What was important enough to be in hers right now anyways? School? Yasmin? Grandma? Her hometown? The spring-like winter day was ending with gray clouds, harder wind, and a drastic temperature drop. She had to hurry home and arrived to a storm of another kind. Before even walking through the door she heard Bailey wailing. Meredith burst in, finding the living room looking like an aftermath of a tornado. Toys were strewn everywhere and not in a playful way. Bailey stood in the middle of the room, her face scrunched and skyward while she bawled. Mom knelt at her side, to be on level with her to soothe and attempt reasoning. But the toddler fists at her side holding a board book one moment suddenly launched it across the room the next. “Bailey Louise! No, ma'am!” Mom gave a stern warning but looked battle-worn. Disciplining the tantrum and preparing dinner were getting in the way of each other and Mother had to hurry to the kitchen to catch something boiling over. Bailey continued howling. Meredith was appalled by this Bailey. The sister she knew never threw tantrums this drastic. The mother she knew had practice...and an older daughter to assist at times. Meredith started to see value in what she always saw as motherly nagging to do chores or to babysit. Her involvement helped keep peace and order. More still, her sister was her other best friend. Meredith was starting to realize what was in her heart. “Bailey-bee!” Meredith cooed her sister's pet name while crossing the room into the eye of the storm, not caring whether or not she was seen. She wanted to help. Incidentally, Bailey's crying decreased. “Sing with me, Bailey-bee!” Meredith encouraged while starting to clean up her mess. “Our song is the slammin' screen door, sneaking out late, tapping on your window...” Bleary toddler eyes stared at her, emotions lowered to whimpering now. “How about this one?” Meredith changed the song, “Some day I'll be livin' in a big old city and all you're ever gonna be is mean...can you see me?” She stopped, making eye contact with her. Bailey just nodded. “Can you sing with me?” Meredith encouraged with a smile while picking up more toys. “You love this one! 'Cause the players gonna play, play, play, play, play, and the haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate. Baby, I'm just gonna shake, shake, shake....shake....” Bailey just shook her head no. Meredith put her hands to her hips and stared back at the child. The Bailey she knew loved those songs. The Bailey she knew was one of Taylor Swift's biggest little fans because of her. She forgot this wasn't the Bailey who knew a big sister though. Just then, Mom returned, having dinner under control and a little more fortitude regained to address her existing daughter's behavior. “Are you ready to talk like a big girl now, Ms. Bailey?” Mom asked, getting back down on the floor. “Behind you,” The toddler innocently blurted. “Behind me? What's behind me?” Mom was taken aback. Meredith suddenly realized Bailey was referring to her. She thought quickly. “Your imaginary big sister!” Meredith spouted back. “My imaginawy big sister,” “You have an imaginary big sister now?” Mom responded. “Uh-huh...” Their conversation continued as Mom got to the bottom of Bailey's thoughts and feelings that evening. Meredith slipped away upstairs to reminisce on sharing Taylor Swift music with the sister she knew. She wondered if she'd have to fill her role as an imaginary sister from now on? Most kids had an imaginary friend for a couple years. Would it be the same between her and this Bailey or would this Bailey always see her? Meanwhile, the outside was black, save for outside lights and headlights. The wind now howled, shaking anything outside, and rain pelted everything. Altogether too nasty to return to the fountain to make a new wish, Meredith thought. She lay in bed, listening to the nature storm when the door creaked open. Slipping through the crack was little Bailey, dressed in her pj's and dragging a blanket. “Imaginawy big sister?” Bailey asked as she entered. “You can call me Meredith,” she sat up. “Big sister Mewdith,” the toddler restarted, “Can I sleep with you? The storm is scawy.” “Of course!” Big sister welcomed, appreciating the opportunity. “You have a pwetty singing voice,” Bailey complimented as she settled into bed, “Can you sing another song, pwease?” “There's somethin' bout the way,” Meredith started “the street looks when it's just rained. There's a glow off the pavement. You walk me to the car and you know I wanna ask you to dance right there in the middle of the parking lot. Yeah...And I don't know how it gets better than this. You take my hand and drag me head first fearless...and I don't know why but with you I'd dance in a storm in my best dress, fearless....” Meredith dozed off around eleven-eleven as the storm subsided. At dawn, she woke with a start, sitting up in Bailey's room. The room she recognized, her old Barbie Dreamhouse on a shelf in the corner. Tiptoeing out of the room, she opened the door to the next one, revealing her room, full of her posters and belongings. She shuffled down the hall and down the stairs, noticing herself in every family photo again. She existed once more and wouldn't take her purpose for granted.


'Was this a giant mistake ?' She wondered out loud. He was so handsome. Had graduated with honours from the most prestigious Harvard University. Earned a decent livelihood from his teaching job. No known addictive habits. Seemed like a perfect match for her. But, something was amiss. And she couldn't pinpoint what it was. She was a simple girl with simple dreams. Having graduated from the municipal college, she had taken up a job at the local preschool. Working with children helped her revive a childhood she never really had. Having lost her parents when she was only 5, she had quickly learnt to adapt to the ever-changing life of a girl bounced from one foster home to another. She refrained from making friends lest she loses them. Now the time had come to finally make an acquaintance for life, if not for herself, at least for the sake of those loud-mouthed colleagues and neighbours. So a friend had suggested using a dating app, which ended up matching her with this charming young lad. Shawn was his name. Decked in a blue chiffon dress and high heels, she gracefully entered the 'Resto' cafe at the agreed time. He sat by a corner table, patiently waiting for her. Her little heart fluttered like a caged bird as she neared him. This was new, exciting and scary all at once. The app had only given her a brief description of him so that she could identify him. " Blue eyes, lovely smile, and a gentleman in blue" was all it said. His light blue shirt hugged his muscular frame. As she neared him, he gentle stood up smiling. " Miss Rose I presume?" "Yes. Mr Shawn?" "Yes, mam. Nice to meet you. Please sit down. You smell lovely." No one had ever said that to her. Was this normal. Felt creepy. Why wouldn't he comment about her dress, or how she looked? ' You smell lovely!' Outrageous. Uncertain, she took a seat. "So, let me introduce myself. I am Shawn Michaels. I teach English at Harvard, my alma mater. I graduated with honours and decided to pursue my career there. I don't drink or smoke. I am a vegan. I do yoga. I love the opera. I play the violin. Single, never married. My parents live in West Virginia with my two brothers. So, tell me something about yourself." A pause. Who talks so much about themselves on a first date. That too a blind date. Risky isn't it? "Err...I'm Rosaline Shepard and I'm a preschool teacher." A chiselled face, good manners, lovely smile, bright blue eyes. But those eyes; they seemed lost. He had never once really looked at her. Was he shy? Unlikely. Was this some sort of a routine for him? A twisted fantasy? That no woman was worth looking at? " Shall we order something? Coffee?" He signalled to the waiter. He waited for me to order. "A double shot espresso, please." "A double shot espresso for the lady and a latte for me please". As the waiter hurried off with our order he continued to muse. "It's a bright sunny day today. The grass is warm, and the wind carries the aroma of bright blooming flowers. A fine day to meet someone special. Even the songbird broke into a joyful melody as I sat waiting for you. So what do you love to do? Any interests apart from caring for and playing with children?" Was he mocking me? How dare he? So much for the poetic phrases. "I read. Books have always provided me solace in tough times." "That is excellent! Books are indeed our best friends! They transport us to a world full of dreams and possibilities. Be it The Bard or J K Rowling, stories inspire us. So, what are you currently reading?" "Romeo and Juliet" "Ah! One of Shakespeare's best works! What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name Would smell as sweet" he finished, quoting Shakespeare. Romantic or crazy? He seemed to have something to say for her every single response. And never once did their eyes meet. She felt like she was talking to a beautiful talking wall. Even the double shot espresso couldn't help her. Why wasn't he looking at her? Was it because he was too proud to look at a poor girl? Or did it not matter to him. His latte sat untouched on the table. Why simply order if you didn't want it? Feeling more and more unsettled, she left the cafe with a petty excuse of feeling sick. It had been his best date ever. Women never really looked at him with love. It was more often pity than longing in their eyes. He could feel their sympathetic glances burn holes on his back. He knew the moment she entered the cafe as the air rich with the smell of coffee, suddenly had a hint of lavender in it. The aroma tingled his senses. Her light steps and the whirl of her chiffon dress about her told him she was dainty and gentle. A preschool teacher. Someone good with kids can't have a bad heart. Few words, an elegant silence. A woman who knew her words' worth. Well read, and knew what she wanted. The order was only for a coffee, but she hadn't hesitated a moment. He had only heard and read about love. The bard had gone to great lengths describing it. His poor heart had started racing like a horse the moment that lavender aroma had hit his nose. He was excited and happy. Unsure how to stop his hands from trembling in joyous excitement he had decided to leave his latte untouched. They said love, at first sight, was possible. Well in his case, it was mostly, love at first meet. Unfortunately, she had fallen sick and had to leave. But before he could reach for his cane, and walk her home, she was gone. It was her first blind date. For him, every date had been the same, blind.