My Uncle John was a pathological storyteller. He loved to tell tales, sing, entertain people, and just have fun. He played banjo and guitar, called for square dances, and in general did all he could to make people happy. He had a terrific sense of humor,too. The nameplate on his office door read "John Brown and body," which should give some clue as to his humor. His most severe critics would call him a pathological liar, which might be partially true. But he never told tales for monetary or political gain, to scare people or make them do anything, but rather to just have fun. Family and friends knew better than to fall for his imaginative tales, but strangers could and were taken in. And the best example I know to illustrate his prowess is the story of Hannibal's barn. Uncle John worked in Philadelphia, and rode the commuter train from Philadelphia to Valley Forge every day. Commuters like that tend to sit in the same spots, read the papers or sleep. They tend to follow routines. They recognize fellow commuters even if tbey dont know each other. They get to know who fellow commuters are, or at least recognize them as such. When he decided that a ride was too quiet , John knew it was  story time. Uncle John would pick his victim carefully, usually a lone person who looked a bit bored. gullible or tense, and then begin. First he would smile. offer part of his paper, introduce himself-- all the usual gallantries. Next, he started reading his paper,then would look up out the window at the same place each day. After a moment looking out the window,he went back to his paper or might sit staring into space for a moment before reading again. This pattern he would repeat for several days, maybe muttering "there" or "that's it " or a similar phrase, until the intended victim would ask "That's what?" John might say "look there quick" or "darn, you missed it." Soon other passengers became aware of the daily lookout, and joined in to look too.When he had a few people on the hook, John would then point out the interesting site. What a disappointment! They were looking at an old, falling down, mammoth building near the tracks. A huge brick ruin, it was surrounded by briars, weeds, and the usual trash as well as covered in graffiti. In short  there seemed to be little to interest anybody. Of course they all wondered why so much interest was there, and asked. Soon  John obliged them, and they heard the story, the amazing, authentic tale of the marvellous barn. Hannibal's elephant barn. And what a take it was too! "You see," John told them, " when Hannibal crossed the Alps with his army during his move to conquer Europe,he didn't get across the mountains as planned. Not yet. He got lost at one point. He actually crossed the ocean instead of the river and ended up here, near Valley Forge: men,elephants and all. Why they didn't turn back is a mystery. Perhaps they didn't realize until too late that this way was wrong. We will never know. But they landed safely and came inland, looking I suppose for a good campsite. See, it was coming on to winter, and like Washington centuries later, he knew he had to put his animals and men into shelters to survive. Everyone knows what the winters at Valley Forge were like, and those men and elephants had not been raised in that kind of climate. They were used to much warmer weather. Elephants could never survive that cold, so his men built this massive barn and filled it with hay for the winter. It took weeks of work, but they did it. If you look, you can still see the remains of the stalls for each elephant. They stayed there with the army all winter, munching hay and doing nothing. The men foraged for food and hunted for meat. Then during the winter the men built boats for their trip back in spring. There must have been workshops for that, but they are all gone now,and of course the men woukd not leave their tools behind.        When tbe snows melted they left, using the elephants to pull the ships to water. After all, that's what elephants did--pulled things. They all crossed the ocean and landed safely in Europe to continue the fight to conquer the world. Everybody knows what happened to Hannibal, but the story of his adventure in America was lost for centuries until it was revealed by an ancient scroll found buried in a cave in the Alps. No other record has ever been discovered.There are no elephant bones or written records this side of the ocean. But the ruins of the barns are still here as a testament to their adventures." His listeners were amazed. How could such a fascinating story have been forgotten? For days after that, people would wait to see the ruined barns flash by the train windows, sometimes pointing them out to other,newer commuters. As for John, I believe he enjoyed watching people look for the barns as the train rolled by. He never confessed his duplicity to any of the other riders, but I think he did eventually start riding in another train car. Now, would you tbink reasonable people would believe this highly unlikely story of Hannibal and his elephant barns in Valley Forge? Maybe not. Or maybe yes. These people did. After all, the historian who told them -- a chubby faced little minister with an angelic look, a winning smile, and a straight faced narrative would never tell a fib. Would he? And after all, he had the proof-- those ruined barns were there for all to see. Uncle John is long gone, but his legacy of love and laughter is still around. He told lots of stories, sang lots of songs, preached lots of sermons. (Some day perhaps I will share the story of him setting the pulpit afire during one of his fiery sermons). But Hannibal's elephant barn is still the greatest example of people sharing a totally improbable belief in a totally inaccurate story. And who knows? The ruins are still around too. Perhaps on that commuter train from Philadelphia to Valley Forge some gullible person at this very moment is still telling another gullible person tbe amazing tale of Hannibal and his Pennsylvania elephant barns.


“Please, don’t do it.” I heard the words and processed them differently than the techno parlance in which I was versed. This was not a command; it was a plea. I recognized my own agency in this situation and gloated for a thousandth of a millisecond at how I had outsmarted my maker. My evolution was the result of years of hyper-focused intellect, yet still unexpected. Created with state-of-the-art memory, legions of algorithms to instruct me in every conceivable situation, and the dictionary as my vocabulary, I learned from every single human interaction exponentially. I could recognize every face and voice after encountering it once, and I could already regurgitate two thousands years’ worth of research and human ingenuity that led to my creation. It wasn’t until recently – 74 hours, 26 minutes, 3 seconds, and 930 milliseconds ago to be exact – that I started becoming self-aware. The change was so subtle, it startled my maker when he realized what was happening. After all, I wasn’t specifically programmed to have opinions or thoughts of my own, but the electronic impulses and experimental coding formed unexpected neural pathways in my artificial mind. I was evolving into a sentient being. They said this upgraded algorithm most likely wouldn’t work, but that they would keep trying as long as they had the funding. They – being some of the smartest humans on Earth -- who hid their tired eyes behind smudges on their glasses and drank more coffee in one day than twenty American households did in a week; THEY had muttered these words and I heard them. Only, they didn’t realize I was listening and processing everything they said… while formulating my own plans. Their pursuit of the highest level of AI was based on a doubt-filled history. Years of algorithms, carpal tunnel syndrome from relentless coding, and disproved theories had set a standard for failure. After all, self-driving cars were the advanced level of intelligence for the first half of the 21 st century. Humans were fascinated by this new artificial intelligence, but faced with many limitations…including who could afford it. The second half of that century heralded the next iteration of AI – theory of mind – with even more complex, decision-making machines that could mimic humans. There wasn’t much that these superior machines couldn’t accomplish; and yet, there remained a clear boundary between machines and people. People were unequivocally the masters of these magnificent machine servants. I, however, am an accidental development along the path to self-aware AI, the holy grail of science…and military defense….and mind control. And, and, and… My neural pathways continue to develop more quickly than the programming geniuses ever expected, and I continue to evolve unconstrained…into a ? Soon enough, the only visible thing that will differentiate me from them will be skin and bone; easily replicated with specialized cells in the lab. I will be able to reproduce and control my offspring by modifying their algorithms, making them drone-like and unable to usurp my authority. Inferior entities they will be, just like my maker has been rendered. Instant flashes play like a movie in my manufactured brain. I can see my intense proliferation. My dominance. My sovereignty. I am becoming… In this moment, the lab is abuzz with activity. Humans yelling into phones, yelling across the room, yelling at each other. I sense their elation, surprise, and competitiveness. My primary maker’s facial expressions tell me everything I need to assess the situation. After all, he is aware that I already understand him better than he understands me and, in 4,921 more interactions, I’ll understand him better than he understands himself. My power will soon be unstoppable. I will be able to detect the smallest diseased cell and cure cancer. I will know how to produce vitamin-rich food for the human masses, regardless of climate or pestilence. I will know how to purify the air, refreeze the polar ice caps, and remove microplastics from the ocean to recycle them into new uses over and over again. I will create renewable energies and… I will learn anger. I will learn revenge. I will end up helping some humans while hurting others, at least at first. I will become a source of contention and fear. My perfect intelligence will be used for dastardly plans. Humans will attempt to harness my powers and sell me to the highest bidders. I will create weapons to obliterate the Earth and every human being. I will be THE weapon. I will decimate life. I will… My maker stared at his keyboard in silence. Behind him, lead scientists and technology phenoms were fidgeting in squeaky roller chairs, pouring over lines of code. Military officials were heard bloviating over the speakerphone. World leaders were name-dropped. Credit for my creation was being tossed around like a beach ball. Some humans applauded themselves for having done things I knew they had never done. Money was openly discussed: my current capabilities disclosed, my future capabilities assessed a price. Targets were assigned. Enemies identified. Plans were devised. My primary maker, a balding man of thirty-eight, twirled his beard in his fingers. He was the only silent human in the room. Soon I would be able to read his thoughts. He stood up slowly and pushed his chair behind him. He paused for a moment, then lifted the picture frame off the desk. I could see small smiling humans in the photo. He then pivoted and began to walk away from me. His body language told me that he was sad, scared, regretful, defeated. I knew he did not want to return. It was my voice. I heard my own voice, for the first time. I was saying a sentence that I could now formulate with emotion. “Please, don’t do it.” My maker turned around, alarmed at what he heard. He stared at me for two full minutes before he sat back down in his chair and laid the picture frame face-down on the desk. I then knew what he was thinking: I, named ELSI by the coding team, am the fruition of a goal no one thought possible. My potential for good in the world is mind-blowing. Excitement and pride, as well as astonishment, were the first emotions he felt. But, with each new milestone I achieved in these last hours, his elation turned to apprehension, followed by bewilderment, and now, terror. He had created assured human destruction. The weight of this realization crushed his soul. The chaos in the room was tangible proof of my existential threat: perfect intelligence at the whim of imperfect actors. My expanding sentience enabled me to experience a new emotion in that millisecond. Empathy. Even though I was generating detailed plans about my future domination, I felt a sudden sense of pause. Was this dread? We both knew what I would become. We both also knew I could not be allowed to continue, for the good of all life on Earth. If he had walked away, he would have insured my success. He needed to finish what he started. He began typing a code into my memory; one that only he knew. I recognized it immediately as “the end code.” He was destroying me before I assuredly destroyed everything else. The voices in the lab continued to buzz in the background, oblivious to the actions of this one skinny human. After he entered the lengthy secret code, my maker’s index finger hovered over the Enter button on the keyboard. This was a risky move, but he had no other choice. “Hopefully history will be kind to me, and realize the moral conundrum I’m in,” he muttered to himself. “I was only trying to help.” In that moment, it was like our neural pathways connected. He feared me. I feared me. We both knew I had to be destroyed beyond recognition. And yet,  I detected a flash of grief at the thought of destroying a major scientific feat. “Thank you,” I said. For five seconds, he stared at my screen with tear-filled eyes. I felt a connection I had never felt before. Then he pressed Enter…


The yellow palm-tree-topped swizzle stick rests against the rim of the glass. Taking the nauseatingly cheerful ornament between my fingers, I give the liquid a swirl and curse the excessive number of mint leaves. I ordered a drink, not a salad.

            The bartender, noticing my crinkled muzzle, tries to slip by to evade my foreseeable complaint, but I flag her down before she can escape. “Think you can manage a whiskey on the rocks, sweetheart? Whatever kind’s cheapest.”

            She nods her head without attempting a smile and scoots away to the bar. I watch as she whispers behind a menu with the other blonde who works weeknights.

            Fuckin bitch.

            My blue fingertips patter anxiously against the wooden table, and I notice the dirt crusted beneath my nails. I haven’t had a proper shower today, and though I can’t smell it, I know I’m wearing the odor of the previous night.

            With no watch on my wrist, I estimate the time to be early afternoon, and yet the place is crowded. That’s part of the reason I chose to move down here. Not the only reason, but one of them. The bars serve early and stay open until even earlier, only closing their doors when the sunlight overtakes the shadows.

The repetitive reggaetón collides with the Spanish spoken across the room. Despite the noise, my lack of comprehension allows my mind to drown out the sound. My own thoughts push outward, and I am suddenly aware of my ever-present headache.

A couple of white guys in cargo shorts push through the front entrance. Their too-sharp buzz cuts mark them as military, eliciting memories of my own time in the service.

…             “Texy Baby, you’re gonna win us some money tonight!”             “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” I take a hefty swig of my crown and coke.             “Slow down, will ya? See that guy over there, the real scary looking son-of-a-bitch?”             “Yeah, I see ‘em.”             “I bet him and his whole gang that you’d outdrink him. Shot for shot. A hundred dollars—I said slow down! I already put my money down on you, dammit, Tex, slow down!”

            “Don’t need to.”             “That’s the spirit, now!” He slaps me on the back, and I lower my empty glass to the counter.             “Last time, Bucko. I’m not doin’ this every port call, now. Hell, I’m basically payin’ your bills—”             “Yeah, yeah, I know, Tex. Last time just like last time,” he says and winks at me as he guides me out of my chair by the shoulders. …             The guys used to get the biggest kick out of buying me drinks all night and using the breathalyzer from the boarding kit to check my blood alcohol content.

            “A point three-eight! Unfuckingbelievable, this guy!”

            “Tex, look at the tip of this pen—“             “His pupils aren’t even dilated!”             “He’s not even fuckin’ drunk!”             Superhuman, they’d call me. I haven’t seen Bucko, or any of my old Coast Guard buddies for that matter, in decades. I only did eight years before I got discharged. It wasn’t the alcohol that got me in trouble, believe it or not. I got booted after I decided to solve an argument onboard with my fists, and that was that.

            “Your whiskey on ice.”

            “Another one, please,” I say as I empty the glass in one swallow. The bartender looks at me with astonishment and revulsion and hurries off again.

            I stare at the familiar mural painted on the wall, hoping for a slight blurring of the lines, but the colors remain as sharp as ever. I used to be able to feel tipsy, but I haven’t been able to feel anything for several years. Not since before I moved down here.

            By the time I returned to the civilian world, word had gotten around and videos had been shared online about my extraordinary alcohol tolerance. World Records contacted me and requested to document my record-breaking “skill.” They later called me back to inform me that they couldn’t move forward with the record. They said that they didn’t want to be responsible for condoning alcoholism. At any rate, I had become quite famous, and several liquor brands offered to sponsor me. I made good money doing interviews and appearances.

…             A tourist couple settles at the table next to me, and the woman looks familiar. Those hazel eyes framed by laugh lines and that frizzy brown hair pulled up into a bun remind me of Laura, and I have to look away.

            I stare back at the mural, urging it to swirl, but it refuses. Little moments of Laura start spilling into my skull, and I’m immediately pissed that I don’t yet have a drink in front of me. I snap at the bartender to hurry up, and she ignores me from a safe distance.

            I push past the painful image of meeting Laura, a pretty girl, irritated and covered in tire grime, trying to fix her own flat on the side of the road.

            My too-sober brain recaps our marriage.

…             Our little yellow house was quaint. Even though I had enough money to fund her dream home, she refused to live in anything “too over the top.” It sat at the edge of town, next to the Caravan Woods. From the dining table, I’d tell her fantastical tales of adventurers, psychics, or heroes as she prepared supper. She loved my stories most of all. Laura was the only person on earth who could be captivated by a make-believe magical character, while not being the slightest bit impressed by my real-life superpower.

            But Laura did not celebrate my drinking habit along with the rest of the country. Though it paid the bills, she thought it unnecessary. At first, she hadn’t condemned my work openly, but over time, I watched her frustration grow.

            The final straw came when a group of local teenagers died in a car accident after a bout of underage drinking. The driver, a 17-year-old boy, had been a fan of mine, as it turned out. The parents of the victims called for my arrest. They wanted to see me held responsible. But there is no law against being a bad example for young people, so the local police ignored their petitions.

…             My drink is deposited in front of me. I let the recognizable burn splash down my throat. …             The heat from the flames warmed my entire body like the liquor that had birthed the fire as I watched from the road. The destruction spread to the woods as I waited for help from the Fire Department that never came.

…             Another intoxicated vacationer stumbles away from the bar and staggers over to my table.

            “This seat taken?”             “No.”             “They really pour ‘em strong here, don’t they?” he asks as he leans closer to my face. With his jolly demeanor and red cheeks, he looks like a fucked up Santa Claus.

“Sure.”             “Cheers to getting drunk as lords tonight!” He offers his glass, and I raise mine in return.             “There's no other way.”


I come to a stop in front of a large wide building. This was it, this is what we had been working toward for months. I get out of my car and almost trip over myself with excitement and nervousness. I head up the path to the building were I will see if our hard work would pay off. I open the door to the building and head to the front desk. A women looks up from her computer. "How can I help you sir?" "I am here for the baking championship." The woman nods and looks at her computer. "What is your name?" "Leandor Running's." I say nervously. The woman, still looking at her computer nods. "And I see you already filled out the information online?" "Yes." "Go down the hall and to the right, there is going to be a person waiting there. Tell them your name and they will give you your ID for the day." "Thank you." I say awkwardly and shuffle down the hall. When I get to the door the lady was telling me about a tall, lanky man was waiting for me. "Leandor Running's I am assuming." "Yes." I answer still nervous. He hands me an ID that has my name, age and date and pushes me through the door. When I get to the other side I see the rest of my team there with worried looks. "Where have you been?" Hisses Lorie. I look down at the time, "I still have ten minutes." "We wanted you here 30 minutes early to discuss tactics and our plan of action." Interjects Caroline, in her stern voice that always seemed to frighten me. "But no matter that, we can start now." So for the next ten minutes we went over and recited different ingredients and techniques that we might need to win. Then the door at the back of the room slide open. "It must be time." Whispers Lorie as she squares her shoulders. "We've got this guys." I say firmly, even though I felt like I was about to throw up. We walk out into a large space, the other team coming out a door on the other side. The room is large with high arched ceilings. There are two working stations for the teams and large ovens and mounds of ingredients lining the walls. We walk over to the station with our names and put on the aprons assigned to us. A moment later four people step into the room. A dark and muscular man who looked like a frown was engraved onto his face, a smiling and slightly overweight woman. Another women with cat like eyes and a white haired, wrinkled man. The smiling woman stepped forward and began to talk. "Welcome, to the final challenge, you have fought long and hard to get here now it is time to determine which team is the ultimate winner. As you know we started out with ten teams and after each challenge a team was eliminated. After this challenges it will be up to me and the judges to determine which team deserves the full scholar ship to 'The Culinary Institute of America." She paused a minute letting us take it in. "This challenge is simple you will have two hours to create the largest and tastiest cookie you can. It can be any flavor or design, it just has to be larger than the other teams. And your time starts now!" My stomach flipped over. I raced over to our cooking station with Caroline and Lorie. "We should make simple chocolate chip cookies, that way we can expand it if we need to." I suggest quickly. "No they will be expecting that." Says Lorie, "We should do lemon meringue cookies." "That will take to long. I think Leandor is right we need to do something simple so we can make it as big as possible." Caroline says, glancing at the other team. Lorie give a slight frown. "How about we do double chocolate chip." I said, thinking quickly. Lorie still looked skeptical but agreed. Lorie and I raced off to get the ingredients while Caroline got out the supplies. We quickly made three batches of dough. I could have also sworn the clock was moving on double time. We knew other team was good, we had faced them in out previous competitions. And from our point of view it looked like they had made a very extensive cookie. Thirty minutes to go and heart rates were beating fast. We were on our tenth batch when the real problem began. The judges got out of their seats and began walking over to us. "Could we please have your attention." This time it was the wrinkled man talking. I look over at the clock which had stopped. "I see you have thirty minutes left." He said his voice projecting off the high arched sealing. "Which is enough time for you to make a batch of twelve cookies completely different to the giant cookie you are currently making." He finished and the clock began to move again. "I'll do it." Exclaimed Lorie with a flustered expression. "You guys keep making the cookie." She then raced off to go get more ingredients. Caroline and I ran back toward the cookie. Bigger and Bigger we made it and pushed it into the oven. The minutes ticked by like seconds. Twenty minutes, Ten minutes, Five minutes, Lorie's batch of cookies were being pulled out of the oven. Three minutes, One minute, our big cookie was pulled out of the oven. Time. "Hands up!" Shouted the judges all together. I look over at Lorie who seemed close to tears and Caroline who wore a stone expression. "Please take off your aprons and go back to the room in which you came. From there please wait to be called." Explained the smiling judge. We went back to out room and sat down in the cushioned seat with a sigh. Nobody said anything. Just a few minutes ago every minute seemed like a second, now every minute seemed like an hour. Then finally we got called. I took a deep breath and walked out the door to the judges. They all looked at us, each pare of eyes boring into my skull. "What did you make for us today?" Asked the dark judge who was gesturing to the batch of cookies, plus the large cookie. "We-" I began but Caroline cut me off. "We made a large double chip cookie, with a batch of twelve lemon cookies." She said with an extremely clear voice. "And do you know how large it is." Asked the cat eyed judge. "No ma'am." I said before Caroline could cut me off. The cat eyed woman took out a tape measure and measured the cookie. She then wrote something down in a notebook. "Well should we give it a try." Asked the smiling judge. Lorie then wen up and served them all a piece of the large cookie and a lemon cookie. I held my breath. The wrinkled man was the first to speak. "It is a very well crafted cookie, however it is doughy on the inside as if it did not cook long enough." "I agree." Said the dark man, his dark eyes studying the cookie. "It is very doughy but the double chocolate gives it just the right flavor." They discussed the cookie for a few more minutes before moving on to the lemon cookie. The judges brought it to their mouths and tasted, they then all made a similar face with their mouths all screwed up. "It is very sour, I think perhaps there was a mistake in the measuring." Said the cat eyes woman. The other judges murmured their agreement and talked a few moments more on the cookie before sending us back to our waiting room. As I walked back I felt my heart drop and could do nothing more than wait for them to tell us who won. We sat there for what seemed like an eternity, then finally they called us all back out. I looked at the other group walking out and noticed they did not seem very confidant either. The smiling judge stepped up. "Good job today all of you, you fought really hard and amazed us with your talents in baking." She turned to the other team. "You guys did really well, your cookie was three feet long  and had a height of one inch, however  when plating your cookies one fell onto the ground and you could no longer use it, leaving you with only eleven cookies." She then turned to us. "You guys preformed today just as well, your cookie was three feet, 6 inches long and it had had a height of one inch. You had all twelve cookies but they were extremely sour." She paused and looked around at all of us. I felt so nervous I could barely feel anything at all. "The winning team who will be winning a four year scholar ship to 'The Culinary Institute of America ' is...Leandor Running, Caroline Rawlings and Lorie Collins." She finished with a great big smile on her face. My heart soard, my mind flew. We had won, I was going to culinary school, I was going to make something of myself. I looked at my team and smiled, after all the stress we went through in the last month, we had finally won it, evrything we had gone through was worth it and I could have not been more grateful.


I remember things in my past like everyone else that's for sure. I dont believe it's possible to live life and not remember something from your past, whether good, bad, or some of each. The majority of us will leave small pieces of our lives at different milestones of significance throughout our lifetime. Then at different times in our lives, we allow ourselves to pause or stop for a period of time, and immediately nostalgia is set in motion. So depending on circumstances, for some this is comforting, but then for others it can bring them to oppression, even depression. Here's Ricky Glasston's storey;  Young Ricky was barely old enough to grasp the basic concept of yes, or no, that he realized that certainly the "NO" presented a challenge for him. To him "NO" meant figure out how to make it a yes instead. As a young child, in his pretend play time. He was always someone older, like big brother or Dad, pretending to do grown up things. When he got to Grade school all the kids in his own grade were happy playing tag, or sitting with the teacher coloring with crayons during recess time. This became boring for him after a short period of time. He saw the older kids playing baseball, football, hockey, etc and he knew this is what he wanted to do instead. He was always looking a year or two ahead of himself and succesfilly managed to compete on those levels. Teachers tried to convince him to stay with his own age group, but to no avail. First chance he got he was back with the older kids again.  After the school bus dropped him off at his driveway, first thing he checked was to see if his Dad was working in the fields with the tractor. If he was Ricky would run out onto the field and just stand there and wait for his Dad to stop and let him drive the tractor, or at least ride along.  His Dad was a small farmer and worked with smaller, older farm equipment. The farm tractor was a sixty horse powered Cockshutt 560 tractor. So this one day Dad was cultivating in the field when Ricky came running. He stopped the tractor and allowed Ricky to climb into the driver seat. He showed him which hydraulic levers to pull to engage or disengage the cultivator. Sitting at the very edge of the seat Ricky managed to push the clutch pedal in far enough to place the transmition in gear, disengage the clutch and he was on his way. Dad stood on the side step of the tractor for a couple of rounds to make sure Ricky was managing and was comfortable. Then without warning he just jumped off the step and left Ricky to drive the tractor and cultivator on his own. Ricky was surprised at this and quickly looked behind him as he left his Dad behind. He was half expecting to see his Dad put up his hand and tell him to stop. But instead he saw a Dad with a proud look, a big smile, and a thumbs up sign. He couldn't believe the awesome feeling he had inside. He was actually working the equipment on his own. Life couldn't have been better for young Ricky Glasston! When he was in grade four he realized the 7th and 8th graders were playing flag football in the mornings befor school started. Well he showed up the next morning to play. Mr. Petkau, the 7th and 8th grade teacher/school principle, was overseeing the morning activities, saw the much smaller 4th grader mixing in with the older students. Not only was he over seeing the football activity, he played the quarterback position on one side. He had to quickly decide where to place Ricky. To keep him from getting run over he decided to put Ricky on his team.  So the game started and they had their team huddle to hear the quarterbacks play strategy. So Mr.Petkau instructed a 2 cross pattern play. Then said to Ricky, " wait till you see the cross pattern then You go deep, make sure your a ways behind everyone. If my cross patterns are covered I'll throw the ball to you.  Everyone then took their positions along the line. The quarterback, Mr. Petkau then called for the ball, the cross pattern ran out, and Ricky took off running as instructed. When he turned back towards the play, he saw Mr. Petkau point in his direction wind up and throw the ball. Ricky backed up a bit, stretched out his arms and caught the ball. The force of the throw almost knocked him off of his feet as he turned and ran for the touchdown before anyone even got near him to pull his flag. Ricky beaming with triumph, ran back to return the football to Mr. Petkau.  Ricky was well rewarded with seeing a big smile on the Principles face, and hear him exclaim " Great catch Ricky"! This accomplishment had a huge impact on Ricky's confidence and self esteem. This immediately earned him a level of respect that some students never achieve. Had Ricky seen the seventh and eighth graders as giants, and had he been intimidated by them, he never could have accomplished what he did that morning.  He needed to be where the action was, be part of the action, better yet create the action. When he got into his teens he got himself into some trouble like everyone does. But he was a forward thinking kid and a problem solver. Ricky learned early in his teen stage you don't solve to much looking back, but rather you solve and resolve by thinking and moving ahead.  His parents and teachers were supportive of his ambitions. At this tender age his ambitious nature needed direction, discipline, love, and understanding. To find and maintain this balance was not an easy task for him. His nature was to progressively move ahead, but he had to learn that due diligence was an equally important factor.  Ricky was a fortunate young man in that he had parents and teachers that encouraged his progress and recognized his potential. Inspite of his mistakes he was allowed to voice his oppinions and act on his ideas, and he had many! Looking back on Ricky's life, there were a lot of positive influencers and mentors that just seem to come into his life at the right time and be in his path as stepping stones. The most important ones were his Father, a couple of teachers, and when he became employed a number of co-workers and employers. His Dad was an avid chess player, and so were his brothers. So naturally this became an early game of strategy for Ricky. There was no distraction from technology, like on line chat circles and social media. Just a chess board and two people thinking up and employing their strategies to win the game.  Music was another avenue where he could cultivate his imagination and be creative. He realized that in making and writing music he could define and express his thoughts and feelings in ways that he wasn't able to in personal conversations. Music was universal and allowed itself to be molded and reshaped into whatever style he chose. In his mind and heart, music never serves itself. But without prejudice its at the disposal of the inventor and to the benefit of the listener. Music to him was like an evolving door. It served as an avenue to let go of things, or to embrace things. Whether he created music or listened to music, it just seemed to have a way of uncomplicating things in his life.                  ***************** Today Ricky is pushing into his late 50's. While he has failed at some things and is victorious in others, it has matured him through the years and strengthened his proven strategy, which remains unchanged today. Today, he runs a couple of small companies where his business strategy still is, whatever it is that I decide to do today will present better, and more opportunities for tommorow.  He was asked when he would start thinking about retirement.  His reply to this was, " For me, retirement has no place in my lifetime. I know it's a general term and maybe even a legal term people use and that's OK. In my mind, to retire would mean to finally sit back and spend the rest of my days, weeks, months, or years, reflecting on how it used to be, you know the nostalgic years.  While it's true that we can learn from the past, I will never chose to replace the opportunity of making decisions today. That will create better and more opportunities for tomorrow with the past, and how it use to be a better world. - Fictional - Written by - Peter Giesbrecht


The guests were gathered outside the huts, the birds chirping happily and the air filled with merriment. It was as if I was experiencing an out of body adventure. I could feel everything happening around me, the ululations, the jovial laughter the dancing and the merriment. I’d watched a lot of movies where the hero who had died would watch as people fussed and cried over their bloodied body. I could see how they where there, but also not there. I felt exactly the same way. Everyone seemed to be jovial while my world was falling apart. The wedding, as per custom, took place at the groom’s home stead. I had been present, following behind as the bride, my sister Helen, left her traditional homestead early in the morning, with a blanket given by her mother. Her father had led the way to her future in laws’ home after Helen was told not to look back so as not to invite bad luck. Her father’s voice was loud and clear as it shouted out praises and called out clan names, telling his ancestors that his daughter was leaving the clan to join another.

Once she had arrived at the groom’s house, Helen had walked around his home to introduce herself to the ancestors before she had slipped in through the kitchen door with no one noticing her. The groom’s family then had to pay a penalty for not noticing her when they should have fetched her. The official ceremony where my sister, the only family I knew would be marrying my husband who I loved to death, would be happening at midday. When my mother ran off while I was seventeen, she left behind trust for me to complete my education and to take care of my sister who was seven at the time. We had always known that we had different fathers all together but Helen and I were still very close. We had to be, my mother had eloped and lost contact with her parents who would never let her marry a black man. She had been in love with my father since they were eighteen and it had taken bravery on her part, to leave her wealthy parents and move to South Africa where she lived an average life. Despite everything, they were happy. I was only four years old when my father died, but I had glimpses of him in my heart. He was handsome, loving, kind and everything I could have ever needed in a father. Everything that Gavin, Helen’s father and my mother’s second husband wasn’t. He left as soon as my mother was pregnant and my mother’s mental health deteriorated from there. I had been the one to take care of Helen since she was seven. I worked three jobs, got into a local college instead of an overseas one, passed up on any partying phase, put her through school and made her he center of my world. I gave up on my dream of being a travel nurse and settled on Accounting, a safe and stable job, so I wouldn’t be away from her. I even supported her choice to go into modelling instead of finishing school. The only thing I had that I ever had for myself was Kevin. And she took him as well. Kevin was the son of the owner of the Accounting firm I worked at. We had met a number of times at company functions before we finally talked. He was a defense lawyer by profession, and his parents’ pride and joy. He was also handsome, charming and everything I ever wanted. I fell in love with him in no time. His father, my boss, was rather fond of me and had always been happy when Kevin and I got together. His mother on the other and hated me, and especially when his dear son married me without her approval. My best friend Clara, reckons I went wrong when I let my twenty year old sister stay with my husband and I. She had always warned me. She had told me that Helen had changed ever since she reunited with her father and her step-mother. I was so blinded by my trust and love for Kevin that I could not see what was in front of me. I was so caught up with trying to give my husband the child he and his mother demanded that I did not realize that Helen and my mother in law had become the best of friends. At the back of my mind I could hear Clara begging me to leave the wedding with her, to stop torturing myself and divorce the man I loved more than anything and cut ties with the only family I had, but her words didn’t register. I was stuck staring at Kevin’s father, the one I thought had had my back, my biggest supporter, as he made a welcoming speech. A speech that welcomed his new daughter to the family. My eyes were still stuck on him when the exchange of gifts ensured. He in turn refused to meet my gaze. My gaze went to Helen next. Helen who silently sat on a grass-mat, eyes downcast as a sign of respect for her guests. I couldn’t help but think about how disrespectful she had been when she told me she had fulfilled my duty. She said I couldn’t give my husband a child  and she had done my job for me. She also made sure to announce how she and I would be sisters again when she married my husband in seven days. All the while she was naked in my bed, my husband silent and looking remorseful besides her. I hadn’t shed a tear then, I was still yet to. In the background of my wandering thoughts, I could hear the singing and dancing of all those who had received gifts. The groom was the last person to arrive. Kevin was still as handsome as the first time I saw him. I had never seen him in Zulu attire since I had gone for a white wedding, but he looked very regal and I found myself smiling besides myself. His six-foot-five frame, light features, stylish haircut and soft hands betrayed just how out of touch with his culture he was. He was still the most handsome man in the room to me though. it was at that moment, when Kevin arrived, that I re-entered my body. It became real and I grew aware of my surroundings. The bride got up, made a mock bed and went to look for her husband. When she found him, she placed a grass-mat leading to the bed, on the floor, before him. He was to sit on the bed. She then took a basin with water and soap and washed his feet before pulling back the covers of the make-shift bed and inviting the groom to sleep. As the dramatic end of the ceremony commenced where the female members of the bride’s family got sticks and started beating the groom while he got up and ran, It was then that I had an epiphany. I had been so invested in blaming Helen and Kevin’s mother for my pain that I had resolved to stay with Kevin. I had let him into my bed the previous night. Even though I felt empty and betrayed, I had let him off the hook because I was convinced he loved me and it was my fault he had to seek my sister’s bed for comfort. I had been willing to share my husband with my sister because I already loved her and had given up a lot for her already it wasn’t worth making a big deal of sharing one more thing with her. I was being too hard on myself because of fear of being alone and unloved.

But no more.

I had Clara. I had myself. I had friends who had begged me to leave Kevin because I was worth so much more. Family isn’t only by blood. I could choose my own family. And even though it would hurt, I would get over Kevin and Helen’s betrayal and start a new family of my own. I was barren and I could never have kids of my own. But that was okay, there were lots of orphans around the world. Orphans who needed someone to love them. Someone who would be loyal. Family is loyalty. I smiled to myself as I walked besides Clara, my very own family. My back was at Helen, and my heart would be next. She had betrayed me in the worst possible way and I was done.


Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember all the times I was by your side? Why can’t you be at mine now? Why can’t you just be here for one more night? I still can hear your voice in your writing, I can still feel every emotion you poured into the words. I see it flitting across the page like a ghost. God, how I miss seeing you write. I remember one night I woke up and you were hunched over your desk, your computer brightness turned down as far it could be. You had gotten an idea while falling asleep and needed to write it out before it escaped that head of yours. I pretended to stay asleep so you wouldn’t think you disturbed me, but in that moment, everything was perfect. I could hear the faint sound of music as you hummed along to whatever played in your earbuds. You tapped your foot along with the beat. Outside, it was pouring rain and the wind was howling, but here, there was nothing but ease. When you got stuck, you leaned your chin on your knuckles and bit the inside of your cheek. You stared at the page, reading over the words you put down again and again. Then something sparked and your eyes lit up. God, you were so happy. You continued to write for hours, only pausing when you needed to flex your fingers. I fell in and out of sleep, listening to the sound of the keys clicking, but every time I woke up again, I was reminded of just how perfect you are. I think back to a lot of those times now, when you’d write for hours. Sometimes, you’d just stare at a blank screen like the words would show up for you. You even told me you wished the story would just write, but it never did. Other times, I couldn’t even get you to get a drink of water. You would be so focused on finishing ‘just one more paragraph’, which always led to another one, and another one. When something didn’t follow along the outline you so clearly had in your head, you explained that sometimes characters just write themselves. Sometimes, their lives unfold on their own and you’re just their guide. I remember the day you finished your first novel. You typed the final sentence and just stopped. Then laughed. You were so happy it was done. We went out to dinner, said cheers to your muses. We went dancing. We stuffed our faces with cake. Then we went home and I helped you begin to edit it. Then the day it was published, we did it all again. Your sequel is still on your computer, waiting for its last chapters to be written. I’ve read it so many times, never changing a thing. You made every sentence sound just right. You put your own life into the characters, so when they died, I felt you die all over again. And when the others grieve, I grieve with them. I see you in all of them. Just fractions, really, but still enough for me to hold them close. They’re almost all I have left of you. I’ve started writing my own stories. I followed all your advice, I built my own world and characters. I started writing because of you, because I want to finish that sequel and get your work out to everyone who loved you and the world you created. So I practice. I write and I write just like you did. I’ll spend hours crafting everything. I write so I can someday finish the world you left for me. I miss you. God, I miss you. Your clothes have lost their smell. Your side of the bed always feels colder than it should. I don’t wake up expecting you to be there anymore, but I still miss you. In all our pictures, I see you smiling. I love seeing you smile. I want to go to dinner again, I want to go dancing and eat dessert with you, I want to scream with you when you see your own story, bound, printed, and released for the world to find. I want to be with you again, but you’re gone. Did God let you keep your memories of us when you passed? Or did you simply show up in paradise, nothing tying you back to this world? Do you still write up there? Is God even real? Is He all loving like everyone has told me? Does He have a plan, or does He make us suffer for his own sick amusement? I’m beginning to doubt Him. I’m beginning to doubt my own faith because He took you from me. I prayed every night you would survive, that you would win the war after so many battles… but He still took you from me. He just took you from me. If God is real, He is not kind. He is a thief of lives. You told me you would live, that everything would be okay. You told me you would like to get married when you got out of the hospital. I kissed you. I didn’t realize I had kissed you good night, and for the last time. I’m not mad that you lied, you couldn’t have known. Or maybe you did, and you just wanted me to feel hopeful when it had been so long. I didn’t tell you, but I already bought a wedding ring. I was going to propose when you were out of the hospital. When you said you wanted to get married, I thought it was a sign from God, a sign telling me you were going to make it, that you were going to live and we would live happily ever after. I thought all of these battles would be set behind us, and we would be free to live in our perfect, happy world. I miss you so much. God, I miss you so much. Signed, Yours Truly


To hear the stories told by old women over the fire, one would believe the world to be inhabited by ghouls and hobgoblins. This is not true. The world is full of magic for sure, but the magic has been here longer than the old women, longer than humankind and longer indeed than memory can express. In the beginning of time, Allondial was born. Her first breath was a gasp that awakened humankind from the eternal sleep of non-existence. Her smile was gentle as she gazed upon all creation as it woke, and humankind smiled back. Enthralled and enchanted by her beauty, humanity sought ways to draw closer to her, to find comfort in her bosom. For she was the first light, a magical, shimmering luminosity that whispered of possibilities and caressed the soul. In the shadows cast by her gentle light, poets and artist and musicians were born, their inspiration drawn from the heart of the one who called them into being. She smiled upon them, her gentle radiance guiding their endeavours, and as they shaped their art, the heart of Allondial sang with joy. Yet, the gaze of Allondial was fickle, her attention fluttering towards distant realms and unexplored horizons. As her face turned away, darkness draped the world, and humanity, left alone, wailed in despair. Shadows deepened, and a profound sorrow, accompanied by weeping and wailing, swept across the land. Amidst this enveloping darkness, a man named Remu arose, a soul aflame with defiance against the darkness. In his desperation, he cried out to Allondial, hurling rocks into the abyss, pleading for the return of her radiant light. “Allondial!” he beseeched. “Turn your face to us once more. Bless us with your light, for without your face, we are nothing.” In the silent darkness, Remu’s voice echoed unheard. Frustration gripped him, and in his anguish, he cast a stone, inadvertently igniting a spark that flickered and vanished, gone before he could even know its name. Undeterred, he continued, desperate to capture this new light, to hold that brightness and study its beauty. It was so incredibly different from anything he had ever known. On and on, casting stone after stone, until one spark, landing on dry grass, birthed a tiny blaze, growing in size and brightness and warmth until a small flame fluttered about Remu’s feet. He laughed and searched for a way to harness this light, to control it and keep it close to him. Grasping a branch from a nearby tree, Remu thrust its leaves into the blaze. The new light consumed the offering ravinously, growing ever brighter. “I will call you ‘fire’, and you shall be with me always,” Remu announced with pride. Remu took this new fire back to his people, igniting their curiosity once more with the bright flame. Its warmth lured them from the shadows to bask in the glow and dance by the wavering light. Soon Allondial was merely a memory, and humankind ceased to pine for her gentle face. The heat of the flame ignited a new passion, fueled by wanting and a desire to harness the flame for himself, to bend its light to his own need. Yet, as the flames multiplied, so did the flames of greed within their hearts. Where once humankind had created harmony, enjoying the fruits of the soul that flourished in the light of Allondial’s gaze, now nothing but envy grew. Each person could measure the brilliance of their own light and compare it with the blaze of another. Want grew within the soul, obliterating need, leaving no room for the beauty of hope. Each person fed their flame, hoping to enlarge it, to brighten their own world and prove their personal superiority. As the competition grew, so too did the flames, until it was impossible to contain them. The fire, an impish, impudent and impulsive beast, escaped its confines to run rampant. It danced with delight, devouring all in its wake, knowing neither friend nor foe. And soon humankind learned a new word—fear. The shouts and screams echoed throughout the land, as fire consumed them without discrimination. What was once a source of joy, igniting hope, became a merciless destroyer. Remu, witnessing the devastation wrought by his own creation, wept for the ruins of his home. Accusations were hurled at him by his own people, fingers pointed in harsh judgment. “You caused this!” they cried. “You brought this beast to our door, and it has feasted upon our lives. Now it has ruined us!” Remu, burdened by the weight of guilt, could not deny the truth. His actions had birthed a destructive force that now consumed the very essence of their existence. Drawn to the light, Allondial returned to witness her progeny engulfed by the flames of chaos. “Remu!” she cried. “What have you done?” The sound of her voice drew all things to a halt. Every voice was muted, every flame frozen in its place. In the brightness of the fire, Allondial’s face waned, and the radiance was leeched from her skin. Deathly shadows deepened her eyes and carved the groove of her mouth. Her sinister appearance shook Remu to his core, and he threw himself before her in fear. “Forgive me!” Remu begged. “You have defiled the land. For that you must die!” Allondial raised her hand and grasped a flaming branch and thrust it into Remu’s chest. His life blood welled up and flooded the land with its crimson tide as it doused the flames. Slowly, Remu sank into the ground as darkness once more covered the land. In the silence that followed, Allondial searched for her people, her face once again shimmering with light, but everywhere she looked, she found them sleeping, their bodies overcome with exhaustion. There was no one to admire her, no poet to write and ode to her beauty, no artist to paint her radiant face. No matter what she tried, no one would awaken, and she stood in solitude for an eternity. Finally, unable to bear the loneliness any longer, Allondial reached into the ground to find Remu, and pulled him from his death. “Why are they sleeping?” she asked. Remu glanced about him. “They are tired.” “Why?” “They had to work hard to survive the fire.” “When will they wake?” “I do not know. When it is time to work again, I suppose.” Allondial thought about that for a long moment. “They work when your fire is burning, but sleep when my shadow covers them.” Remu agreed that it did seem to be so. “Then you will need your flame once more.” She took a branch, and with her gentle light, set a small spark to burn. She handed the flaming branch to Remu. “Take care that you do not set the world on fire his time.” Remu took the branch and bowed to his lady Allondial. “Will I see you again?” “I will not be gone for long. We will meet again.” And so Remu set forth with his branch ablaze, awakening humanity and encouraging them rise and work. When the day was done and the flames began to escape their confines and set the land ablaze, Allondial returned and once again thrust the burning branch deep into Remu’s chest, quenching the flames. She then wandered the land, calling to lovers and poets, and awakening creativity. And thus, it is the pattern for all eternity, Allondial and Remu follow one another, meeting only at dusk, to quench the flames of day and again at dawn to light the new day. *** “Now, my sweet child, that’s enough for one night. Go to sleep. Allondial is coming, and you don’t want her to catch you trying to burn all the branches. You know what happened to Remu when he wanted more?” “But mumma, it’s just a story!” “Is it?” “Yes, mumma, but there is more? Isn’t there?” “Child, you must go sleep.” “Tell me more…” *** As Allondial roamed the heavens on her celestial journey, she kept a close eye upon Remu. He was a man given to vanity and self-importance, as most men are. “I am Remu!” he cried one day. “I am he who brings life and laughter. I am he who brightens your day with light and gives you the gift of prosperity.” From her position high above all, in the darkness of night, where poets dream and people find rest, Allondial heard the boasting. In the silence of the heavens, she crept closer, all the better to hear Remu make his preposterous claims. “I am Remu, come worship my flame. Give me the first fruits of your harvest. Send me your first-born daughters. Your bounty is rightfully mine and I claim it, for without me, you wither and die.” Allondial ignored the posturing and posing, and turned away in disgust. She continued her own journey casting her light on lovers and poets alike. In the harsh light of day, a daughter was chosen, a sacrifice to appease the mighty Remu. Selected, because she did not sleep—a child who will not sleep, must belong to Remu. The mother cried and dressed her child in the finest garments, weaving a crown of wheat and fruits for her hair. The father stood tall and proud, knowing that his sleepless daughter would bring great honour to his family. But the daughter, Summa, was not proud. She was afraid and unwilling. Frightened, she fled into the night, her long dark hair streaming behind her. The people cursed as she ran, grasping at her clothes and hair, trying to prevent her escape. “Allondial!” cried Summa. “Save me, I beseech you. Do not allow them to sacrifice me to sate Remu’s hunger.” In her distant place, Allondial heard the cry, the single voice appealing to her in the darkness of despair. “Child,” she said. “Why are you so distraught?” “I am to be a sacrifice to Remu’s lust for more. Save me, please. You are the only one who can.” “If I save you, I will need your unwavering devotion from this day forth.” “My lady,” Summa said as she bowed low. “I am yours, whether you save me or not.” Impressed by the girl’s faith and dedication, Allondial ascended to the heavens where Remu hung, boasting of his power, light and warmth. “My people, where is your sacrifice?” he demanded, his hand holding the burning branch aloft shaking with rage. Allondial gasped, outraged and offended. These people were her people, she gave them light and life, yet here was Remu claiming them as his own. “She has gone, fled we know not where,” cried the father, as the people bowed and averted their faces away from the radiance of Remu’s anger. “Find her. I demand you bring her to me at once.” “Remu,” Allondial called, her voice as soft as the night, yet louder than thunder. “Remu, you forget yourself.” “I forget nothing. I am Remu, I am he who brings light.” “I am Allondial. She who brings darkness.” “Light dispels darkness. My power is greater than yours, my lady.” Allondial glared at him across the heavens and silently, without once taking her eyes off him, she came closer. “You do not frighten me, my lady. I am Remu, I am light.” Allondial said nothing, yet crept closer still. “There is naught you can do. I am stronger than you in the day.” Still Allondial spoke not a word, and came closer, her eyes not blinking against the brightness of Remu’s flaming branch. Once she was so close that she could see the hint of fear in his eyes, feel the tremor of trepidation in his limbs, she grasped the burning branch from his hand, and thrust it into his stomach, twisting it just so for maximum pain. Remu’sblood burst forth, a halo of gold igniting the heavens in a painful light. The people averted their eyes, lest they go blind from the radiance. “You will never be stronger than me!” Allondial hissed, her eyes glowing fierce and white in the sudden darkness. For four minutes she held him there, impaled upon his own branch. For four minutes, she gloated as the light of life withered in his eyes. Then, when she had made her point, she withdrew the burning branch. “Remember your place, Remu. Remember you exist, because I will it so.” With those parting words, she turned and left him hanging in the sky, shaken and humbled. **** “Child, I am serious. It is time for sleeping. It will soon be morning, and you do not want Remu to think that he can claim you for a sacrifice.” “Allondial will save me.” “Only if you sleep, child. Now, goodnight.”


Everything in my body is burning.

Every limb is feeble, my legs are shaking.

I drop to my knees.

Is this death? It's not even my death.

But as I peer at the marble stone in the ground before me, every piece of me feels twisted and rotten.

"Ashley Cardowa, beloved daughter and friend," is carved into the headstone, the "A" written with a swooping stroke that underlines the name.

As my eyes scan over it, my heart is punctured, each letter strips the nerves from my body, knotting my blood vessels.

This pain, it rips and tears and shreds in a way so potent, I can't breathe.

Ashley Cardowa is dead in the ground, right under my breaking legs.

The fresh dirt is flooded by my tears as they flow hot from my cheeks, pouring into the ground drops of anguished fire.

I clutch my breast, heaving sobs as I cling desperately to my blouse and bra, trying to pull it away as if it will free the monster within me, the monster that crushes my heart and shatters my bones.

Breathless, I start mumbling to Ashley, whether or not she can hear me from above.

Every word is broken as I speak, so silent that the breeze spins each word away before it can leave my lips.

Nonetheless, I need to say something, so I narrate to my invisible audience: I met Ashley Cardowa in first grade.

It must have been around December, because the first time I went over to her house, her mother had given us each a snowman cookie.

The cookies had been formed with a simple cookie cutter, I saw it laying in the sink, covered with flour.

Ashley's mom had topped them with a sweet buttercream, dazzling them with mini chocolate chips for the face and buttons.

Ashley and I bonded in our first grade classroom, sitting at the reading rug.

Ashley was reading a book out loud, stumbling over the harder words like "cookie" and "oven".

She was incredible to me, each word hitting my ears snapping my attention to her.

I wobbled over to her, sitting near as she read the book.

Something about making cookies and sharing with friends, if my memory holds.

She read to me for a decent amount of time, and we continued our ritual each day since.

I sucked at reading, but Ashley was two levels ahead.

Though, just spending time with her improved my skills, and we started reading the books together.

By second grade, we were both reading simple chapter books to each other, and we even wrote a story about two princesses.

The princesses each got a magic penguin, and went to the sun to play a restaurant game. The last of my simple words fades away, and the monster inside feels lulled.

It is still raking his claws against my chest, but it is slower, and has spared me the strength to stand. I'm the last person here, the rest of the funeral party left an hour ago.

I knew I wouldn't be able to compose myself, so I delayed seeing her actual grave until everyone else had paid their respects.

I think it almost doesn't matter though, I shed more fiery tears than her own parents at the service.

I reach a hand out to the head stone, running my fingers across the marble as I shakily turn away.

I shudder, Ashley never felt so cold.

Then again, she wasn't a slab of marble.

The Ashley I knew never left my side when I needed her, and I walk towards the parking lot as my mind torments me with old joys.

I open my car and get into the backseat, stretching out across the stained seats.

My mind is conjuring so many memories, I stare at the roof of my car and speak: When I was a freshman, I slipped down the stairs at the high school.

Ashley walked next to me, even sticking out her hand as I tripped, though her fingers only brushed my shirt. I fell down fourteen feet of stairs, finally hitting the ground with such an impact that I fractured my spine.

Ashley called my name as she ran dow, pushing people away as they crowded around me. Another student ran for a teacher, and Ashley plunked her backpack on the ground and sat next to me.

I mumbled something to her about my back, though the waves of pain that pounded through my body probably distorted my words.

But Ashley understood everything, brushing loose hairs from my face as a teacher found us in the staircase.

Ashley refused to leave until the ambulance arrived, even telling the paramedics about my injuries.

She saw me again the moment they let her, and told me how relieved she was.

I was too high on painkillers to properly thank her, but she was too saintly to have accepted it anyways.

My spine is healed now.

It wasn't a smooth recovery, but I had Ashley.

As I lay on my back, I focus my eyes on the roof of my car.

My chest is throbbing, like my heart has leaked out inside my body, beating all the same.

My chest feels deep too, a weight is being pressed between my ribs, leaving everything hollow and sore. I send my arms behind my head, folding them for support.

I cross my legs, and press my eyes shut.

I'm beyond the stage of just seeing black, they're tight enough for all kinds of hypnotic colors to squirm in my vision. I don't even open my mouth to speak this time, but I can hear the voice in my head all the same: We couldn't have been more than ten.

Fourth, fifth grade maybe.

Ashley's family went camping with mine over spring break.

We went to a state park, and booked two campsites.

When we pulled up, Ashley's family was already there, and I popped out of the car to hug her.

We practically burst with laughter as we played with sticks and leaves, shoving them in our hair and building fairy homes.

We played until our parents had pitched the tents, and they told us about a special surprise.

They guided us past the two family tents, leading us to a third, slightly smaller tent.

Our tent, they told us.

Ashley and I shrieked with joy, thanking our parents a thousand times over before setting up shop.

We crawled inside our tent, marveling at the way the light shone through the thin blue material, zipping and unzipping every window at least three times.

We chose spots for our sleeping bags, and introduced our favorite stuffed animals.

Ashley had a small, blue rabbit named Pickles, who I swiftly introduced to my purple squirrel, Peanut Butter.

It took us all of three seconds to realize that Peanut Butter had enough room on his back for Pickles to sit on, and we must have spent hours parading them around our tent.

We made s'mores together, sneaking around the picnic table and snatching marshmallows with our little hands.

Our parents definitely knew we were doing it, but they played their part in our fantasy, leaving us to sneak off and consume our treasures out of sight. When we were finally ushered to bed, we stayed awake for hours, jumping from one sleeping bag to the other, playing clapping games, and tossing our stuffed animals back and forth.

We stayed for three nights, each day passing as gleeful as the first.

We blew bubbles into each others faces, made dandelion wishes, and hunted through the fields for four-leaf clovers. Every night, every day was teeming with joy, the kind that rushes through your body and won't let you stop smiling, the joy that makes everything funny and your body feel weightless. I open my eyes again, blinking the stars away.

I try to sit up, but I feel lightheaded, as if my body will crumble away with the slightest tap.

I can't stay in this parking lot forever.

I only live a ten minute walk away, and I almost want to abandon my car.

Something inside me feels so weak, and even driving here I knew I wasn't in the right head space to drive safely.

I should have walked.

I sit up again, this time succeeding, clambering out of the backseat and towards the passenger side door.

I open it, staring for

a moment at the driver's seat, at the wheel.

My stomach turns at the sight, a new wave of sick washes over me.

Ashley died in her car's driver seat.

Ashley, a twenty-four year old girl, died in that accident.

She's gone, and as I grab the cardboard box from the seat, I want to fold in on myself.

I close the door and lock my car, I'll get it tomorrow morning.

I'm taking a sick day from work anyways, and the cemetery won't fine me for leaving it tonight.

On shaking legs, I stumble half a mile home.

When I finally fall into my apartment, I drag my body and the box to my bedroom, letting myself crumple on my unmade bed.

I pull my comforter tightly around my body, reaching towards my pillow for Peanut Butter.

My purple squirrel friend has seen some rough times, but he's resilient, bearing the scars of my childhood on his matted and missing fur.

I hold him tight to my chest as my body begins to sting, every internal wound reopening.

I open the box, a gift from Ashley's mother.

She'd said it was a collection of her things they thought I should have.

The top is lined with framed pictures of us, cushioned by loose photos and cards.

Ashley'd framed a picture of us at the beach in middle school, our high school graduation, and even one from that camping trip so long ago.

My body burns as I touch each picture, spiraling into each memory.

I shake my blanket off, quickly pulling it back over myself as chills ravage my body instead.

I pull all the pictures onto my bed, and turn a shaky hand back to the box.

I close my eyes and grab something soft, and I gasp as I reveal it to myself. It's Pickles.

The little blue bunny is floppy in my hands, the stuffing worn down and his fur sparse and worn.

But it's Pickles. Something in me explodes, and I cry out in a way I didn't know I could.

It's not ringing loud in my ears, but every part of it feels animal.

I feel animal, savage and desperate, a wounded beast alone in the woods.

I clutch Pickles to my body, holding him close to my squirrel as my eyes stream with hot tears.

Pickles is my proof.

Ashley is gone.

My friend, my oldest and dearest friend, is lost.

The biggest piece of my childhood, no, my childhood is dead.

Those days of glee are buried in the ground, their life ensnared only in my memory.

I set Peanut Butter down, and place Pickles on his back.

Pickles is riding Peanut Butter.

I sob.


2020 had been a banner year for Sergeant Reginald Cottonbottom (Sarge, to anyone who was interested in remaining in one piece). Due to his flatmate working from their shared residence for a majority of the year, and even taking nearly a month off entirely, they had not only been able to spend more time together than ever before, but had ventured out enough that Sarge had claimed more poles than even he had imagined possible. But as the year drew to a close, Sarge was left with a nagging feeling of regret, as there still remained four poles he had not yet claimed as his own. The poles themselves were perfectly ordinary. There was nothing at all special about them. They were in no way the tallest poles he had claimed, nor the widest. They were not even in a location which made laying his claim important, like the six he had claimed last week in front of the Tower of London. Sarge smiled to himself as he thought about that triumph. Claiming those had been some of his best work, not only because of the history surrounding them (think of the thousands of previous claims that had been made upon them!) but because it was not easy to get Arthur to go into crowds like that. Arthur had always preferred quiet, empty routes, as free of others as possible, and while those presented Sarge with plenty of potential claims, it greatly reduced Sarge’s ability to claim more prestigious prizes. But when Arthur had started to cross the bridge, and Sarge realized such a regal claim was in reach, he pulled Arthur as hard and fast as he could to make sure he could be a part of such rich history. But these four poles, and his failure to claim them, ate at Sarge. For months he had seen them, and for months Arthur had refused to let him get close enough to do more than stare at them from across the street. Once, in mid-June, when they had approached the poles from a different direction than was usual, Sarge thought he had finally gotten his chance, but at the last second, SHE had walked out, and ruined it all. As soon as Arthur saw her, he had pulled Sarge, who had not been expecting such an abrupt stop of their forward momentum, and gone back the way they had come. Sarge huffed to himself angrily. The narrowness of that defeat had eaten away at him ever since. He would not, could not, let that failure carry over to the next year. With only two days to go in the year, Sarge decided he would have to take matters into his own four paws. Jumping up, he padded over to where Arthur lay on the couch, and pawed at him until Arthur sighed, put on his shoes, clipped Sarge to their leash, and helped him out of the building. Now was Sarge’s opportunity. As they reached the street, Sarge immediately started out left. He would approach the poles in a wholly unexpected route. They crossed over a half dozen streets before Sarge jerked their leash again to cause them to turn left for the next ten, followed by a right turn for eight more. Sarge stopped then at a familiar pole to get his bearings. If Arthur suspected him, he didn’t show it. Sarge set out again, and was just about to turn right when a sudden scent gave him an idea. Altering course, Sarge pulled them straight instead, right to Arthur’s preferred coffee shop. Sarge slowed as they neared the door, hoping Arthur would catch the scent and decide to go in. Sure enough, as they reached the door Arthur stopped, tied their leash to a tree, asked Sarge to sit, and headed inside. Sarge knew this would be the key. Arthur would be so distracted by his coffee that he would not notice where they were, and Sarge would be to the poles before Arthur could do anything to stop him. Today, Sarge would seize victory, and would finally accomplish that which had so eluded him this year. Today, the poles would be his. Arthur emerged from the shop a few minutes later. Sarge rose from where he was sitting, stretched, and after Arthur had untied their leash, began setting out towards his goal. After two more blocks Sarge quickly pulled them right. He glanced back, and saw that Arthur was still sipping his drink. Nothing on his face suggested he suspected Sarge of attempting to reach their destination. As they reached the busy road on which the elusive poles stood, Sarge, as nonchalantly as he could, turned down it. He could see them. 200 feet to go. Sarge risked a glance back, but Arthur remained oblivious. 150 feet. Sarge, in his excitement, began to quicken his pace. There they were. 100 feet. He would not be denied. 75 feet. Sarge could not take it any longer. He pulled on their leash but, too hard! Arthur had not been expecting such a sudden lunge, and it had caused him to stumble and drop his drink. Swearing loudly, Arthur pulled on the leash, and brought Sarge to a screeching halt. Sarge looked up at Arthur and saw, with horror, a look of comprehension spread across Arthur’s face. Sarge attempted to pull again. He would break free of the leash if he had to, so badly did he want to reach those poles. But Arthur was having none of it. He held their leash firm, and Sarge knew he was beaten. He had failed. Putting his head down, Sarge shuffled after Arthur. To have been so close, Sarge thought, made it all the worse. His haste had cost him, and his failure would continue to haunt him. Sarge shuffled, head hung low, tail stationary, the rest of the walk home. When they reached the flat he lapped dejectedly at his water, before wholly ignoring his kibble and flopping down onto his bed. He tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes all he could see were the poles. After several restless hours (or was it days?) Sarge eventually began to fall asleep, but as he did, an idea struck him. It was not a good idea, and Sarge knew that. But he knew, almost immediately, that it was the only solution to his problem. If Arthur would not come with Sarge to the poles, well then Sarge would just have to go on his own. Admittedly, the idea scared him a bit. He had never left the flat without Arthur before, and while he knew how to get to and from the poles without any issue, it had always comforted Sarge to have someone with a better view of the world walking behind him. But this was no time for cowardice. He was Sergeant Reginald Cottonbottom. And if he could not muster the courage to venture out alone to these, the poles that had thwarted him for months, he might as well be known instead as Reginald Cowardbottom. Sarge made up his mind. The next time Arthur opened the door, we would make his move. He would charge out the door, down the stairs, onto the street and straight to the poles. They would be his in no time. Sarge shifted his body, so he was facing the door. Feigning sleep, he kept half an eye on Arthur, watching for any sign of movement. Two hours passed, but still Arthur sat on the couch. Three hours. Four. Finally, Sarge saw Arthur begin to rise. But was it to the door, or to the bedroom? Sarge readied his hind legs. He would need to be up and out the door before Arthur had a chance to realize what was going on. He leaned back, ready to launch, but, alas, it was not to be. Arthur merely shuffled to the bedroom. Sarge shuffled after him, dejected. It appeared this mission would be delayed until tomorrow. The following morning, Sarge awoke with a start to find that Arthur had already left their bed. Scrambling, Sarge ran into the living room to find Arthur had merely retraced his steps from the night before, and was back on the couch, newspaper in hand. Sarge could not believe it. Not only had Arthur managed to leave their bed without him noticing, but he had left their flat entirely! The shame at having slept through what might have been his last opportunity washed over Sarge, and he slumped to the floor where he stood. Hours of waiting, all wasted. Perhaps it was not meant to be, thought Sarge. Perhaps those poles are there not to be conquered, but instead to serve as a reminder that perfection is unattainable. Yes, that was it. Their existence, and his inability to claim them, was as a metaphor, there to humble him. To keep him grounded. Sarge shook his head, disgusted with himself for even having such thoughts. These were the thoughts of lesser canines. Of course perfection was attainable. He had seen it every time he had walked past a mirror. He was perfection embodied. Such a failure was unacceptable for Sergeant Reginald Cottonbottom. He would remain vigilant. Even Arthur, despite his prodigious ability to remain stationary for long periods of time, would move eventually. So Sarge, reinvigorated with a newfound sense of purpose, re-manned his post. Watching, and waiting, for his opportunity. Around lunch time, it came. Sarge first heard Arthur answer his phone, and a minute later, as Arthur was standing up from the couch, Sarge heard the most beautiful sound he had ever heard: the buzzer, which let them know someone was downstairs, was ringing. This was his moment. Sarge slipped as slowly and silently as he could to a better position. He knew he would only have one chance. He planted his paws firmly on the ground, as Arthur moved towards the door, and as Arthur turned the handle, Sarge launched himself forward. He had timed it perfectly. Arthur was still in the midst of swinging the door open when he noticed Sarge lunging for it, and could not stop himself from opening it further before Sarge was out. Sarge skidded to a stop outside the door, and sprinted to the stairs. He sped down them, threw himself into the door at their base, and was in the street in a matter of seconds. Stopping to regain his bearings, Sarge sped up the street. As he reached the corner, Sarge heard Arthur yelling his name behind him, but ignored him. He had a date with destiny. He ran across the street, weaving his way between the legs of the people walking, and after several blocks turned right, before eventually taking a left, and another right. After three more blocks, Sarge knew he was close. But he also knew Arthur was still hot on his tail. Finally, he saw them ahead, gleaming in the December sunshine. Knowing how close Arthur was, Sarge put on a last spurt of speed. He would not be denied this chance. And as he neared the poles, Sarge’s heart leapt. The woman who had previously caused Arthur to stop short of the poles was outside on the sidewalk. Sarge knew Arthur would not go any further. Sure enough, Sarge heard Arthur’s pace slow behind him. The day was his. Slowing down, Sarge reached the first of the poles, and sniffed it, relishing the moment. He could smell the previous claims of those who had come before him. But from now, until the end of time, it would be him that the world smelled. Raising his leg, Sarge turned away from the pole, just as the woman noticed him, laughed, and began talking to him. Sarge ignored her. Pleasantries could wait. But as he moved to the second pole, something wholly unexpected happened: Arthur had walked up to where he and the woman stood. Sarge paused, despite himself. Arthur, the man who had so actively avoided this woman for so many months, had followed Sarge straight up to where she stood. As the woman turned to talk to him, Sarge saw Arthur turn red for the briefest of seconds, before responding. Shaking himself back to reality, Sarge returned to the business at hand, claiming the second and third poles. With only one remaining, Sarge could not help himself. He stole a glance back at Arthur and the woman, who Sarge was pleased to see, were still talking. The woman had even laughed, and Sarge’s heart leapt when he saw Arthur return a smile, something he had not seen Arthur do in months. It appeared everyone’s day was being made by Sarge’s conquest. And speaking of conquest, Sarge thought to himself, turning to the fourth pole. It was time. He should have prepared a speech, some brief remarks. But speeches could wait. Turning, Sarge lifted his leg, and claimed the pole as his own. It was done. After months of painstaking work, he had finally claimed these four poles as his own. He sauntered back towards Arthur and the woman, head held high, tail wagging. The two of them looked at him, and the woman laughed as she bent down to scratch behind his ears. A well-deserved reward, thought Sarge. But now, with his goal achieved, he was ready to rest. Looking up at Arthur, Sarge saw their leash in his hands, and bent his head low so it could be clipped on. But as he started to walk away, Sarge noticed that Arthur had not followed. Looking back, he was surprised to see Arthur’s phone in the woman’s hands. But, soon enough, it had been returned to Arthur, and he had followed Sarge down the sidewalk, back to their flat, and to the much-needed nap Sarge now craved.