     The sun hadn’t yet risen as an electronic beeping pushed me out of sleep. With a yawn and a stretch, I blinked my eyes, mindlessly reaching over to switch off the alarm clock which let me know it was 5 o’clock in the morning. Turning on the bedside lamp with a quick glance around to see if there had been any changes in the night, it appeared that nothing seemed out of the ordinary, which was a good thing. Knowing that I had opened my life up to potential disaster during this time, I was glad that all was early morning quiet. Giving a final stretch, I slid out from under the covers and made my way toward the living room. Quietly moving in the darkness down the hall that led to the main room, I was greeted by the first of three companions. He greeted me in silence as he often did. He was of Asian origin, very lean and stealthy, a hunter by nature. He usually took his time when making his greetings in the morning, but it didn’t take him long to see that all was well in his world, and it was only a matter of moments before he started making his wishes known. I had to give a smile at this. Even though we did not speak the same language, he let me know what he wanted. I began a small conversation with him, telling him that he was understood, and made my way past him, moving into the kitchen with him following close behind, still making demands for breakfast. I completely ignored the closed door in the hallway that I had to pass. Once in the kitchen, silence retreated. I increased my conversation with Chiang, for that was the name I called him by, and had to smile again as I began working on breakfast with his responses growing in volume and intensity. I knew the routine, as well as he did. Pan on the stove, a couple of eggs, slices of bread in the toaster, and a few strips of bacon. Bacon was always cooked first, because you just can’t have scrambled eggs unless flavored in some of the bacon drippings. Chiang began to focus more attention as the aroma of cooking filled the room, and he moved closer, situating himself so he could monitor the process of preparing the food. It was the final step in this creation that always interested him the most, and I knew it. After removing my scrambled eggs and bacon from the pan, I tossed in a few pieces of fish. Chiang began to voice his anticipation even louder, his impatience showing. It always pleased me to see his excitement over the first meal of the day. With breakfast finally over and cleanup completed, I spent a few more minutes with Chiang who was by now tending to his own cleanup. Taking advantage of his distraction, it was now time to check on the other two companions hidden behind the closed door in the hallway. Moving back down the hall I put my ear to the closed door and listened. Hearing nothing, I cast a quick glance toward the kitchen where Chiang relaxed. He showed complete indifference in what I was doing, which led me to swiftly make my way into the room, shutting the door behind me before turning on the lights. The two that resided in this room were Australians. They were a quiet pair, which was a good thing, because if they caused too much noise it would attract the attention of Chiang, who would most likely try to come up with some way to attack them. This was the disaster I had mentioned earlier and had to be avoided at all costs. So far everything had gone well in this prevention, as all three companions had been residing in my house for a few months now. I had warned them of Chiang and told them that due to the dangers, they could never leave this room. They never tried to leave it at any rate, there was no need to. I made sure that everything they needed would be provided to them by me personally. Because the Australians were expecting little ones, I never spent a lot of time with them, wanting to give as much privacy as possible. I tended to their breakfast, and helped to tidy up their room, before quietly exiting. The sun had risen by this time, letting me know that it was time to leave. Work had to be done, and shopping for the household needed to be taken care of. I went back into my room and prepared for the day. A uniform was required for my place of employment, so I changed and gathered my things and left, with a final check on the hallway door to ensure it was securely closed. As I had mentioned before, this had been the way of things for several months and there had up to this point, never been any incidents. Due to the precautions that were routinely done, I had no reason to expect the carnage that occurred on that fateful day.     It had been a long day at work, and a busy one. Working in the food service industry was often like this, with lunch and early dinner rushes occupying a major portion of the day. Now that my shift was over, I could allow myself to unwind and take things a bit easier on the way home. After a quick stop at the grocery store to pick up some things that were needed for the next few days, I let my mind wander to the relaxing time waiting for me at home. My plans were to curl up in a chair with a good book and was looking forward to it as I pulled my car into the driveway and exited, heading for the house. Upon entering the living room, nothing seemed out of place. Chiang came to greet me at the door. Returning the welcome, I made my way into the kitchen so that the groceries that had been purchased could be put away. I told Chiang that his supper would be taken care of in a moment, after changing out of my work clothes and getting into something more comfortable for the evening. It wasn’t long before I was going back down the hallway, giving only a cursory glance at the closed door as I made my way back in the kitchen to make supper for Chiang and myself. With after supper clean up done, and dishes washed and put away, I went over to the bookshelf and selected a book that interested me, then placed it onto the small table near the couch in the living room. Giving a quick glance at Chiang who was curled up in a nearby chair with eyes closed, I took this opportunity to make my way back down the hall and stopped at the closed door. I had no reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary. The door did not appear to be tampered with, and all seemed to be well. Knowing that the lights were still on in the room as they usually were during the day, the vision that met my eyes as I opened the door was almost immediate. Somehow, Chiang had struck. Two bodies lay on the floor. Torn and bloodied, there was no immediate sign of movement, and my emotions overwhelmed me. Horrified by what was blatantly obvious, I rushed closer, noticing that all was not completely lost. Mick was gone, nothing remained of him but tattered shreds, but the Female, Sheila, was still holding on. Instinct took over at this point and I ran to the adjacent bathroom where the first aid kit was kept, soon returning with hands filled with bandaging and antibiotic ointments, cotton balls and anything else I could think of. Tending to her, I picked up her small form and carried her toward my room, closing the hallway door behind me. With tears streaming down my face I turned to the phone and made a call for help. My father answered the phone and with despairing sobs I blurted out the story. Nothing was held back. He offered no words till my feelings of devastation began to wind down, then quietly told me to bring her to him, that he would put every effort into doing what could be done for her. Still crying, I agreed and after a few moments, hung up the phone, turning my attention back to Sheila. Wrapping her up with warm towels, I gathered up the first aid supplies and took her to my car, placing her on the passenger seat. Spending a few seconds to ensure she was comfortable, it was not long before I was on my way. My dad met me at the front door and swiftly led me inside. Taking Sheila from me, we made our way into his living room where he placed her gently down and instructed me to go to the laundry room and get the heat lamp. I left to do as he asked, and upon returning, I saw that he had cleaned her off, reapplying more antibiotic ointments before wrapping her in fresh bandages. Offering a hug, he said there was no more that could be done, letting me know that only time would tell. With that he suggested I return to my home for rest, which was what was needed. Besides, I had another matter that needed to be dealt with. Chiang. Chiang had changed location, and was now lounging in the cat tree as I burst through the front door.

    With a slam to the front door, still upset by the situation, I swiftly approached Chiang. Grabbing him by the scruff of his neck, I pulled him towards me and scolded him as he began to hiss and struggle to get away. I still could not understand it fully, how on Earth could a cat get into a closed room? It didn’t occur to me that he would be able to wiggle his way under the door, but I guessed that was how he had managed to make his entry. The space beneath the door was about 2 inches, but I had failed to take into consideration the give of the carpet that lay beneath the door. That put it at nearly 3 inches of open space. I blamed Chiang, but it was just as much my fault. After several months with no issues I didn’t think anything would happen. Smokey Blue Synn Chiang was a show cat, registered with TICA, The International Cat Association, a Siamese with a solid bloodline. Yes, he was small, but I didn’t think he was that small. I had just gotten into this hobby of raising Zebra Finches, and was excited about it. I had converted half the spare bedroom into an elaborate breeding cage for them. Mick was just an average Zebra Finch, with no special features, But Sheila? She was special. With an average cost of a single Zebra Finch being around 5 dollars at the time, I had gone all out on Sheila, the mother of a bloodline I was trying to create. I had paid 75 dollars for her, because she was a rare pied color. She had three eggs in her nest, unfortunately no eggs hatched due to the attack. Knowing that Sheila was still alive, I had made my decision. I did love Chiang, but with the incident of the previous night, I knew it would be hard to look at him in the same way, with no anger or grief flooding my mind. This was not his fault. He was as mentioned, a hunter by nature, but Sheila had to take priority now. The following morning, I made a second phone call to my father to find out how well Sheila was recovering. She had survived her first night. Arrangements were made for my dad to temporarily take possession of Chiang so Sheila could come back home with me. Returning to my fathers house with Chiang, the trade was made. Placing Sheila in the same small box as before, I asked if it would be alright to borrow the heat lamp, and then returned home with her, to continue nursing her back to health. My original hobby of breeding Zebra Finches was of course put on hold. All of my thoughts and desires were now focused on keeping Sheila alive. I posted an ad for Chiang to be sold, and the ad was eventually answered by a buyer in a city several hundred miles away. The buyers wife owned a cattery and was more than happy to add the Chiang bloodline to their feline family. Chiang would be loved there, and with his own kind. All of my attention could now be focused on my little Sheila. Sheila had made a full recovery. A special cage was built for her, one that had no perches, but flat cushioned platforms, and a lot of them so that she could easily get around. She had only one foot remaining, the other completely gone, leaving just a stub of what remained of her leg, and she had lost both of her wings. Despite all of this, she still hopped around happily in her cage, which I kept near the head of my bed. She still sang to me every every day. It was three years later when I discovered that she had passed on. I had awoken one morning with her gone, having died of old age. She had survived extreme trauma, and had been a true fighter. It was in her Honor that, a few years after her death, I picked back up on my hobby of Zebra Finch breeding and have had many successful lines. I kept registries of all my babies, and their records, and even though I never rekindled the desire to develop new and rare strains of coloration, Sheila’s memory was always there with each new hatchings of babies. Nothing could ever replace her. This is a true story. Minor changes were made for the sake of the 	tale. In the real world, the birds did not have names, and there were more than just the two. All were unhurt, but the two mentioned did indeed get the brunt of the attack that ended with Mick perishing and Sheila, my lovely disabled ladybird beating all the odds.


Lia da Silva, dread pirate and captain of the ship Calypso’s Revenge , was in a bad mood. She was the scourge of the Seven Seas, feared by all on the grounds of being a merciless cutthroat, as clever as she was brave, and mistress of evading capture even in the tightest spots, and yet she simply could not shake the feeling that the whole world was laughing at her and her utter failure to complete her most recent quest. She toyed absently with one of the daggers that pinned a scroll to her captain's table and could almost hear her governess' disparaging tones in her ears. Emilia remove those steak knives at once! What on earth do you think you are doing with dangerous weapons in the classroom?! Give them to me this instant! She sighed and rolled her eyes, but pulled the daggers free and watched the scroll spring back into shape. It had consumed her attention for some time; it was old and ragged, had suspicious stains on it that she supposed were the blood of a previous owner who had died in a vain attempt to protect it, it was covered with the illegible spidery scribblings of the semi-literate sailors who had tried to unravel its mysteries before her, it was, in short, the real deal but she, Captain Lia, could not make head nor tail of it. It had been weeks, and she had pored over it day and night, turned it this way and that, held it up to a full moon, examined every inch with her eyeglass, even held it over a candle flame in the hopes that a hidden message might appear but nothing had worked except that she had singed a corner, and now she was angry. The scroll held all the answers she needed. It was a map to the Arcanum, a treasure so ancient that its origins were lost in the mists of time and she desperately needed to get her hands on it. Captain Lia raised her head. She sensed a shift in the atmosphere, a tightening of the sky. A storm was coming, she could feel it in the very marrow of her pirate bones. She could just imagine her governess telling her to pay attention or so help me your father will hear about this young lady. She tucked the scroll inside her captain’s jacket and, bracing herself against the rock and sway of the ship, made her way into the passageway outside. She could hear the sounds of the gulls’ mocking cries in the wind. Batten down the hatches, she thought to herself; looks like we’re in for the long haul on this one. - The storm turned out to be more of a passing squall and after the howling of the wind had subsided and the ship had stopped rolling and bucking on the swell, Captain Lia climbed to the crow's nest and sat gazing out across a now becalmed sea. She twisted the ring on her finger absently and wondered why it hadn’t retained its powers of invisibility. It was still one of the most priceless treasures that she owned, and she and First Mate Lily had come upon it entirely by accident hidden in a sea shell when they happened to be taking a stroll on the beach of a desert island where they had landed once.

First Mate Lily. Captain Lia sighed and took out the scroll once more. Not so long ago they had been Lia and Lily, Captain and First Mate of the Calypso’s Revenge , with more crew members than they could tell to scrub the decks or climb the rigging and now...here she was, alone in the crow’s nest with an indecipherable map, no crew, and worst of all, a kidnapped first mate. - It had been a calm night, they had enjoyed a profitable day of pillaging and had retired to their separate quarters. Lia had fallen asleep almost instantly and slept soundly until the morning when she had been awoken by a sad-eyed crew member who told her that Lily had been spirited away in the dead of night. From bits and pieces of stories that she could gather, it had been some sort of sea demon whose eyes had flashed blue and whose unearthly wails had torn through the night sky. She had heard nothing. Over the following days, she had gleaned further information; the sea demon had taken First Mate Lily to its lair and was holding her captive there, where she was still fighting bravely but was very weak, her life hanging in the balance. And then Lia knew what she had to do. She dug out the scroll from an old sea chest. It had been something that she and the first mate had discussed pursuing a few times but always settled on other adventures due to the difficult nature of solving the mysteries of the scroll and the fact that although the Arcanum was the most powerful known restorative in the history of mankind, neither of them had any wounds that needed healing, nor diseases that needed curing. Now she wished that they had done it together whilst there had still been time. Nevertheless, buoyed by the knowledge that she had the key to saving her first mate, she had taken the scroll to the rest of the crew and announced that they would be embarking on a new adventure which would culminate in the brave and daring rescue of First Mate Lily from the lair of the sea demon. The crew had been enthusiastic, although some of them had exchanged strange looks, and they had set about deciphering the map. When it seemed that the adventure was more of a quest there were grumblings, and as the days turned into weeks and the crew’s pleas for a different adventure went unheard, they began to drift away from the Calypso’s Revenge and her captain who barely even seemed to notice them any more. Isolated on her ship with only the ship’s boy and the ship’s cat for company, Captain Lia withdrew into herself and redoubled her efforts to discover the Arcanum. - “Lia? I mean...Captain da Silva? Permission to come aboard? Darling, I know it’s been difficult for you not being able to see Lily, but you understand why don’t you? Yes, well she’s doing a little better and we can go and visit her this afternoon if you’d like to. Sweetheart, it might be hard, she’s very weak but I think it might help you to understand what’s happening. Your teacher agrees with me. Go and get ready, we’ll leave in a minute.” Finally some small measure of success! She would visit the lair of the sea demon and rescue her first mate. Once she had Lily back on the safety of Calypso’s Revenge , she could find the Arcanum and heal her. She would set sail immediately. - Captain Lia, having safely anchored Calypso’s Revenge now stood looking up at the vast cliff face before her. She could hear the distant shrieks of the sea demon and she drew her cutlass in readiness. “Lia, no. You’re not taking that in there, leave it in the car please.” No weapons then. Captain Lia squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and started for the mouth of the cave at the base of the cliff. As she entered she was struck by a strange smell, unnatural and unpleasant and a shiver ran down her spine. Setting off, she found that the cave led into a labyrinth of passageways and tunnels and she began to wonder if she would ever be able to find her way out again once she had rescued Lily. Fearless, merciless cutthroat pirate, she thought to herself and tried to remember the turns she was taking.

“Sweetheart this is it, we’re nearly there. Remember, she’s very sick and you need to be quiet for her, ok? Be brave Lia, she’s going to look a little different from when you last saw her.” Eventually, she came out into another cave, small and dark, and laying there in the gloom was First Mate Lily. She seemed to be tied down. Dark circles stood out like bruises around her eyes, her hair had been shorn close to her head so that her scalp shone dimly in the phosphorescence and her breathing was ragged and shallow. Of the terrible sea demon, there was no sign. Captain Lia twisted the ring on her finger and suddenly wished for invisibility or it just to whisk her away back to the safety of Calypso’s Revenge. All at once, her bravery fled from her body and she slid to the floor of the hospital corridor. Somewhere beyond her, she heard the strange beeps from the machines that moored her sister to life and wished with all her heart that the Arcanum might somehow turn out to be real so that she could make Lily better and they could once again sail the high seas together.

A pair of strong arms picked her up, and dread pirate Captain Lia sobbed helplessly into her father’s chest.


The sky had deepened to a dusky blue, the last remnants of sunlight slipping behind the horizon. It was that fleeting hour between evening and night when headlights flickered on and painted long, ghostly streaks of light on the asphalt. The highway hummed with the steady rhythm of cars rushing past, each driver eager to reach their destination before darkness fully set in. Inside the SUV, the family settled into the familiar rhythms of a long drive, the interior lit by the soft glow of the dashboard and the occasional passing streetlight. The father kept his eyes on the road, focusing on the steady flow of taillights ahead. His wife, cradling her growing belly, leaned back in her seat, one hand resting protectively over her bump. She was tired but content, lost in thoughts of the baby on the way, already imagining the new life that would soon join their family. In the backseat, Lucy, their nine-year-old, was half-asleep, lulled by the gentle motion of the car, while her little sister, Ava, clutched her stuffed bunny and stared sleepily out the window, where the landscape blurred into dark, indistinct shapes. “Are we almost there?” Lucy mumbled, rubbing her eyes. “Almost, sweetheart,” her father said, glancing back in the mirror. “Just a little bit longer.” The mother smiled at their girls, feeling the baby’s faint kicks as if reminding her that they were all together. But the serene moment shattered when a sedan, dark blue and moving erratically, suddenly appeared in the rearview mirror. The vehicle was speeding, darting in and out of lanes as if the driver was trying to escape the weight of her own impatience. The driver, a middle-aged woman with frazzled nerves, was desperate to make up lost time. She had been stuck behind slower traffic, her anxiety bubbling over, and now she saw an opening—too small, too tight, but just enough to tempt her into one last reckless maneuver. She jerked the wheel and surged forward, attempting to overtake the SUV in a flash of poor judgment and impatience. She squeezed into the narrow gap, cutting sharply in front of the SUV, her tires barely skimming the shoulder. The father saw the sedan swerve but had no time to react. He slammed on the brakes, but the SUV skidded, fishtailing as the sedan’s rear clipped its front end. The impact was sudden and vicious, throwing the SUV sideways across the road. The father fought to regain control, but it was no use; the vehicle slid toward the edge of the highway, tires screaming against the pavement before the SUV tipped and rolled violently into a ditch. Inside, the world turned sideways. The cabin was thrown into chaos as the SUV slammed onto its side, the impact jarring everyone violently against their restraints. Airbags deployed with a deafening pop, filling the air with a smoky, chemical haze. The father grunted as his shoulder collided with the window, pain shooting through his arm. He was left dangling from his seatbelt, struggling to catch his breath, disoriented by the sudden shift from normalcy to nightmare. Beside him, his wife clung to her belly, instinctively shielding her unborn child as she was tossed against the door. She gasped, feeling a sharp, searing pain ripple through her abdomen, fear flooding her senses. She tried to steady herself, but the weight of the vehicle pressed against her, making every movement feel heavy and painful. Her first thought was of her daughters, and she twisted in her seat, her voice tight and panicked. “The girls!” she cried, eyes straining to see into the backseat through the haze of the wreckage. In the back, Lucy was hanging upside down, suspended by her seatbelt. Her head throbbed where it had slammed into the ceiling, and she could taste blood where she had bitten her lip. She looked over at Ava, who was trapped in her car seat, crying loudly, her little face pale and streaked with tears. Ava clutched her stuffed bunny tightly, as if it could somehow make everything right again. “Mommy!” Ava screamed, her voice quivering and small. “I’m scared!” Lucy reached out, her arm trembling, trying to comfort her sister. “It’s okay, Ava. We’re okay.” But Lucy’s own voice was fraught with terror. She looked around at the shattered glass, the crumpled metal, and felt the terrifying helplessness of the moment. Above them, the SUV groaned under its own weight, the metal frame creaking ominously, as if it might tip further at any second. The sedan, after clipping the SUV, spun out of control, tires screeching against the pavement as it careened headfirst into a brick wall on the roadside. The front end crumpled instantly, glass and metal exploding in every direction. The driver, thrown violently forward, felt the crushing force of the impact as the airbag deployed too late to protect her from the brunt of the collision. She slumped against the steering wheel, dazed and bleeding, her vision swimming with pain and the harsh, flickering light of her car’s damaged headlights. She blinked, trying to clear her head, but all she could see was the SUV lying on its side, a mangled silhouette against the dimming evening sky. The faint sound of crying children drifted through the shattered windshield, and the weight of what she had done settled on her like a crushing burden. She had been in a hurry—so much of a hurry that she hadn’t stopped to think. Now she was trapped in her own wreckage, helplessly watching the consequences of her recklessness unfold in front of her. Sirens wailed in the distance, drawing closer with each passing second. Red and blue lights flashed against the darkening sky, painting the scene in a surreal, strobe-like glow. Firefighters and paramedics rushed onto the scene, their shouts and the crunch of boots on gravel filling the tense silence. They scrambled down the embankment toward the overturned SUV, flashlights cutting through the dimness as they assessed the damage. A firefighter pried open the rear door, the twisted metal screeching in protest. He reached in carefully, unbuckling Ava from her car seat and lifting her out. Ava clung to him, still clutching her bunny, her sobs softening as he whispered reassurances. Lucy was next, helped out gently, her small frame shaking as she was wrapped in a warm, reflective blanket. “You’re so brave,” the paramedic told her, his voice kind but firm. “We’re going to take care of you and your family.” The mother winced as she was pulled from the wreckage, every movement sending fresh jolts of pain through her body. She held her belly protectively, whispering silent prayers for her unborn child as they lifted her onto a stretcher. She reached for her husband’s hand, gripping it tightly as they were separated, both of them exchanging a look of shared fear and relief. The father, the last to be rescued, stumbled slightly as he was helped up. He scanned the chaotic scene, his eyes darting between his daughters, his wife, and the wrecked sedan across the road. Relief washed over him as he saw his family being tended to, but the fear lingered—an unshakable, gnawing worry about what might still be wrong, unseen beneath the surface. Across the road, the driver of the sedan was pulled from her vehicle, her legs unsteady as she was helped to sit on the curb. She watched the family she had nearly destroyed, her guilt as palpable as the blood trickling from her forehead. She had only been trying to get ahead, to beat the darkness that was falling over the highway, but now the darkness felt absolute, settling into her bones. The damage was done, and no amount of regret could rewind the seconds that had changed everything. The scene buzzed with the chaos of flashing lights, voices, and the low, rhythmic hum of engines idling in the background. Above, the sky was fully dark now, a deep, inky black broken only by the harsh glare of emergency lights and the faint, distant glow of city lights on the horizon. The road, once a mundane path home, was now a battlefield strewn with wreckage, the lives of everyone involved forever altered by a moment’s impatience, a split-second decision that spiraled into tragedy. As the paramedics worked, the family held onto one another, shaken but alive, the weight of the crash settling in but their grip on each other firm. The mother rested a hand on her belly, feeling the faintest flutter of movement, a fragile reassurance amid the chaos. They would heal—eventually. But the scars of this night, painted against the dim glow of fading headlights, would linger long after the wreckage was cleared and the road returned to its usual, unremarkable flow.


Last night Anna dreamt she was secured in a large rose bud. Every petal of the flower was strategically placed to protect her from the outside world. Thick and thorny vines snap on the ground, threatening anything or anyone that might come close. In that moment she felt nothing in the real world could give her as much comfort as the flower and constantly moving vines did in that dream. The roses she examines in front of her now at her local garden fresh flower shop are more delicate. That’s part of the beauty of them. You have to take care of them in order to keep their dainty looks and vibrant colors. Freeze them, put them in ice, put them in water, press them, preserve them, even dry them and keep the petals. We’ll do all sorts of things to keep flowers around for as long as possible.

Moving away from the roses, she sees a basket of mixed bouquets that are on sale because they’re a couple days old. She’s always had an interest in older items. Lockets gone brass. Chipped tea pots. Jammed typewriters. Flowers are just one of the many things in this life that start to lose their splendor as time passes.

Anna feels that way, like a fading beauty in an unromantic world. She knows she can adorn her hair with ribbon, rub cherry colored tint on her lips, and wear frilly skirts for now. However, as her appearance ages and changes, everything else will change with it. All of her efforts to beautify herself will be seen as futile.

Some of the bundles have many different types of flowers, mixed carnations and roses embellished with pieces of baby’s breath and wildflower. Some are rose bouquets, in an array of different colors. Suddenly, one stray bouquet of tulips, colored a deep scarlet red, catches her wandering eyes.

Roses are delicate and fresh, representing a dream of security. Then, there are tulips, the flower of spring. The bulbs blossom into cups fit for a fairy. The stem is free of thorns and leaves, as if to say that they don’t need anything to prove their beauty.

Flowers in hand, Anna moves towards the check out, but not before her eyes can catch a bumble bee flying out of a rose bud. She thinks back on her dream last night, wondering if bugs ever take a second to hide in a flower just for a few seconds of safety. She thinks that if she was a bee that she would do that.

The person in front of her in the ever growing line has another bouquet of tulips. His frame is tall and boxy. He turns his head from side to side, observing the world around him. He lets out a playful chuckle as a child waddles past. There is an aura about him that makes him seem just as fresh and vivacious as the season.

With spring awakening an effervescent and talkative energy within her, Anna feels the need to approach him. She composes herself, pushing her hair away from her face, and pulling at her sweater nervously. Before she can tap his shoulder, he turns his head in her direction, stopping her in her tracks.

She sees his narrow brown eyes, peering through wire glasses at the red tulips in her hands. She can’t move, stuck with her free hand glued to the bottom of her sweater and her other hand still holding the tulips. Just tighter than before.

“You’re lucky I didn’t grab those,” he teases, as he turns around with a bright and sprightly smile. His glasses look too big for his face. He has raspberry colored lips that look shiny and hydrated. His skin is the color of golden beach sand in the summer sun. He has a glowing smile so big, it could light up the sky on the night of a new moon.

Something about seeing him face to face sparks something inside her. The light that flitters through the trees is brighter. The flowers in their hands take on a richer, more vivid color. The cashier smiles bigger, and her voice raises in pitch. The birds chirp in harmonies. The butterflies thump against the walls of her stomach. The world comes to life around her.

“I suppose I am,” Anna laughs, feeling relieved she didn’t have to start the conversation. However, in just one second she feels the need to say something else. She gestures to the ‘For Sale’ basket that she found her tulips in. “I meant to ask you if you found those in the basket right there? I really love tulips, but I didn’t see any other ones around.” “Yeah,” he answers, longingly. “The only two bouquets of tulips they have, I think. I’m glad I left one. No matter how tempting it was to take the last one… I knew there was someone out there who loved them just as much as me, and they deserve their tulips too.” “Thank you very much.”

Anna doesn’t know if she’s thanking him for leaving the tulips or taking the time to talk to her. Even so he accepts her gratitude with a nod and a grin.

“You know what tulips symbolize?”

She furrowed her eyebrows in curiosity. The only thing tulips have ever symbolized to Anna is her hometown. On her way to visit her mom every few months, she passes the local farm, where they grow in neatly arranged rows over the hills. Anna wonders if that same farm is supplying the tulips that are in their arms right now.

“No, I’m not familiar.”

“I used to read about the language of flowers,” he leans in, as if he’s telling a great secret, so close that she can smell remnants of cloves and cinnamon on his breath. “Tulips, red tulips specifically, represent true love. Passionate love.”

Her face burns, and her body shivers. Her heart races, and her mind slows. She wants to say more, but her tongue is stuck to the roof of her mouth. All of Anna’s feelings are conflicting with one another. It keeps her still, standing there stupidly smiling until they’re interrupted.

“Excuse me, sir,” the cashier prompts him to move forward. “You’re next.”

“So sorry,” He says sincerely, walking forward in line. Even the way he apologizes to strangers is pleasant.

As he steps up the counter, turning away from her, the reality of the situation dawns on Anna. The smile falls off of her face. Her shoulders slump forward. She drops her head and stares at her ruffled socks peeking out of her black Mary Janes. She just knows that the conversation is over this very second.

Meet cutes only exist in movies, she thinks to herself. She stares at the flower of true love, feeling bad that so many red tulips are bought by people who may never experience such a thing. She feels bad for herself too.

Anna has always been a hopeless romantic, though she will never call it that. The phrase seems so comfortless. The word hopeless burrows itself under her skin. Is it really so pathetic to want to find love?

“I’d like to buy her flowers too please,” he says, cutting off the rampage in her mind at once. Anna hesitantly looks up and passes her flowers over to the cashier with unsure hands.

She looks up at the side of his face the whole time he’s paying, examining everything about him. His unruly facial hair. His golden earring that she didn’t even notice before. The way his smile looks charming, even from the side. She looks away as he shoves his wallet back into his pocket, silently hoping he didn’t catch her staring.

He hands her back the bundle of tulips with steady, calloused hands. Her fingertips feel his warmth for just a moment, immediately wanting more. She can barely mumble a thank you while accepting them, shyness finally taking its hold on her. He seems more confident than when she first walked up.  “I forgot to ask your name.”

Still stunned from the reality of the whole situation, Anna takes time to breathe before answering. She worries somehow it would all come out wrong if she speaks without thinking. “I’m Susanna. My friends call me Anna.”

“My name is Asher, and I’d love to see you again, Anna.” He pulls a red tulip out of his bouquet and hands it to her. She keeps her eyes locked on his brilliant honey colored ones, as she accepts the flower in her hand. “Until then.”

Anna stands there unmoving, watching him as he walks away. Finally, she looks down at the tulip, planning to place it carefully in her hair. Unexpectedly, she sees a small piece of paper tucked into the flower bulb. Of course, he wouldn’t just leave without giving her a way to get in contact. The small piece of paper is the ticket to communicating with him again: a ten digit number in flowery writing. She sits on the sidewalk, tucking the flower into her hair and the number into the pocket of her vintage sailor shorts. She watches as families and couples flit from one store to the next. Birds fly from tree to tree, singing out beautiful tunes. Teenagers walk through the streets in groups, laughing and talking amongst themselves lightheartedly.

As she sits, allowing the world to rush by her, the blue sky fades into various shades of purples and pinks. Puffs of cotton drift across the ever changing heavens and out of her vision. In her mind, she compares them to her doubts and fears. Fading away so she can focus on the beauty of her life.

Anna thinks back on her experience meeting Asher, and the dream she had just the night before. His rough hands are reminiscent of the thorny vines that protected her in the dream. His warm laugh and melodic voice is comforting like the petals. His considerate and gentle outlook on life brings a similar feeling of calm to her.  It makes her think if her dream was really that comforting? She woke up feeling more relaxed than she had been in a long time, but meeting someone like Asher has brought her to a new level of euphoria that she didn’t know existed. She feels herself vibrating on a whole new frequency, feeling things she never felt before. Her soul is filled with the colors of spring. Spring may be a season that brings life, opportunity, rebirth, and joy into the world around her. But in this moment, Anna is convinced Asher is her spring, birthing new opportunities for connection into her life. The birds are the messengers of his presence. The flowers are the symbols that he uses to convey his love to the world around him. Just like the spring is thawing out the ground below her, Anna could feel that Asher’s company began to thaw her heart.  She can’t help, but ask the question circulating in her mind. Was her true comfort waiting here for her the whole time?


What a lazy day! There is too much movement outside, too much noise. Just another lousy day. The mundane world of humans, aha!! While I see from the window pane of my tiny apartment resting on a couch, everything looks so busy, the street and the people. Everyone’s running, so are the vehicles and so is the time. And there he is, Tom: a miniature sort of a dog and my neighbor, with an average coat of black hair. “Woof, Woof, Woof, Woof” is all he does, such a dog speak. Strolling around with his human dad like always. Wagging and panting the whole day acting all cute, well he is cute but I have a hard time understanding this species altogether. They get too excited around humans. Perhaps they are too emotional and friendly. It’s not a bad thing, it’s just not my thing and I am too smart to handle myself anyways. Suddenly the door creaked. Startled, I fell from the couch. Who is there? I darted across the chair lying opposite the windows. Ears straightened, eyes wide opened, whiskers standing, on tiptoe I stared from the corner of the chair towards the main door. The door opened. Ohh it’s Kate. Sigh! back to normal. Is she early from work? Ohh my God, not again Kate. Please wash up, and change your clothes. Why do you feel this need to straight up jump on me after coming from work, take a chill girl? This is an invasion of my privacy, to be honest. Wait, what? You just said hello, a small peck and you left for your room. Hmmm… Okay, something seems different today, this is not you. You don’t understand space and time, not because you were weak in Physics, that you were but it’s just your thing. What about petting me and kissing me till the end of the time, asking me what I did the whole day in a weird tone where you think I specifically understand that tone, I do but that’s just weird mumbling of words. Something is wrong with you today. You are not you. You are so quiet. This is unusual of you. Ohhh I am sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Patts. Not the petty pet but the patty cat. I have this amazing humor you see; it is natural. I don’t know why she gave me the name “Patts”. It doesn’t even suit my personality. Look at me, I belong to the family of great hunters, the gigantic and ferocious king of jungles where they could have called me anything but “Patts”, hmmm. Maybe because it rhymes with KATe. But anyways, I live in an apartment with kate at 221 laymen street in London. Very chaotic, I must say. Horns honking all day, crowded, polluted, and whatnot but I do care the less until the smoke doesn’t make my furs filthy. I hate dirt, but it’s alright because kate’s apartment is clean though she is a mess, yeah, and I clean my alluring golden-brown furs every day by thoroughly licking them, that’s my favorite pastime. I can do it till the end of eternity. Just kidding, or am I? Wait, Kate, where is she? What on the earth has happened to her, this silence is killing me. Where are you? Ohhh, there you are all curled up in the bed, and wait!!! You’re weeping under your blanket; I can hear you sobbing. What happened to her? Should I go near her? I don’t know, does she need some time alone? Perplexed me standing at the doorway. With heavy paws, I walked into the room and snuggled into bed. “Hey cutie”, said kate peeping from her blanket. She collected herself and sat on the bed resting her back on the headboard. How are you, little girl? What did you do the whole day when mommy was gone, huh? She said whimpering, while she holds me gently in her lap. “I don’t know Patts, I am feeling a bit sad today and the sadder thing is I don’t know even why,” she said with agony in her voice. “It’s just loneliness that’s hovering over me today. It’s that one day where I am feeling alone in the crowd”. There was a pause in the air as she wiped the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Sometimes, I am also tired of doing everything on my own, you see.” It feels nice sometimes to be asked for or spoken for. It’s nice sometimes if someone waits for you at home or calls you asking about your whereabouts. It feels good when you don’t have to turn on the lights on your own every day. I miss the sense of belonging, Patts. Ohhh, Kate!!! I don’t know what to say. I am not good with emotional conversations. But it saddens me to see you like this. “I think I am the problem Patts, that’s why I am alone. I don’t have anyone to share my life with.” My job sucks, I suck, and my life sucks! Hey, hey, hey! Don’t doubt yourself this much young girl. I mean see me, have you learned nothing? I have so many doubts Kate about humans. Always crying and whining about everything. See me, I have never caught a single mouse, it’s a shame to our cat community because it’s something we are known for from the legends unknown. The catcher of the mouse, the protector of Earth from rodents, the master of mousing. And here I am. But you still love me. I am more than a mouse catcher to you. You have so much love to give, my whiskers can sense that, ehhhhh. But you’ve to love yourself first, all day every day. It’s good if people are there if they aren’t you got yourself. You have to create a ring of self-love around you as I do. I love myself, I am my favorite, heeehaaaaaw. “But you love me Patts, you are calmly listening to me, I got you.” I do Kate, always. “I will try to love myself Patts so that I don’t fall into the well of dismal again.” “You must be hungry little girl, come let’s eat”. Kate said with a smile on her face. There was an exchange of energy as if we understood each other. I jumped from the bed and swishly followed her to the kitchen.


I was walking home yesterday, and I saw a piece of lightning sticking out of the ground. I squinted at it, looked behind me and back. It was really real, that was for sure. Between the bus stop and the corner, it was. I looked at it. I pressed my pupils on it real hard; I didn't want to miss a single detail. It went up into the sky. Man, oh man, lightning is hugely huge! "Jesus, how did this get here?" I asked. Nobody answered my question. I approached one slow step at a time. I went with caution. As you would. I mean, who knows what it might do. The lightning was powder black. Not bright white. It looked burnt. I suppose lightning is only white when it can jump around the sky, but this piece had gotten stuck. It had lodged itself into the world and solidified. It was planted. I scratched my skull. Then for no reason at all, I said, "yes", because my thoughts made sense. I agreed with myself, and then I said, "interesting". I poked it with my shoe. I did not die. I relaxed a bit. Just in case you have not seen some, let me tell you lightening is very fat at the part that sticks into the floor. It looks skinny when it is shooting around in the sky, but that's just an optical conclusion. Fat. It is fat. And then it goes up and divides, then that bit also goes up and splits. So tens become hundreds and hundreds, thousands, and all that, and all the subdivisions result in millions of little sticks sticking out. Protruding into the sky. I took three steps back. Measured with my eyes. Took another step back, then I ran, jump-stepped the trunk and launched up to grab the lowest bow. I grunted. Ufffff. But I got it alright. My hand gripped nice and tight. I hung, took a breath, curled up and swung my left leg higher to hook it on the bow. Next, I slowly mounted the joint to straddle the shoulder. Now I was sitting in the lighting, at the first branch. I felt quite equestrian. I parted the side with my palm. I climbed into the thing and shuffled along one branch until it ended, and right there, I saw this tiny little bullet on the tip. I squinted at it. I lay flat and had a little sniff. It smelt like gunpowder and lemon. It smelt like it was very busy. It smelt like something wanting to happen. I looked around. All the twig ends had bullets on them, and they're were millions of them. Smooth and little and itching. They wanted to pop. They wanted that so bad that I could taste it, like a tingle of steel on the tongue. "Oi, oi, what's this then?" I said to the tip. And then I could not believe what happened next. You see, the little bullet said absolutely nothing at all. It pretended that I was, in fact, not there. But there I was. The wind blew, and my hair shivered. "So what the hell d'you think you doing here?" I asked. "I am waiting for spring! And then I am gonna explode, and you are gonna die when you see how fucking beautiful we all are!" said the tiny bullet. I squinted. I looked around. The entire giggle was giggling very, very quietly. A sorority of sisters all holding the same secret. It was quite electric, really. Infectious. And then my head started nodding, and my sense of humour leaked out all over my face, and I found myself grinning real hard; my eyes were so happy that they got a bit wet. "Of course y'are," I said, "You know ezactly what you gotta do. Don't ya?" The bullet said no more, she nodded back and forth on the twig, and after a moment of cosmetic reflection, I slid away, shuffled backwards, reached the start and got down. Then, on the floor again, I hugged the big black trunk of lightning, dusted myself off and carried on the walk back home. I reached the corner and looked up, and that is when I saw another piece of lightning, much farther down the road, but it was getting late, and it was time to turn off the main road and go home. I could not visit that lighting too, so I screamed at it. "Yo, yo. Yo!" I yelled at the top of my lungs, "I am watching-ching you!" and then tapped my eyeball and pointed to it. All the branches with all their buds wiggled at me in the wind, they looked pretty hysterical, and I had a profound sense of accomplishment. The wind was roaring with the laugh of the loaded giggle. The violence of spring was on its way. All the pieces of lightning were armed and ready to do what they do. They know how to be who they are. They know how to be happy with their one task; they have done it for millions of years. I wish I knew how to be happy like that. I wish I also knew what job I should do. Sometimes everything makes me feel very, very confused. My role here is not obvious to me. I am trapped inside the pip inside my head. I don't know what I am designed to do. I am very undefined. I do not have a forest to belong to. My heart sank slightly, and my brow dropped as I turned the corner and headed to my cardboard house under the bush next to the highway bridge. The bramble hid it well. I crawled inside. The chill of winter was softening, thank God. I closed my eyes. An image on the back of my lids reminded me of what had just happened. It replayed the cheeky little bud on the twig. It made my eyes wet a little and my mouth smile a lot. Maybe my job should be to witness the beauty of spring? I can definitely try that. I know I would be fantastic at that. Yes. I will be the witness to how lightning blooms. That's ezactly what imma gonna do.


The Lamplighter Carol Ann Martin “Well, that was very nice, I must say.” Ethel Hardy pulled the pins out of her best velour hat and laid it gently as a baby on the parlour table. “I think they did Dad proud.” “Bloody think so,” grunted Arthur. “How many years has he given ‘em? Sixty, is it?” “Well, he seems happy anyway,” Ethel smiled fondly at the old man who shuffled into the room behind them.

 It was only the second time that any of them had seen Albie in his suit, the first time being at his wife’s funeral twenty years ago. What it had lacked then, but boldly sported now, was the heavy gold watch chain looped across the waistcoat. Albie was certainly aware of the added splendour and his sunken gums chomped with pride as he yet again pulled a large, shiny watch out of his fob pocket and gazed at the face. “Keeps good time,” he observed, not for the first time in the last two hours. Young Freddy also sported a suit, borrowed for the occasion from a cousin and quite a nice tweed, but two sizes too small. The matching cap, borrowed from another cousin, was also quite smart, but a size too large. He dragged off both cap and jacket, kicked the fire back into life with his boot, grabbed his book and pulled an armchair up to the crackling coals. “We won’t want much dinner, will we?” said Ethel. “Not after all that sponge cake.” She winked at her husband. “Anybody got the time?” Her question fell on deaf ears, literally. Albie eased himself into his chair on the other side of the hearth. “I’m touched, I am,” he informed his family. “I never knew they thought so highly of me.” He tapped the watch, now snugly back in its pocket. “But they know as they can depend on me for a good few years yet.” Ethel sighed and rolled her eyes. “You said he knew,” she hissed at Arthur. “You said he understood.”  “I’ve told him,” said Arthur. “I’ve taken him and showed him the new lamp posts. What more can I do?” Albie, in a reflective mood after so much cake, praise and generosity, gazed at Freddy and mused, “Well, young feller, with your poor father gone, it’s going to be you following after me. I might even take you out with me tonight.” Ethel looked at Arthur again; a glance heavy with significance. There was more than one reason her father had been benevolently but firmly pushed into retirement. More than one reason they’d persuaded him to move from his solitary lodgings in Sackville Street to come and live with them.  “Dad,” she informed him slowly and loudly. “Arthur’s not dead. You’re thinking of our Bert. He was Freddy’s uncle, not his father.” Then, with patience, “And I’ve told you, Freddy’s not going to be a lamplighter. Freddy’s a scholar. He’s got a scholarship and he’s going to high school.” “Perhaps not tonight,” said Albie, “But tomorrow night.” Arthur leaned over and tugged the book out of Freddy’s hands. “You tell him,” he said. “He listens to you.” “Only when he wants to,” said Freddy. “Now gimme me book back.” “Tell your grand-dad again,” said Arthur, “And I’ll think about it.” Muttering irritably under his breath, Freddy got up and went over to the old man. He bent down and yelled in Albie’s better ear. “Grand-dad, there’s neither of us going to be lamplighters any more. That’s why you got the tea party and the watch. The council’s putting the electricity on. The street lamps are going to be electric.” He put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “You’re retired now, Grand-dad, and that’s just dandy, ‘cos the job’s well-nigh finished anyhow. Sam Watson’s going to do your round for the last bit.” Albie pondered that piece of information as if it was the first time he’d heard it – which it may well have been. His better ear wasn’t always that good. “But they’re still going to need me, aren’t they.” It was a statement, not a question. “The bloody things won’t light they bloody selves.” Ethel’s face glowed gently with pride as her son’s education came into play. “Yes, they will, Grand-dad!” Freddy bellowed in a voice that made the china spaniels on the mantelpiece rattle. “They’ve worked out this timing thing. The lamps’ll go on at dusk every night, all by themselves.” They all gazed at Albie for some indication that he had both heard and understood. But the old man was occupied with getting himself up out of his chair. “I’d better get cracking then,” he said. “No good going to work in my funeral suit.” Twenty minutes later, Ethel pulled the parlour curtain aside and watched her father limping down the street in his baggy old corduroys and jacket, with his ladder and pole over his shoulder. “Poor old bugger,” she sighed. Sixty years. Sixty springs, summers, autumns, winters. Heat, cold, wind, rain, sleet, snow. Sun setting and then rising again. Lamps lit and lamps snuffed out. Ethel’s was no poet’s soul, but there were things she could feel. Albie moved with the rhythm of a long-familiar dance. Straight past the new lamp posts because for him they didn’t exist. Pause underneath the gas lamp, prop the ladder against its bars. Box of vestas from out of his jacket. Scrape and cup the tiny flame in his hands. Light the spirit lamp atop his pole. Climb the ladder, open the glass pane. Reach up with the hook on his pole, pull the chain to turn on the gas. Lift the spirit lamp to each mantle, sweet gas scent, spluttering jet and then a steady lamplight glow. Close the glass and slowly back down the ladder. Every dusk for sixty years.  “Poor old bugger,” said Ethel again. She was about to drop the curtain when another figure appeared in the half-light. Same ladder, same pole, same spirit lamp. “Evenin’ Albie,” said Sam. “What you doing up here?” Albie asked. “Just strollin’” said Sam and walked on. He passed the window where Ethel was watching, smiled at her and shrugged. Ethel smiled back. For such a young bloke, Sam Watson had a sound head on him. She watched again as Albie trudged on to the next lamp. Sam turned round and started to follow him. The winter weeks went on. Every morning, while the lamps were still lit, Arthur tramped down Kelly’s Steps to the Peacock jam factory in Salamanca Place. Nailing together packing cases was monotonous work, but it was a lot warmer than packing fish. Only slightly later, Freddy set off for school, his head too full of learning to notice the cold. As soon as Ethel was out the back at the washtub or in the kitchen baking, Albie would be out the front door and off. He always moved as though he had a purpose, even if he’d forgotten it. Tradesmen making deliveries, women scouring their sandstone steps, everyone he met would receive a tip of his cap and a g’day. Sometimes he just sat in Arthur Circle and watched the kids play with their clay marbles. Once or twice he was looking for his wife, Flora. Then he was agitated, wondering how she’d got herself lost between their house and Ethel’s. He often got lost himself. Ethel didn’t have to worry when her dad didn’t bring himself home because somebody else would. Everybody in the neighbourhood, even down Montpelier and the wharf, knew where Albie lived.    Most afternoons Albie was content to sit by the parlour fire. When Freddy got home they’d have Ethel’s warm scones with Arthur’s jam. As daylight faded, Ethel would draw the curtains and talk non-stop while Sam lit the lamps outside. It should have been the winter of the Hardy’s content. But some nights, often the bitterest or foggiest of nights, Albie would pull out his watch, frown at the face and say, “Well, I’d better get cracking. Them lamps won’t light they bloody selves.” All Ethel had to do was make sure the old man had his coat, his muffler and his cap. Sam would be out there and her dad would be all right with him. She thanked the Lord that these night-time activities took so much out of Albie that he slept late and forgot that the lamps also needed to be put out. One morning Ethel saw Sam at the Hampden Road shops. “We’re grateful,” she told him. “Ever so grateful. You letting Dad light the lamps on your round. We keep telling him, but it won’t sink in.” “Not to worry, Mrs H. I still get me pay and Albie thinks he’s teaching me the job. We’re both ‘appy’. He added cautiously, as if he weren’t sure that he should. “Sometimes he calls me Bert. He thinks it’s his son he’s teaching. I didn’t know you had a brother, Mrs Hardy.” “He’s dead,” said Ethel. “Diphtheria. He was your age.” It might have been the searing wind, but Sam’s eyes watered. “What’ll we do when the electric comes on?” asked Ethel, anxious to know. “Dunno,” said Sam. “Dunno what I’ll do meself yet. But I’ve got me name down at Peacock’s so here’s ‘opin’” The official switching on of the electric street lamps was another occasion for Ethel’s velour hat. The Governor, Sir William Ellison-MacCartney, no less, was going to make a speech out the front of Government House and all who cared to go along were welcome. Ethel was determined to take Albie. If he saw the crowds and heard the speech – but most of all, saw the lights go on – it might be enough to get through to his befuddled brain. She hoped so. Freddy refused to wear the tight suit, but agreed to the cap. It created a rather manly image that was in keeping with the scientific aspects of the occasion. It was Arthur’s task to make sure that Albie was suitably dressed and ready to go. At twenty past five, Arthur came out of Albie’s little room in the lean-to shaking his head. “He knows, and he’s taking it hard,” he informed them. “Says he’s not going,” Ethel knew when to give up. “Best we just leave him be,” she said. “He’s going to fret for a while, but perhaps he’ll forget this like he forgets everything else.” So they left the old man to his grieving and caught the tram into town. Thousands had turned up to the Grand Opening of the Electrification of the Street Lights. They stood row after row on the lawns of Government House and gazed up at the Governor, flanked by the Premier and a whole lot more swanky toffs. He made a long speech about the march of progress and the dawn of a new age of science that was going to make all their lives longer, better and brighter – starting with the new, fully automatic electric street lighting. Patiently they listened, eyes sneaking to watches, as the hour hand slowly slid round to six o’clock.  “The moment is here!” proclaimed Sir William at the top of his voice. “Let there be light!” Albie and Sam stood together high on the hill at the top of the street, beneath the first of the new electric lights. Through the dusk, they heard the town hall clock begin to chime. Albie squinted at the large round watch-face in the palm of his hand. “Keeps good time,” he murmured. There was no bar for his ladder to rest on, so he just had to do the best he could. His fingers were trembling so much that Sam had to strike the vesta and light the spirit lamp. Albie lifted his pole high above his head. Not being of a scientific mind like Freddy, he couldn’t be sure how this new-fangled thing was supposed to work. All he could do was poke the flame all around the glass of the street light and hope it would connect. A second later, the light blazed out with a brilliance that neither he nor Sam had ever seen. One, two, three, four, a whole string of lights flashed along the street, down the sweeping slopes to the wharf, around Sullivan’s Cove and all the way across to the town. Every man woman and child who hadn’t gone to the Grand Opening came out onto their doorstep to look. Pride and joy swelled in Albie’s heart as he looked out at the twinkling glory spread out before his eyes. And it was all down to him. “I told ‘em!” he said with the satisfaction of one proven undeniably right. “Electrickery or no electrickery, them bloody lights aren’t going to light they bloody selves!’


I am from a large and loving family that is a bit well weird in most people’s eyes but weird is fun. As a quick example, when a photographer asks for us to pull a ‘silly face’ we have to clarify “marshall silly face or normal silly face?”. We all enjoy making each other laugh and goofing off. We are all each other’s best friend. As the second generation of twelve cousins becomes older there are marriages every year and babies every other. My father is one of four and is the second oldest. First it was Aunty Jenny followed by my father Steve, then uncle bill and lastly Uncle Keith, the craziest out of them all. It was his younger brother Williams (better known as Uncle Bill) middle child Caris who was getting married. This story is from Caris’s wedding in 2010, the first wedding of the second generation and ultimately the most memorable. A Marshall wedding is not your usual wedding. Things are a bit crazier and kookier than most others. As it was Caris’s wedding all the girl cousins were asked to be bridesmaids. Having us all together we all knew it is was going to be the most unforgettable and unique wedding. There were five bridesmaids in total. Caris’s sister Lauren was maid of honour followed by Kailee and Katrina. Amy and I being the youngest were ‘junior’ bridesmaids. We have no important jobs to do but Caris did not want to exclude us. The ceremony was in the grandparent’s large backyard garden. There was a big grassy area surrounded by many trees, flowers, shrubs and a pond. Uncle Bill had been pruning and trimming the whole area for weeks and it had definitely paid off.  Caris and Toms wedding reception filled a whole ball room as Tom is Italian and the Marshalls side is extensive and large. The rooms roof was decorated with floating white sheets and fairy lights. There were lights and flowers on every table and a large flower arrangement across the bridal table, which was stationed at the head of the dance floor. The pillars in the room were spiralled with flowers, lights and matching white material as the roof raising as high as the ceiling. The dance floor was at the centre at the room and large enough for all to join. To the side stood the tired white cake. There were the usual proceedings of a regular wedding. The bridal party was introduced as we all danced to our seats. After some dancing, speeches and the Italian seven course feast it was time for the bouquet toss. The MC called all the ladies out onto the dance floor. All five of us bridesmaids gathered, arms around shoulders, ready for the toss and began talking tactics. It was Tully (Kailee) who said “Lets lift someone up”. “Like a rugby lift?” ask Trina (aka Katrina) “Yeah! Like a rugby lift” Tully replied “Okay so who is getting married next?” asked Rat (aka Lauren). “Ahhhhh… bub?! (aka Amy)” I explained. There was a quick unanimous yes despite Amy being in a very new relationship. Now this was all worked out in under sixty seconds. We talked fast and in hushed tones. All five girls in matching purple dressed positioned themselves close behind Caris for the toss and a meter or two in front of the other girls. We widened our stance and yanked up our dressed. This is where everything went in slow motion. The rest of the ladies behind us immediately discounted us because of our position. We all circled Bub, the aunties and uncles were yelling at us that we were too far forward but we waved them off, we had a plan. We turned our focus to Caris who was oblivious to where we were standing and what we were planning. Caris bent slightly to build up the throw, we all grabbed what ever we could of Bub and began to push her up. Caris launched the bouquet. It was sailing through the air much higher than any of us anticipated. We had to dig deep. Amy grew higher and higher. This is when all the Marshalls in the room smiled and everyone else’s mouths dropped. No one could believe what was happening, no one had seen it before, the MC was speechless. The bouquet crashed into Bubs outstretched hands causing the frangipani petals to cascade down on the four of us. All the ladies behind us let out a gasp or a sigh. We lowered Bub thinking she had the bouquet but she had hit it down across the dance floor! She scurried for it and easily grabbed the now flowerless bouquet. With an extremely triumphant fist she thrusted it in the air as well all yelled in celebration. Everyone behind didn’t even stand a chance. Everyone was left stunned and silent for only a few moments before the room was lit up with laughter and exclamations like “oh my gosh!” and “did you see that?”. The MC just didn’t know what to say and fumbled with his words for a minute or two before continuing with the next item. To this day we still talk about the bouquet throw from Caris’s wedding. Anyone new to the family will be told by all the Aunties and Uncles at once followed by Uncle Bill proudly showing off the perfectly timed photo, he took of it. It perfectly depicts the amazement on everyone’s faces. The people in the background included the MC and most of Toms family who were not use to this sort of thing. All their eyes are wide and mouths open. The rest of the ladies in the back look much more defeated in comparison. However, we feel no remorse for are perfectly executed and impromptu plan. This photo hangs in centre stage in Caris’s house and will never be removed. The absolute best part of this story was that Bub was indeed the next one to get married.

By Brianna Marshall (AKA Buzz)


She stood in front of the mirror, trying to focus on the words and not her reflection. She wanted to get it right. Ending a marriage is no small task, and it was important that he hear and understand what she was hoping to convey. During their 11 years together, she had rarely felt heard or understood by her husband, so it was unlikely that this would be an exception. She knew it. She needed, however, for him to receive her comments with empathy and compassion despite the hurt that they may impart. This, of course, was an exercise in futility, considering that he neither respected nor cared one iota about her feelings. That was the problem. Eleven years of hoping that he would change had not come to fruition and she had finally accepted that the relationship was no good for her, for him, or for their children. She knew that she was far from perfect, with scars and unhealthy habits of her own. She felt, however, that she had to change herself on her own terms, away from his influence. If she had only known then that the next 14 years would bring one heart ache after another, together with financial instability and the pressures of parenting and maintaining a household alone. Would she have stayed if she’d had the ability to predict this? Perhaps. It might have been easier in some ways, particularly given the realities of a single income household. She may have been able to travel more, as he has, to live a more comfortable lifestyle, to retire earlier and stress less. At the same time, she knew that she would not be the person she is today if she hadn’t initiated such a drastic change. Growth can be painful but so can staying in a situation that isn’t working. She would remind herself of this innumerable times over her lifetime, reflecting on the journey she had taken through the years. The opportunities and experiences that had presented themselves were completely different from what she would likely have encountered within the confines of her marriage. Some of these were good, some were bad, most were ordinary. She was grateful to have had so much joy and comfort, while grieving the many losses and regrets. She counted her blessings and tried not to focus on the negative thoughts that lurked in the darkness. At 48 years of age, Julie found herself in a midlife crisis. All but one of her children had left home to start lives of their own, although they still needed her support and guidance at times. They visited often and she appreciated how these relationships had become the most important in her life. She wished she had spent more time enjoying her children and less focus on relationships with men, however old patterns die hard. She had learned at a very young age that male attention felt invigorating and validating, which was unfortunate as she hadn’t realized that the intimate relationships were simply reflecting how she wanted to feel about herself. The doubts and the self-sabotage were strong. Years of unhelpful thoughts and beliefs about herself and others, along with habits that felt soothing but had harmful effects (overeating, binging, eating a lot of processed food and not a lot of healthful food, not exercising, picking at hair/skin, biting nails, using “substances”, engaging in risky behaviour, avoidance, etc.) had taken their toll on her being. From the day her marital status had changed to “single”, Julie had set about redefining herself and building a life she and her children could be proud of. Only she didn’t really know how to do this. She had learned many painful lessons along the way, and survival was often the only goal. She could now be proud that she and her loved ones had survived. She had worked hard, studied hard, and invested in their future. She had fought for what they deserved, arranged multitudes of adventures and learning experiences, and nurtured them to the best of her ability. She wished that she had been more present, gentle, patient, and mentally healthy in her younger years to now, however she knew that she didn’t know then what she knows now. She wonders if things would have been easier for her daughters if she had stayed. Her gratitude list, which falls in the “avoidance” category because writing it consistently lifts her mood and helps refocus her thoughts, building and strengthening new pathways in her brain, includes: Family, friends, home, pets, nature, beauty, love, knowledge, music, work, resources, comfort, kindness, health, and so on. She knows she is privileged in so many ways, born white, middle class, able, relatively intelligent and attractive. Her parents had worked hard and provided many opportunities to Julie and her sister, Karen. They had lived within an hour or two of each other since immigrating to Canada from England on February 12, 1982. When she received the call from the hospital advising her that her mother was in intensive care, she’d immediately made the 5 minute drive, parked beside the school that her daughter had attended, and maintained her composure as she navigated the visitation protocols. The sight of her mother, face pale and wrinkled, hair disheveled, eyes sunken into deep dark sockets, so frail and unwell, brought back all of the emotions she had ever felt. The tears overwhelmed her. She waited for Karen to arrive so they could sit with the woman who birthed them by caesarian section 46 and 48 years earlier, while she passed into whatever came next or simply “expired”, as they say in medicine. They held hands, the three women, as they had done when crossing the street at age 2, 4, and 31. They didn’t speak but cried their love from sad eyes, grateful for the ability to be present for and with one another. Julie, Karen, and Gillian, a story of adventure, drama, comedy, romance, and even horror. Their lives forever intertwined, another chapter now ending.


Grisha’s alchemy shop was bustling with activity, and not just from the various beasts that walked in to buy ingredients or seek aid from the blind hyena shaman and her apprentices: An odd group had currently taken up residence in the backrooms of her shop.

The most noticeable one - a large reptiloid with dark scales, long horns and piercing yellow eyes - sat upon a cushion too small for his frame. His arms were folded as he spoke to a female meerkat who was transcribing everything he said to her leatherbound notebook. “So you and this ‘Ylla’ were at the fields as this battle started, and that’s when you were enslaved by this Margot the Lynx,” the meerkat said trying to recap his story.

“Correct, Amber,” the reptiloid replied. Amber continued to work her quill. “And Margot is a servant of The Witch Queen of Vulane. Selthia, who effectively owned you and had you compete in the gladiator fights? Is that right, Draknor?”

“Again, correct,” Draknor rumbled his large powerful tail thumping against the floor. “But you busted out during a fight, and made your escape where you eventually met our dear Skreet Snickertooth, rat detective.”

Amber said the last part in a sugary sweet tone of voice, as if to rib the rat investigator, even though he was absent. From the shadowy corner a ferret clad in leathers smirked at Amber’s tone.

“Yes,” Draknor said, wearily. “And after we deal with our mutual adversary Margot, Skreet will help me find Ylla.”

“I’m sure he will.” Amber replied as she finished jotting down her notes. “Then you met Farah over there,” “The amazing Farah,” the ferret corrected. “The best thief in the world.” Amber ignored her and continued her interview. “And then you met me after recovering your sword from those experiments being conducted upon it.”

Draknor merely grunted in reply.

“Quite the story already, and its still ongoing as we speak!” the meerkat beamed.

Draknor regarded her with his piercing eyes. “It’s my turn to ask you a question.” Intrigued, the meerkat’s ears shifted forward. “Oh, do go ahead!” “Why do you talk to Snickertooth the way you do? Why do you speak to him the way you do. He is a rat of courage and integrity, and a keen mind.”

Farah couldn’t help but make a snide comment. “Aw, that’s sweet. Look at you Drak, sticking up from ol’ Skreet.”

Draknor snorted in response.

 “Well, I wrote a few books about him and a few of his cases. Books that made him famous. He didn’t appreciate them, or me so I rib him from time to time.” “Rib him?” Draknor asked. “Yes, you know,” Amber said. “Poke him a little. Make sure he’s still alive.” “I don’t understand.” Draknor grunted. “Is this a mammal thing?” Amber ran her quill along her muzzle, trying to think of how best to explain it. Farah broke into the conversation then, “Speaking of Skreet. Is no one going to say it?”

“Say what?” Amber and Draknor both asked.

“We should keep an eye on Skreet. He just left. By himself. After we’ve made a lot of enemies here.” “I shall go,” Draknor rumbled. Farah shook her head, “Nah, you better stay here,big guy.”

Draknor growled.

“She’s got a point,” Amber said, surprisingly siding with the ferret. “You do tend to draw attention to yourself.”

Farah smirked. “Tell you what: You stay here, and then if we don’t come back soon you can go after us.”

Draknor stood, his horns scraping the ceiling, “And how would I find you? This city is an ever-shifting maze.” Farah thought about it for a second. “If you see or hear a phalanx of those silvermasks, follow them - from a distance, of course.” “Why?” Draknor asked. “Well, the way I figure it is that they follow paths around the city that they know because they’re...” Farah gesticulated, as if conjuring the correct word out of the air.

“...They’re conditioned to,” Amber the wordsmith added. Farah acknowledged the help. “And eventually you’ll run into the House of the Moon, where we’ll try to rendezvous. Or, eventually, you’ll make a tour of the city and find us...”

Farah spoke then: “...or the people who kidnapped us.” “That doesn’t seem efficient at all,” Draknor grumbled.

“It’s what we thieves use to navigate the city... although figuring out which platoon is which is quite the task. But it’s the best we’ve got. Besides, we'll be back soon. At least I probably will,” Farah said, giving Amber a side-eye glance.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Amber asked.

“Honey, you’ve got damsel in need of rescue written all over you.”

“I resent that, you tart!” Amber hissed.

Draknor thumped his sword against the floor, “Stop arguing and trail Skreet already! He’s probably long gone by now! GO!”

The two hurried out of Grisha’s alchemy shop and into the fine rain of the ever-rainy city. The two quickly merged into the evening crowd of middle and upper class creatures and their families touring the marketplace before seeing Skreet. He had gone a ways down the street, but thankfully he hadn’t gone too far. Neither Farah nor Amber drew too close, they didn’t call out to him either. Best he didn’t know he was being followed.

“I wonder how long it will take him to figure out we’re tailing him?” Farah asked.

“Good question, he’s an experienced investigator,” Amber added.

Just then something unexpected happened: a beautiful white mink was suddenly at Skreet’s side.

“Who’s that?” Amber asked.

“I don’t know, but I’m envious of her dress,” Farah replied.

The two eavesdropped on the conversation, wondering just who this mink was. Friend or foe?

“Rask? Rask, is that you? Oh, Rask! How wonderful to see you again!”

‘Rask’? Skreet replied before he seemed to run with the name.

“Spinrave isn’t it? Well, fancy meeting you here.”

Spinrave smiled as she took his arm, “Fancy indeed. You’ve been making quite a name for yourself. I was hoping we would meet again. Come with me.”

“A ‘name for myself’?” “Yes, you and your little... and large... friends. Some very... interesting creatures wish to speak to you, but I think it best if you come out of the rain... If you trust me, that is.” To Amber’s dismay she saw Skreet walking with Spinrave.

“What’s he doing? Why is he going with her?” Amber questioned.

Farah’s tail twitched, “She’s charming him, I can smell those intoxicating fumes from here. Smell that? That oh-too-sweet perfume smell?”

“We should save him,” Amber said.

“Or we can follow and see where she takes him. Come on. How’s that investigative instinct?”

Amber scowled, “Fine you’ve got a point. It would make for a better story anyway. I think I’ll call it something like, ‘Seduced in the Rain.’” “Might want to workshop that title, sounds more like those romance novels… Which I definitely don’t read, or keep under my pillow.” Amber twitched an ear at that. Skreet and ‘Spinrave’ walked directly into one of the thousands of taverns in the damp, dark city and into an interior that was even darker. Farah and Amber made their way through the throngs of creatures who were making their way to the Entertainment District and all of Selthia’s delights and dipped into the tavern. It was multiple stories, so perhaps they had rooms for the weary traveler. The inside was raucous. Sea rats and weasels just off from working in the Docks district - which had a curfew - smoked pipes and drank ale while cats and various vermin massaged aching muscles - for a price. They got in just in time to see Skreet’s and the mink’s tails walking up the red-carpeted staircase to the upper levels. “Let’s go.” Farah nodded to Amber. They didn’t make it too far up the stairs till they paused. A large, female panther from the Southern continent, her burly arms crossed as she watched for any but paying customers from entering the second and third floors.

“Well that complicates things,” Amber muttered. “Maybe we can bribe her?”

“Don’t worry I’ve got a plan in my devious mind.” Farah said, rubbing her paws together.

Skreet found himself smiling like an idiot as Spinrave continued to talk to him, her voice like a melody as she led him through the plush third floor of the inn-tavern. Part of the rat’s mind was still rational, though, wondering why he was going along with her so much... but the other part seemed to have hijacked his muscles and speech. Spinrave had long solved the mystery of her friend - through wanted posters, rumors, and Margot. He was not ‘Rask,’ he was Skreet Snickertooth, and he and his friends were moving through Vulane like a whirlwind. It was no longer amusing. “Corrupt him,” Selthia had said in her office, enchanted with the false night sky on her ceiling. “And if you really like him, keep him as a pet.” Spinrave was fine with that arrangement. She served Margot, and by extension Selthia. If her mistress ordered it, it was as good as done. He would make a wonderful pet. “I ordered some wine for the room,” Spinrave said softly. “Oh, that sounds wonderful,” Skreet muttered.

“You can drink, and drink, and never have a hangover. We shall enjoy the time we have together… for a long time to come, my handsome rat,” Spinrave said, smiling shyly and holding his paw as she unlocked a large wooden door.

But as they prepared to step through a voice called out to Spinrave as a female cat ran with a note in her paw. “Spinrave! Spinrave… you’ve been called out.”

Spinrave flattened her ears, “I don’t have time for that right now. Tell this challenger to tottle off.”

The cat shook her head. “You know the ancient rites of the Entertainers’ Guild - This is a public challenge. With all the right words.”

Spinrave dragged a paw across her muzzle, “Ugh, fine. My dear Rask, I must attend to... some upstart downstairs. Have some wine and wait for my return. Then the fun will really begin.” she winked flirtatiously.

She practically shoved Skreet through the door before locking it and marching downstairs, the dress she wore would serve its purpose for a dance. Might even get her blood pumping for some more fun later.

In the well-appointed room Skreet shook his head, his mind still slightly addled as he sat on the plush bed noticing the glass of wine on the nightstand. His mouth watered: something about that glass was very inviting. As if it were singing a song for his ears alone.

Downstairs in the common room around the stage the crowd was already worked up in a frenzy, they let out an uproar as Spinrave made her appearance.

“Who challenges me?” She demanded.

“I do sweetie,” Farah stood on the stage arms folded across her chest.

The room of half-drunk, licentious laborers nearly exploded. “Damn I love this town,” a searat could be heard saying. “I love and hate it,” someone else retorted. She had had time since issuing the challenge to change into one of the many performer costumes, and had opted for a belly dancer ensemble. A shimmering skirt that showed a fair bit of leg, and a sparkly croptop. Bracelets adorned her arms, and anklets on her feet.

“Cute outfit.” Spinrave said coldly as she tossed her coat aside revealing her short dress.

“Musicians!”

Spinrave ordered.

Meanwhile Skreet was just about to raise the glass to his muzzle when the door suddenly flew open. A familiar meerkat covered in scratches stumbled in, her fur disheveled as she carried Farah’s prized lockpicking set.

“Oh, no! Not you,” Skreet muttered as Amber crossed to him and shook him by the shoulders causing the glass to fall and shatter upon the floor.

“Snap out of it fool!” Amber cried out, but the dopey expression would not leave the rat’s face.

“I’m waiting for her. The enchanting Spinrave.”

Amber scowled. “Fine, you leave me no choice.”

Grabbing a candle nearby, the meerkat jammed the lit wick into his arm eliciting a cry of pain. The smell of burned hair filled the room.

“Gaaaah!” Skreet stood up. “Amber, what in the hells?”

“Got control of your faculties yet?” the meerkat asked.

Skreet blinked. “Yeah... oh, Gods. I let myself end up here?”

He could remember everything, as though he’d awoken from a pleasant dream. Part of him - a quiet, less hard-boiled part - wanted to stay in that dream.

“Let’s get out of here, rat!” Amber declared.

Skreet nodded as his paws went to his pair of fighting sticks under his coat. “Yeah.”

Back in the common area two musilide ladies were having a fierce duel. Not with swords or fists, but in dance. Farah shimmied her hips, arms above her head as the crowd roared, Spinrave in response was performing an impressive set of spins - her specialty. “Not bad sweetie,” Farah commented. “Not good enough to win.”

Spinrave smiled sweetly. “Worry about yourself, thief.”

The mink bowed low, her rear towards the crowd. Another explosion of claps and whistles. Farah was unperturbed, or at least made it seem so, for deep down she was alarmed. She had been recognized? But she was so cautious. She was too good! How did someone recognize her? She wasn’t going to let Spinrave know she got to her. “Oh, and what do thieves do, besides be good dancers?” Farah asked as she leaned backwards towards the crowd in a display of flexibility, her abs were still rolling as she did so. “Steal things. Like your fans. Your stuff. …Your date.”

Spinrave clenched her muzzle shut, her focus off. “Oh, you clever… this is a distraction.”

Her rhythm stopped and the crowd booed.

“It’s too late by now. Might as well share.” Farah grinned.

“Well done! Well danced.” Spinrave shouted as she gave Farah a forced hug, her muzzle inches from Farah’s ear. “Mistress Selthia, and Mistress Margot, asked me to corrupt your rat friend’s mind. Your group has drawn the ire of some important people.” “You work for Margot. Tell me where to find her. She won’t be happy you failed.” Farah hissed. Spinrave drew Farah closer. “Losing one of Selthia’s prized treasures put her on the outs. It’s a race for your large, reptiloid friend. Margot’s in the Fogs, sending agents across the city.” The two broke the embrace giving each other an almost genuine bow, before they parted ways, the crowd still cheering.

Farah caught Amber and Skreet descending the staircase. There was much to be done.