“What have you got to lose?” asked Louise as she perused the menu. Wilma slumped back in her chair and stared at the concrete Jersey barrier that abutted their table. She preferred to eat indoors, but COVID had forced the restaurant’s owners to limit seating in the dining room and serve customers outside on a makeshift patio that now extended into the street. “My dignity.” Louise almost choked on her wine. “Your dignity!” Wilma tapped her calloused fingers on the base of her glass. “I don’t wanna move. My home’s here.” She took a long sip of her wine, relishing the citrusy tartness of the chilled Sauvignon Blanc that their waiter had recommended. “Didn’t your son just buy a big house on a golf course in Florida?” “Yeah.” “That sounds pretty nice to me.” “It’s too hot down there.” “I’m sure they have air conditioning.” Wilma rolled her eyes. Her son, a vice president at Carrier Corporation, had recently relocated from Connecticut to the company’s new headquarters in West Palm Beach. “I like it here.” “In Hartford?” “I live in Farmington.” “In a house that’s too big for you now.” “So why should I move into Jason’s big house in Florida?” Louise peered over her menu. “Winter. It gets cold here and it snows a lot.” Wilma shrugged. On this balmy July evening, it was easy to forget the gray slush piles and grimy snow mounds that buttressed the city’s sidewalks and buried its parking spaces every year from December to March. “And when you got COVID, I was really worried about you. I’m sure your son was too. The whole Northeast was on lockdown and you were living by yourself.” “Jason was working from home then and he’d stop by to check on me.” Louise set her menu down and shook her head.

“That’s not what you told me. You said he was busy with work, and Tina was happy to have him never leave the house.” A waiter wearing an N95 mask approached their table. “Are you two ready to order?” “We’ll start with the Italian meatballs,” Wilma replied. The waiter nodded and jotted down the order. “Can I get you ladies anything else?” Louise lifted her nearly empty wine glass. “We’ll be ready for another round when the food comes out.” As soon as the waiter left the table, Louise leaned in toward Wilma. “They’re still in the newlywed stage. Give it time.” Wilma snorted. “Tina’s eighteen years younger than Jason. And she’s a vegan. I swear that woman eats green peppers all day long.” “Green peppers?” “Yes, she’s decided they have some kind of nutritional healing power.” “Like kale.” “What the hell is kale?” “It’s a green vegetable that’s all the rage right now.” Wilma scoffed. “I’m seventy-five years old. I don’t need to be told to eat my vegetables.” Louise sighed. “Does Tina golf?” “Not very well.” “Maybe you could give her some tips. Does she know how far you could drive the ball when you were on tour?” “I don’t think she’s interested in her mother-in-law explaining how to hit a fade off the tee.” “What else does she do besides golf?” “Yoga. That’s where they met. She was a yoga instructor at Jason’s gym.” “I guess they’re both into downward dog,” Louise quipped. “Is that what it’s called now?” Wilma cocked an eyebrow and cast a saucy gaze at her old friend. They’d known each other for decades, ever since they had played together at the inaugural Dinah Shore Pro-Am Golf Tournament. Back then, 23-year-old Wilma, a rising star on the LPGA tour, had been paired with Louise, the 20-year-old daughter of an executive vice president at Colgate Palmolive, the tournament’s company sponsor. Wilma dreaded the thought of playing with an amateur whose father had bought her a tee time at the tournament. Expecting a tedious day on the links, she was stunned when Louise smoked the ball 220 yards off the first tee. She later learned that Louise had finished third at the collegiate women’s national golf championship. “Have you spoken with Jason recently? What’s he think?” “That I’m getting too old to live in my own house. That I should come live with him and Tina.” “Why don’t you?” “Because the last time I was there, I had to put up with Tina and her little yappy dog. I swear she treats that animal like it’s her child. I mean she chops up vegetables and pours sauce over it and heats it up in the microwave like she’s feeding a person.” Louise laughed. “Sounds like the dog’s got a pretty good life there.” “Ya think?” Wilma snatched a roll from the bread basket and broke it in two. As she slathered it with butter, her purse began to ring. She wiped her hands on a napkin then rifled through the leather satchel in her lap to retrieve her cell phone. “It’s my orthopedist.” As she listened to the automated voice confirming her upcoming appointment, she rubbed her left knee. All of those years on the LPGA circuit had taken their toll on her joints. “How’s it been feeling since your surgery?’” Louise asked. “It’s fine.” She turned in her chair, raised her left foot off the ground and made a slow kicking motion until her leg was parallel to the ground. Then she bent her knee and slid both legs back under the table. “Are you going to have the other knee replaced?” “Hell no.” “Why not?” “Because that’ll be another reason for Jason to want me to come live with them in Florida.” “On a golf course.” Wilma sighed. “Yeah, I know.” The waiter reappeared and placed the plate of meatballs on the table. “I’ll be right back with your wine.” Louise unwrapped her silverware from a white cloth napkin. Wilma sliced a meatball in half and swirled it in the tomato sauce before popping it in her mouth. She relished the spicy sweet taste that she’d tried to replicate with her own homemade meatballs, but they were never quite as tasty as the ones they served here. “Have you been to their house?” Louise asked. “Yes, last Thanksgiving.” “How’d that go?” “I nearly starved!” “How does someone starve on Thanksgiving?” “When the host is a vegan!” Louise stifled a laugh. “OK, what does a vegan serve on Thanksgiving?” Wilma dabbed the other half of her meatball in the tomato sauce. “Nothing I wanted to eat.”


That 2 A.M. fresh air. Dignan is on the mattress beside me, struggling to get through Gravity’s Rainbow and giving up, getting no further than I did. My chin rests on the pane of an open window, my right arm extending onto the garage roof. I let the drops plop down from the eaves and soak the tip of my cig, and mingle with the grease in my hair. I stare at nothing in particular. Mostly streetlights shimmer in the lane. Rivulets gush along the curb and spill under manhole covers set into the sidewalk. Twice a car – different each time - plowed by, entering and exiting the frame squared by my open window of the street we had just moved onto. A clump of silted ash crumbles off the tip of the fag and I look back over my shoulder. “Hey Dig, pass me that bottle, will ya?” She passes me a bottle of shampoo and I squeeze out the last squirt and rub what I can into my scalp and stick my head back out as far as I can just as the rain picks up. She throws Pynchon’s skull-crusher onto the carpeted floor beside the bed, picks up the empty bottle in the groove around me and trick-shots it through an open doorway into a wastebasket in the bathroom.

The volume’s turned down low. Goodbye Lenin’s on the plasma. A single shelf juts above the bed; A painted piece of wood with supports the last owners drilled into the drywall. Slaughterhouse-Five , The Virgin Suicides and The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time are the only novels on the shelf, and a volume of Ghost in the Shell is on the table by the bed. The mattress itself is bare, the sheets drawn back and the mattress cover, having come off, lies crumpled in one corner of the bed. Dignan looks up and frowns. She lifts the manga, searching for something, then slides onto the floor, groping under the bed. She pulls out a copy of Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting , smoothes out a bent corner of the cover and slides it onto the shelf. Then she kicks Pynchon’s robbed Pulitzer under the bed. “Give it an extra good kick for me.” She gives it another punt, the toes of her right foot just barely grazing it. Myself, I’d sworn off reading. I’d only just, that day, finished The Prague Orgy . By Philip Roth? Suffice it to say, there were no orgies, no plot, and I threw it down in disgust.

I let go of my snuffed-out loosie, burnt halfway to the filter, and let it run down the sloping roof to the gutter. The shampoo’s stinging. With eyes shut, I hear my fire-crotched sex fiend in the room behind me throw on Veruca Salt. I shake my head and lather up with half my body practically on the roof – the edge of mattress under the pane splotched and in patches practically soaked – when I hear “Idiot!”, and she grabs my legs to pull me back in. I re-position myself under the eaves, rubbing my fingers into jet-black hair until I figure it’s clean enough. I finally pull myself from the window and towel off. The T I’m wearing, all black but for the cover art of Outkast’s ‘Aquemini’ on the front, is soaked around the neck. Dignan switches off the chicks who sing ‘Seether’ and focuses on the movie, jambing the volume button before tossing the remote on the mattress. The movie’s in German, so we end up only reading the subtitles anyway. She leans over: “You know, it was after seeing Goodbye Lenin that Tarantino decided to cast Daniel Brühl-” “-In Inglorious Basterds.” She sez this every time. “Yeah.” “Tell me something I don’t know.” She shrugs, exhausting her well of trivia. I think for a second. “Ingrid Bergman died at midnight on her birthday.” “Huh.” “I guess that’s a good time as any to check out – the moment you turn 67. She was so good, even the cancer politely waited on her.” Eyes glued to screen. “What kinda cancer?” I jiggle my chest and she glances over. “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”

I again grab the towel between us and wipe flecks of water off my arm and pull the window mostly shut. I still like the muted patter of rain, but not so muted as when it’s shut. Red pops in a Softies CD and suggests a game of Go. We slide onto the floor and bring out the board. The patter of rain on tiles and glass and a steady clicking of smooth black and white stones on a wooden board, not to mention muted German dialogue from the Wolfgang Becker movie we periodically look up to glance at, culminated in Dignan, around noon the following day, telling me that in that moment, she thought: “This is what Hermann Hesse must’ve felt like when he wrote Siddhartha .”

At one point she asks if I want one and when I say yes, she gets up and goes downstairs to get us a couple Mike’s Hard Lemonades from the fridge. I look at the digital clock and point to it when she gets back. “Want to...?” “Sure.” She stops The Softies. Sometimes, if we’re both up at this time, she’ll get out an acoustic and pluck out Elliott Smith and I’ll sing “2:45 AM”. We do this for a few minutes and by the time we get back to the game I’m bored with it. She places a white pebble on an intersecting line and I pass her a black one and then another, conceding the game. She puts away the polished pieces and set and presses play again. We finish listening to The Softies and by then the movie is almost over, too. I flop onto the bed and lie back and open the window a little wider. She flicks the switch and turns on the dark. I start to drift. Dig stays awake and watches FLCL.


It only cost one dollar. She’d picked it up on a whim from that popular Japanese variety store, Daiso. It was a shiny, gold-painted plastic cat with a solar-powered waving arm. Noticing them in people’s cars, she’d always thought these cats were so cute. Her best friend from Japan told her that it was a “Maneki Neko” or “beckoning cat”; a talisman of good luck and fortune. Now she had a lucky cat of her very own sitting on her dashboard. As soon as she removed it from its packaging, the cat’s arm immediately started waving. Amused, she said to it, “Why, hello there! You’re going to be my little travel buddy and keep me safe when I drive, won’t you?” In response, the cat waved its arm up and down vigorously, as if saying yes. The lucky cat kept her company in her car from that day, never ceasing the swinging of its arm even at night after the sun went to sleep. She found this a bit odd but chalked it up to the brilliance of Japanese innovation. Her one-dollar toy became a centerpiece for conversation when friends and family rode in her car. Her young nieces would chant, “Kitty arm moving! Kitty arm moving!” over and over as she drove them around town. She loved the way she could spot her boring white Honda Civic from a mile away among a sea of similar cars as the cat’s waving arm beckoned to her from behind the windshield. She kept the lucky cat through college, graduate school, and a string of boyfriends, the latest of whom was named Scott. In fact, she was pretty sure she would marry Scott, even if he made fun of her cat. He tried to convince her to get rid of it. “It’s a distraction when you drive,” he fussed. “You’re not supposed to have things on your dash that block your view. Also, it looks stupid. Its face is grotesque.” She listened quietly and stayed muted, a technique she often used when he was difficult. She knew he would forget about it after a while. After all, he rarely drove her car, and when they went places together, he usually insisted on driving his. Scott proposed to her that fall, and she said yes. They would get married in six months. One morning, a month before the wedding, she gets in her car and feels in her gut that something is wrong. Looking all around her, nothing seems out of place, so she shakes it off, looks over her shoulder, and begins to back out of her driveway. As she turns back to maneuver the wheel, her hand accidentally brushes the lucky cat. Immediately, its head falls off. She stifles a scream and picks it up. Tears fill her eyes, and she brushes them off fiercely. She hadn’t realized how attached she had become to her cat. She places the head carefully back on, but to no avail, the kitty arm no longer waves. Then her subconscious catches up with her, and she realizes what had felt so wrong when she entered the car a few minutes before: The cat’s arm had been motionless before she broke its head off. That evening, she casually mentions the incident to Scott. “You should be real happy now, honey, cuz my one-dollar cat you hate so much finally broke this morning.” He looks at her, unfazed, and says, “Oh right, I broke it last night when I took your car to pick up dinner. I tried to stick its head back on.” She stares at him, anger rising. “What? Why didn’t you say something about it?” He rolls his eyes at her, “My arm accidentally knocked it down. What’s the big deal? It’s a stupid dollar toy.” “It was MY stupid dollar toy, and I loved it,” she snaps, tears rolling hotly down her cheeks again. “My god. Just buy another one already.” He turns back to his football game. She lets it go, knowing there’s no use; he’ll never get it. That night, she carefully hot-glues the head back on the cat. It might no longer wave its arm, but it can still keep her company in her car. The next day, she walks out to the driveway and spots the cat dangling by its neck from her rearview mirror. Rushing to it, she sees that someone has used the phone charging cable in her car to tie a noose around the cat’s neck as some sick joke. Choking back wrath, she calls Scott on his cellphone. “Did you hang my cat from a cord?” He starts guffawing into the phone. “Hahaha. You saw it, huh?! Isn’t it hilarious?!” “No, it isn’t,” she says coldly. But he’s laughing too hard to hear her. Knowing she’s not going to win this one, she hangs up, trying to convince herself that this is indeed just a one-dollar toy and not worth getting mad over. She carefully loosens the cat from its’ noose and places it firmly back in on her dashboard. It isn’t even a week later when she gets the phone call. Scott has her car out on a beer run that evening. On the way home, he wraps her car around a tree. His death is instant. In the days to come, she finds no answers from the police about how the wreck happened. The best they can determine is that he somehow lost control of the car. The cause is a mystery. She moves through the aftermath in a daze, devastated over Scott and wading through the necessary paperwork and legal details accompanying death. But in her darkest hours, lying awake at night, she can’t deny that a tiny part of her is relieved the wedding isn’t happening. Her car is totaled. After three weeks, they call her to retrieve whatever personal belongings she can get out of it before it goes to the junkyard. It will be a tough day; she doesn’t want to see the vehicle that Scott had his final moments in. As they lead her to the remains of the car, she sees the lucky cat from a distance glistening through bright sunlight in the windshield. Is it… can it be? She can’t believe it. The cat’s arm is waving. She runs over and pries it from the wreckage and holds it tight, sobbing. She cries for Scott, for his life and death, and she cries for the chance she now has to reclaim the part of herself that she allowed Scott to shove aside. She sits in her new car at the parking lot of the dealership. It’s a beautiful, bright yellow Mini Cooper — her dream car. The salesman hands her the keys and congratulates her. Turning the key in the ignition, she reaches into her purse and carefully retrieves her lucky cat, its arm still mysteriously waving since the day she got it back. She places the cat on her dashboard, in its rightful place. As she drives off, she says to it, “Glad to have you back with me again, travel buddy. You’ll always keep me safe, won’t you?” In response, the cat waves its arm up and down vigorously, as if saying yes.


You sit down to eat dinner. Your pet dog by your side and a video-conference with your family ready to take place soon, you feel that this day can never get better. After all, this is one of the last days you spend here in this country. Your business is slow and you decide to go back home. You take a bite of the food, the food that you relish and serve to your customers with pride, or rather, SERVED. Within a minute, you start to mindlessly eat your food and your mind wanders off. It starts to go to your hometown, the place where you started your journey. It wanders to your school, down the memory lane, right to one class. English. You always liked English. The stories, poems and especially the writing part. A poem strikes your brain, you did this in 11th grade. The Laburnum Top, by Ted Hughes. The Laburnum Top is silent, quite still in the afternoon yellow September sunlight, A few leaves yellowing, all its seeds fallen Till the goldfinch comes, with a twitching chirrup A suddeness, a startlement,at a branch end Then sleek as a lizard, and alert and abrupt, She enters the thickness,and a machine starts up Of chitterings, and of tremor of wings,and trillings - The whole tree trembles and thrills It is the engine of her family. She stokes it full, then flirts out to a branch-end Showing her barred face identity mask Then with eerie delicate whistle-chirrup whisperings She launches away, towards the infinite And the laburnum subsides to empty You remember the question your teacher gave you to answer. And answer you did! "By changing nothing, nothing changes. Is change good or bad in life?" You had answered it so beautifully, if you must say so. So beautifully that you felt that you could achieve anything that you wanted after that. You wrote in your legible, but not exactly beautiful writing, "Change is omnipresent and it is inevitable in one's life and in this world. Without change like day and night, summer and winter, our lives would be meaningless, monotonous and in short, non-existent. Change is the force that drives one forward, to do better and to be better. Without the onset of dusk, we don't appreciate the day and without the arrival of dawn, there is no importance of the night in our lives. Similarly, in the poem, 'The Laburnum Top' by Ted Hughes, the tree is silent and empty at first. But as the Goldfinch comes, the excitement of the events makes the tree lively. At the end, the tree becomes lifeless again when the Goldfinch leaves. This tells us the importance of change, both good and bad as it helps us to improve ourselves and to adapt to new situations. In a nutshell, change is the basic necessity of life without which no one can survive and it is the only thing constant in one's lives." You laugh. "Oh my goodness! How do I remember all of this? And that too so precisely?" Your dog looks at you with its puppy-dog eyes. You realize that it is hungry and you feed him some of the leftovers. You hear a bell. It's not your phone, you check and think. You realize that it is the doorbell, or rather, the restaurant bell. Your face lits up. This is the first customer you have got in ages! Smiling, you go over to where they are seated and hand them the menu. It is only AFTER you give them the menu that you recognize them. It's the world-renowned author, Bheem Singh. You say, "Sir, it is such a pleasure to meet you. What can I get for you?" "I'd like a piece of your famous chocolate cake with a side of vanilla ice-cream, please." "H-How'd you know that? We've stopped serving it for ages. Well, no problem. I'll bring it to you anyways." "Yeah. I used to come here to write. I actually wrote my first novel right here. It's so sad that you're going to shut it down..." "Oh! I didn't know that." "Yes." You go into the kitchen, away from Bheem's eyes and think out loud, 'Wow! I am really lucky! I just baked a cake yesterday and here Bheem Singh, the world-famous author comes in and asks for it.' You bring in the cake and the ice-cream. "Now, sir, which toppings would you like?" "Please, call me Bheem. And I'll have caramel sauce over it, thank you." "Sure, Bheem." You pour the sauce over the dish and serve it to your esteemed customer. "Um,", he says between mouthfuls, "please do sit, after all, it is your restaurant." You sit down beside him, thinking. Finally, you gather the courage and ask, "If you don't mind, I've got a question." "Sure. Shoot away." "I never saw you here. Then howcome you're saying that you came here?" "When you are still undiscovered, people usually don't notice you. Wait a minute." He takes out his phone and scrolls the screen. "Here you go. See this person in the background of all these students? That's me. This is my class photo. I was very shy and didn't have many friends then." "Oh! I remember this class. I had to spend the whole night cleaning up after this party. Wait! This kid, YOU, you were the one who helped me clean up that night. You're the NICE kid!" He blushes slightly, "Yes, that was me." "Now I recognize you." "Yes." After a long pause, he says, "So, I heard you're closing up. Why so?" "Um, business is slow these days. No one comes in since the pandemic. Apparently everyone's very scared." "Oh." "Yes." "I have an idea. Why don't I help you renovate this place? We'll be partners." "What?! Are you serious?" "Yes, no kidding." "This is going to be the perfect revamp and re-marketing for my restaurant. I'm listening." "Not like this. If we're going to discuss the renovation of a restaurant, we should do it while eating something." "But you just had dessert, and I just ate my dinner." "No problem, a little dessert never did anything to anyone. I'll have another round of this amazingness." He said, pointing towards his now-empty plate. You go into the kitchen again, take out another plate and are about to return with the desserts when someone behind you says, "Keep your hands where I can see them, and don't look back." {NOTE: Includes the poem, 'The Laburnum Top' by Ted Hughes. This is his poem, not mine. Also, this story is inspired a bit from the answer the narrator speaks out loud. It is written by me for the same question. How's it?}


She opens the door to her building and starts quickly up the steep, narrow stairs of her fourth floor walk-up. The first floor wreaks of garbage as always. The second smells of heavenly spices and garlic and home. She whips around the third bannister and the familiar smell of weed wafts over her, instinctively easing the tension in her shoulders before the last flight and then she arrives. 4B. The apartment she’s lived in for the past four years. She frantically turns her key, leaving it dangling from the lock, door open. She throws her bag on the small weathered futon and darts into the bathroom. Incredible relief washes over her. Finally. Sitting on the toilet she silently thanks a god she doesn’t believe in. She drank too much. Again. It happens here.

Her hungry cat slinks about her feet insisting on more food which she forgot to buy. Again. She’s too tired. Half a bowl will suffice until morning. But Lady won’t back down, that knowing, judgmental look in her eyes. Fine Lady, you win. She always does. She reluctantly heads back downstairs to get some meow mix at the deli next door. While she’s at it, a cup-a-noodle. As she finishes paying, a man asks what she’s up to. She stares blankly at him, grabs the black plastic bag, goes back up stairs, puts the meow mix in Lady’s bowl and heats up her cup-a-noodle. Sometimes a warm cup of msg and freeze dried corn and carrots is all she needs to ease her soul. We don’t have much time left here anyhow, or so they say. She opens her laptop and turns it on. Bing bong. Why is it bing bong now? She ponders how much she spent on a new model only for this discernible difference before she begins to type all the alcohol induced wisdom she can manage before collapsing onto her already unmade bed. She wakes a little while later with the sun, she forgot to close her curtain. Her head feels particularly hot and sweaty. It seems Lady has made herself comfortable there. Her tail swishing back and forth with that regal entitlement cats possess, emboldened by the seemingly inherent knowledge that they’ve been a worshipped breed. And here she is, Lady’s humble human servant, to have when she feels like it and hold when it suits her till death does them part.

She’s resigned to getting up, knowing she won’t be able to get back to sleep now. She always has trouble. Alcohol doesn’t help. But the momentary relief seems to outweigh that fact. She puts on some coffee, places a piece of bread in the oven and fries two eggs. The pan she has is so old no matter how much oil she uses they always come out sloppy, but she doesn’t mind. She goes to pour the coffee, strategically holding the lip of the pot as she pours. The handle comes off if you don’t. She’ll spend a fortune on electronics but won’t buy new kitchenware.

She eats her eggs and toast and drinks the strong black coffee, easing the ache in the back of her head from not sleeping enough.

Ok, back to work. She opens her laptop to see what she managed to get through last night. Bing bong. There’s gotta be a way to change that.

Alright, where was she? Yes… “We’re all going in circles trying to find our purpose before the machine stops. For generations they’ve told us it will. Countless tales of self destruction and post apocalyptic circumstances but we somehow seem to survive. Survive to tell the tales and to write more.” That suddenly seems more frightening. An eternal machine. That the machine will never stop, but will prevail no matter the circumstance. Or perhaps it’s comforting? She wants to believe that if the machine doesn’t stop it is in part because the good in us prevails and prevents a total loss of humanity. But who knows? And then, what is her purpose? What is the purpose of any of this? Oh no, she’s going down the spiral again. A tidal wave closing in on her and the significance of anything she’s ever done or thought. She shuts her computer. She needs a break.

She goes to yoga. On her way back stops for a bite to eat. She remembers she wanted to grab some things at the drug store, call her mom, send a package to her cousin for her birthday. Ok, she’s feeling better, more grounded. She can revisit her writing about the possible end of the world now. Just then she gets a message from her friend. Boodle doop doop. Really? She looks through her settings and sees this fun new noise is called “spunky fever”. The message is from her friend inviting her out for a drink. She could spare a little time for one drink I guess. I mean what’s the point of anything if you’re not going to spend time with the people you care about right? She goes. They have a glass of wine, then two. Talk about life and love and hopes and dreams and silly mundane things. They have a couple more glasses because it’s two for one and it gets her out of her head. But then she looks at the time which suddenly feels suffocating.

It’s so much later then she planned on being out. How has she wasted the whole day? She apologizes to her friend but she has to run. She leaves some cash and slips out of the bar down into the nearest subway. She accidentally makes eye contact with a guy who is about to say something but the subway doors open and she quickly gets on. She turns around and sees through the glass that he is asking someone else for directions. She feels bad but can’t erase the experience that has taught her not to take those chances.

She’s finally back in front of her building and starts cursing herself for getting distracted. She makes the rounds of steep stairs back up to her apartment in a frenzy: garbage, spices, weed, 4B.

Bypassing Lady’s charms she goes straight to her laptop and opens it wildly, determined to get to the bottom of it this time. This time .

She looks at the clock. It’s still early enough. This time is a tricky character.

She reads back: “I feel like I’ve been stuck, my whole life. I keep trying to write. It feels like I need to write. But just when I begin to get to the bottom of it it feels as though my mind hits a wall and can’t move forward. So I don’t, I get caught up in the machines distractions. There are so many. Friends, and shows and books and articles and outings and events and parties and dinners and then I don’t even know who I am anymore or what I wanted to begin with. Oh yes, to write! To write. But what? And it feels as if I have to start all over again and once I’m making real progress the wall comes. I wonder if the machine controls this wall? It must. And then not everyone can break through the wall can they? Or at least not all at once. It has to be spaced out, regulated. I have faith. I have faith the machine will let me through when the time is right.” There’s a loud knock at the door. That’s always alarming here when you’re not expecting someone. She waits, maybe they got the wrong apartment. Another knock comes, louder and more insistent this time. She makes her way cautiously to the door when her phone dings- boodle doop doop. She takes it out of her pocket.

It’s an unknown number. She reluctantly opens it. “It’s time.” is all it says. She carefully looks back at the door. “Time?” She squeaks out, as if it might finally be time itself in the flesh and everything will make sense or explode or spin out of control. Or maybe she really did drink that much this time and time has come to collect her.

“Time waits for no one.” Replies a forced husky voice. She shakes her head and rolls her eyes knowing who that voice belongs to.

“Ughh, asshole!” She unlocks and opens the door, breathing a sigh of relief. His flight must’ve gotten in early. He continues in the forced husky voice. “That’s Father Time to youuu.” He makes himself into a spooky ticking clock with both hands shooting straight up and his right “hand” ticking down.

“You’re ticking backwards mister time.”

“I am all mighty Timeeee.” His voice returns to his normal tenor register. “I can tick however I want, yo.”

She smirks and goes to put on some tea. Father Time makes himself comfortable on the little futon, strategically dodging a stain left by Lady’s indigestion.

“Well ok then, all mighty Time, can you tick us back to our ninth grade talent show and tell me not to wear that tube top that caused my infamous wardrobe malfunction.” She leaves the kettle to boil and joins him on the other side of the stain.

“Hey, you got loads of numbers from that.”

“Yeah and they all just wanted to know if they were real.”

“And…?” She shoots him a look. “You know they are. One hundred percent homegrown fat bags here. That do nothing for you.” “Yes, sadly. They are fun though, havin’ a ball just bouncin’ down the street.”

Looking down fondly at her chest, “Yeah, they like to party.” She giggles and then looks back up, her mood suddenly shifting. She rests her head against the back of the futon, looking up.

“I miss you.” She looks down at her phone trying to make out the time but the numbers are all blurry and jumbled. She sighs.

A heavy wind whips through the browning trees outside making the crispy leaves chatter. “I miss you too.” “It hurts so much, some days I feel like it takes everything I have not to just- ” There’s an abrupt, high pitched scream. She wakes with a start, slouched on the futon, laptop on her chest, Lady sitting to her right staring at her. The kettle is whistling fervently. She goes to turn the kettle off, feeling hungover. Her hand sleepily reaches for an Earl Grey tea bag from the glass jar next to the stove and rips open the wrapper. She always reads the daily inspirational note on the little paper tag at the end of the string, however cheesy. “Nice talking with you.” She closes her eyes and shakes her head, is she still dreaming? She looks back at the little paper. “Talk nicely to yourself.” A bit foggy from her nap it seems. She places the tea bag into her Crazy Cat Lady mug and pours the steaming water over it carefully, drags herself back to the futon and opens her laptop once more. There’s a blank page other than these words she does not remember writing. “The time is right, now.” She looks out at the trees, they rustle knowingly. She looks back at the screen, the wall has lifted and it all begins to flow.


True love is never a wasted effort. Be open to it, share it even in the darkest of times. As the sun set, he went to work doing for them in death, what he couldn’t in life, protect them. Grabbing a spade from the barn, he dug a grave for each. Deep enough to keep out the coyotes, each freshly tilled mound, capped with a fieldstone. He had watched in disbelief as Penny and the entire McCormick family were skinned alive by the ravenous horde of locusts. Their skin, clothes, hair, organs, all devoured in a rapacious cloud of death and destruction. Their screams of agony echoed in his brain, tormenting him over and over, on a reel of madness. Each skeleton lay upon the earth in repose, sculptures of bone portraying their final moments. Thomas collapsed out of physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion as the last rays of sunlight shone on his toil of love.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he wept in uncontrolled fits.

“I’m so sorry I was too weak to save you.”

The soil dampened by his grief, readily accepted his offering of contrition. Never having a deep faith in the divine, he vacillated about whether a prayer should be offered.

Couldn’t hurt. Up, down, left, right if you are real prove it tonight.

Rising from his genuflection to a higher power, Thomas brushed the moist clay from his knees.  The day had been long and full of travails, the night offered no solace. He made his way back into the house. Liberating a fifth of whiskey from the liquor cabinet, Thomas beseeched his heart and his mind for an armistice. Grabbing a pub glass from the dishwasher, he downed shot after shot of the brown liquor. Glasses still in the dishwasher, right that was Penny’s daily chore. Charity’s job was to load it, Marie would do the knives, Penny would empty it.

Gone, all gone.

Thomas poured another shot hoping to drown out the pain, it wasn’t working. A vibration under his foot startled him. He looked down to discover the Sally Speaks doll, Charity’s sleeping buddy. It was a stuffed dolly that spoke seven different sayings when squeezed. It had golden yarn hair, black button eyes, and a sunflower dress. One of the sayings was the soft voice of a child. Mama, it said.

Charity’s last words…screamed at the top of her lungs.

They were inseparable.

“Damn you, Sally! She’s dead! They are all dead!

Thomas tore the stuffed dolly in two, heaving each piece across the room in different directions in a fit of anger.

He didn't know what else to do but drown his sorrows in this bottle and hoped that when he rose tomorrow, this was all just a bad dream.

Everyone would be alive again, whole again. Not the bare skeletons, denuded of their flesh, of their life that he had planted into the earth like some underworld perennials.

Hope springs eternal Maybe I did die on that bridge, that night, maybe this is my hell.

Maybe, but luck and hope were foreign to his way of thinking. Faith was even more strange.

Even so, he prostrated himself onto the wide oak flooring, arms outstretched towards the ceiling, the sky, the heavens and he begged.

“Please, please, please don’t let them suffer for my mistakes, my failings, my weakness.”

He had no more tears to shed. He was tapped out and so was the bottle of comfort. Thomas trudged up the stairs to the guest bedroom, passing out fully clothed on the top of the flannel bedspread.

The sky is angry tonight. Dark clouds hang low on the horizon. Heavy rain starts to fall on the tin roof of the farmhouse. Loud booming thunderclaps followed by blindingly bright flashes of lightning; the heavens are in turmoil.

The newly turned earth becomes mud pies. It is as if a giant child has grabbed a plastic bucket, filled it with a soggy earthen concoction, and displayed their wares to the general public. A movement, a shifting of soil, a resurrection of unknown proportion. Lightning flashes. The acrid scent of chlorine hangs in the air. Two more blinding flashes. Puddles of mud form as the makeshift cemetery becomes inundated. More movement, slow and from within. The graves are collapsing, one by one. A hand, a child’s hand. Methodically, the recent tenants of each grave rise to the surface, shambling towards the farmhouse, a macabre parade.

A loud bang. Wind whistling through the open front door to the farmhouse. More banging. The front door is thrown open, then sucked closed by the ever-changing tempest. Thomas hearing the commotion, even in his besotted condition, rises. He stumbles down the main staircase, missing a few stairs, catching his fall by clutching the banister.

Another loud slam accompanied by stronger wind, blowing into the living room, papers from the end table blowing around and fluttering onto the floor. He closes the unruly portal. Shutters rattle on the outside. Scratching his head, Thomas speaks.

“Must not have closed it properly.”

A floorboard creaks in the upstairs hallway. Silence. Creaking of ancient wood. More silence. Climbing the stairs to investigate the sounds Thomas slips on a muddy riser, smashing into the maple banister hard.

“What the hell?’, he curses.  “Creepy old house”, he mutters under his breath.

Probably some damn raccoon got in the open door.  Great, just what I need. Some rabid varmint hear to harass me.

At the top of the stairs, Thomas hears the front door slam open again. Hail pelts him in the face as he shuts the door once more.

“I know I shut that properly last time”, he grumbles.

He locks the front door this time. More creaking from the kitchen this time. As he heads to the kitchen, the floorboards in the upstairs hallway announce their presence again.

Great, a family of rabid animals.  A pack of squirrels or possums.

He collects the biggest kitchen knife from the butcher block holder. Slowly, he creeps up the stairs trying to avoid making his presence known. He gets to the master bedroom; this was Conner and Marie’s room.

“Ok, you little bastards! Get out of here. I don’t need this shit right now.”

A door opens down the hall. He runs out to try to catch a glimpse of the intruder.

Nothing.

He grabs the handle of the door to push it open.

Yuck, more mud.

Ok, maybe not a squirrel.

His heart races, feeling like it will explode out of his chest. His throat is dry as he swallows. He tries his best to sound tough.

 “Ok, I don’t know who you are but I’ve got a gun! So whatever game you are playing ain’t gonna end well for you.”

Nothing again.

He checks the adjoining bathroom. Gripping the knife handle tight, he slowly opens the door. His hand shakes uncontrollably.

Nothing.

Out of the corner of his eye, a shape, dark and foreboding stares at him from the corner. Another flash of lightning and a boom of thunder vibrates the house. He turns to confront this unknown, this mysterious intruder.

Nothing.

“I swear I saw something,” he says.

As he turns to leave, a tug on his sleeve startles him. He wheels to strike with the knife. Staring at him, a wee being, covered in mud, looks up at him with huge saucer eyes.

 “Tom Tom,” it says.

Inches from plunging the blade into this gremlin, he stops.

 “Charity, is that you? No, you are dead. I saw you die. I’ll never be able to forget it.”

Tom Tom was the nickname she gave me. How does this thing know that? It can’t be her. It is impossible. She was a skeleton. All that was left of her was bone and hair. This imp is trying to steal my soul or something.

He raises the blade again.

“Get the hell out of here, you aren’t real! You can’t be!”

“I’m cold, Tom Tom.”

He doesn’t trust this apparition. A creak from the hallway.

Shit, what the hell is this? Am I even awake?

His heart slams against his chest. Faster and faster.

The faucet in the master bathroom starts running.

No squirrel turned on the faucet. That is a person. Or what used to be a person. A spirit.

Ghosts can turn things on, right?

A cold chill comes over the back of his neck and tingles down his spine. A knock on the front door, a slight rapping. Like a limb of a tree blown in the wind. Scratching every so slightly and then tapping on the entrance.

“Thomas,” he hears in a draught of swirling wind.

Tapping ever so gently, again.

Keeping one eye on the tiny fiend, he steps slowly back into the hallway.

It steps towards him.

“I’m so cold, Tom Tom.”

“Stay where you are! I don’t know what kind of hell-spawn you are but don’t move!”

The hellion listens. It does not come closer. It starts to cry, a low whimper at first, then a sobbing escapes the hellish imp. Trying to catch its breath after each wail. Tears stream down its face, washing away muck and mire, revealing skin.

“Charity. Charity, is that really you?” The knife clatters to the hallway floorboards.

He races to comfort her.

Please let this be real .

Please don’t let me die some horrible death because a demon tricked me.


Two old wooden doors stood before Gray. Both of these doors were ancient, covered in scratches, with chips taken out of the wood. The old iron handles looked partially rusted. The two doors were very similar to each other, except for one key difference. Each one had a symbol painted a deep red on them. The door on the left had a symbol of a sword behind held by a clawed hand. The door on the right, a shield. Gray had an uneasy feeling that not only did these doors present her with an important choice, but it was a choice she could not undo. As impulsive as she had been through her entire life, for once she felt apprehensive, worried about making a decision. Before Gray made this decision she had to be sure this was the right one. She turned around to look at where she was. Gray was surprised to see that the place she was in, was just an endless white void. No matter how far she looked off into the distance she couldn't see anything. Looking at the doors again she realized that they were just standing there in front of her. Any sense of reason would suggest that these doors couldn't open up to anything, after all she could walk around them and they were just standing here in this void, nothing was behind them. Still she knew that this choice was going to be important, she just wished she could understand what the choice was. She stood there in silence, staring at these two doors for who knows how long. It felt like hours. Nothing changed around her, it was all just a plain white void and two doors. Looking down at herself she even realized that nothing had changed about her. Her gray scales rough to the touch her red clothes covered in dirt, even her wings, folded against her back felt stiff. Maybe it was because nothing had changed that she felt stagnant. A kobold wasn't supposed to be stagnant; they were creatures of energy, of decision, of creativity and passion. Yet here she was, standing still like a tree and doing a whole lot of nothing. A cold creeping voice came from behind her, deep, feminine, sensual. "I see you've come to a crossroad my little scaly friend." Gray turned around to see a wolf with black fur standing behind her. Even normal wolves were taller than her, but this wolf was even taller than that, towering over her like a dark imposing god and with two bright green eyes that stared down at her with something between contempt and judgment. Gray felt a rush of emotions seeing this creature. Fear of being torn to shreds and eaten, shame for having stood there so long that it could creep up on her, worthless for not being able to make a decision. Gray couldn't look away from it no matter how hard she tried. It was like her eyes were glued on the dark imposing figure. Gray opened her mouth to speak but felt her mouth was dry. Words were hard to form, but she managed to speak. "I'm confused." The wolf nodded. "I can see that, little one." The look in the wolf's eyes softened a touch. "I can also see you carry weight on your shoulders, there’s a great pain over this decision." Gray was able to look back at the door. "I, don't understand what I'm choosing, but I think it's important." The wolf let out a huff. "It is an important decision you make. I know what my answer was, but I also made this same decision long, long ago." Gray stared at the doors. She felt the brush of the cool fur next to her. It wasn't cold like she expected but rather it was pleasantly cool, like sitting in front of the air conditioner on a hot summer's day. "So, what is the question?" The wolf lowered its massive head next to Gray's. That green eye impossibly large next to her. "That is the best question you can ask, it is also a question you must answer yourself." Gray hated that. She wasn't a smart kobold. She wasn't like her friends. She was just dumb. Gray didn't mind though, she could figure most things out through brute force. By the Holy Dragon she even managed to figure out the stupid mail route her sister gave her after she took the new job. Yet this decision before her felt more like a riddle than a question. A sword or a shield, what did these choices mean? The wolf let out a soft whine. "I sense your struggle little one. All of your kin are like children, and I dislike it when children suffer, be they my own, or others. My sister's cruelty toward your kind will be avenged in time, but as my prison weakens I can at least offer some support and aide." Gray looked over at the wolf. "Who are you?" "You may call me Nightmare." The world began to melt around them. The white void melting into a slurry of different colors that made little to no sense at first. Only the two doors remained stationary and visible. The colors soon began to form shapes around them and she started to make out objects. She found herself standing in a large room with toys scattered around the place. There was a bed in the corner, a couple of dressers, various ragdolls on the floor, a couple of plastic toy weapons, and a large dollhouse nearby. In front of the dollhouse sat two young kobolds. Both of them were covered in gray scales with folded wings on their backs. The smaller one of the two had red spines on her back and red eyes, the larger one had yellow spines and matching eyes.

It took a moment but Gray recognized them. "That's me and my big sister. Me and Dee, but we're so small." Nightmare purred. "Oh really? I would have never guessed that the smaller kobold that looked just like you was in fact you." Gray gave a hard look at the wolf who only smiled at her revealing fangs as large and sharp as daggers. "You don't have to be rude." "I'm being playful little one." The small version of her older sister spoke quietly. "See, you just need to put the sword on the hip like that and it'll stay in the little belt." The small version of herself eyes widened. "Woah, that's cool!" Dee giggled. "Sure is." Just outside the door behind them Gray heard a voice she hadn't heard in a long, long time. A male voice that sounded rough, and serious. "I can't believe it. The security measures were supposed to keep the dreamers from leaving. How could they know about our kids?" Another voice she hadn't heard in a long time replied, a female one. "Their powers are still being studied, hun. The dreamers might be developing powers that even we couldn't know about. This might be more dangerous than any of us thought possible." Gray took a step forward but felt an invisible wall stopping her from any more progress. "Mom, dad. Their alive?" Nightmare let out a small growl and then looked toward the doors which were firmly cemented into the wall. "They were both warriors. Fighters, soldiers. They fought well, but you know better than most that with such a dangerous profession often comes with loss." Gray looked back toward the two doors herself. "A sword, or a shield." Her dad's voice came out from behind her. "We shouldn't go back. This is too dangerous, we should ask the Princess if we can resign from the program." Her mom replied. "We are soldiers, we are the weapons of the Dragon Lords, as the Dragon Guard, we do not back away from danger, we face it and fight it." "We have kids now. They need us. At least one of us should ask to resign." Her mom snapped. "I didn't realize you were a coward." There was a long silence after that but her father finally replied. "No, I'm not. But bravery doesn't always take the form of violence, sometimes it takes the form of protecting that which is really important. I know what's important to me, but what's important to you?" Her mom replied. "I, I understand where your coming from, but the project is almost done. Let's just give it one more month. You can do that right?" "One month... I can do one month." The world washed away as the blinding white void came over it. She watched as all the colors and shapes were replaced by the empty void once more. Yet again she found herself staring at the two doors. The sword, or the shield. Nightmare spoke carefully. "Does that help answer your question?" Gray nodded. "I think it does. You know, they never came back from the next trip they went on. That was the last time I ever saw them." Nightmare nodded. "I am aware." Gray had already made her choice long ago she feared, but perhaps, this decision wasn't the worst one she could make after all. She walked to the door and put her hand on it. Opening the door with the shield on it she saw a dark void beyond the door. She took a step through it and watched as the entire world was swallowed by that darkness. The doorway behind her vanished.

For a moment she stood there in the darkness, alone, cold, and lost. A pair of green eyes lit up in the darkness beside her. Soon a soft blue light spread out in the form of a giant wolf. Nightmare looked down at her. "So you chose to protect those you love, over destroying those that you hate." Gray swallowed. "I've already lost enough in this world, I don’t want to lose anymore." The world began to brighten and she watched as bright green grass grew out of the ground beneath them spreading out like a bottle of spilled milk. Soon large trees with silver trunks began to sprout out of the grass around them shooting high into the sky and toward the heavens. The sky too began to come into focus as a bright pink with green clouds. As the colors spread around her creating beauty and life she looked onward to see off in the distance, far, far away there stood a tree tall and giant above the others. It was so impossibly tall she could swear the tree itself was as large as a city in width and stretched on taller and higher than she could ever see. A large face had been carved into its front, with a massive mustache, kind smile and sleepy eyes.

It was the most amazing thing Gray had ever seen. She just couldn't believe it. She went to take a step forward and froze as a cold realization hit her. If she continued forward, even just one step voluntarily, she may never return home. She turned to face Nightmare who had wrapped her massive tail in a circle around Gray.

"Nightmare, what is this place?" "A special place, one may even call this realm 'the truth' but I always just saw it as home." From ahead of them she saw two figures approaching. Two kobolds wearing shiny metal armor and waving at her. It was her mom and dad. Her dad with his red eyes and yellow spines. Her mom with the reverse eyes and spine colors. They were both smiling and waving at her. She waved at them. "MOM, DAD!" The world began to fade around the two of them. Once more into that blinding light. She wanted to stay even for a few more seconds. She looked up at Nightmare. Even Nightmare was beginning to fade. Gray was afraid she might be all alone if Nightmare left. She didn't want to be alone. She reached out and grabbed onto Nightmare's fur. It was cool to the touch, but she could feel a warmth deep beneath it. Yet even that sensation was gone as everything was consumed by the white light. *** Gray opened her eyes and looked around. She was in her bedroom. Her blanket was a mess around her and she felt unusually tired and slow. The morning light was bright and shining right into her eyes so she had to roll over to get away from it. She rubbed her hands at her eyes and felt something soft brush against her face. Looking at her hands she saw a few lengths of soft navy blue fur. Gray swallowed. "That wasn't just a normal dream."


Jake walked down an empty Saint Paul street, his heavy backpack weighing him down. For an already small unathletic kid, the twenty or so pounds was not easy for him, but he was on a mission. He had waited too long for this day to turn around now. As he turned down main street, he took a small break on a bench and set down his pack. He had only slept for 4 hours, since he had woken up half an hour ago to leave for the library. He continued walking down Main Street until he reached the front door of the library, he had been coming here since before he could remember. His earliest memories were the Saturday morning book reading sessions when his mother would take him and he would sit for an hour and the librarian would read him and the other kids stories. He had made most of his friends after those sessions, the parents would be making small talk outside the library waiting for their children to finish the reading session, and he would play with the other kids. That is how he had met Zack, his best friend. They were the same age, went to the same school and practically did everything together, but they were vastly different. Jake was a small scrawny unathletic kid, but what he lacked in strength he made up for double in smarts, he was a straight A+ kid and excelled in science and math. Zack on the other hand was twelve, the same age as Jake, but a whole foot taller and built like a tank, quite the opposite of Jake, he was happy when he got B's or even C's. He never got perfect grades, but he could run like the wind, and he was a star baseball player, the best on his school team. Despite their differences, the two had been best friends ever since they met at the library so long ago. Jake waited for about ten minutes before Zack showed up. “Sorry I'm late,” said Zack “It's okay, I was a little early. Just be really quiet, we don't know if there are still people inside,” Jake replied. “You think people will be in there? It is two in the morning!” “I really don't know, but why risk it til we're sure?” Jake asked. “Okay, let's go in.” Jake had been to the library with his mother the day before and he had been sure to leave a twig between the glass part of the window and the windowsill. He had done this so that he could easily open the window and crawl into the library. “So when does the thingy open?” Zack inquired as they walked around to the back of the building. “For one thing, it is not a thingy, it is some sort of extra dimensional space, or something. For all I know this is the first one and we can call it whatever we want. I am not really sure when it opens, if my calculations are right it should open tonight around two-thirty in the morning, which is only twenty-five minutes away.” “Oh, can we call it a wormhole? Ooh, or maybe a blackhole? Or something cool like that. Are we going to tell people? I mean, if this is really a new discovery then we would be so famous!” Zack exclaimed. "I think we should just see what it does before we tell people," Jake reasoned, smiling at his friend’s enthusiasm. "But what about your discovery?" questioned Zack. About one month ago, Jake had been in the library picking out some history books that he would use to study for his upcoming First Nations unit test, when he heard an odd sound coming from behind the shelves. He had checked to see if anyone was looking and when no one was, he quickly moved all the books off of the shelf and saw a very strange hole. It was about big enough for him to fit through and it had a weird rippled effect, as if it was water that had somehow been put horizontal without gravity pulling it down. And an odd, almost ominous hum was coming from it, just loud enough for him to hear. The hole was inky black, and produced no light. It also resembled the wall it was sitting against. If there had been any background sound he would not have heard it, luckily there had only been about ten other people in the place and it was an enormous building. He had not been sure what to do, he was too afraid to put his hand through it so he had thrown a book through it. The book had been “The Graveyard Book'' by Neil Gaiman, one of his personal favorites. It had disappeared.

“Well I guess, but I never got video footage, and maybe my math was wrong and we won't even see it,” Jake explained. “Well I guess there is only one way to find out!” exclaimed Zack, maybe a little too loud for two kids trying to sneak into a library. The two walked along the side of the building until they saw their first camera. They had been expecting this, since there was a security system at the library. They hid behind a bush and got out a can of black spray paint. Jake had planned to spray the cameras so if the librarians looked at the feed they would not see them. He put on a black balaclava just for extra safety and sprayed the paint on the camera. They then went to where the window was and pushed it open. Jake was the first to crawl through the space where the window was, and he was closely followed by Zack.  “Are we criminals now?” Zack whispered.

“Well, technically yes,” answered Jake. “But I think we are doing it for a good reason.” The two boys walked in silence until they got to the place Jake had seen the hole. He cleared the books and stacked them on the ground. There was nothing. The disappointment was apparent on both boys' faces.

“Maybe it moved?” Zack wondered. “Maybe it will come later.” The two boys waited for forty-five minutes, they looked around, moved some books, but did not see anything. At exactly three in the morning the two boys were standing by the bookshelf thinking about what to do when something hit Zack on the head. It was a book.

“Ouch!” exclaimed Zack. Jake leaned over and picked up the book. It said “The Graveyard Book” in big words on the cover.

“That's weird, shouldn't that book be in the children's section?” questioned Zack.

Without a word Jake cleared all the books on the shelf and stared into the murky depths of the hole.

“Oh my god!” exclaimed Jake. “When I first discovered the hole I tossed this book into it! It must be a time machine of some sort!” “Wow! Can I jump in?” said an excited Zack.

“Are you crazy? You might never come out!”

“And that my friend is a risk I am willing to take to be the first time traveler!”

“Well I guess so,” shrugged Jake, trying to sound unconcerned, though his face told a different story. “Let me film it.”

The two friends took the heavy camera out of the backpack and set it up on its tripod. After taking several photos they said goodbye. Zack also took his small digital camera with him in case he could take pictures for proof.

“Be safe!” encouraged Jake.

“You know I always am,” replied Zack. The two embraced and said goodbye, then Zack climbed up the bookshelf, gave his friend a mock salute, and jumped through. 50 years later.

Jake walked into the library and walked over to the historical fiction section. His wife was waiting in the car for him so he knew he would be quick. He browsed the books for a minute or two and picked out an old one about the Napoleonic war. As he was picking up his bag, a pile of books fell on him. A young boy fell on top of him. He looked up and saw a odd black circle on the wall in front of him. Then he looked at the boy. “Zack?”


I’ll pick up your prescription after work tomorrow and drop it off about 5. Neville was a slow texter, but also one who believed in correct punctuation. He re-read the message he’d typed, pressed ‘Send” and put the phone down on the countertop. At that moment the lights in his cramped kitchen dimmed. Then he heard a wooshing noise, like wind through trees, faintly at first but growing louder. Glancing through the window, the blue sky was dotted with a just a few white clouds, and the sun was casting long shadows. It didn’t look windy. Then he decided the noise wasn’t coming from outside but from above. As he looked up at the off-white and slightly stained ceiling it grew louder. If he had turned on his TV it would have drowned out Netflix. And just as suddenly, it stopped. The kitchen light came back on. But rather than silence, he could hear a man’s voice coming through from above. He appeared to be barking orders. Something about “Try harder,” and “Experiment”. That was odd, because in all the time he’d lived in his apartment he’d never heard a man upstairs before. The screen lit up on his phone. Neville picked it up to see seven text messages waiting for his attention. The first one said “ I wont be back from Scrabble Club until 6 ”. The subsequent six were increasingly terse versions of “ Did you get my text? ” He typed back, “ Yes mother, I’ll see you at 6. ” Then he went back to preparing his salmon salad dinner, with a crisp Sauvignon Blanc on the side. * Two evenings later the curious incident was repeated, albeit with minor variations. It was after nine and Neville was deep into a Ken Burns documentary on Prohibition – good background for teaching his Seniors about the buildup to the Great Depression he thought – when the lights dimmed and the TV went off. Then the wind-like noise started coming through the ceiling again, softly at first but then increasing in volume. Neville scowled upwards. This time though there was shouting, or maybe screaming was more accurate. Then the staccato ratta-tat-tat of a machine gun. Neville leapt to his feet, adrenaline setting his heart racing. The light he’d been watching TV by grew bright again and his TV came back on. Then came the distinct booming of cannon fire, followed by explosions and screams. “Are they deaf up there?” he asked out loud. More shouting, indistinct but sounding like orders or instructions being barked. Muttering under his breath, Neville grabbed his keys, stepped into the hallway, and rode the elevator up to the ninth floor. Arriving at 917, he raised his hand to knock on the door, only to realize he could still hear shouts and screams. He shook his head and knocked. No answer, but then the sounds faded away, as if the volume had been turned down. Always one to avoid a confrontation, Neville turned to walk away, only to hear the door open behind him. He turned around to see the apartment’s occupant standing in the doorway. A slight woman in her late 30s, shoulder length blonde hair, frazzled and uncombed, glasses sliding down her nose, jeans and a black tee-shirt with E=mc 2 emblazoned on the front. “Did you want something?” she asked. Neville took a step closer. “Well yes,” he began hesitantly. “I live underneath you, and well it’s about your TV.” “My TV?” she frowned. I don’t own a TV.” Now it was Neville who frowned. “Well I was hearing a lot of noise, gunshots, and I thought, I wondered…” “Oh.” She said, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I’m sorry about that. I was um, I was watching a movie and you know how loud…” Neville cut her off: “But you said you haven’t got a TV.” “Did I? Well no, yes. Well I had the radio up loud. I’m very sorry, I won’t let it happen again.” “I’d appreciate that.” They looked at each other for a moment, before both spoke at once. “Well I’m sorry to have bothered…” “Well have a good …” Neville stepped forward and held out his hand. “Neville Mathers.” She took his hand limply in her and gave it a barely perceptible shake. “Annalie Jennings.” “Well it was nice to meet you.” “It was nice to meet you too,” she said, “And I’ll try to keep the noise down in future.” * The following Tuesday, Neville was sitting up in bed marking essays when it happened a third time. First the lamp on his nightstand grew dim and then the wind began to blow through Annalie’s apartment upstairs. He put the papers down and looked up at the ceiling. As before, the wind sound grew louder, and then suddenly stopped. His lamp returned to full intensity and through the ceiling he could hear men’s voices. They were arguing, but in a rational, debating manner rather than as if tempers were fraying. Listening carefully, Neville thought he could make out several distinct voices, all male, judging by their deep tones. That was strange, because until the previous incident he’d not noticed the apartment upstairs receiving male visitors before, and certainly not late in the evening. He continued listening, trying to make out what they were debating. The language they were using was English, but it seemed strangely formal and outdated. There were lots of references to “esteemed gentlemen” and “landowners” and then “clauses” and “articles”. To Neville, steeped in US history, it sounded as though they were recreating the Constitutional Convention. And then the voices faded away. * Wednesday morning Neville was a few minutes late leaving his apartment. His mother had been texting again, this time about a Doctor’s appointment, and if he didn’t reply promptly she’d be badgering him all morning. The elevator door opened and he stepped in. His attention was on his phone so he didn’t see Annalie standing at the back of the small space. “It’s Neville isn’t it?” He looked up quickly, eyes opening wide. “Annalie! Good morning, how are you?” “Fine thank you. I hope I haven’t disturbed you anymore.” Neville thought for a moment, “Well um…” “Oh I have! Oh I’m so sorry. I really try not, but I just can’t control…” her voice tapered off. The bell dinged to say they’d reached the first floor and door slid open. Neville stood back against the wall to let Annalie exit first. Once out, she turned to wait for him. They began speaking at the same time. “The weird thing is,” Neville began. “I don’t want to seem forward,” she said, then, “No, go on.” Neville smiled. “Well this is going to sound silly, but last night it sounded like the Constitutional Convention was taking place in your apartment.” Annalie’s jaw dropped slightly before she answered. “Oh! Well I’m not sure… goodness, how odd.” “Ridiculous, I know, but history is my thing. Anyway,” he continued, “What did you want to say?” “Well I just wondered if, seeing as we’re neighbors, you’d like to have coffee sometime.” For a moment Neville thought his heart had stopped. “Well I, well yes, that would be great.” And moments later they had agreed a day and time to meet at the coffee shop around the corner from their building. * How was the date? Neville knew it had been a mistake to mention it to his mother the moment he’d sent the text. But if he hadn’t she’d probably have fired off another salvo while they were sipping their lattes. “ It was good, ” he typed back. Well she didn’t need to know all the details. “ We’re having dinner tonight. ” Oh wow where r u taking her Actually, she’s cooking. * At 7 prompt Neville knocked on the door of 917. He’d put a plaid sports coat on over a plain white shirt and black slacks. In his arms he was carrying a bouquet and a bottle of wine. Annalie opened the door looking flustered, glasses halfway down her nose and a patterned apron covering a plain gray sheath dress. She looked him up and down, and he did the same to her. “Come in,” she said, stepping back, “Sorry about the mess.” Neville stepped in and looked around. The apartment was identical to his in layout, but whereas his was ordered with a specific mid-century décor going on – thrift shop furniture – hers looked more like the laboratory of a mad scientist. Open shelving lined one wall, with books stacked in various places between disassembled electronic pieces, black and white plastic with small screens and wires sticking out. On the floor below the shelves sat a row of black boxes, each with a thick cable emerging from the side. There was more shelving on the other wall, but with a desk under a giant monitor and in front of it, a high-backed computer gaming chair. Pushed up against the third wall, under the window, was a table with two place settings. But in the center of the room, in the place where most people might put a couch and coffee table, was something he’d never seen before. Four posts stood at the corners of a square rubber mat approximately six foot across, and each post was about six feet high. Thick cables emerged from under rugs to run up the posts. At the top they disappeared into the backs of large cones, almost like those on the early, “His Master’s Voice” gramophones, and each cone pointed downwards and into the center of the square. Annalie came over and relieved Neville of the gifts he’d brought. “I know it looks a bit weird. It’s a side project I’m working on.” Neville followed her into the kitchen. “Something to do with your work at the University?” You said you’re in the Physics Department?” “Why don’t you open the wine,” she said, handing him two glasses. “I think there’s a corkscrew in one of the drawers.” She’d made a very passable Coq au Vin, and she made great conversation over dinner, but Neville couldn’t stop looking at the contraction dominating the small room. As he emptied the last of the wine into their glasses he had to ask. “This, this thing… is it responsible for noises I hear sometimes?” Annalie pushed her chair away from the table. “Well yes, I’m afraid it is.” Neville waited for her to elaborate but at that moment she seemed to prefer silence, so he pushed on.” “Well what is it? Some kind of 3D TV?” She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Actually yes, kind of. I use it to watch things.” “Like documentaries?” “Well no.” She got up from the table and walked across to the desk. “It’s more of an um, a viewing window, a portal you might say.” Neville shook his head. “But there’s no screen.” “Well no, it’s three dimensional, like you said. Well four dimensional actually. It might be easier if I show you, but you must promise not to let it freak you out and you can’t tell anyone until I’m ready to talk about it publicly.” Neville nodded, and Annalie slid into the chair. She turned on the computer and as it booted up, she pressed some buttons on a box at the side of the keyboard. Immediately, the lights in the room went dim and a low humming started. “It’s charging the capacitors,” she explained, “It needs a lot of power.” The humming grew louder, changing to a blowing wind sound Neville had heard before. She spoke louder now, to be heard over the sound of rushing air. “You teach history. What historical event would you really like to have witnessed?” Neville thought quickly. “Maybe the assignation of JFK?” She nodded, “Okay, when was that, and where?” Neville gave her the exact date, time and location and Annalie typed them into her computer. The wind sound was deafening now. “It’ll stop when I press this,” she shouted, her index finger hovering over the keyboard. “Ready?” Neville nodded and Annalie jabbed the key. Instantly, the roaring wind sound stopped and a black cloud seemed to form in the middle of the room, at the focal point of the four loudspeaker horns. The cloud was dark and swirling, angry looking, and it grew steadily bigger. After a few seconds it was a sphere filling the space defined by the four upright posts, and then it started to clear outwards from its interior. Neville watched open-mouthed as he stared into the space at the center. He was looking down at a wide street from a tall building. People lined the sides and a convoy of cars was heading in one direction. Towards the center of the convoy was a black convertible, two people sat in the back waving. Neville realized what he was watching, what he was about to see. “Pause it,” he said. “I can’t,” Annalie replied, “It’s not a replay. It’s what’s happening.” Neville turned his eyes from the familiar scene to Annalie. “What do you mean?” A shot rang out, echoing off the nearby buildings. People screamed. Jackie climbed back over the trunk of the car to gather the fragments of her husband’s skull. “I’ve opened, I know this sounds crazy, but I’ve opened a portal through space-time to that point and moment. We’re actually there.” The black car raced away out of view. The cloud grew dark in its center again and then shrank back into nothingness. Neville stared at Annalie, incredulous. “So you can go anywhere and see anything?” She nodded. “I think so, yes. But not for long. I’m limited by the power I can store in the capacitors.” “So when I thought I could hear the Constitutional Convention being debated?” “September 7 th , 1787. Well that’s the date I picked to look in. You know, Ben Franklin was so smart.” “The machine gunning and screaming?” “Gettysburg, July 2 nd , 1863.” “It lasted three days but…” She finished his sentence, “You can only see for a limited time.” And added, “And the further away it is the more power it seems to take. My first viewing was Menlo Park laboratory in 1878.” “Edison’s lab. I heard that too. Can they see you when you do this?” “I don’t think so. But you’re the historian. Were there any reports of unusual phenomena around the time of the assassination? And wouldn’t Edison have said something?” Neville stroked his chin slowly. “I don’t recall anything being said on any of those events. But what about seeing the future?” “I’ve not tried that. As a scientist I’m concerned I wouldn’t be able to validate what it shows me. “But you’re curious?” “Well yes. But I wonder if that’s really a good thing to do. I mean, has the future already happened, and if we know what’s in it, aren’t we likely to change what we do to bring about a desired result?” That conjecture awakened an argumentative streak in Neville and they talked long into the night. Neville was intrigued by the possibilities for verifying and perhaps correcting the historical record. He started to list places he wanted to go and things he wanted to see. Annalie found him interesting, with knowledge that complimented her expertise in physics. Eventually, he rose to leave. “Maybe you’d let me cook dinner for you next weekend?” Annalie nodded, “A week today? Sure.” Once he’d gone Annalie sat back down at the chair in front of the desk. Fingers moving slowly over the keyboard, she entered a date and time exactly one week hence. Then she put in the address: her street and building, apartment 817.


I finally left my husband, he was too much of a jerk. Not thinking of my feelings, and getting with every woman he saw it seems.The line was drawn when he started getting interested in a man, Now I am alone, well I suppose not really since I have Jamor, one of his girlfriends I got close to. Also, my daughter and her son. I still feel empty, and betrayed. I am afraid to try to find someone new because of my looks. It is me and Maddie, two heads I have. I go out wondering if anyone could like Maddie, she could have a temper at times. I notice someone who is looking at me, but not staring like I am a freak. He is kind of wearing odd clothing, girly yet sort of guyish. I say hello to him. “Hello! Nice to see someone friendly.” he says, giving me a smile. I nodded, returning the smile. “Of course, I mean you seem to be acting like I am normal. Which is rare for us.” “Well I know the feeling.” he sighed “You don't seem too weird to me, people are dumb.” I frown. “Well they make fun of me for my clothes, my name is Neeco by the way.” he holds out his hand. “I am Gloria, and this is Maddie.” I shake his hand “Nice to meet such kind ladies.” “I warn you, Maddie can have a temper.” Maddie gives me a look. “Do you have to say that right away?” “She seems nice to me, It's fine.” he said shyly. “Well I am glad you think so, my ex seemed to think I was a horrid person.” Maddie sighed. “It seems he didn't know anything, and a jerk.” “He always was getting with others, not happy with just me. I finally got tired of it and left.” Maddie huffed “That's terrible, sorry to hear that.” “Anyways, enough of that. Do you like adventures? There's something he didn't want to do, there's a mystery in this town.” “Sure, I like adventure. What is the mystery?” he asked, curious. “It is about the older houses, they have random portals show. I am surprised you don't know about it since the Realtor made it a selling point.” “I just wasn't sure which mystery you were talking about.” he didn't want to say the real reason he didn't know. “Oh, what other mysteries are around?”' I asked “Oh I don't know but I am sure there are others.” he said lamely. “Oh I see, do you want to see the portal in my home?” “Sure sounds interesting, what do you know about them?” “Not much, it led to a lab last time I went. I didn't get to see much of it though.” I shrugged “Sounds like some sort of secret is being kept, hum.” he pondered “Oh, well do you want to go now or get to know each other more first?” “Yeah let's go I want to know more about this.” he took my hand “Alright, I will lead the way then.” so, we headed to my house. It didn't take too long to get there. He gaped at the large Victorian style house. “Wow this is big...” “It needed to be with how many lived here.” I open the door and go in “Oh, are they still here?” “Just me, Dena, Jamor, Misty, and Fig. The rest went to live somewhere else.” I head to where the portal usually showed up. I opened the door. “Hum, seems it is not here right now. Do you want to know the others?” “Maybe I will meet them later, for now I just want to talk to you. I don't want you to think I am interested in a bunch of girls.” he takes a seat on the couch. “Well I am glad to hear that, but I know a female could be a friend too.” Me and Neeco chatted, I felt awkward. I wasn't sure why, maybe because I was used to talking to John and how jerky he was, and Maddie's temper flaring up and something weird happening. With Neeco, he seemed quiet and sweet. “Sorry, I guess it been a long time since I talked to a man besides my husband.” I explained, as I felt nervous about impressing someone new. Neeco nodded. 'It's fine, I feel a bit odd myself. Am I supposed to talk to both heads or just one?” “We are the same person, just different sides so just talking to me is fine.” I explained. “I see, should we see if the portal is up yet?” I got up heading to where it usually was. “Ah, good it's here. Ready?” “Yeah, as much as I will ever be.” We go through. There is a lab with a man working with some vials. It takes a minute for him to notice us. “Ah! What?” he stares at me. Neeco looks at him. “What is going on here?” The man snorts. “Science, what do you think?” Neeco glares at him. “I meant why are the portals going here?” “Portals? I had no idea.” The scientist pondered. “You mean you don't know?” Neeco blinks. “It might be because of my test subject, some odd things have been going on with her.” he shrugged. “Her? You mean it is a person?!” I was shocked. “Don't think that way, she gave me permission to do it!” he threw his hands up. “Let us see her.” I growled “Fine, this way.” he lead us to a room, there inside was a brown haired woman. The woman looks at us, blinking. “You are probably wondering why I wanted to be experimented on.” Neeco nodded. “That, and if it was your own free will to do it.” She blushed. “You probably won't believe me, but I am the teleportation goddess. People don't follow me anymore, so I am trying to see what other things in me he can bring out.” “Is that where the portals are coming from?” Neeco asked. “Portals? Oh this must be making my power go wild. I should stop this.” She tries to make a portal but it glitched. “Oh man now it isn't working.” I sighed a bit. “Well now the mystery is solved, I can't help but feel this was for nothing.” Neeco pointed. “Why not go in that portal and see what's there?” one was on a wall. We walk in and see several people in cages. “Hum, seems this scientist was not so good.” I look around opening cages. “I am guessing you guys don't want to be here.” A familiar looking cat woman hugged me. “Gloria! I am so glad you are here, he trapped me and my daughters here again.” I blinked. “Harriet? Is that you?” She had been one of John's interests, now looking at the group of women they all were! “Hum, these are all John's I wonder if he is involved in this.” I frowned, he was worse than I thought if that is true. “He kind of went insane after you left, it was really bad. He found out about a lab I had been in, and took us here and locked us all up. Robert has been doing experiments on us.” Harriet said, shaking as she held on to me. I looked at the scientist. “You must be Robert, why are you doing this?” “At first Harriet and her family said it was OK for me to do things, but the others working with me tortured them. It was not me but the others I was working with, honest.” he began shaking. “It is true others were working on us, but you did too. You are not innocent like you say!” Harriet growled “I am sorry, it is true. I was just so close to find the answer that I didn't want to stop testing when I got new subjects. John bringing you guys here was like a goldmine for me.” he sighed, slumping. “You shouldn't of lied to me. You will be sorry!” Maddie growled and tried to turn him to a frog with her anger, he then turned into a bird person. “Please, Mercy! I didn't mean to be cruel, I was trying my best to treat them right.” he squawked. “That is true, he was kind for the most part, It was the others that did the really bad stuff.” said Harriet. “We need to put them to justice,where are they?” I asked “They went home for the day, I was working late because I was on a roll.” he frowned. “You must think bad of me for letting these people work with me. Just, something started to happen to make the others go mad and do things they normally wouldn't do. For some reason I was unaffected by it.” “You should of done something when you realized they were mistreating the subjects!” Maddie zapped a spell at him, and he turned into a woman. “I know, I made a mistake...whatever punishment you want to inflict on me...do it now.” she looked down frowning. Gloria sighed and turned him back to a man, but of a strange furry horned species. “I think this is enough punishment for you.” So, they went off to get the others treated from the illness that had befallen them. The lab was closed. Gloria looked at the other girlfriend of John. “I can't stand knowing that John may mistreat you. Please, stay with me as long as you need.” Harriet hugged her. “Thank you Gloria, I fell on hard times when my husband died...I won't stay long just when I get back on my feet.” “If you want to stay forever it is fine with me. Do not worry.” I smiled Neeco looked over at her. “Um, what about me though?” I gave him a confused look. “What about you?” “Um, I kind of live in a cave right now. I didn't want to tell you before. Maybe it is too soon to ask you to stay with you though?” he blushed. “Of course not, I can't have you living in a cave!” So, me and all of John's exes lived together with Neeco in my house. He didn't seem interested in the other girls though thankfully. So, the mystery was solved and my family was bigger! I had a feeling things will be great with Neeco in my life. The End.


It had been twenty four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. Icy wind slashed at her face as her bony fingers gripped her

blanket up to her face. The streets were dimly lit and the houses were shut and dark. It had been exactly how Jane had remembered it, except for one little thing, her parents. Where were they? How come they weren’t where they said they would be? She was curled up in a dirty corner under a streetlight. The light started flickering and in a moment Jane was in complete darkness. She was terrified. Her home street had never been the friendliest, maybe that was one of the reasons she was sent up for adoption. It had been a week since she escaped from that horrific halfway house. Her first 18 years were spent in the adjoining orphanage. That scrutinising, unscrupulous orphanage. As sunrise appeared a shiver trickled down Jane’s spine.

She gathered all of her strength and stood up. She leaned against the cream coloured wall with dried paint peeling off. Jane still remembered her house address, 46 Cherry Lane, Bayside Village. The village still looked the same, just darker and drearier. Jane slowly ambled towards the old pub, Golflinks. It was the exact same. The old, once proud, battered banner hanging from the roof reading ‘Golflinks’. She tried to recall the times when her family would spend nights having fun playing bingo and quizzes in the pub...and she wasn’t a part of it…. Jane was emotional to be back at Bayside Village but one thing

was tearing her heart apart. Her parents no longer dwelled at the registered address used in the orphanage. She decided she would not give up hope and go find them herself. As she tiredly shuffled towards her old neighbours house she gave the door one big knock. As she did, she was met with a aroma of warm, fresh scones coming from the kitchen. She tried to remember all the times she baked with her family. She couldn’t remember any. As she gently pushed the unlocked door open, Jane stepped inside. The stout owner of the house appeared…she looked quizzingly at Jane.“Jane……….?, is it really you?” gasped Mrs. Bea. Jane recognised her immediately from photos she had once held in her very early days in the orphanage. “Yes Mrs. Bea, I’m Jane, Aaliyah and William’s daughter.” She broke into tears at the sound of her voice saying their names. “Where are they? Where have they gone?”

Mrs Bea looked pitifully at Jane. She had looked after her neighbours fro years when they fell on hard times in the past. Jane could only hear Mrs Bea’s words despite the sirens blaring outside and children’s feet stomping up and down on the streets. “I’m sorry dear, Aaliyah and William moved to Philadelphia years ago, they were too distraught with the fact you were gone and could never reconcile with the fact you had to be given up for adoption.” Mrs. Bea informed her. This time she crumpled herself into the foetal position like a piece of rubbish. She tore open the door and sprinted out of the house. Tears streamed down her face making her face blotchy and red. Her vision turned blurry with multiple emotions racing through her head. Suddenly everything went black.

She woke up to the blaring sound of the ambulance siren.

Red and blue flashing lights blinded her. Jane was lying straight in the middle of the pebbly street. Mrs. Bea looked as worried and pale as a ghost. She tried to push herself up but her ankle gave way. People dressed in overalls came darting out of the ambulance. All sorts of questions were asked like, what day is it? Where are you? They helped her to her feet and she stumbled. She answered all the questions correctly so there was no worry. When the ambulance men assured her that the blood was flowing back to her head again she was free to go.

Jane decided she would spend no longer at Bayside Village

and decided she would make her way to Philadelphia. She was determined. All the way from New York to Philadelphia. How could she do it? On foot. 152 kilometres. Not a problem for Jane Richards if she really wanted to find her parents. She organised a small rucksack with enough tins of food and enough bottles of water to last her a couple of days. She wished her farewells to the Bea family and started her journey to Philadelphia. Yes, she was terrified and frightened but she was also determined to do what she thought would complete her life. This was her yearning for so long and it pained her.

As the sun rose, Jane gathered her belongings together and

commenced her voyage. She was exhausted from her disturbed sleep but kept walking anyway. Many people were shocked at her presence as she had not been in the village since she was a baby. She trodded through grass that was a metre tall, hills that she felt touched the sky and caverness caves. Right now, Jane was in Woodbridge Township. She was weary and her eyes were bloodshot. She looked like she hadn’t slept for days. Jane opened her tin of beans and opened her third bottle of water since this morning. She smelt of musty because she hadn’t washed since she left the orphanage a week ago. Thinking back to the orphanage brought a tear to her eye. That was where she spent her childhood, her whole life nearly. She knew of nothing else. But there was no time for weeping, she had to concentrate on the path ahead. She could only rely on passing gentlemen and women to give her directions. The last man she passed gave her a compass but what use was a compass if she didn’t know which way was right to turn. The sun was setting as she cosied up in a corner close by with her sleeping bag. It wasn’t exactly completely comfy but it was better than lying on rubble. The last sight she saw before her eyes closed was a pink sky with a setting sun. A beautiful sight to see. When Jane woke up she continued her journey. She

was now in Trenton, 52 kilometres away from Philadelphia. It only dawned her now that she had no idea where her parents were in the big city. She knew they lived close to Franklin Square so hopefully it wasn’t going to be that hard. Her legs were fatigued and her ankle suddenly started aching. She hobbled through the streets painfully. She had a few coins in her pocket so she decided to buy her favourite chocolate bar in the local supermarket. When she had bought it, it gave her mountains of energy and she was focused on her voyage again. Within no time she was in Philadelphia.

Jane could not explain the joyful sensation that sizzled

through her body. She had done it. She had walked 152 kilometres in order to find her beloved parents. She dashed through Benjamin Rush State Park as fast as the wind. Before noon she was circling Franklin Square. She had not planned this part out yet. As a middle aged woman with many children hanging out of her passed, Jane waved her hand and said hopefully “Do you know where Aaliyah and William Richards live?” The woman smiled pitifully , then smartly passed with a silent shaking of her head. Jane’s heart was broken. Where would she start? Philadelphia was a sprawling place. She wandered over to a silent old lady covered from head to toe in black waiting at a bus stop. “Emm, excuse me” Jane uttered quietly. This time less confidently...“Is there any chance you may know where William and Aaliyah Richards are?”

The old woman stood still with a confused expression on her

face. “Are you…… Jane?” A little dance of delight in the pit of my stomach gave me butterflies. She nodded her head without saying a word. The old woman beckoned for me to follow her. Jane did as she was told and shuffled her feet towards her. As she led her into a dark alley she started to get second thoughts until she croaked “number 112 on your right.” She gave the woman a look of thanks and her spirits brightened. As she proceeded towards the doorstep, she gave a choke of happiness mixed with fear. What would her parents think? Would they send her home? Would they shut their door? Her hands went numb as she knocked on the door. After a couple of minutes Jane could hear quiet footsteps coming towards the door.

She quickly brought her gaze to her feet as two figures opened the door. She froze. “Who are you?” They questioned as Jane slowly brought up her head. “Jane……? Jane is that really you?” The husband and wife gasped. She was no longer nervous, joy blossomed inside her. “Father, mother” she whispered as she swung her arms around them and gave them a hug. Tears of happiness sprouted from her eyes. Her parents were shedding many tears too. This was the moment she had been waiting for her whole life, and it finally happened. She was reunited with her family once more. Yes she had spent 24 years in a cold, dark orphanage but she was with her parents now and that was all the mattered.


My name is Teresa, I’m sixteen and Halloween is by far my favorite time of the year but it also has some anxiety for me. You see my specialty is creating the costume, no sexy kitty for me it has to have references and it has to show skill. I’ve done the werewolf, I’ve done the vampire, I’ve done so many things it’s getting hard to think of what to do next. After much deliberation I’ve settled on the ghost this year. I keep quiet about this choice, not even telling best friend Jess. She and I go to the same high school and much as I love her, this is the one area where the two of us compete. Instead I secretly begin to collect and hoard what I’ll need to make the costume. I watch videos about how to make fake blood, I consider who I was before I met with my terrible fate, I settle for cheer leader hoping to be funny as well as scary. You may be wondering why so much effort for one night of the year. Well we live in a rural mountainous area called the Catskills and there’s not much going on out here. Jess and I live on neighboring properties. There’s a road that runs past both of them but it’s not the shortest way to get to each other’s houses. The quickest way is over the fields and through a small forest called Winkle Wood. My mother doesn’t want me doing this but once I’m out of sight she can’t exactly stop me. This Halloween the plan is to meet Jess at her house and her mother will drive us both into town. Getting ready requires some time, I powder my skin white and draw dark circles under my eyes. I desecrate a cheerleader outfit I found at the local goodwill with fake blood. My mother comes and leans against the bathroom door eyeing my efforts. “I was a cheerleader you know.” “I know,” I say grinning widely She sighs, “I don’t know why you are drawn to such gruesome ideas” “Oh come on Mom, it’s Halloween!” “Yes, well go and have fun, make sure you take the road to Jess’s house.” “Sure will” She leaves me too it and I pack my phone and other necessaries into a small back pack and head out. I do walk towards the road at first but then as usual I veer off and head towards the woods. It’s quite beautiful out in the fields, the stars are shining above me and fireflies are skipping through the grass. Inside the woods it’s a bit spookier, the trees loom large, their branches blocking out the light. I hear the hoot of an owl and the crack of a branch under foot. I sing to myself determined not to let the creepiness take over. To be honest It’s more usual to come this way by daylight but I know this forest like the back of my hand. Or at least I think I do. It seems to be taking longer than I expected to get to Jess’s house. Old stories begin to rise up in my mind, Red Riding Hood, Hansel and Gretel, but there are no wolves or witches out here unless they are children in their Halloween gear. I try to laugh at my imagination but it comes out sounding hollow. I pause to lean against a tree and catch my breath and find my bearings. I can just see the moon angling through the trees, it’s still close to the horizon and I begin to feel sure of where I am again. I set off with more confidence and much to my relief find myself coming out near Jess’s house. I wonder what costume she will have cooked up this year. There are lights on inside and I can hear voices on the night air. Silently as the ghost I’m pretending to be I slip around the side of the house and come up the front path just as if I had walked in off the road. Confidently I ring the door bell and wait on the front page. “Hey Jess” I say as the door swings open but the words die on my lips. Because it’s not Jess or Jess’s mother or anyone in her family, it’s just an older lady who looks a little puzzled. “Who?” “Jess, This is her house!” “I’m sorry dear I and my husband Tom have been here for ten years and there’s no one of that name here.” I’m feeling desperate now, “no one here, not ever?” “Well there was a family here ten years ago but they moved away, sad circumstance the daughter lost one her friends, she just disappeared and then the whole family decided it wasn’t safe here anymore.” I’m shaking like a leaf and if I didn’t have the make up on I would be white as a ghost. “Do you want to come in?” asks the woman doubtfully.” “No.” I turn and run back the way I’ve come. Something tells me I can’t go by the road not if I’m to find my way back. Instead I plunge back into the forest not caring what branches scratch at me or what vegetation catches at my feet. I run as if my life depends on it, I have the strongest feeling that it does. This time the trip through the wood is as quick as I expected it to be, it seems my sense of direction works better when driven by pure instinct. I run out the other side and into the fields around my house. I run up to my house praying that it is my house. As I approach I slow down thinking about what story I could possibly tell my mother about why I’m back so soon. I pause outside the door panting a little and then raise my hand to ring the bell. The door swings open and there stands a man I’ve never met before. I am about to dissolve into tears when my mother appears behind him. “Tess? What are you doing back?” The story bubbles out of me between messy sobs. My mother listen’s gravely, “Tess, I’ve always told you never to go by the woods.” “But why mom, what happened?” “I can’t say for sure but the legend has it that those are the woods Rip Van Winkle fell asleep in all those years ago.” I stare at her mouth agape and then I begin to frown. “Mom, who’s this?” The stranger extends a hand, “Tom the name’s Tom, I got a little lost, it seems to be ten years before the time I left home.”