CW-slight hint of suicidal thinking, some swear words Sweet sax strains of "Stormy Weather" swell and fall, taking the edge off my aching loneliness for a moment. But my classic jazz downloads fail to distract me from my level six pain this morning. They never help with pain, but I like to tell the few people I still talk to in the flesh other than doctors that they do, that music is a pain management strategy, a mindfulness tactic I employ alongside my daily rainbow of drugs. These caring folks crease their brows, nod

ooh

and

ahh , not sure how to respond. Who can blame them? Impossible to relate to chronic pain if you don’t have it. Especially this undiagnosable, not-understood, not-quite-chronic-fatigue thing I’ve been struggling with for seven years. Hard to understand or fear a monster that’s only theoretical to you. And I do think of it as a monster. An entity that’s entered my body and taken over. When I’m at my worst, every inch of my skin burns, even while I’m on the drugs. I can’t move from bed, can’t move from fetal position, can’t move for fear the flames will engulf me in a ritual of pain the monster has devised to make me finally give in, to call it quits.

The hardest part isn’t the pain, though. It’s not knowing what afflicts me. For now, my only comfort is knowing I’m not alone. About three years ago, I found an online community—there are a whole lot of us out there, hundreds if not thousands around the world, with what we informally call “millennial disease.” Because for some reason we’re all under the age of forty. And bonus: we’re all infertile. We’re all also befuddled and angry that there’s no research into it. Zilch. You'd think it’d be a goldmine for the first pharmaceutical company to crack its code, but something rotten is going on, and other than writing moot letters to our congress people, we are basically helpless. A tender piano rendition of “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Your Face” tinkles, and I scrabble for my phone from under the covers, hitting the arrow forward button. Too late. I’m already back there, remembering the good, the bad and the end with Will. When we found out about my dead ovaries and he told me he wanted children. I need distraction. Now. Maybe Jimbo2 is online. He helps me feel better, jokes me out of my worst moods. I move gingerly to a sitting position, find my laptop buried under my sour-smelling sheets. Luckily Mom’s due to bring groceries and clean up sometime today.

I’m in luck. Jimbo2 was chatting in our support group a couple of minutes ago. I shoot him a quick inmail. SassygrrL: What’s the word down under? - - JImbo2: ‘Lo , luv. The word is shitty. You? Thought Boston would be dark about now. - SassygrrL: Hunh? - JImbo2: Check news!

- SassygrrL: Will do. Meanwhile, “shitty” is the word for me, too. Time to talk? - - - - I wait thirty seconds, a minute, but he doesn’t answer. Very unlike him. I click my news icon, which downloads the landing page while I’m sleeping. Sometimes I remember to check it. Today, every headline is a variation of the one in the NYTimes box: “President Declares State of Emergency While National Energy Grids Shut Down ‘For a Short While’” I click into the story, but it won’t download. I check my wireless connection on the top bar, and sure enough, it’s dark gray. Which would explain why Jimbo2 didn’t answer me either. Grabbing my phone, I slide out of bed, bare feet stung by the cold hardwood floor, and wobble down the hall to the living room. Sure enough, the router, shiny and black behind a brown, crispy fern, is lightless. No digital numbers glow from the oven clock in the kitchen either. I flick the light switch. Nada. And I don’t know if I’m only now noticing, or if it’s suddenly reached a pitch, but the noise from the street is ten times the usual decibel level. I look out to see streets crammed with honking cars and people lined up in front of my neighborhood bodega.

I need to call Mom.

I hit her number three times. “Call failed” blares back at me. I do my breathing exercises, deep breath in, hold it at the top, deep breath out, hold it at the bottom, but two sets in I know I’m wasting time. After Dad died, we always said if there was a disaster, no matter where we were in the world, we’d meet up at the house in Cambridge. This might not be a serious disaster, but it could be, so I have to go to her. I shuffle back to my bedroom, peel off my three-day-old pajama skin and decide on a luxury I can probably ill-afford right now, a hot shower. It could be my last for a while.  Stepping in, I realize something: I haven’t noticed my pain since the power went out. In fact, this might be the most pain free I’ve been in months, if not years.

I do a quick body check while I soap up, check my tenderest spots, along my ribs and behind my knees. Both areas are at a level one, and that’s only because I’m anticipating pain I’m not really feeling. Wow. Normally I’d be rejoicing at this unexpected reversal in my pain journey, but it’s unlikely I’ll have time to really revel before the pain comes back. The silver lining is that I need to feel my best to cope with the state of the world until I can get to my safe person, my long-suffering, kind mother, so she can help me if I backslide during this outage. Or when. My monster will not be gone long.

I put on clean, warm clothes, and remember the tips I’ve learned from all the apocalyptic content I’ve watched. I feel pretty silly because this isn’t technically an apocalyptic event as far as I can tell from a headline or two, but just in case, I pull out my backpack from the front hall closet and throw in a change of clothes along with my useless meds, toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant and prescription body cream that does nothing to alleviate symptoms. In the kitchen, I dig up a bag of walnuts, some hard cheese, crackers, and a half empty jar of peanut butter and throw those in, too. Last, I fill a water bottle. On a whim, I toss in a couple decent sketches I doodled when I felt on the good end. I haven’t painted in eons, but hope springs eternal, right? Grabbing my coat, gloves, wallet, phone and keys, I step out into this new world order, feeling paradoxically like a million bucks. I hop into my faithful Toyota, and as usual, she starts right up. I pat her dash with a smile. “Good girl, Sassy. Faithful to the end.” I pull out of my garage stall and out the building’s driveway. The road is busy but passable and I turn north from my apartment on the edge of Jamaica Plain towards Mom in Cambridge. I feel a little giddy. Excited. Like Sassy and I are headed on one of the adventures like we used to before, letting the road take us wherever it wanted for a couple of days. I met Will on one of those adventures, at a pub in Salem. I told him I was a witch and he played along, and we laughed and laughed. Later he would joke that I put a spell on him that day. Snuck a love potion into his Sam Adams beer. If it were true, I’d have made one that lasted. Funny, this thought doesn’t tank me like it usually would. Or even an hour ago. Maybe after three years of angst, I hit a threshold an hour ago and I’m finally getting over him. Wouldn’t that be nice. Cambridge can be at least a half-hour on a good day, and I think I’m in luck traffic-wise. People seem to be staying off the roads for the most part. I turn on the radio, but all I get is static, so I check to see if I can still bluetooth my phone to my car. Yes! Sassy does it again! My

Calming Jazz  playlist comes right up, and an instrumental “I’m Crazy” emanates from the speakers. I laugh maybe I do feel a little crazy, in a good way. I check my dad’s beat-up analog Timex. Half-past eleven. Time for optional meds if I feel anything coming on. I check in with my body, and I can’t believe it, but there’s no sign of anything, percolating or otherwise. Less even than I felt in the shower. Just be grateful. You know this is only a moment. A gift.

Around me the residential streets are eerily quiet. I know it’s selfish, but I really wish they were always like this. Like I always felt this airy and good. I think fleetingly of JImbo2, why he said “shitty” was the word for him today, and some of my heaviness comes back. I kind of don’t want to know.

# I arrive at my parents’ Victorian house a few streets away from Harvard University, an easy walking “commute” to the ivied campus for my dad during his career as a political science professor then Dean of the College. I swallow hard. I can still remember the taste of his disappointment when I didn’t get in. Soon after that, at only fifty-one, he died of a heart attack. I park Sassy out front and dash up the stone steps. I rap on the door, but Mom doesn’t answer--knocking is a formality with us anyway--so I use my key. The house feels cold, which shouldn’t surprise me because the heat is off, but it does.

“Mom!” No answer. “Mom?” I head into the kitchen, crossing my fingers, and sure enough, a small sheet of salvaged paper, cut up from one of dad’s old files, waits for me on the counter.

Darling, I know we always said we’d meet here in the event of something like this, but that was before, when you weren’t so stricken. If you get this, I’m coming to you. I wasn’t sure you’d be able to drive. But if you are here, sit tight. I’ll be back after I shop for some groceries and other things we’ll need if this thing lasts a while.

Love you, Mom My heart drops a little. Things could get dicey out there. I weigh my options. I don’t really have any. Other than to my place, I have no idea where she’s headed. She might try her usual foodstuff haunts, find them overrun or picked over, and try somewhere else. My best option, as she urged in her note, is to sit tight.

I might as well put my newfound physical wellness to use, so I head out to the shed, load the wheelbarrow with wood and bring it to the back door. Remarkable, but still no burning skin, so I carry the wood, armful by armful and stack it next to the yawning fireplace. I’m not even getting tired, and god this feels so good, the blood flowing, my muscles flexing. Luckily, Mom’s oven is gas and easy to light with a match. I start a kettle for tea, and I run (I CAN FUCKING RUN!) upstairs to grab some old print versions of the Globe, crumple pages for a fire starter. So glad she didn’t listen to me about getting all her news virtually. Watching the fire I made, enjoying its warmth, I have to remind myself that even though I feel amazing, this is not fun, this is not an adventure. This is potentially the beginning of a long-lasting disaster. The voice in my head sneers. Always been such a clueless Peter Pan. Dad used to call me that, Peter Pan. And not in an endearing way.

Sipping my peppermint tea in Dad’s leather armchair, I reflect on how that voice, Dad’s voice, has dominated my thinking over the last seven years, how it’s kicked me while I’m down. How I’ve been too weak, too consumed by the unnamed pain-monster, or by trying to keep Will, to fight back. I grit my teeth. “I’m not a Peter Pan, you bastard. And I’m not a career-driven, critical, narcissist who should never have had kids, either. I’m an artist, and I would have been a fucking great parent, no thanks to you.” I can’t breathe for a second while a sob wracks me, catching me off-guard. Wasn’t I over this shit a long time ago? Hell, child, maybe not dealing with something isn't the same as being over it. Memories crash over me, memories of the lectures, the belittling, the cold indifference, while I sit in his favorite chair. Why had I decided my dad was a hero, a wonderful man, someone to revere? I always felt a little responsible for his death, too, as if my rejection to Harvard, worrying over me and my future, had killed him. I can see now he only cared how my failure made him look, not about what it meant for my future. And he probably died of his own damn meanness. Guess there's always been a monster in my life. Stunned, I stir the fire. It’s only taken me twenty years to figure that out. Jesus. A crazy kind of guffaw-giggle escapes me. Man, my emotions are all over the place today, but my chest feels lighter. In fact, I feel so good, I could run a marathon. Instead, I run upstairs again to Mom’s room, pull Dad’s watch off my wrist, and dump it on her dresser. I pluck one of hers from her jewelry box. It’s ticking, and on time, if I had to guess. I head back downstairs for lunch, to make something I stopped eating when Dad ridiculed it, a sloppy, triple-decker, peanut butter, jelly, and banana sandwich. # Three hours later, the sun is setting. Where the hell is Mom? All I can think to do to keep anxiety at bay is start making the nicest dinner I can scrounge up.

# Long past nightfall now, and I’m kicking myself while I pick at my cold stew by candlelight. Why didn’t I go out to find her? What if she’s hurt? What if she had a heart attack? I’m tempted to go look for her now, but it’s not a good idea for me to go out after dark. What if I relapse? To distract myself, I wrap up in a quilt and head out back. The crisp, night air hits my lungs, but that’s not what makes me gasp—it’s the night sky that bowls me over. The Milky Way stretches above me, millions of tiny pinpricks and swathes of light, more stars than I’ve ever seen. Maybe more than any being on Earth has seen in fifty years. Seeing our galaxy like that…I feel more insignificant and less alone at the same time. It makes my head spin. I don’t want to go inside, ever, but it’s too cold. I pull the quilt up to the hearth to be by the glowing logs and make a bed of sorts to wait for Mom. I watch embers dance while Miles Davis’s “Stella By Starlight” pulls at my heartstrings like taffy.

# I must have drifted off. It’s freezing and after midnight according to Mom’s glow in the dark watch. Someone’s knocking at the door. Mom! “Oh, Mr. Fitz. I thought... Are you okay?” Mom’s frail neighbor seems paler and more sickly than normal, even in the profound dark of an unlit city. “Not well at all, as you may imagine.” His reedy voice is barely a whisper. “But I was glad when a policeman came by tonight to tell me the news.” “What news?” I ask, hoping it’s about Mom.

“Power’s coming back on. In just a bit. It was some big anomaly with sun flares, and they’ve got it all figured out. He asked me to tell a few neighbors to spread the word faster.” “Great.” I smile without enthusiasm. I’m not sure he knows what he’s talking about, but I thank him, helping him along to the next house. I’m more concerned about Mom. I check my phone for bars, but still no luck. I still feel like a normal person, so I leave Mom a note and jump into Sassy, head toward my place and drive slowly to look for her silver Volvo. I’ve just crossed the Charles when the streetlights flicker to life behind me. My heart sinks to see what it does to the sky, erasing the universe. My phone dings, messages from my online support group, and I can’t say why, but my heart sinks a little further.

Bars go all the way up on my phone now, so I try Mom. It rings a few times then cuts off. Cell towers must be really backed up.

I decide to go back to Mom’s. And, thank god, she’s there, waiting for me. We hug for a long time, and before she can tell me what happened, her living room lights go on.

A familiar, ominous flame-lick, the monster's lick, starts behind my knees and around my ribs, while all across the country, a roar rises, a collective cheer celebrating the return of electric power.


“So what’s the catch?” “A choice, no catch. You can either stay here and meet your fate or leave with me.” Romina Vega flipped the business card between her fingers, thinking.

“You make it sound easy. I can’t just stand up and walk out of here. If you haven’t noticed…” Romina pushed forward, repositioning herself in the metal chair. Her chains chattered as she moved. “If you tried to leave, the guards wouldn’t be able to stop you.” Romina pressed down a short laugh. There was no indication that she posed a threat to anyone. She was young, barely into her twenties, somewhat slight of frame, and noticeably malnourished. Her hair was a plume of dark coils and unkempt chaos. She wore the customary green jumpsuit of the women’s prison, which nearly swallowed her entirely. She sat up and rested her weight squarely on the pads of her feet as if she was preparing to bolt.

“Don’t play with me, old man. I know where I am and I know what I did to get here–” “Yes. About that.” The man reached inside his briefcase and pulled out a black legal folder. He opened the file and used his long index finger to skim across the printed report. “I know what happened. What you said happened and what the authorities charged. Between you and me, I believe your account.” “Why?” The man gave a half smile. “Why wouldn’t I believe you? The evidence is all there. I would be blind to ignore it.” “The police and the judge seem to think differently. They said I did it. I killed my aunt and mom.” “But I know you didn’t. You couldn’t have.”

“The courts sure think it was me. Hell, all of Georgia thinks I did it. Why not you?” He smiled indulgently. “Because… I know what killed them.” “Really?” Romina scoffed. “What do you know that the court and the jury haven’t already disproven about my case? I’ve been convicted for their murders. Considering the circumstances, I honestly don’t blame them for coming to their decision. I don’t know what was real about that night anymore. Maybe I went insane. Maybe I made it all up. “ “Or maybe you were attacked by a being, not of this world. You came face to face with something. You fought it. Injured it… And lived to tell your story.”

“A story nobody believes,” said Romina with a sneer. The memory of the nightmare played once more in her thoughts, bringing back the pain of loss it always carried. Her eyes lowered to the table, unable to sustain the weight of guilt pressing down on her shoulders, reminding her of what she couldn’t do.

“You saw it, Romina,” the man urged.

“It was a monster,” Romina said in a low voice. “Could have been human at one point, but… Maybe it was an alien? A demon… A… I don’t know what it was. It looked like a giant bat.” “It was what we call a Revenant. A being not unlike what you might consider a bat, only it’s not. It’s more like… well… A vampire… Or a parasite. It feeds off of living flesh and terrorizes those it once knew or came in contact with at one point.” “That thing was a vampire?” Romina did not hide her disbelief.

“Probably not in the traditional context you would think. Dracula is far from what a vampire is. He certainly doesn’t look like what one is. Bram Stoker took the idea and put an agreeable face to the real terror those things are. Demons more closely describe them. However, even that term only provides the visual.” “What are you trying to say? I was attacked by a demon vampire?” “Well…” “You can’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining,” said Romina. “I know what I saw and what I saw wasn’t no damn vampire. I don’t know what the hell that thing was but it certainly wasn’t what you’re saying it was. Either you’re here to poke fun or you’re trying to make me look crazier than they already think that I am. I’m not crazy! I’m not on drugs! I didn’t imagine that fucking thing! And I sure as hell didn’t kill my goddamn mother! I don’t give a damn what the State of Georgia or the D.A. or anybody wants to believe! I’m not a fucking murderer and I didn’t kill my family!” Romina could barely catch her breath. She glared at the man as he sat placidly in his seat across the table. Her words had no effect. He stared coldly back at her as if looking directly through the whirlwind of her heated emotions. She got the sense that the man saw all of this before. Perhaps too many times enough to no longer care and possibly predict what would happen next. Again her chains tugged her down into her seat, reminding her she could do nothing further than the length of each link allowed. Her thighs burned with excess energy, demanding to be freed from the seated position so they could stretch and move with violent intention. Still, the man sat, eyes forward, and expression calm despite her fury. She could do nothing to harm him and she hated that he knew this despite what he suggested earlier.

He had a kind face. The type that could appear fatherly. His hair was shock white as if he had seen far more than what Romina experienced. He wore all black, making his physique difficult to determine. However, she assumed he kept himself up. He looked like law enforcement or possibly an agent of some other agency she did not know about. She could not determine what sort of officer the man was as he did not display a badge like most would. Whatever enforcement the man represented did not require him to make his authority known plainly. It was all assumed which made her all the more curious. “Who are you?” Romina asked. “Who I am is irrelevant. Who I represent is more important.” “Ok, so then who do you represent? CIA? FBI? Italian Mafia? What is this?” “I am from an order of defense no man knows about. No other agency in the world is aware of our presence. We operate beyond the Veil. Given your natural skill and intelligence, we believe you would make the perfect candidate for our program.” “Program? You’re here to recruit me?” “You have been chosen.” “Chosen? By who? For what?” “Come with me and I will tell you everything you want to know.” “How about you tell me now,” Romina challenged.

“Doesn’t work that way. I’m here for a limited time. Once I walk out that door, the offer goes with me.” Romina considered the offer once more, unsure of her answer. Although she did not trust the man sitting across from her at the interview table, she could not dispel the possibility of taking the offer and being freed. The past year of the murder trial and subsequent sentencing hearing made the days spent behind bars seem to flash by. After her sentencing, time bled into each hour drawing out the torture of her incarceration as she waited anxiously for the set date of her execution. So far, the attorney assigned to her case was not confident in the success of the appeal process. The first two returned denied and the third was decided with a high probability of denial also. No one believed her account of the monster coming into the small apartment shared by the three women. Not even the court-appointed psychiatrist considered her unchanged statement as truth. Instead, the doctor suggested the murders were caused by some sort of drug-induced psychosis causing her to hallucinate. Romina insisted she did not imagine the creature, nor would she allow the court to label her a drug-addicted psycho that raged during a bad trip. The trace opiates found by the police in her blood were not enough to support the intoxication theory. The jury quickly dismissed this explanation as the reason why her mother’s throat was torn open and her aunt was found mauled by the kitchen sink. There could only be one conclusion that made any kind of sense to those participating in the trial. A monster did not break inside her home and gruesomely murder her family. According to the State of Georgia, Romina killed them.

 “If I say yes, and I go with you… What happens next?” “You walk away from here never to return to this place again.” “And then?” “You will train. Be educated. Prepared.” Romina considered what the man said. “Prepared for what?” He sat silent.

Steady.

“You’re serious, aren’t you,” said Romina. “You can get me out of here? Just like that?” “Exactly that. Do you not believe me?” “Honestly, I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know who to trust.” “Trust God.”

“Trust God,” Romina shook her head. “He’s probably the reason why I’m in here. Why did all this happen? My family is dead and I’m in prison. Some thing created by God is why I'm here talking to you. And you want me to trust God?”

The man stood. His dark frame suddenly filled the space behind him as his long black coat and suit wrapped about him. His white hair and glacial eyes caught the light from the overhead lamp and made his face appear more brilliant than the rising sun. Romina almost gasped in awe realizing the man wasn’t exactly what she thought he was.

He was something else.

Something more.

“You will soon know all the secrets kept from all of mankind. It won’t matter if you don’t believe… In time, you will.” Romina looked up at the man, shrinking away from him as his presence became overwhelming. His gaze was no longer tender or fatherly. Instead, it pressed down like a weighted blanket. He stood over her a moment before gathering the links of her shackles between his talon-like fingers. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t believe in God. Hell is real. What you saw was real. And there are worse things than death in this world.” The man pulled at the chains until the links bent and pulled apart. Romina looked down at her broken binds, then at the man. “What are you?” “I am what you will become...” [Exert from Current first rough draft project Hellseeker: The Awakening]


Jaanvi had moved to Solnit islands a week ago and the brunch was her first Saturday outing. The café had a long table at the center to enable people to mingle. Jaanvi sat next to a handsome man with blue eyes, soft hair and a toned stomach. As she sat down, he turned towards her and initiated conversation. As she reached the end of her explanation about 16 th century technology with rapt attention from him, something clicked. His hand started contracting and pulsing. His eyes bulged and sprang back, deep into his head. His hair separated from his scalp and flew away, looking not very different from a swarm of birds. His stomach morphed into a blue heart. She shook her head and then all that was left sitting in front of her was a giant, warm, blue heart. “Are you okay? Why did you stop mid-sentence?” he asked. “Are you okay?” was her response. “Of course, what do you mean?” he sounded confused. “Are you sure you’re okay?” “Yes, yes, never mind. I think I have to go.” “Hey. Wait, did something happen? Can I help?” “No, I’ll be okay. Don’t worry. Thanks. Bye.” As she left the café, she looked closer at the pedestrians and breathed a sigh of relief to see normal anatomical parts and proportions. She decided to take a stroll along the lake. There was a beautiful park around the lake. As Jaanvi walked, she noticed a woman with her child. She was reading out of a book with animated voices and gestures. Jaanvi stood there, enjoying the story as much as the child. When the woman noticed Jaanvi, she asked her to join them and offered her a Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich, which brought a huge smile on her face. As she took a bite and looked up, the woman had somehow transformed into a giant blue heart too. She shrieked and her sandwich fell on the ground. A huge, panting Labrador came along and ate the sandwich before anyone could think of doing anything about it. Jaanvi couldn’t help catching hold of the dog and snuggling with it. The well fed dog happily allowed the cuddles. When Jaanvi let go and opened her eyes to ask the dog where it had come from, she screamed. The dog had also transformed into a big, blue heart. Jaanvi got up and started running away. Once she had gotten far enough, she sat down on a bench and stared into the lake. It was calm. The day was bright. And she could hear a sweet melody which further helped her even her breathing. She could hear the melody come closer. Soon she could hear the words, “She looked like a bright sunny day Her firy red hair, oh how it swayed Her hazel eyes so bright Made me feel warm and light And in love!” And he made eye contact with her. “She was big and soft Blue, oh so blue On this bright sunny day All I want is her smile And that’s what I’m going to do” He sat down on the bench next to her. She smiled at him and asked the million-color question, “Why did you say I was blue?” “Because I fell in love with you!” “What?” “I mean that in the nicest way. No creepiness, no stalking. I’ll walk away right now if you want me to. But you made me feel like sunshine and smiles! And I loved you for that.” “Okay, so whenever you love someone they turn blue?” “Yes, blue pulsing hearts. Have you never fallen in love?” “Of course I have! But I just moved here last week.” “Oh then I’ll let you explore the magic of Solnit islands by yourself. Just keep your eyes and your heart open!” Jaanvi sat on the bench for a long time. She wanted to figure out what the man meant? When exactly do people turn into big blue hearts? And do they turn back? And well, how do you get used to just looking at big blue hearts? This is so stupid. Will she look like an ugly big heart to other people too? Then what is the point of having such good looks that she had spent so much time and money over? And she likes seeing beautiful, aesthetic things, especially faces and bodies. The idea of seeing a big blue heart all the time unnerved her. An obese man with shaggy facial hair sat next to Jaanvi on the bench. He was panting from the strain of the walk. Jaanvi looked away from him. After he had caught his breath, he said, “Thanks for waiting for me to catch my breath. That was mighty kind of you. I’m Harry.” She turned, “I’m Jaanvi, Hi” and turned away again. “Mighty pretty day, isn’t it?” “Yes, yes it is.” Jaanvi did not turn. “Are you waiting for someone?” Loneliness and homesickness were a cocktail that did not sit well in Jaanvi’s stomach. She looked towards her lap and mumbled, “No, I just moved here last week. I’m just out exploring I guess.”  “Oh that’s mighty good then! I would love to show you around. Would you let me show you around?” Jaanvi looked him up and down and the said, “Yes, sure, I’d like that.” Both of them got off the bench and Jaanvi said, “Thanks for doing this.” “Oh no, thank you, for helping me see this place with fresh eyes!” Jaanvi rolled her eyes at that, then smiled. “The place I’d like to take you to is a 15 minute walk away. Is that alright?” “I love walking, especially in such nice weather!” “Perfect! I love walking too!” “Oh really?” Harry turned towards her. Jaanvi looked up, “Oh I’m sorry I did not mean it like that. I did not intend for it to come out so snarky. I just saw you panting before. So I Guess I assume dyou did not enjoy something that tires you and hurts you so much. Sorry I assumed.” “Oh there’s no need to apologize. Yes, walking is hard and tiring. But it is so beautiful and I love looking around and talking to companions. So it’s totally worth it. After all, aren’t all worthy things really hard and tiring?” Jaanvi flashed him a big smile and held his hand as they walked. Harry led the way to a library. Jaanvi broke into a giggled as she twirled around, taking it all in. It was like a library from Instagram, complete with pretty motifs, high ceilings and that beautiful feeling of being immersed in books. Jaanvi loved reading fiction. She read a gorgeous illustration on the wall, reading gives us someplace to go when we have to stay where we are. She pointed it to Harry and then walked towards the aisle with the latest books. Harry laughed, “I figured you’d love this place!” “I do, I do!” “Is this another marriage in the library?” was overheard and they both blushed. When Jaanvi looked up, she saw a big blue heart where Harry was. Two hours can change so much. They walked out of the library with one book each that they had chosen for the other. Harry said, “Next, may I interest you in a cozy ice cream place that will whip up any flavor you wish for?” “I’d love that!” They walked to the bus stop and chatted as they waited. “Hey hot stuff, why are you with an oaf like him?” Both of them turned towards the voice. “How could you want to be with such an ugly thing? Oh right must be that idiotic blue heart nonsense. But I’m sure you can see me. And my soft golden curls, my very well defined stomach and biceps and look at these dimples!” Jaanvi turned away and tried to ignore him by continuing her conversation with Harry. “As usual. This is so stupid. I wish this thing looked less cheesy but here, it is a bow and arrow. The arrow of bias and the bow of discrimination. And I can burst any blue heart with it. So well, will you give in now and come with me or will you do it after I burst the heart and you see his ugly old self again?” Out of instinct, Jaanvi dragged Harry and went into the library. The man with the bow and arrow followed. “Really, you’re quite stupid for someone who claims to read.” He dragged the arrow on the bow and aimed it at Harry. Jaanvi blocked the arrow with a book and it deflected. He tried again and failed again. “What is happening? These arrows aren’t supposed to be deflected by anything!” An attendant ducked from another aisle, “Librarians are always at your service, and answering questions that Google cannot. Well, the bow and arrow is powered by biases and superficiality. These books of fiction make readers empathetic; they provide people with mirrors to themselves and windows into other worlds. So fiction and empathy win over biases.” And she ducks out. The man pulls another arrow onto the bow, looks at Harry, looks at Jaanvi, and then shakes his head and walks away, putting the arrow back. “Not worth it. Stupid stories, making people feel things. Eww.”


I was suddenly aware of my consciousness, though something stopped me from opening my eyes. It wasn't that a physical obstacle prevented me; the slow build of dread rising in my chest at what might meet my gaze was enough to keep my eyes shut tight. I had woken up with no recollection of how I’d gotten here... wherever “here” was. The soft undergrowth cushioning my body felt cool against my burning skin, but it remained the only clue of my whereabouts until I could manage the strength to open my eyes. Perhaps I should take inventory of my surroundings. I forced myself to lift my lids, a hiss escaping as the bright orb singed my eyes. I instinctively winced at the brilliant rays, lifting a hand to my face to block them from paining my eyes. As I finally let my eyes adjust, I glanced around at my surroundings to get my bearings. Vivid colors met my gaze, still too brilliant to quite make out as the sun had dazed my eyes, but even their blurred, dancing vibrancy enchanted me. I tried to lift myself to get a better view of what was around me but immediately felt a throbbing pain building in my head as a whimper escaped my throat. Perhaps that wasn't a good idea yet, though the reason as to why only elusively fluttered around my mind. Soon, however, I pursued my original goal of getting up, much more carefully this time, though my body seemed to refuse to cooperate. Ever-persistent curiosity, however, soon got the better of me. I finally managed to struggle into an upright position, trying to ignore the pain as I felt my eyes hungrily sweeping the landscape. The otherworldly view swam before me; it was like nothing I had ever seen before, though I wasn't sure how I knew that... Funny, now that I thought about it, I couldn't seem to recall that much at all. My brow furrowed in confusion as the mesmerizing color of the surrounding nature entranced my eyes. Swirling reds and purples of floral vegetation curled around sturdy hazel shoots reaching for the sky, though the shoots eventually got lost and tangled together with their neighbors in a net of green arches. The ground below me seemed to slightly shimmer from the glistening droplets upon its sleek surface. Suddenly, the hypnotic lull was broken as a large object caught my attention, one that had wings and a gaping wound in its side. I crawled towards it, a muffled, nagging voice in the back of my mind trying to tell me its significance. Though as I edged closer to the mystery, the voice fell silent. There were bodies strewn around the beast. They were mostly mangled and a few half-eaten; however, none were left alive. It was sickening. The world suddenly began to sway as the feeling of dread started roaring again in my chest with panic clawing alongside it. My eyes continued trailing from one corpse to the next, flitting between bloodied injury after bloodied injury. I collapsed to the ground again, curling up and trying to sift through the pain in order to figure out what the hell was going on. A few thoughts began bubbling up, though they twisted the knife of pain further into my skull and prevented me from focusing on them. Finally, I was unable to withstand it all and let out a guttural howl before my vision faded once more. As I came to for the second time, I realized that my overworked brain had managed to wring out a few details as I lay unconscious: the winged beast that had appeared to have consumed the then-animated corpses was instead the airplane that I had arrived here in, and the unfortunate beings surrounding it had been my fellows on the journey. Something had gone terribly wrong during the travel, causing the vessel to crash in this strange place, killing most of the travelers. The rest, perhaps, had gotten lost in the phantasmagorical jungle surrounding the site. I didn't want to have to think of what else could have occurred. In fact, I refused to pursue that thought further as the indistinct growling, purring, screeching, and other noises of the area did not sound the least bit welcoming. But the noise only grew. The brilliant radiance of day was beginning to tuck away her sleepy head, and night began his prowl, bringing all manner of foreign beasts with him, as evidenced by the unwelcoming sounds. I had somehow managed to force myself into a standing position, nervously scanning the area. I needed somewhere safe. I finally found and locked my eyes on the prize, grateful for anything as I headed towards the only source of shelter I could find: the vessel. Alas, even such a simple plan was destined to fail. As I staggered off towards the gaping maw of my to-be home, I felt an uncomfortable prickle on the back of my neck, my muscles beginning to tense. A glance backward told me the shadow of something much more limber and stealthy than I had started its hunt with me as its prize. Panic started to take over as I registered the danger, causing me to blindly stumble faster towards the hope of safety. I barely heard my pursuer, as it likely had much more practice at the art of silence, though I knew it was there as I trudged forward. Was it a doomed endeavor? Panic and logic tussled in my mind as my legs blindly stepped forward to create distance from the unknown threat. The crunch of leaves beneath my feet was amplified to a deafening roar in the pursuit, though was it much of a pursuit if there was no chase? I could feel the unresolved tension of the unknown prickling at my neck as I got closer and closer to my destination. A moment of relief was on the cusp of flowing through me, as I had almost reached the center. Just a few more steps and I would be safe. My outstretched hand reached for the chipped white surface of the vehicle to begin my climb into its shelter, but it was a false hope. The creature (being much faster than I) had finally decided to pounce. It was midnight black and sleek, seeming to blend in with the very air itself. I barely had time to register its attack before it clamped down on my leg, earning a stifled cry from me, its unfortunate prey. It seems the beast had been toying with me, allowing me to feel a glimmer of safety before it assured me that I wasn't out of the woods yet. I began to struggle for my life, wildly kicking out and scrambling for some sort of hold or weapon or anything that could save me. Though initially slender in appearance, thick muscles bulged as the creature yanked at my leg. It was a cruel game of tug-of-war as I fought to hold on to the edge of the plane. The feral foe bared its teeth and pulled at my leg to dislodge me, its unforgiving emerald green eyes locked on me as I struggled. It seemed to be telling me that my time was up, and maybe it was right. But I wasn’t going down without a fight. A growl was all that came of my efforts, then a roar as my foot connected with something hard; playtime was over. Claws raked at my sides, and I felt a sticky warmth trickle down after, a gurgling sickness rising in my throat. My pursuer sunk its teeth in my neck, and a metallic tang was all that was left before my life whisked itself from my body. ... All I could see was black, and a strange language surrounded me as the cold air hit my body. I struggled to open my eyes, soon scrunching them back up as a small wail escaped my throat at the unfamiliarity. Someone shushed me and gently picked me up, slowly rocking me and comforting me. I continued to cry, though I soon tired myself out and clung to the person, still whimpering slightly as I wasn't sure what else to do.

It seemed that I had been given another chance at life, though I didn't know it yet at the time. I was but a newborn child, fresh and reborn to the world with infinite possibilities; I was blessed with a new start. A new beginning.


Ah! It is my favorite time of the year again. I have so longed for the days to fly back to the south, back to my home. I love to feel the wind beneath my wings as I glide through the endless sky. Nothing can stop me. I can float or fly or freely fumble and frolic about the sky. Nothing can slow me down, and I am perfectly free. At least, that is how I feel in the fleeting moment, and who is to tell me otherwise? The exhilaration overcomes my fears, and I am the most glorious being alive. I am on a joyous journey to my favorite place. I am on my way home.  The north is a lovely place and I enjoy my time there, but nothing is lovelier than the glorious springtime of the south. I can just imagine the crisp, warm air as it fills my beak with endless pleasures. But I must say, perhaps the most enjoyable part of this time of year is the journey to the south itself. To fly for miles and miles, noticing the different preparations being made for winter, it is all really exciting. The bird’s eye view of all the funny humans and their interestingly festive holiday celebrations makes for quite a trip. Last year I saw families putting up strange dummies or dolls in their pumpkin patches. I heard someone call it a “scarecrow,” but I can assure you those silly things don’t scare anyone, especially crows. Crows are some of the fiercest and most fearless birds alive. Oh humans are such wickedly delightful creatures. They really are such an enigma with their strange customs, but I thoroughly enjoy them nonetheless. My favorite part of the journey is observing humans, especially the little children.  As I fly over mountains, I see small children gleefully playing in the snow. They build snowmen, have snowball fights, make snow angels, and ride sleds down slippery slopes. I often wonder what it would be like to be one of them. They look so young, innocent, and full of life. They do not have a care in the world. I wonder what it would be like to be so carefree and blissful with that of a child’s innocence. Don’t get me wrong, I love being a bird. I love the freedom to spread my wings and soar over the vast countryside. I love being able to observe all of my surroundings from the most spectacular views! But it can also be difficult and lonely. I must always be observant for other predators, and I don’t always know when my next meal will come. I sometimes fear that the winter storms will catch up to me and I will be stranded in unsafe and unsavory places. Just for one brief moment in time, I would like to know what it is like to be a small human child effortlessly skipping through life.

I see families cutting down trees to build fires for warmth as well as to decorate their homes with Christmas trees. It would be nice to have a family. They look so happy and vibrant. There is not a care in the world when it’s the holidays. I remember when my mate and I used to migrate together. Oh, I miss her so. She was such a kindred spirit, and the way she soared across the sky… She was the most majestic bird I had ever seen. I could never fly as well as she could. She was truly a star. She had the most incredible, most beautiful, most elegant set of wings to grace the sky... I remember earlier this year, when we were flying north to escape the winter in the south... she was so gentle, so kindly, so wonderful. As we soared across the sky, we saw the little children swimming, and playing in the bright, warm sun. She always loved the little human children. She always wanted little baby birds of her own. I told her, “My love this is the year... I’m ready to be a father!” She smiled gleefully at me and proceeded to perform her amazing array of aeronautical acrobatics! She knew how much I loved when she did that. That was her way of saying thank you. But then she swooped several hundred feet below is. I thought “what a wonderful, whimsical lover I have!” But then, she swooped all the way down to the layer of trees beneath us. What happened? I quickly swooped below to see why she decided to land so unexpectedly. But as I flew down beneath the trees, I saw her lying on the muddy Forrest floor. She had been shot. I shed a tear and mourned her, but then I heard the hunters coming. “I think the one I got is over here, Bud!” Those eerily horrifying words made my feathers quake. I did not even have a minute to say goodbye to my beloved. Oh the plans we had! The nest we were soon to build together... all my dreams gone in a single instant.. crushed beneath the cold, dirt ground. Well, I suppose the only joy left in my life now is experiencing through others as I watch them. It reminds me of her... how she so joyously and rhythmically glided through the skies of gold and gray and blue and orange... I will never forget her, and she lives on in my memories. It was her energy. She was the epitome, the total embodiment of perfect ecstasy. I suppose that is why I still enjoy making this pilgrimage. I can absorb all of the holiday joy that I once knew. I can remember the wonderful migrations I made with my love, and how her presence always brought a mystical beauty to the skies. I know her spirit is still with me as I make this journey. I can feel her whispering in my ear that it will all be okay and one day I might know what it feels like to have a family... maybe in this lifetime or maybe in the next. But for now, I must enjoy my time soaring through the skies while absorbing the happiness of others.


There is a girl who lives in two worlds. The first is the real world. Half of her lives there. In this world, she is known as the woman who hardly says anything at all. That’s a lie. She is not known in this world at all. Instead, she is a woman who apologizes to people who bump into her. She is a woman who takes the coffee orders and accepts that her name is not Jessica, but Jennifer to most people. She is a woman who goes home at night alone, knowing that she hasn’t said anything important in over six months. But the other half of her? The other half of her lives in a world that she’s designed. In it, she is not Jennifer, but Jessica. She’s the woman who runs around and saves the day. She’s basically Superman, except she’s Lois Lane because Lois Lane puts in the work and what does Superman have except being the only Kryptonian on Earth? Superman might have superpowers, but he’s alone. Lois Lane has a successful career and she’s happy with the way her life is. But, Jessica always says what she means to people. When somebody bumps into her, she graciously accepts their apologies. She can imagine it in exquisite detail, how somebody will bump into her and then they’ll apologize. They won’t spill her coffee and rush off without so much as a by-your-leave. They’ll even give her a smile, and she’ll go about her day happily as if things couldn’t be better. But, she knows that things can be better. There is some part of her, the one that lives in reality, that understands that this is not what life is meant to be. She understands that life is meant to be celebrated with friends and family. It’s not meant to be lived in her mind, where everything works out exactly as she wants it to. She thinks about the This is Us character, Randall Pearson, and how he constantly imagines a life where both of his dad’s lived. She related to him more than she liked to admit during that episode. As he imagined a life where he got his happily ever after, she could recognize her own happily ever after between the lines. It’s all that she wants, when she thinks about it. A life where everything is happy and she is surrounded by people who know exactly what she means, because she never stutters or misdirects. She’s honest about how she feels, possibly for the first time in her life. This is a fantasy in of itself, and as she drafts this new healthy reality surrounded by remnants of the grim truth, she knows that it isn’t right. But, how do you escape the fantasy without creating a new one? Isn’t that what life is? A hope for better days, ones that you might never see but you cling to with all of your might? She doesn’t consider this for long. Instead, she lives her life, and day after day, she spends it walking to an office that doesn’t know her. She’s not an imposter in her own life. Instead, she is a shadow in her own mind, thinking about all the what if’s and what could’ve been’s, wasting all of her today’s on them. She knows that she’ll wake up one morning full of regrets and knowing that life could’ve been better. Life could’ve been the dream that she’d always pictured it to be, filled with more than just sad fantasies of the idea that somebody who bumps into her will one day apologize instead of her apologizing to them. On one particular day, one particularly gloomy day, she awakens to the idea that it is a brave new world. She steps out onto her doorstep, a brave new world in mind and words that she’ll say strapped to her back. She starts at the coffee shop that she always frequents, the barista named Joe standing behind the counter as he always is. “Hey, Jennifer!” He says. “The usual?” Jessica, she chants in her mind. It’s Jessica, it’s Jessica, it’s- “Yes, please.” The words spill out of her mouth, but she doesn’t let herself get discouraged. It’s just one greeting. It’s one word. Things’ll change. They’ll change. By the time she’s gotten to the end of her day, they haven’t. She throws her purse down at a bar stool in her kitchen, thinking of all the missed opportunities, the Jennifer’s that were passed around instead of the Jessica’s, the times that she wanted to have a coherent conversation with Lily instead of just mumbling her way through like she always does. Nothing’s changed, she thinks, and perhaps nothing will. Years pass by this way. Jessica spends a lifetime trying to correct people, trying to get the words out of herself like a lump in her throat that won’t dislodge itself, and maybe that’s what’s blocking the words or maybe it’s another excuse, like all the excuses she’s so great at making It happens unexpectedly. She’s walking down the busy street she always takes to get to work. Somebody bumps into her, spilling her coffee, and she lets out a shout of surprise. “Sorry!” They shout to her as they run past. “It’s fine,” she says, smiling at them. It doesn’t even occur to her until she’s back in the coffee shop that she’d done such a thing, finally said it’s fine instead of apologizing for something they’d done. “Jennifer, hey!” Joe says, as per usual. “Back again already?”

“It’s actually Jessica,” she says, the words flying from her mouth without any thought from her. An axis shifts as she realizes what has happened. She stares at Joe. He stares back, though the confusion on his face reads clear as day. “Sorry, what?” “Jess-Jessica, that’s-that’s my name,” she tells him. She’s surprised by his reaction, smiling at her. “Well,” he says. “Better late than never, right?” She smiles once more, the world suddenly a much brighter place.


“Who let the dogs out? Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof.” The words whispered through Oshima’s lips. “Can you stop it?” Kelly’s words not as quiet but still in a hushed tone. “Who let the dogs out? Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof.” Kelly just shook her head and watched as Oshima’s mouth curled up at both ends. She never was very fond of Oshima, but she promised James that she would try to be nicer. She didn’t have much choice since James was her best friend and Oshima was his most recent prey. Kelly wasn’t jealous of Oshima as much as she was protective of James. And Oshima was not the first target of James attention, but he had kept her around the longest. “The party was nice the party was – “ Oshima’s words were cut short by a loud booming sound that seemed like it was right beside the two of them. They both froze as they stared at each other. The dislike that Kelly had in her head was gone. All she could think about was how if she sat still enough, she might just turn invisible. The two of them sat motionless for what felt like a hour. While they sat there, Kelly thought about how all of this even happened. It was the day before Halloween when Kelly saw James and Ohsima walking down the hallway at school. She gave James a little smile and a wave as she walked pass the couple. Kelly knew to give James his space while he was with one of his targets. She walked a few steps before she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to see James smiling. “Hey, are you still gonna go with us to that party?” He always asked questions with such energy it was hard for most people to say no to him. Kelly knew him better than most. His charm didn’t have the same effect on her that it had on girls like Oshima. “Yeah, I guess,” Kelly said with a shrug. If for no other reason, Kelly had to be there to keep an eye on James. He could get a little carried away at parties. It was like that since they were eight. They would both go to a birthday party and James would find a way to break something. If it wasn’t another kid’s new toy, it was his own wrist or a window. One way or another, James seemed capable to find something that would take the attention away from the host and put the spotlight on himself. Most of the time, he didn’t even realize that he did anything until it was too late. More recently, he went to a party with a girl named Melody and left with a girl named Heather. The next day he met Oshima and they had been together for the past month. Kelly had a few boyfriends in her past. Most of them were James’s teammates. She would flirt enough and do just enough to get a ride somewhere or a quick meal. But there was only so many times that you can listen to a guy talk about himself or touch you with one of his six arms before it isn’t worth it anymore. She would ignore that jock and he would be feeling up some other poor girl the next weekend.  There was one guy that Kelly would consider a boyfriend, but she would never tell him that. That guy was named Clarence. Clarence was not athletic, popular, or even very cute. But Clarence was putty for Kelly to mold as she saw fit. Not even James knew about Clarence. He was a complete nerd, minus the glasses. He would tell her how much he liked her, and she would make sure he knew that what they had was not like that. It was only for fun and practice. Kelly did like Clarence, but she would tell herself that she needed to keep it open so if another opportunity came along it wouldn’t get in the way. She had gone out with a couple other people while with Clarence, but they would eventually annoy her. When they did, she would go to Clarence to get out a little frustration and then continue with her day. Now here she was, stuck with Oshima in a impromptu stare down. A few seconds had gone by and although she was wanting to think about something happy or pleasant, all that was in her head was that song. “Who let the dogs out?” Kelly whispered the words as softly as she could, and it seemed to break the tension. Oshima cracked another little smile and blinked. Kelly thought to herself, “Ha! I won.” A second later they both looked up and heard little more than the typical sounds of the night. The night sky took Kelly back to the past few hours. It was Devil’s Night, October thirtieth, and there was a party at One of James’s friends. The name Chad, Brad, Brett, Chet, or some other douche name was hosting the party. And judging by the size of the house, he was probably Douche the Third or Douche Junior. Kelly walked up to the house and watched as every player of every sport was easily represented through the windows. She stood at the front door long enough to take in a deep breath, then she went inside. As Kelly walked through the house, she saw a couple guys that she went to first base with, three guys that made it to second, and the one guy who made it to third base. She kept walking through to the back yard and caught sight of James and Oshima. And standing right beside Oshima was Clarence. For a second, Kelly thought about turning around and started to before closing her eyes and heading back to the three most unlikely candidates. Once there, Kelly looked around nervously, pierced her lips, and gave nonverbal greetings, looking like a bobblehead on a bumpy road. “Soooo, how’s it going?” Kelly tried to look at all three of them while asking the question. “Hey, Kell, look who we ran into,” sarcasm was oozing out of James’s words. “I think Clarence here is in one of your classes.” “Oh yeah, I thought he looked familiar.” She tried not to look directly at Clarence, but when she did, a little smile crept onto her face. “How’s it going, Clarence?” Clarence gave a shrug and a crooked smile towards Kelly before turning away and looking into the darkness behind him. James was zoned out on the dance music that was playing through the entire house. Oshima, needing to be the center of attention, entered the conversation in her typical energetic way. “James, I forget something at my house, can you get me a ride? If not, it’s no big deal. I can just walk. It’s just through the cemetery. No big deal. “What?” James responded without looking at her. “I need to grab something from my house, can you at least walk with me?” “Kell, can you go with her? I’m waiting on something.” “I can wait her for your whatever,” Kelly responded with a quickness. “No, I don’t think that would be the best idea.” James started to shake his shoulders as the Baja Men were pumping. Come on James. I need you to go with me,” Oshima said. There was frustration in her voice. She turned and started to head towards the darkness. As she did, Kelly realized that Clarence had left. Clarence lived close to Oshima so Kelly decided to walk with her and take a little detour on the way back to check on Clarence. “Hey, Oshima. Wait up!” And Kelly jogged to catch up with Oshima. The two of them crossed a field that was before the cemetery. When they made it to the edge of the cemetery, Oshima stopped. “Maybe we should just go around,” Oshima said. A tinge of nervousness in her voice. She looked over at Kelly and Kelly glanced at her. If they went around the outside, there would be no way for Kelly to check on Clarence. “Nah, we should just go through,” Kelly had her brave voice on. “If you’re afraid, we could just run all the way across.” “I don’t know, Let’s just go around.” “We can run and I’ll hold your hand.” Kelly meant it as a joke. She never really wanted to make any connection to Oshima, but before Kelly could tell her it was a joke, Oshima grabbed her hand and began to pull her into the graveyard. Kelly wanted to shake her hand loose, but decided that it would be a few minutes of awkwardness and then she could check on Clarence. They bothtried not to step on any of the graces, but one would pull one way, then the other would tug the other way. They almost seemed to take turns stepping clear of the sacred ground as they ran. Then it happened, Kelly pulled one way and Oshima pulled the other way at the same time. Kelly’s foot hit soft ground and caused her to turn awkwardly, pulling Oshima even faster towards her. At the same time, they both began to fall, but instead of landing on someone’s final resting place, they fell in the future resting place of someone more recently departed. Oshima hit the ground hard, but Kelly was lucky and landed on something soft. She was fortunate enough to be the second one in the grave and fell directly on top of Oshima. And even luckier, Oshima was unconscious Kelly pushed herself off of Oshima and went to stand up. Her ankle did not cooperate, and it caused Kelly to fall back against the foot of the grave. Dirt sprinkled down on her head. She jumped and tried to grab hold of the edge of the opening, but the dirt slipped through her fingers. She landed on bother of her feet but the one still didn’t want to stand so she fell against the side wall this time. More dirt fell o her. She put her back against the wall and slid down ito a squat, placing both of her hands into her face. Kelly began to let out a few tears, some from frustration, some from pain. She did not know what she was doing. She was stuck in a hole in the ground with the one person that she never wanted to be alone with. It was another minute of solitude before Oshima came around. She pushed herself up from the ground and sat on the far side of the grave, brushing dirt off the side of her face. “What happened?” Oshima asked while shaking her head for some form of clarity. “I guess we shouldn’t have held hands,” Kelly said with a hint of anger in her voice. “or ran.” It was then that they heard it for the first time. A single pop of a sound. It wasn’t very loud, but it didn’t have to be. They both knew that they were the only people in the cemetery and the softest of sounds from anywhere would have caused the skin to crawl throughout their bodies. “Did you hear that?” Kelly asked. “I think so, but I thought it might have just been inside my head. I can’t get this out of my head.” Oshima said while shaking her head even more vigorously. Then they sat in silence for a few minutes before Oshima broke the silence with her own rendition of Who Let the Dogs Out. After the second loud boom and the Uncomfortable silence that followed, Oshima did the most curious of things. She crawled over the dirt, sat down beside Kelly, and placed one of her arms around Kelly’s shoulder. It was going to be okay. “Let’s try to get out of here.” Oshima had a kind voice that Kelly never noticed, or cared to notice, before. “You’re taller that me, so you should try.” “I did,” Kelly said in frustration. “The dirt was too soft. Plus, I hurt my ankle. I can’t climb out if I tried.” “Well, let me try.” And Oshima stood up and tried to jump, but the result was the same either way. Dirt falling down on them both. “Maybe we could work together,’ Kelly said before she could catch herself and stop. “You can climb up a little higher if you use me as a step. Then you might be able to get out.” Kelly pressed herself into the small side of the grave and Oshima fumbled her feet onto Kelly’s limbs and finally up to her shoulders. Oshima pressed against Kelly’s shoulders with force. It almost made Kelly fall, but Kelly caught herself in time to give Oshima a firm enough base to get her stomach on the edge of the grave. She started to flip her leg onto the grass when Kelly heard a loud high-pitched ting from above her. A second later, Oshima slammed hard against the ground. Kelly jumped up as fast as she could and looked at Oshima before turning to the area above her where Oshima was just a few seconds prior. Kelly saw a shadowy figure standing on the edge of the grave. In one had was a large metal pipe. His other hand tossed a pie tin into the grave that landed on Oshima's back. "Oh ladies," the man's voice was soft and cool. "Usually there is nothing that I like more than apple pie, but it's all gone now. I guess you'll have to do." The last thing that Kelly heard was the ping of the pipe and the thunder that accompanied the lightning that Kelly saw as the man brought the pipe down upon her skull.


Kami finally had some space to himself. His girlfriend Ginny, who would normally be at his place on a weekend like this, but was out of town with some friends. This was somewhat of a rarity for Kami who worked hard during the week in his corporate position for a small tech startup. That is not to say he resented his responsibilities- He was grateful for a loving partner and a job where he could make a real difference but sometimes he simply required room to recharge his batteries. One could say he was a highly social-introvert. With the aroma of freshly poured bourbon in one hand, Kami heard the ding of his micro-wave oven, signalling his popcorn was ready. With his gawky limbs, he took hold of the bag and dispensed its fragrant buttery contents into a large bowl. He then proceeded to his beloved Eames arm chair. He felt around for the television remote and pushed the ‘on’ button. The moment he placed his feet on his leg-rest, there was a loud wrap on his front door.

‘Who could that be?’, Kami muttered to himself. ‘Today was meant to be characterised by uninterrupted, mindless television viewing.’ Placing his snack and beverage down on the coffee table, Kami stood up albeit reluctantly, and made his way, lazily for the door. ‘Who is it?’, he shouted to the uninvited guest outside. ‘Quick, let me in’ the visitor squealed. Kami was by the peep-hole by this time and as he gazed through it, he saw something he wasn’t expecting on his relaxation day. There, through the peep-hole was a middle-aged man who had clearly been beaten and bloodied. His short blond-thinning hair looked more like rust and a gash by his left temple trailed blood to his chin. His white shirt was partially stained with same said blood. For lack of better judgement, Kami released the lock on his door and let the gentleman in. The visitor stumbled in quickly shutting the door behind him. He stood about five-foot-seven and though Kami was at least six inches taller, this gentleman was broader shouldered and brawny. ‘Do you have a back door?’, he loudly demanded. Kami was stunned at first. The man retorted, this time much louder, ‘Do you have a back door?’ Kami finally gave an answer, ‘Yes, it’s this way’. The man again demanded, ‘Lock it now - and any open windows in this place. Now, move!’ This was clearly an urgent situation and it made Kami jump to fulfil the orders immediately. Kami lived in a 1950s mid-century modern conversion bungalow that was surrounded by exterior glass pocket doors. He scrambled to pull them all shut and finally made his way to the study to shut the back door. On his return, the man had a purple-glowing device, the size of a golf ball in his hand as he peered through the peep-hole. Kami was clearly nervous at this point as the initial surge of adrenaline left his body. He asked sheepishly, ‘Can you please tell me what you are doing in my house?’ The gentleman constantly wiped the blood from his eyes with the sleeves of his shirt. ‘You are not going to believe what I’m about to tell you but it’s the best I can do right now. I need you to listen very carefully. My name is Gibson. I’m a special government commissioned spy and I’ve just escaped from the hands of assassins that were hired by an international drug cartel. I’ve been gathering intelligence on them for months and I guess someone found out and blew my cover. A tracking device has been implanted into the back of my skull so in a few minutes the assassins will turn up at the door looking to neutralise me.’ He delivered this introduction in a much calmer fashion to when he first arrived. Kami’s knees began to wobble. ‘Don’t even think about fainting. Here’s what’s going to happen. That black coupe outside is yours? Kami nodded confused. ‘Good, that’s good. Go stand by the back door. When I give you the signal, I need you to run outside and start the car. Wait for me to get in, then I’ll let you know where we’re going.’ Gibson knelt down by the front door, taking the glowing object in his hand, he placed it underneath the runner rug. ‘What’s that?’ Kami asked as his voice quivered. ‘It’s a chronoscope-reconfiguration charge’ replied Gibson. That made no sense to Kami but he gathered it must be an explosive device. Scared, he decided the back door was probably the safest part in the house right now so he headed for it as quickly as possible. His heart was beating at triple time by now and his t-shirt was drenched in nervous sweats. Surely, within minutes there was some loud commotion. Kami could hear the loud screech-to-a-stop of a car at the front of the house. Four car doors were slammed shut and some loud northern European accents could be heard as men shouted menacingly. ‘Gibbs!, let us in. We just want to talk. You have five seconds or we’ll shoot.’ Gibson could see through the peep-hole that only two of them had weapons in their hands. He said nothing as the men tried to push the door down. This was unfruitful as it was a specifically fashioned security door. The men were big, burley and bald. The type that commanded dread wherever they went. One of them rammed the door with his shoulders then his boots to no avail. He then emptied the ammo in his pistol into the door. The second gunned man did the same but they couldn’t get in. One man rushed back to the car and Gibson could tell was was coming next. They were about to ram the car straight into the house. He blurted to Kami, ‘Now, to the car!’ Kami fumbled with the back-door lock for the longest two seconds of his life and finally made his way out. He darted out through the back gate and started his car. He could hear Gibson shouting to the four men, ‘Wait, I’ll surrender myself’. What you’re looking for is in the living room. Come through.’ Next thing, Gibson was by Kami’s car and getting in. Kami had never seen anyone move that fast. ‘Drive’, Gibson exclaimed loudly and urgently. Kami put down his foot on the accelerator and sped down the street. The spy then pulled out a phone from his pocket and punched some numbers in. There was a loud noise behind them and Kami could see a large plume of smoke erupt in his rear-view mirror. He stuttered, ‘You, you blew up my house?’ ‘No, I’ve simply sent your front driveway, house and everyone inside it, back in history 100 years. Your house will be back in one piece in about ten minutes. Stop the car on the side of the road please.’ Kami complied, albeit perplexed at what had just happened. ‘You’ve been very brave,’ continued Gibson ‘here’s my card. Thank you so much.’ He exited the car and bid a completely bemused Kami good-bye. Driving back to his house with so many questions, it had been half an hour since he left. He parked up, entered through the back door, half expecting to be apprehended by the assassins from earlier on, only to hear the door bell ringing and the voice of his girlfriend on the other side of the door. He quickly rushed to let her in, checking for the car, bullet holes in the door or any sign of them. She was tall, with pins for legs and slender shoulders underneath long dark wavy hair. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been ringing for ten minutes. You look so dishevelled. Kami looked down at his hand, at the card Gibson left him. It read,

Odeon Agency -established 2061.

He looked at his girlfriend and just sighed, ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Ginny.’


I hope you’re happy. I still remember when we first met, you know. We were both so young back then. Do you remember? That house was tiny, really, but it felt so big, like a whole world. That first time, it was raining, raining in June. You’d just finished your first year of middle school. The Summer months stretched long and lazy ahead of us, the exciting mundanity of temporary freedom. The rain had put paid to talk of a picnic, a disappointment not easily recovered from. You were playing a telephone game with your sister, when I walked in the door with your dad. He knew my parents, and had brought me to play with his children. When we were introduced, you were entranced, and I, enamoured. We were always together after that. We went to school, played in the shade during recess. You told every teacher about me until they gritted their teeth. Sometimes we were encouraged, but more often than not we were ignored. I miss that house, with the wood panelling and the short-mown lawn. I miss the schools we attended together, the high school where you had your first kiss, the university where you took a creative writing course. We were closest then, in that universe of learning. Now this room is the world, with its flaking yellow paint and wilting buttercups in a little vase. I’m wilting with them, flaking with the paint. I watch the door, hoping you’ll visit, but you never do. If I had a window, maybe I could watch you. Then again, how often would you be passing by? It’s not like there’s anything else for me to see. Maybe you think I’ll be okay in here alone, as if I can live without you. I know you, you’ll justify it, you’ll say, “it’s fine, I can always try tomorrow. Besides, I’ve got so much work to do.” I would agree with you, but there’s only so many tomorrows left. I had a dream not so long ago. If you were here, I’d tell you all about it. Since you aren’t, I’ll tell it to the walls you put me in, to the paper of my soul. I was big and strong and rooted in rich soil, a great green oak spearing the starry night sky. My branches brushed moon-dust, my roots wrapped ‘round diamonds in the deep. I was a tree, and I was your home. You were living in me, you’d made of me a house. You carved rooms through my trunk and hung your happiness from my boughs. We lived and grew, you in me and I with you. Time passed, and we aged, but never did we falter, never did we part. You wrote your tales and I kept the thunder from shaking your hand. You died in me. I was left utterly hollow, but you’d filled me with your memory, and everyone that passed saw in me a monument to you. All took little pieces of me for inspiration, and more trees sprouted. A forest rose, and it was all us everywhere. I woke up when you did. You rolled out of bed and left me here, work calling you away. If only you hadn’t taken that job. I think I knew I was going to die when that happened. You didn’t want to do it. We both knew it would be grey, boring, lifeless. We also knew that you needed the money. It was your dad that convinced you, funnily enough. “You can’t fill your belly with fantasies,” he said. I guess he’s right, but I don’t want him to be. It’s strange to think that the man who introduced us would also break us apart. Y’know, it’s funny that we never talked about this, when you were here. You didn’t notice, and I didn’t want to trouble you. I never said that I was clever. If you were here, now, I’d tell you: I’m dying. There’s so much I should have said. I should have told you to turn down the job, I should have asked you to run away with me, I should have taken your hand and made you leave. Then again, you should have offered. Maybe I’m too harsh on myself, taking all the weight of this blame, this guilt. Who has all the power here, really? Me, dying in a tiny room, forgotten and alone? You hate what you’re doing, you’re bored and depressed, but it’s my fault for being out of reach. You never even tried to come along with me, to see if it would work. They say it’s never too late, but I’m beginning to feel like it is. I remember when you started. You’d stay out late, working those lingering hours, and I’d wait for you to visit. I was still in your life then, still a part of your future. You promised me, again and again, that it would be over soon, that you’d have enough, that you’d quit and we’d run. Every time you said it, we believed you less and less. You had energy then, the vigour of a youthful spirit. Your eyes were as bright as your smile, and you shared both eagerly. Where, then, did those shadows come from, that sooty grimace? When did your eyelids become grim hoods of skin? How could you let the grey sap your senses away? Why is your back so crooked and curled? Who is this person you’ve become? You won’t answer me, but that’s okay. I know that you can’t. Deep down, you’re asking yourself the same questions. Not that it matters. A honey trap holds you, the stickiest of all sweetnesses: comfort. Every day is the same, you wake, you work, you eat, you sleep. I waste away in my yellowing casket, and you forget to even think of me. Comfort has poisoned you. It has devoured your spirit, gulped down your energy, put a tap to your strength, and shriven away your lustre. Yet, still it wants more. From what I’ve seen of you, more it will have. I would save you, but I’ve not even the strength to stand. Your comfort has robbed me, too. I did have hope, that one summer. You had saved up all your vacation days, at last to spend them. A whole month! It was like being a child again. You remembered me, and came to see me. I was weak and wan, but still hopeful. We went for a ride together. There wasn’t much rain that year. The cornfields had grown, but the plants were too dry. I can still see the fields of gold and beige, stretching out to the blue horizon. That bike was a boat, in an ocean of drought. You were so close to being happy. A little smile teased the corners of your mouth, and your eyes twinkled amidst the crow-footed wrinkles. Of course, it had to come to an end. Full of hope as I was, happy as you nearly felt, of course it couldn’t last. A month is just a handful of days, in the end. Days like any other, whether at work or in the vast crop-sea. So you went home, and I stayed in the cornfields for a while. It was nice there. Nothing but the wind, the sky and the stalks. I think that’s where you should have left me. It was a peaceful place to die. But you did pick me up eventually. You rushed back and put me on life support. The year following that trip was probably the hardest time of my meagre existence. You were back at work, but you still toyed around with me, said you still wanted me, said that this time, this time, it was for real. I think the trip rattled you around, because it was uncomfortable. It had been too hot, too hard, too uncertain. Comfort only kills you if you let it. I was still dying, but your scraps of attention just barely kept me going. It was like being trapped in the desert with a rain-cloud floating overhead. When you rained your notice down, I had the briefest relief. But it was never enough to nourish me back to health. Just like the cloud, eventually your attention would dry up. I could scream at the sun, but I’d only waste moisture. You did come back a few times, and for some of those, I wished you hadn’t. You burst into my room one night, disturbing my gentle rotting. You were drunk, and unhappy, and you screamed like an animal. Our conversation was incoherent. You begged for forgiveness, but not from me. You wanted someone to absolve you of the sin of never being who you wanted. Why you had to do this in my wasting chamber, I don’t know. I forgive you, for all that it matters. What choice do I have? If chastising you would save my life, if tormenting you would restore my ailing self, then I would still forgive you. I love you, in the way that only I can. You told me you hated me once. It was in your car on the way to work. Traffic had slowed to snail molasses, and you said, quite coldly, that you hated me. I think vitriol would have been less hurtful. It was so bland, so matter-of-fact. You said it as if it were obvious, as if it should already have occurred to me. Passionate spite was at least warm. I would die a thousand deaths, suffer a thousand hells, before I would hear you say it again. You didn’t love me any more, and I wasted ever faster away. If you held me up to the light, you’d see right through me. Not that you’d hold me. Fear was something of a companion for both of us in those days. Fear of forgetting, of losing each other completely. It was odd, I suppose. Even in your frigid despite, you never really wanted to get rid of me. Do you think that that’s why I’m still here? Eventually you did forget me, or so I thought. Even fear abandoned me then. I was truly alone for the first time. As it turned out, you hadn’t fully forgotten me yet. The last time I saw you, you opened the door gently. Timidly, like it was a first date. You came close, standing and staring. That day, you’d found your father’s old books, and remembered me. The day we’d met had surged to the surface, and you’d come to see me. There was a pen in your hand, ink staining your fingers. You were so old; grey and paper-skinned. Not the old age of the body, but of the soul. I’d never seen you so weary. Still you flirted with me, let the spectre of that old smile play on your tired lips. I think we both knew what was coming. It was over, as much as we might not want it to be. If there’s a place after this ever-shrinking room, then I think I’ll remember what you said forever. You turned to look at me, one last time, and your smile turned wry. I never was all that good, you said. I haven’t seen you since. I don’t want to let hope die, but perhaps it’s time to bury it. Perhaps all I’ve been cradling is a corpse. I’m almost gone myself, at that. So, I suppose this is farewell. Maybe you’ll look in again, and find this decaying dormitory empty. I won’t be here, but perhaps the flowers will be. Wilted, rotten, buttercups, a reminder of childhood nothings and sweet promises whispered in the heights of fantasy. I have, do, and always will love you. I hope you find this note. I hope you find your happiness. I hope you remember your hope, that you think of me sometimes. Probably not though. I’m better off forgotten. After all, I was just a dream.


jiāoqiǎnyánshēn (交浅言深) Chinese, v. - to have a deep and intimate conversation with a stranger. The phone had been ringing nonstop for the past twenty minutes from an unknown number. Even when I denied the call, or put my phone on silent, I couldn’t get it to stop ringing. Despite knowing that this was definitely the first five minutes of a horror movie, I answered it. And as soon as the voice on the other end spoke, I knew who it was.

My birth mother. “Hello?” I called out, and she answered me. I didn’t think she would answer me. Didn’t think she could hear me. Didn’t think she’d listen. “Hello.” She replied, in perfect English. But it wasn’t English. But it wasn’t Mandarin, either. I don’t know what language it was, but it was one that we both knew. That we could both understand. Maybe we were the only two people in the entire world who could truly understand each other.

“Are you really who I think you are?” I asked her, even though I feared the answer as much as I anticipated it.

“Yes.” She answered. Yes, I am your mother. Yes, I’ve been looking for you. Yes, I’ve always missed you. Yes, yes, yes.

Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe, all the oxygen in my lungs having abandoned me. My mother didn’t abandon me. Didn’t want to leave me. Didn’t choose to give me up. That’s what I wanted her to say. I wanted to ask her all the questions I’ve had building up inside of me for the past twenty years. Things that I never dared say aloud, that I’d only allowed myself to dream of during sleepless nights. Things I never thought I’d even have the chance to say. But now that I could, I couldn’t get the words out. They were all tangled up on my tongue and between my teeth. I felt like my jaw had been wired shut, and nothing could pry them out of me. But I so desperately needed to say them. If I didn’t, I would choke on all the things I never said because I wasn’t brave enough. And I’d never let myself digest them, so they’d just sit on my tongue turning rotten. They’d leave a bad taste in my mouth. I took a deep breath, swallowing past the tightness that had wrapped itself around my throat. “Why did you leave me?” I managed to get the words past my lips and out into the open air, where they hung like all the empty space between us. Silence. I couldn’t take back my question, couldn’t have her take me back. It was too late for that. Too late to go back, to before she left me. But now that I’ve said it aloud, I’ve made myself vulnerable to her answer. Made myself visible to her gaze, letting her eyes cut through me and see inside my heart. The heart that has been harbouring all of the unspoken words and broken promises between us for all these years, weighed down by her existence but left empty by her absence.

Because a baby is born into the world expecting someone to be there to hold them, to care for them. To love them. But she had taken the word mother , and turned it into stranger . And I don’t know how to ask her to love me. I don’t know why I asked her a question that I already knew her answer to. I knew why she left me. She couldn’t keep me. It was as simple as that. Still, I asked, because I wanted her to tell me that it wasn’t my fault. Wanted her to tell me that if things were different, she would never have let me go. Wanted her to let me cry and wipe away my tears, to look at me and see herself in my gaze. Wanted her to see me for who I am. Wanted her to choose me. Wanted her to call me hers. Wanted her to hug me and hold me and never let me go. Wanted her to promise that she’d never leave me again.

I wanted and I wanted and I wanted and I never got what I asked for, until I got it all at once. Until I was overwhelmed by her, and all the sadness and grief and hurt she brought. That she came with. I think it is in our nature, to carry loss with us. It was like I’d been living with a cup filled to the brim with water, that I’d been carefully balancing all my life. And I didn’t dare move too quickly—moving forward would make me spill it. So I stayed in one place because I knew that if I spilt even one drop, the rest would come pouring out. I held the glass as tightly as I could, never letting it go or setting it down. Even when holding it hurt me, made my arm go numb, and my body ache. I couldn’t put the glass down because it would easily break. But then she bumped so carelessly into me, making me spill all of my secrets and fears, and now I’m left with the mess that she left behind. That she didn’t bother to clean up. She just walked away. Away from me. She didn’t even apologize. I wanted to hear her say she was sorry. Wanted to hear her say she’s thought about me every day. Wanted to hear her say she never meant to leave me, to hurt me. Wanted, wanted, wanted. Again, I wanted too much. Wanted something and someone that maybe I didn’t deserve. That maybe I didn’t need. I wanted and I needed and she just left me wanting and needing. And now all I can do is feel the s p a c e between us. Because I wanted her to say things I wasn’t ready to hear. I wanted her to say the three words I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear. “I love you.” But she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything at all. The empty air was silent except for the ragged sound of my breath and the harsh pounding of my heart. Her silence was physical, a manifestation of all the loss she left me with. And I could never get back what I had lost, what she took from me. And when I looked down at the phone screen, I realized that we had been disconnected. And I was the only one left still hanging onto the line. I frantically hit the redial button, but all I got was an answering machine telling me that the number was unavailable. Would always be unreachable. Maybe it belonged to someone else entirely. Maybe it had never existed at all.

And when I looked back on the call history, the screen had been wiped clean. We were a blank slate, released from our past lives so we could move on to our new ones. Ones that didn’t have each other in it. It was as if she had never called at all. As if we were never connected in the first place. Because I can’t live carrying this glass of water anymore. It hurts too much. Because my question still hangs in the air, left unanswered. It will always be unanswered. Maybe she didn’t understand me, after all.


Write a story about two people who need each other but are too stubborn to admit it

Stubborn at hear t

We met just right after college. His eyes sparkled like the tiny stars radiating light through the dark sky. His face, long, smooth and incredibly handsome. His smile wavy and definitely sent my heart throbbing. Ours was a love written in the sky, one described in all telenovelas,

Maria De souza meets Fernando Diego,

a love predicted and definitely spat on by our African ancestors as a way to seal the deal but nothing good goes by without predictable and unpredictable challenges. After months of chasing each other, forcefully fighting the feelings bombarding my heart, pushing him away to find love in another woman’s arms and numerous insults every time he spared no time for me; I finally said yes to my love; or so I thought....

“Njuka, mind putting your phone down for one minute?”, I requested. Like always he sneered and moved to the couch near our television set. Miss. Mobile phone had become a constant disturbance of our peace in this house. Everything about Njuka revolved around his phone. The frequent laughter escaping his now ugly mouth had become an irritant to me. But maybe I should say, the fact that I did not know who was making this Luhya man gush and smile so sheepishly was causing me sleepless nights. But he was STUBBORN. So stubborn and prideful that he did not realize he was causing me pain, ignoring my needs and literally being absent and present in my life at the same damn time...However, I was determined, determined to cause him thrice as much anguish he was causing me. Anyone who knows Luhya women know they are the epitome of stubbornness and arrogance. It was time I give him a dose of his own medicine. I had endured years of being talked down to, being embarrassed and not being given attention. Not forgetting the nights, I had to give myself pleasure simply because Njuka no longer found me attractive.

After weeks of not being heard I decided to start my revenge mission. The first strike was not cooking. I smiled thinking of him walking into a house, filled with a mouth-watering aroma but no food to eat. That evening I had marinated my steak, grilled it and gluttonously devoured it with my all-time favorite,

Ugal i and

kachumbari.

Njuka like always walked in, sat at the dining table, said hi without lifting his head to look at me and sat graciously scrolling through his phone waiting for me to run to the kitchen as the good loyal wife and serve him his dinner. Five minutes into sitting at the dinning, his voice roared through the living room, “ Awinja, where is my food? What are you waiting for?”, he asked.

“Ask the women you chat with to bring you dinner, nonsense!”, I roared back. My heart skipped a beat. I do not know what led me to answer him yet all along my plan was to give him a cold war-silent treatment. Njuka stood in disbelief. The African man in him had been awoken. I could see his vein protrude on his forehead, his eyes bloodshot; one would think he was drinking the famous traditional alcohol,

busaa aka chang’aa.

He hastily walked towards my direction, raised his hand and just as he was about to hit me, he paused and stopped in his tracks. I jerked from the chair, pulled his shirt and asked him to beat me now that he badly wanted to lay his hands on me. He then pushed me so hard that I dropped back down on the chair then went to stand near the dining table and started ranting.

He went on and on of how I had changed, how my character was despicable and how I wanted to be the man of the house. My stubborn self-did not back down either, I addressed the disrespect unleashed by his miserable self, the numerous phone calls and texts that stole my joy and the many cold nights I was experiencing as a result of sleeping like we were siblings. Guess what? Nothing was solved. Our stubbornness got the better part of it, infact, it ended with me locking him out of the bedroom, forcing him to sleep on the couch.

The next couple of months went by really slow. Our house was a battlefield. Bottom line, he was doing his own laundry, ironing his own clothes, cooking his own meals and sleeping on the chair every time he got home before me. I on the other hand did not care, or so I thought. I focused on taking care of our two kids once they were back home on holidays. Tiptoeing to the bedroom at 6am before the kids got up became part of our favorite routine. Every day at 6am I would open the bedroom door; he would come back to the room to avoid our eldest son asking questions. Every evening he would come back home in the wee hours of the night to avoid looking our children in their eyes and having that guilty conscience devour him.

Did I miss him? No. Did he miss me, I guess not. Then one time our youngest was sick. My pride could not allow me to call him or inform him we were at the hospital. I packed some few bags, rushed him to hospital and had him admitted. I stayed there for two weeks without receiving a single call from him to even ask where we were. I lost it, I broke down, I wanted to tell the world what a jack ass I was married to.... but my stubborn heart could not allow me to show the world my life was crumbling. The endless questions from my sons why their father was not coming to visit them killed me. It broke my spirit but I always ended the conversation with one statement, ‘daddy traveled out of the country for business, he will come soon.’ End of discussion. I would silently watch couples bringing their kids to hospital, enjoying the sweetness of being married to the right partner and watching their children run around in hospital filled with unexplainable happiness that comes from having a stable family.

Two weeks of camping in hospital with my boys came to an end. When we finally got home, all I wanted was a nice homemade meal, a good bath and some sleep on by big comfortable six by six bed. As the taxi pulled over at our gate, I could hear loud music and booming laughter coming from our house. I shuddered at the thought of walking into a house full of naked women doing whatever naked women do with married men. No sooner had the taxi stopped than my boys ran out of the car, straight into the compound. My efforts to scream their names at the top of my voice were overshadowed by the loud music permeating the air. I quickly paid off the taxi driver, picked our suitcase and ran off after them. Getting into the gate I dropped off the suitcase, jumped the three staircases leading right to the door, hit myself on the flower part hanging by the door and ran straight to the living room. The site of intoxicated men sitting on my white velvet couch, half-dressed ladies shaking their not so visible behinds in my living room and Njuka hugging our boys dressed in a black boxer short, white vest with a cigar oozing smoke out of his ugly mouth made my blood boil. This was going to be a murder case!

“Get out of my house now!’, I screamed. The ladies scrambled picking whatever items they had come with. The men grumpily stood up and slowly started walking towards the door. But I felt like they were wasting my time. So, the wild me ran to the kitchen, picked up a knife and ran back to the living room threatening to kill them. You should have seen those suckers run for their lives with their big potbellies, heavy feet and gigantic bodies almost collapsing from the heavy shaking as a result of the running. I almost laughed but I could not. I was raging! If my boys were not present, I would have stabbed those suckers. At this point my boys were hiding behind their half-naked father, and Njuka was begging me to calm down. I could not stand the sight of this man. Everything about him made want to throw up! How did I fall in love with this clown? I pondered.

“How dare you? How dare you disrespect our matrimonial home like this?”, I asked

“I thought you had left me. You disappeared for two weeks. No one knew where you were, not even your mother! So don’t come here demanding for answers. This is on you!” He roared

“I have spent two weeks in hospital, Jay almost died from an asthma attack! Yet you were here drinking and having sex with hoes?”, I cried

“How was I supposed to know our son was sick? You never called to tell me. You are always acting like I mean nothing to you. You are so stubborn that you do not see you are breaking this family! At my age, 40 years, I cook for myself, clean my clothes and sleep on a couch. I should not have married your silly ass! Damn you woman!,” Njuka shouted.

At this point I had had it. How dare he blame me when he started all this? Leave it to men to cause chaos then blame women for it. This man could not admit he was the reason for everything happening to us. His main aim was to guilty trip me into blaming myself for his own mistakes. I was tired of the games; I was done with this whole conversation. I therefore, held my children's hands, took them to their room, tightly hugged them with hot tears stinging my eyes, promised them that mummy will always be there and went to sleep.

Waking up at around 7pm, I rushed to the kitchen, made the kids their favorite,

pilau  and chicken. As I stared at them eating, I was convinced that I did not need this man. Either way we have been living like this for years and I was doing alright. I promised myself not to cry or bow to the pain I was feeling. I was not going to apologize to this man, neither was I moving out of my house. I was ready for phase two of the games. Who does not like poker?

What once started as a beautiful love story, turned to be an unending horror themed affair. To the heart that once loved, to the minds that once wobbled at the mention of each other’s names, to the playful spirits that jolted every time we deeply gazed into each other's eyes and to our weak bodies that bowed to the splendor of our love making; this is your story, a story of stubborn hearts blinded by pride but deeply filled with love. I could see the pain behind his pride, I could smell his fear of losing me even during our most heated arguments, I could sense he needed me as much as I needed him but I could also see two stubborn hearts that would go to any length to justify their wrongdoings; it was all a competition! And I was not willing to lose.

So, let the games begin!

*Tales of a Kenyan Lady*