He placed his long, bony fingers on the edges of the lid. The container looked like an egg with its top and bottom lopped off. It shone like one of those Hercules beetles you find in rotting ash trees. If you caught one, you could turn it this way and that, and it changed colors in the sunlight. The container would probably do that too, with its streaks of gold in the black lacquer. Mr. Sasaki lifted the lid to reveal a green powder the color of the algae that spreads out on the water between the bald cypress trees in the lake. Setting down the lid, he dipped a long bamboo stick with a scoop end into the matcha powder and dropped two little mounds into a ceramic bowl. Then from the cast-iron kettle he poured steaming water over the powder. My nostrils filled with a smell of the lake in spring. He set a whisk that looked like straw hair standing on end into the bowl and whipped it back and forth, turning the liquid into a bright green froth. We sat on bamboo mats. I’d never sat on a mat before. He picked up the bowl, spinning it twice in his palm then bowed from the waist and sipped. “Now you,” he said, his words light and floaty in the humid winter air, only the slightest trace of accent in his voice. I bowed and held my hands out. But he set the bowl on the floor, nodding for me to pick it up and spin it. As I touched it, warmth spread from my palms to my fingers. “Drink,” he said. “Then wipe the edge with the cloth and hand it back to me.” I did as he said. The green froth tickled my upper lip, tasting like grass, earthy and bitter. I wipe the bowl with neat cloth on the mat. He sipped, and we passed it back and forth. He had to make adjustments to the ceremony in Texas, he said. When we had finished the bowl, he cleaned the implements, putting everything away in its proper place before inviting me to sit at the table. I was glad to be off the floor. I cleared my throat. I came here to find out. He looked at me, his eyes wide with anticipation, like he thought a conversation with a teenage girl would be the most interesting thing he’d ever done. “They say you made a lot of money from the pearls,” I said, instantly regretting starting that way. Everyone said I was too bold. Mr. Sasaki’s eyes crinkled in laughter. He was eighty if he was a day, deep lines running this and way and that all over this face like the bottom of bald cypress roots, just as they go into the water. “I did,” he said. “That’s how I bought this house.” He had a good-sized house right on the water where the Spanish moss swayed in the wind. “I sold the pearls to a big jeweler in New York. I met a tea merchant there. He sends me my tea. Where else could I find it here?” He swept his arms in the air. “And you? Your father also sold a pearl.” “Yeah, but he only made three hundred dollars. It was enough to buy a truck. And made him happy enough to name me Pearl.” We both laughed. “Pearls are a precious thing. In Japan, they are revered, as are the divers who find them. To be named Pearl is an honor.” No one ever thought I was something special just because of my name, or for much else. From that day on, I thought there must a lot to learn from Mr. Sasaki, and I got better at making the tea myself over the next year, visiting him, hearing from him about how he stowed away on an American navy boat in Japan They didn’t kick him off, but made him a cook instead. And when the Admiral he worked for retired in New Orleans, Mr. Sasaki went too, making his way up to the Big Lake to fish. We’ve long used mussels for bait around here, but Mr. Sasaki was the one who found the long pink pearl in his mussel. He was the one who showed the folks who’d grown up here how to look for mussels with your toes, wading into the lake and gripping those suckers in the muck. But it paid off, so even when the government built the dam in 1913 and killed the mussels, he’d already made a sackful of money and helped others to do the same. Then he went to cooking for the oil workers because he didn’t like to be idle, he told me. Everybody liked him, even though nobody’d ever met someone from the East. Well, more East than the piney woods of East Texas, that is. Daddy always said I was an old soul, so I guess he wasn’t surprised when I preferred Mr. Sasaki’s company to the sweaty boys and caddy girls at my school. Our town was as segregated as any other, maybe worse because we had oil and the highfalutin attitudes that went along with it. But somehow they looked past it with Mr. Sasaki, maybe on account of his quiet ways, maybe on account of there being no history there. But probably because he made them money. We plugged along in our town, fishing, swimming, and for me and Mr. Sasaki, drinking tea while he told about the grand wonders of the wide world and I told him about smallness of mine. Things were happening in the rest of the world, and one day he couldn’t seem to smile at all. He was an American citizen now, but part of his heart was in Japan. In the cherry blossoms and the tea ceremonies and little sparks of life that feel like home. Now Japan had started on a dangerous path. Japan had signed a pact with Germany and Italy. Now, in my town, we didn’t seem to care much about what was going on in the rest of the world, but everyone knew Hitler was doing bad things in Europe. Mr. Sasaki had told me about the history of Japan; they even had women emperors. He said the one they had now though was a man and a bad one at that. He was ashamed that Hirohito allied with Hitler. And he was scared, but I couldn’t understand why. Then we were having tea one day in early December. I had gotten really good at the whisking. Mr. Sasaki said the froth was light and airy like a cloud in a painting. He gave really nice compliments, and it always felt like he meant them. I had just brought the bowl to my lips when the door flung open with a bang, swinging and hitting the wall. The sound startled me, and I dropped the bowl. It smashed, lime green tea seeping into the bamboo mat underneath me. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sasaki,” I said. He didn’t seem to hear me. He jumped up and stood rigid in front of the men in the doorway. The men. Men of my town. Men with power. The sheriff, his deputy, and the county judge who lived in the county seat two towns over. Their expressions were set, eyes hard. I stood beside Mr. Sasaki, feeling uneasy and like maybe my presence would stop them from doing whatever they had in their minds to do. “The Japanese have bombed an American naval base in Hawaii,” the sheriff said, emotion pulling at his words. I took Mr. Sasaki’s hand. The only time we had ever touched was if our fingers accidentally grazed during tea. But he gripped my hand right back then. I could feel the old bones and gnarled knuckles under my fingertips. The men, I noticed, saw me do it too, but they didn’t move to stop me. “You should come with us,” said the judge. I squeezed Mr. Sasaki’s hand tighter. If they were gonna take him, they were gonna take me, too. “He hasn’t done anything,” I said, my voice unnaturally high. “We were just having tea. He’s an American now. He hasn’t done anything.” All the law men turned to me. The deputy was my uncle. He took a step toward me. “Now, Pearl, it’s for his own good.” “That’s a lie, Uncle Bobby, and you know it.” “They’re gonna be people out for him, Pearl. We can protect him.” I’d seen how they’d protected citizens of my town, people that didn’t look like them. This town was built on the backs of our Black residents, always had been. Sharecroppers eking out a life while white fat cats sat on their porches drinking whiskey and chewing tobacco. They’d always acted better toward Mr. Sasaki, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t turn on him. Mr. Sasaki squeezed my hand and then released it. Stepping forward, he said, “I’ll go with you.” I grabbed his arm. “No! It’s not fair. Don’t go.” He patted my hand. “Take care of my tea things. Clean up the spill. I’ll be ok.” The law men parted to open the doorway, and Mr. Sasaki stepped through the opening. Uncle Bobby was the last to leave, turning to me. “Get that cleaned up and get on home.” “Uncle Bobby…” His face softened. “I promise, he’s gonna be alright.” He closed the door, and I stood there, tears streaming my cheeks, helpless and hopeless. We listened to the radio that night, and it was all over the news. Daddy said he thought people would start trying to hurt Japanese folks. That was all he said, and it put the fear in me. I woke up early the next day and headed straight to the jailhouse. They kept him in there, but didn’t lock him up. “I told you, it was for his protection,” Uncle Bobby said. “We thought maybe some folk woulda got a wild hair and come to make trouble. But it’s been real quiet.” Mr. Sasaki was smiling, that smile he got when he was real content. It spread wide across, stretching out some wrinkles and squeezing others together. He sat at a table and played cards with the sheriff. It all seemed like a dream. But a few days later, the big lawmen came from Dallas: the Feds. An order had come from Washington that they were to round up all Japanese. It didn’t matter that Mr. Sasaki was an American citizen. In fact, they said even people born here were enemies. I knew Mr. Sasaki loved Japan, but he had served in the U.S. Navy. He loved living here. He’d been here longer than he’d been in Japan. He said Japan was like his mother, but America was his wife, and a child must leave his home to make his family. When the sheriff got word that the Feds were coming, they scuppered Mr. Sasaki off to the judge’s house. I wanted to go too, but Daddy said no. He let me stay at the jailhouse with Uncle Bobby, though. I sat on pins and needles in a chair in the corner. Those big lawmen weren’t so big. One of them was real small, like his fancy trench coat swallowed him up. And by the way he talked, his mind was small too. Well, anyway, the sheriff said they couldn’t take Mr. Sasaki. “It’s not your decision to make, sheriff,” the taller but rounder of the two Feds said. “This is my town, and I say it is.” “We’ll bring the full force of the Federal government down on your head if you don’t surrender the alien traitor.” “He’s neither alien nor traitor.” The Feds couldn’t do much but bluster they’d be back with reinforcements. As soon as they left, the sheriff flopped into a chair and wiped sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. “Bobby, get over to the judge’s. We can’t hold them off forever.” I dashed out after Uncle Bobby, sliding into the passenger seat of the police car. He looked at me as if I had appeared out of thin air. “You can’t come, Pearl. Your Daddy’d kill me.” “He won’t. Drive.” He shook his head, but didn’t say anything else until we pulled up at the judge’s office at the county courthouse. “Mind your manners, Pearl.” “Best behavior,” I said with a smile, though my insides churned. We were shown into his office, possibly the biggest office I’d ever seen. Texas and American flags hung on big stands behind him. Heavy, dark furniture filled the room, and it smelled like old money. Uncle Bobby explained the situation, the judge listening intently, his elbows on the burgundy leather-wrapped arms of his chair and his fingers steepled and resting on his mouth. “Time for the big guns,” he said when Uncle Bobby finished. I didn’t know what that meant, but I’d find out soon. Along with the rest of the town. Uncle Bobby dropped me at old Jeb’s grocery in town, told me to head on back home. I picked up the few things I knew Mama needed and brought them to the counter. Jeb made a note in his ledger so we could settle at the end of the month when Daddy got paid. He set his pen down and put his hands flat on the counter. “Don’t you worry, Pearl. This town won’t let anything happen to him.” I stared at Jeb. He’d never said anything about Mr. Sasaki before, least of all to me. “Thank you, sir,” I wasn’t sure what else to say. “This town looks out for its own.” I nodded and went home. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, sick with worry over Mr. Sasaki. Daddy offered to take me out on the boat on the lake for some fishing, but I didn’t want to. Even Tuck, our old hound dog, seemed restless and uncertain. A frantic knock on the door roused me, made Tuck yelp. Uncle Bobby didn’t wait for an answer and pushed the door open. “Come on,” he said. I looked at Mama and Daddy. They didn’t say anything, and we all followed Uncle Bobby down to the jailhouse. The main street was full of people. Everyone in the town must have been there. I caught sight of Mr. Sasaki on the porch of the jailhouse. He made a small bow in my direction, and I returned it. I shifted my attention to the big black car parked in front. The Feds stood with their arms limp at their sides, waiting like the rest of us. A man stepped out of the big black car, his door opened by his Black driver. He was dressed like something from a magazine, fine looking suit, brimmed-edge hat, and skin so smooth it glowed in the soft December sunlight. With a smile, he pulled that expensive-looking hat off his head. I went closer so I could hear him. The Feds took a step back. “You’ll follow me inside, boys,” the fancy man said, his voice so low it vibrated. To my surprise, they obliged and followed him inside the jailhouse, the sheriff, Uncle Bobby, and the judge following with Mr. Sasaki. I made to go too, but Daddy held me back. “Who is that man?” I asked. “Big Cappy Jones,” he replied, keeping his eye on the jailhouse door. Everyone knew who Big Cappy Jones was, but I’d never seen him. He lived in the big plantation house on the other side of the Lake, the fancy side. He had dozens of sharecroppers working his land and calling him “Big Mister” like nothing had changed in eighty years. What he said around these parts went, no matter the color of your skin. Word was he knew everyone worth knowing, all the way up to the King of England. The whole town stood in the street and on the sidewalk, the winter wind whipping around us like water around river stones. After awhile, the door opened. Big Cappy got in his car and drove away. The Feds didn’t say a word, but their hangdog expressions said enough. The sheriff and judge shook hands, and the judge got in his own car and left. Mr. Sasaki and Uncle Bobby came to us. “They won’t bother him anymore,” Uncle Bobby said. “Would you like to have some tea?” Mr. Sasaki asked. “All of you?” Mama, Daddy, and Uncle Bobby all mumbled excuses about this and that. They liked Mr. Sasaki, but the thought of tea was a step too far. I was over the moon. We sat on the mats, and Mr. Sasaki brought a bowl, one I had never seen before, to replace the one I had broken. It was just as beetle-shiny, but black with water and pearl divers painted in red all around it. He didn’t offer for me to help, but performed every step himself, carefully and with a contented smile on his lips. At last he bowed, offering me the bowl. No one bothered him throughout the long days of the war. Midway through, we could no longer get the powder, as supplies of matcha ran dry with the embargo. He grew herbs in a small garden and ground them up. We kept taking tea until he died, peacefully, in his bed, a year after the war ended. He left a note for me alongside all his tea things. It read only: Musume . Daughter. (Inspired by the true story of Sachihiko Ono Murata.)


*** He only comes back at night, when the moon turns a blind eye to the happenings inside this prison cell which he calls a room. He only comes back at night, and when he does, his mood is unpredictable. Yesterday, he was kind and loving. He asked me what I wanted for dinner even though we both know he doesn't trust me enough to make decisions. He put his arms around me and embraced me as if we had a connection, as if I wasn't trapped in this cell with nowhere to escape and no one to talk to but him. Tonight, he comes back, and he is angry. I know what it's like to live with an angry man like him. My father and he share an uncanny resemblance; and with men, the anger is always on their shoulders, as if they're carrying this invisible weight of difficult emotion like a yoke on their backs. His footsteps are heavy as he approaches the door and types in the passcode on the keypad, and soon his aura overtakes the quiet semblance I've created in the cell while he was away. He's silent as a stone on the edge of a river, but there's a flood inside him. A flood that, against my better judgment, I have an urge to calm. "How was your day?" I ask, deciding to break the agreement we had that I wouldn't speak unless spoken to. When he's angry, I can get away with little things like that as long as I'm catering to him. "Horrible," he says. "I nearly cut off my finger on the machine in the factory." It is now that I notice the white cloth wrapped around his pointer finger. It is stained with crimson. "Let me see," I offer. He knows I don't mean any harm, but he is apprehensive anyway. I don't see a reason for this behavior. It is I who should be apprehensive, having just been greeted by my enraged captor. It is I who should have the right to be on edge, having not seen the light of day in three months and six days. I rely on the lone window on the ceiling of the cell to get me by, but I do not pretend that it is enough. He settles on the loveseat while I sit on the floor at his feet. He unwraps the cloth and I can see a long, deep gash extending from the pad of his finger to the large knuckle. "Don't touch it," he snaps as I reached to cradle his finger in my palm. "I'm sorry." He quirks a brow at me, his mouth pulled into a tense frown. I messed up. I deserve the whip. "I'm sorry, sir, " I correct myself. He grumbles something I cannot hear and stands up, stepping over me and walking over to the kitchen sink where he washes off his finger with water. He does not place a bandage on it. That's my job, and he is angry. So I will suffer watching him suffer, and he will punish me because today he is angry. Like most days of the week, I know that tonight I will make good friends with the whip. *** It has been five months and twelve days since the day I tasted the tape on my mouth and felt the tools in his trunk clash against my body as he drove the red pickup truck. Five months, twelve days, one hour since I made it here to the Room, to the cell, in a location that not even God knows of. If God were here in this place, I wouldn't meet the whip or have bruises on my chest or be greeted with fluctuant acts of kindness and fury by my captor. God is not here, and I am alone. He does not count as company. He is a man. A man with graying hair and a face so pale and sunken in that out of the corner of my eye, he looks like a skeleton. I am a skeleton too. I have not eaten properly in so long, and the grumbles of my stomach have become both white noise to me and a pleasure for him to hear. He likes to watch me suffer. No part of my five months, twelve days, and one hour here has been consensual. I am a skeleton and soon I will disintegrate into the dust that streams through the beams of light granted to me by the Window Above. *** When the police come, it has been twelve months, fifteen days, and seven hours since the cell became my home. When the police come, that thin veil between the real and the metaphorical is shattered like the glass of the Window Above. He lies unconscious under the window and the beams of light shine delicately upon the delicious crimson blood careening from his skull. When the police come, I am a silent mess and reality tastes like a long-lost song, like a word on the tip of your tongue that you just cannot remember. The police lights flash and I am having flashbacks until I remember that it has only been two minutes since I bashed his head in with the help of a fork and my own two fists, so "flashback" is perhaps not the right word. I am simply reflecting on the memories of the cell, the Room, as it has made itself known to me. Fresh air tastes like the jewels on Heaven's gate and perhaps God was here all along and I was simply closed off from him by the man with the traumatic head wound. Trauma is a difficult word, but here, it is appropriate. The police are angels bounding from the gates of heaven and the badges on their uniforms gleam somewhat maliciously because I think to myself, how has it taken them this long to find me? Yes, trauma is certainly an appropriate word because I have left all the pieces of myself back in the Room and as the chilly wind bites at my exposed hands, I realize that I, standing here, having nothing left to my name. All the pieces of myself have been consumed by him and by that malignant Room and even by the Window Above, which is now covered by yellow police tape. They inspect the Room and I cannot help but feel the need to lock myself back in it just for the chance to recover my identity again. Because he made himself my identity. He did so when he put the tape over my mouth and when he drove carelessly so that the tools in his trunk gave me bruises and when he used the whip on my skin and left scars. I carry him with me in every step I take. His actions are permanently marked on my skin, and I cannot move, I cannot move. I killed him, I killed myself and not even the Window Above can show me what it's like to have everything and suddenly have nothing at all. Trauma . They say it like a prayer, with hushed tones and tearful eyes. Their lips taste the tragedy of my situation and I am drowning in it and I can feel the dirt under my hands when I fall. They loom over me, the police, and their badges taunt me like children on a playground. I will never recover from this, never recover from the questions they ask me and what the description of my situation sounds like said aloud. I cannot bear to see the flashes of blue and red lights because the red looks like his blood and oh God, where have you been? What have you done to my reality? ***


          Chocolate Milk Naps  by Eliana Smith

If Beatrice could go back and turn back time, you best believe she would. She would have started at the ripe age of 7. She would have done some things the same like staying at her Grammy's every summer, but some things differently like staying away from the older neighbor boy who knew more about life than she did at the time. She would brush her Grammy's hair more often and hold her papas hand during prayer. She would pet her now deceased dog frequently and play with her dolls only in the afternoon. She would love her mother harder and not be so harsh to her father. She would be kinder to her younger brother and hug him tighter. She would never have chosen that girl over her mother. She would have never picked up that can of alcohol and never drawn blood on purpose. She would have never said ¨i love you¨ to that boy and never have gone to that dance. She would have done a lot of things, if Bea could have turned back time, but if she could do it all over again she would have loved herself more if anything.

Bea grew up in a medium sized house on east 12th street in a small town named Rifle. The town wasn't very exciting, it's depressing, sort of if you don't make the most of it. Everyone there knew everyone even if you didn't you still knew everyone because everyone's name was always in someone's mouth that it didn't belong to. That's why the town sucked, but if you looked hard enough you could find beauty in the hidden gems, the thick forests, the beautiful creeks and rivers, the parks and street lamps at night after everyone has fallen asleep and not even a cricket dared disturb the peace. There was beauty that laid within but only if you ventured out. Bea lived at her Grammy's house in the summer. She would wake up every day at 6am and brave the cool morning air, she would exit her house and feel the crisp wind wrap around her, the breeze of sprinkler water drops coat her skin, and the dewy smell of rain that still lingered on the flowers outside of her medium sized orange house. Bea would get in the car and watch out the window as she passed dead street lamps, stray cats, morning joggers, and tired oil field workers on their way to work from Kum and Go. When she arrived at the end of the drive at her grandmothers she was pleased to see that her Grammy was waiting for her and her little brother on the sidewalk with a humongous grin and welcoming arms. Nothing would ever replace or amount up to seeing her Grammy in such a happy healthy state. Her days consisted of playing in the turtle shaped sandbox with her brother when he wasn't occupied in a wheelchair, eating ice cream and playing board games, but her favorite part was when she got to listen to her Grammy read the children's bible while her and her brother laid on the patched up couch and drank chocolate milk until their bellies filled and their consciousness floated into a deep slumber. After the day had ended and the sun set she would ride home for dinner and wait until grogginess once again took her by surprise and she drifted off to sleep, excited for the next day to come. Looking back now Bea wished as she got older she didn’t get on her phone quite as much at her Grammy's, she wished that she didn’t take advantage of chocolate milk naps and sleep all day, she wished she would have hugged her Grammy tighter and kissed her forehead longer during their farewells in the evenings, she wishes she would have told her more about her day and less about what’s going on, on the internet. Considering that her Grammy is now in her late seventies and diagnosed with dementia and in her final days, Bea wishes she would have spent more time in the gray house holding her Grammy's hand and watching the news. Bea knows she doesn’t have much time left so if she could go back in time and re-do it all she would.  Bea was a straight A student throughout middle school and into high school until the second semester of her freshman year, and that is where her life began to slide down a steep hill. She fell in love with a young boy who was a grade ahead of her. They hung out every weekend, played games and watched movies together, it was a simple yet intense love, tender yet air thinning. Bea had finally found someone she called her best friend. No one tells you how earth rattling teenage love is, until you’ve lost it. She would say that it’s one of the best yet worst things that you could ever experience. After her first breakup, Bea’s world began to feel a little less bright. She knew she had always felt different than all the other children as a child, less happy and more guilty about being alive but she thought she would grow out of it. After the breakup her feelings intensified and her actions grew odd. She had lost her best friend and in place of that empty hole she replaced it with someone knew, A girl best friend. She spent every minute with her, school, the weekends, her nights, everything began to be consumed by this one girl. She began to shift her morals for this friend and her behavior differed greatly from how she normally acted before. In hopes of numbing her pain from other life challenges her friend suggested she tried other things, such as alcohol and self harm. Bea’s world lit up when she realized she could now not only numb her pain but also feel better while doing it. She chose this girl over everyone as she was the only person who made Bea feel like she was “fixed”. Soon the results of her actions stepped in and she faced the consequences of her actions around her friend. Bea and her friend were soon separated from each other and never spoke again. Bea never after picked up another bottle of alcohol as she saw what it did to her family and her mother. But some things you can’t let go of. Addiction is a disease, and not one many can control. It runs thick in your veins and clouds your vision. Bea still drew blood as an act to relieve herself from the pain she felt every day. Years went by until her mother noticed. She felt like a failure after she watched her mother collapse to the ground in tears that ran through Bea’s mind for months after. Nothing would ever replace the bond and trust that her mother once shared with her daughter before that night. Months later in February of 2023 Bea had realized that she couldn’t bare the pain any longer. That night at 11:09pm her family had gotten into a tremendous fight. One where words cut through her like a knife, and the things that were said were ones that drove you to a breaking point. Bea sprinted for an eyebrow razor knowing these were her final moments. After it was done she was tackled to the ground by her father, and 911 was called. When Bea woke up in the hospital from the tears that smothered her throat after the incident, guilt ran through her body and nausea set in. After being treated, Bea got the right help. Diagnosed with Clinical depression and Crippling anxiety, Bea felt like things made more sense. Now it’s January of 2024. Bea sits in an advanced English class writing this story for creative writing, thriving.

Life is not perfect by any means. Life is not gentle, life is not kind, life is not easy, but life is beautiful. It is breathtaking and moving. Life offers so much but you must be willing to accept the challenge and explore what you are offered. Bea learned a lot in her 17 years of life. Bea saw the ups and downs, the twists and turns, the lefts and rights of life, but if Bea could go back in time and do it all over again, you best believe she would. Bea would see herself as more than an object, more than a man's woman, more than a bystander, more than a puzzle piece, more than just another person that walks the planet. If Bea could go back in time and do it all over again she would, and this time, things would be different.


23:10 hours “What on earth is wrong with you?” Lindsay sat up in her bed glaring at the girl lying next to her. “Come on, Lindsay! Its Halloween. We never do anything fun. Just this once. Please?” “Reed, it’s freezing outside. Besides, if braces sees us, you know quite well that she’s going to report us to Ms. Winter.” Braces was an irritable seventeen-year-old who was put in charge of watching the orphanage kids for the day, since Ms. Winter had gone to look after her sick mother. Reed sniffed and turned over. Lindsay sighed. “Sometimes I really can’t tell if you’re two or twelve.” She pulled the covers over her head and shut her eyes. A few minutes later, Reed began to sniffle. Lindsay groaned. “Seriously? You’re going to do this today?” The sniffling became a low wail.  “Oh for God’s sake, shut up!”. The wailing immediately ceased and Lindsay felt terrible. Reed had had a case of measles recently and had to be shut up in the “alone room” for a few weeks. She had missed the monthly ice-cream treat and her birthday celebration ( which Lindsay honestly didn't find that exciting, considering the fact the “celebration” was droning an off-key happy birthday followed by the distribution of a few disgusting, half-molten candies. They did the same exact thing. Every. Single. Year.) She felt kind of sorry for the girl. “You know what Reed? Let’s go.” Lindsay got out of bed and began to pile on some clothes. Reed sat up, wiping her eyes and beaming. “Really?” “Yep. Unless I change my mind, so hurry” 24:30 hours The girls were now crouched behind an old, crumbling headstone. “Okay Reed, we're gonna stay here until sunrise. Just like you asked. Then we’re going straight back to our dorm before anyone even sees that we were gone.” She paused, wrinkling her nose at the creepy array of weirdly shaped stones “Ugh. I don’t know where you get ideas like these.” Reed’s eyes twinkled with glee. “I read it in a book that I borrowed from Jemma. It was about two boys who decided to spend a night in the graveyard. In the end, one of them died.” Suddenly, her face darkened and she fixed her darting green eyes on Lindsay. “Do you really think that ghosts are real, Lin?” Lindsay so badly wanted to say yes and tell her about that one time when she saw a big ugly monster living under Ms. Winter’s bed, ready to gobble up any mean kids, but she knew that if Reed started wailing again, they would be certainly discovered. “Nonsense. When people die, they just become dirt. Like the Bible says.” The answer seemed to satisfy Reed and she settled down a bit. 2:30 hours “Did you hear that Lindsay?” “Hear what?” Lindsay was getting tired now. Her nerves were beginning fray. There seemed to be a stench rising from the wet mud; the smell of rotting leaves and death. It was awful, really. Why had she agreed to this stupid idea in the first place? Reed tugged at Lindsay's sleeve again. “It sounded like someone was crying. They were calling for me. Telling me that they missed me” “Ha ha. Very funny. What next? Are you going to tell me that you saw a woman in a white dress behind me?” “I’m not lying Lin!” She pouted and huddled close next to Lindsay. “Get off me Reed! This was you’re idea. You’re going to have to sit through this.” Then she added, just in case, “And don’t you dare start crying now. You’re such a little baby.” “Am not! Why are you always so mean anyway?” “Me? You’re twelve years old and still believe in ghosts! Anyone would be annoyed!” “I’m not a baby, Lindsay. I’m not. I’m not. I’M NOT!” “Okay shut up! If you’re so brave then, go touch that stone.” Lindsay pointed at a rectangular headstone that was about thirty feet away. “That one?” Reed shuddered. “It’s too- It’s too far” Lindsay smirked. “That’s what I thought.” Her eyes now brimming with tears, Reed got up and brushed the dirt off her slacks. With pretense bravery, she walked towards the headstone. 4:45 hours Two minutes had passed. Five minutes had passed. Ten minutes had passed. “Okay Reed, I get it. You’re not a baby. You can come back now.” Silence. “Reed it’s not funny! Get back now.” Silence again. Perhaps she had fallen down or something? Lindsay made her way towards the headstone. It was so dark that she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. She stumbled over tree roots and pebbles several times. Maybe Reed did fall. Maybe she got hurt. Oh no. This was her fault. She should have never let Reed go there alone. “Reed I am so sorry. Please come back”  Lindsay reached the headstone now, but Reed was nowhere to be seen. “Reed! Reed! Are you lost? Say something. Please” Lindsay was afraid now. Maybe someone had kidnapped her. Maybe she’d run away. What was she going to tell Ms. Winter? What had she done? Suddenly, she saw something. It was a body. She ran towards it and leaned over it. It was lying face down. “Reed? Is that you?” It wasn’t Reed. Reed wasn’t so tall. Reed didn’t have such long fingers. Reed didn’t have such tangled hair. Reed wasn’t wearing a red and white dress… The dress was not red and white. It was just white. The body turned over and sat up. Its eyes were white and hollow. It had no teeth. Lindsay screamed and ran. She ran and she ran until she tripped over a root and hit her head on the edge of a gravestone. Her vision went blurry and something warm and wet began to trickle down her temple. The last thing she saw before she passed out was a set of blurry letters. "R.I.P" “ Reed Winston” “1989-2001” 8:30 hours Lindsay blinked her eyes open. There were bright lights everywhere and there was beeping and yelling and crashing. She heard a voice. It seemed so distant. “Fifteen-year-old female, Lindsay Greene. Mentally unstable. Found with a laceration to her forehead and a broken ankle” “What happened Jim?” “Another one of her delusional episodes. She escaped the Psych hospital across the street and made her way to the graveyard. She was lying there for a few hours before the maintenance guy found her. God knows how she got herself hurt” “Poor thing” Lindsay stirred. “Reed… where is…” A little woman in a white coat leaned over her and smiled. “Hi Lindsay, I’m doctor Williams and I’m going to be taking care of you okay?” “What? No. No! Get off! I need to find Reed!” Lindsay shoved the doctor away and tried to get up. “Honey you need to calm down. You’re safe here.” “No!” Lindsay screamed. “You killed Reed! Where is she!” She felt a pinch in her right arm and suddenly felt sleepy. So very sleepy. “I’m sorry Reed.”


“Remember,” my father advised my 10-year-old self, “when it comes to your grandmother,

you  have to be the parent.” I had never been a parent before. How does a child supervise a 70-year-old? Can I ground her? Take her knitting needles away for a week?

It was like having a younger sibling, not a grandparent. Grandparents are supposed to be loving and want to spoil their grandkids with cookies and candy. Instead, my grandmother, or “Granny D” as we called her, was a toddler with a driver's license.

Bundled under the covers with a fever, fighting off an infection, I stayed home alone from school one day. Her sense of timing was impeccable to just so happen to ring the doorbell on the day someone would be home, unless my parents were feeling a bit feverish themselves and thought it would be a good idea to babysit one another. If so, they were very, very wrong.

With her curly brown grandma perm she carried over her shoulder a colorful, oversized straw bag she went everywhere with because that’s how she snuck in her Chihuahuas, Patty numbers 1, 2, and 3, over the years. (Yes, she numbered and named all of her dogs “Patty”.) As I reluctantly climbed out of bed to open the door, she greeted me with an eccentric, “Hello!”

I turned and headed toward the nearest place to lay down, the sofa, as she followed me in. For a minute you would have thought she was a regular grandma, concerned and wanting to pamper and nurse the sick child. She made a lot of fuss about how she was going to take care of me. But that’s where they get you. They fool you into thinking they’re sane just long enough for you to let your guard down.

She scurried around as though looking for something and then popped out of the kitchen with a spray bottle filled with plain tap water. “Look at all these bugs!” she exclaimed as she went about the room spraying water into the air. “I don’t see any bugs, Granny D,” I replied. “Oh yes, there’s bugs everywhere! Let me get them sprayed and you’ll feel much better!”

Then, as though the water had instantly vaporized all the “bugs” Granny D dropped the bottle and piped up, “I know what you need! Let’s go to the store!” I was really in no shape to be going anywhere and told her that. “Come on,” she insisted, “the fresh air will be good for you!” With my face pressed into the cushion I, again, denied her request.

“I’ll buy you whatever you want!” she coaxed. At that, I decided maybe I could muster a little bit of energy. What would be the harm in a quick trip to the store, maybe get some soup and crackers, maybe a magazine, maybe something a little pricier...

Wearing pajama pants and house shoes I buckled myself into the front seat of her sedan. As she started the car and put it into gear, she looked over at me and grinned. At that, you would've thought she turned into Ms. Frizzle from the “Magic School Bus” just as the school bus magically turns into a rocket ship and the Frizz shouts, “Wahoo!!”

We, too, shot off like a rocket. This was no “Sunday Driving” Granny. She was making up for all those lost years she missed out not getting to be a Formula One driver. As we came to the upcoming red light at the first intersection she slowed down, and then kept right on driving. “Red light!!” I screamed. “Oops! Oh well, there was no one coming,” she laughed.

She did that at every intersection as I clenched my eyes shut and held on for dear life. Fortunately, her destination wasn’t that far away. As she pulled into the parking lot, I realized the “store” she was talking about that would make me feel better and she would buy me whatever I wanted, was in fact, the fabric store. You know, for those knitting needles she needed taken away.

I sat in the car, shivering and laying against the door as she skipped inside, little Patty number whatever tucked quietly inside her purse. She did keep a stash of cookies with her, but it wasn’t to give to her grandkids. She bribed Patty with cookies to get her to keep quiet so no one would know she had her inside a store. Not dog cookies, mind you, homemade people cookies that you would get your hand slapped if you tried to take. No, no, those were Patty’s precious Salted Caramel Chocolate Chip Delights.

I dozed off and startled awake when she returned to the car. “You really missed a good time,” she said, “look at all this yarn I got on sale!” I un-amusedly nodded. “Listen, dear,” she added as she started the car, “when we get back will you show me how to use email?”

I knew immediately that was a bad idea. Granny D didn’t even know how to turn on a computer, let alone use email. I once spent 45 minutes trying to explain to her the concept of scrolling. She couldn’t seem to understand that there was more to the page she couldn’t see, and much like a paper scroll, you had to scroll down the page.

Somehow, we made it home alive. That evening, my parents were furious to discover she had taken me on her outing to get yarn and even managed to miss every single red light and stop sign we came across. How we didn’t get in a wreck or pulled over by police, I’ll never know, but that’s how Granny D went about life, she was invincible.

She had a manic joy about her, and this crazy kind of likeability (or manipulation as my parents called it) that made people do whatever she wanted. She went about life with a carefree attitude, never worrying about what people thought or how she would get by.

Growing up over the years Granny D pulled many more crazy stunts that were usually followed by “vacations” to the hospital because it meant Granny had stopped taking her medications. The doctors would adjust her meds and then release her back out into the world, until she stopped taking them again and she would repeat the process all over again.

My parents didn’t know how to handle her and attempted to have her committed for good, but the doctors insisted that as long as she was stable on her medications and wasn’t going to harm herself or anyone else then she had to be released.

Eventually, Granny D did get her license taken away from her. At least now she couldn’t harm anyone with her car, but she did still find ways to get around. By the time I was grown and Granny D was well into her 80s, my dad received a phone call from a Sheriff’s department in Arkansas. We didn’t know anyone in Arkansas, and it was over 600 miles away.

A farmer had found Granny D in the middle of his wheat field sopping wet and dancing in the pouring rain. With no idea where she got the money, she had hopped a bus for Arkansas to “claim” some land she thought she owned. “She doesn’t own any land in Arkansas,” Dad told the deputy, “We have no ties to Arkansas whatsoever.”

"Well, do you have anyone who can come get her?”

“No, we can’t come get her! Every time someone calls me about her, I always tell them she needs to be committed! Just commit her already!” At that, he hung up the phone.

I felt bad for my grandma. I had been raised and taught the importance of taking care of our elderly. But Granny D had burned all of her bridges. Of all of her kids, grandkids, and even distant relatives, there was no one left to bail her out of trouble anymore. Maybe someone else can help her now, I thought, or maybe now that I’m an adult I can see to it that she gets the care she needs. I can be the one person who doesn’t give up on her. She can live with me and I can make sure she takes her medication regularly. Maybe we can hire a nurse to visit regularly...

My phone rang an unfamiliar tune. Incoming Video Call from: Dolores Dempsey. How the hell did she learn how to video call?! And where did she find a phone or computer?? I remembered my heroic plan to be the person she needed to take care of her until her final days. I placed my finger on the red icon and swiped, then went back to my day.


I shivered at the reflection on my dressing table mirror. I couldn't recognise the person I had become. Trying to hold on to the edges of the table as a quake tore through me forcing my glass of water to move to the rhythm. Trying to hold my lips shut as a loud shriek fought to be released. And what shook me so bad? Memories, too many of them. Some of them I couldn't believe I survived. And the girl looking back at me, she was terrified. The tan on her skin seemed to be slowly fading into the darkness around her. Her pupils shrank to merely a spec floating in the white of her latina eyes. I wished I could hold her and tell her everything would be okay, but I couldn't lie to her. I couldn't tell her to calm down when my own heart was racing. Couldn't sing her to sleep when the only song on lips was that of death and torture and the evil that is... Sex trafficking. Why am I even here? I should be dead with each piece of me buried in different depths of the seven seas. Where my family would never find me. Where clownfish would make my skull a chamber for their eggs. Where I would be at peace. Then came a loud bang at the door. I jumped to my feet and rummaged through the table-top for a weapon. Any weapon. I finally grab hold of a pair of scissors and as the banging persists I curl up into the tightest little ball. It's how I protected myself, even though it barely ever stopped them from hurting me. "Valeria, is everything okay? You're up in five," the voice at the other end tried to calm my nerves," I know you must be panicking, but don't worry. You're going to be okay." It worked. I realised that I was not in a brothel in Amsterdam nor some perverted billionaire's luxury yacht. I was backstage at the New York Amphitheatre. I was supposedly safe and about to give a speech to thousands of young women out there. Tell them the story of how I survived the dark world of sex trafficking. About to make them believe that I made it out whole. But was I ready to lie that I didn't leave a piece of me behind. Was I ready to pretend that the scars had left my soul? Ready to relive it all? "I'll be out there in a minute," I silently muttered as I slowly rose to sit at my table. I locked eyes with her again. She seemed a little calmer, but I could still see the terror painted all over her face. Then I looked down at her lips and there was blood flowing down at both corners. I don't know what came over me, but I felt a burning desire to help her. After all she was me and I was her. I took out my handkerchief and reached out to wipe the sparkling crimson blood off her pretty mellow face. If only I had known... I happened to cut right through the silver. I could feel my hand on her face and a warm tear ran down her blush red cheeks onto my knuckles. Then she grabbed my hand and pulled. She wanted to leave that place, and fast. I resisted as hard as I could but I failed. She pulled me right into the other side of the glass and next thing I knew, I was lying facedown on a cold cold floor. The air caressing me was freezing. The stench of cheap perfume was choking. There was loud drunk chatter outside and deafening jazz music desperately trying to mute the cries of the girl next door. I felt empty and scared. I recognised these two emotions so much, I didn't have to open my eyes to know... I was back at the place I hated the most. The hellhole I was lucky to escape. The place where it all started... I was back home. As my mind raced out of control, trying to snap out of whatever illusion I was trapped inside, I heard a familiar voice. And that's when I was sure that somehow time had reversed itself all the way back to my time in Amsterdam."Valeria, are you in there?" And it was followed by three distinct knocks. "Lorenzo, is that you?" I asked with narrow disbelieving eyes as I crawled to the door. "Yeah, I brought you food," he softly said in the tone I remembered all too well,"I saw the client just leave, so I thought I would check up on you." It was him. But how could it be? He took a bullet to the head right in front of me all those years back. The mafia not only took away my freedom and my innocence, they also took the one thing that kept me sane. But by some heavenly grace, my sanity had returned to me or had I lost it even more? "But... But... But... You're not..." I stammered to tell him he was dead as I unlocked the door slowly just to be sure it was him. "Not allowed to? I know," and he walked in with a tray of sweet smelling somethings," But you know I..." He laid his eyes on me and his face dropped. He put the tray away and knelt to caress my face," What did he do to you?" I looked down at myself and saw I was barely wearing a thing, which was weird because the minute before I was in a glamorous red velvet dress. And I had bruises all over, not to mention the blood flowing down my legs. And I remembered this moment from long ago. A wealthy politician had booked me for the night and tortured me. But after seeing the condition his beatings put me in, he had ran off before finishing his time with me. And as Lorenzo looked into my eyes, holding me and waiting for an answer, I forgot everything about the new life I had made. I forgot that I didn't belong here, that I belong in the present, not this haunted past. That I was pulled in here by the girl in the mirror, I forgot it all. And all I could say was," He hurt me, Lorenzo," as I cried into his muscular arms. He held me tightly in what felt less like a hug and more like him strangling the politician. But it was warm and I felt safe. After a few minutes of peaceful, yet awkward silence, he looked into my eyes again and spoke with his eyes red," They will never lay a finger on you again, we leave tonight." As I said, in that moment, I forgot everything that was to happen after that. In that moment, I forgot what I needed to remember. I was back to being that blank little teenager, full of hope and fear at the same time. All I could feel was how badly I wanted to leave, so I mistakenly uttered the same words I did so long ago," I can't take it anymore, baby, let's leave all this terror behind, but tonight? There's the grand anniversary tonight, how will we even leave?".

"Don't worry, I've got everything planned and the three of us are leaving tonight." "Who's the third?" "My buddy, Rancho, he's sick of this place too." "Are you sure we can trust him? He is the matron's right hand man after all." "The matron treats him like crap and he wants to leave this dirty world as much as we do." He sounded sure of his friend's loyalty to him saw I just kept quiet and looked into his blue eyes. I saw the tender love and care in them and just as had happened long before, I planted a deep kiss on his lips. A kiss of hope. A kiss that could say more than my lips alone ever could. I love you, I trust you and I want you to carry me home. One thing led to the other and he lifted me off the floor, placed sweet tingly kisses down my neck and placed me on my bed. Now we were lying down nose to nose after intense making out. He felt my fingers trailing down his pants, but considering my state, he stopped me and asked," Are you sure? You're hurt. Do you really want to do this?" I nodded yes and the rest was history. For a few glorious heartbeats, I was part of him, and he of me. He would look into my eyes and gently hold me as we made love. He was always careful not to hurt me like clients usually did. I swear the way he did it was simply divine. His movement had a rhythm to it and I enjoyed every part of the symphony. It was like watching a great artist paint, but instead of Da Vinci, it was him and I was his Mona Lisa. He tilted his brush at just the right angle and used only the finest of paints. He occasionally reduced his speed just to make sure his brushwork was beyond standard. And as he approached the climax of his masterpiece, he would stroke his brush with gradually increasing vigor and in a blissful blink, he was done. He would moan only at the end, loud enough to tell me I was sweet, but quiet enough to keep us from getting caught. He kissed me, and I, not knowing that this was his last time entangled in my sheets and resting between my legs, whispered," When can we do this again?" And he whispered back," When we're free, my love, when we're free." And another one of his life giving kisses landed on my lips. His hands were back around my waist and I could feel him regaining arousal. I couldn't complain when I wanted the same thing over and over again. I hung my legs on his broad alluring shoulders and he kissed both legs all the way down... But in the middle of paradise, I heard a voice in the hallway. A voice that still brings all the nightmares back, it was the matron." Lorenzo, Lorenzo," he looked up at me with his face all wet," it's the matron, hide!" And he erupted from the bed into the closet. I quickly threw his clothes under the bed and sat there, nervously anticipating her entry. And without a knock she burst in like she owns the place and in her defense, she did. "Hello, my pretty American," she spoke in her sickening Southern French accent," Have you been a good girl today?" I looked down and nodded. "Get dolled up because tonight, you're performing and all eyes will be on you!" And she left, banging the door as she walked out. Lorenzo broke out from the closet in only his briefs. He gave me a confused look and ordered,"You can't perform tonight!" "If I don't they'll kill me," I said under my breath as I pulled my rough thin blanket as if to hide myself. "Don't you get it, Val?" He said as he paced around the room," This ruins everything, baby. I only want the two of us to be free and start a family somewhere out there." Then he came onto the bed and crawled closer. He held my face in both his hands gently and said in a calming tone," Am doing this for us. You can't perform." And I looked away, I couldn't give him an answer. The matter at hand was beyond me. And I thought it over, an escape plan with half a chance of success or my life. I made the same mistake I made so many years ago and I chose... My life. It was time for my performance. As I walked to the pole I spotted him in the midst of the many of the repulsive perverts that frequented this hellhole. That was an undying quality of his, he was a diamond in the rough. I quickly broke eye contact with him as I could not bear to see the disappointment in his eyes. And like I was told to do, I danced my heart out like every other night before that. When you're forced to do something for two whole years, it kinda grows on you. A bullet was fired and I fell from the pole. I wasn't shot, but the sound startled me. Everyone was running every which way and I tried to spot Lorenzo again, but he seemed to have blended into the thick crowd of expensive suits and ties. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder and I looked back, it was him. "Take my hand, let's go," and we ran through the crowd. He took me to an emergency exit and we were out of the building. But all of the sudden, we stopped. I looked at him and asked," Why are we stopping?" "Rancho, he was supposed to bring a car," he said. "That won't be happening, Lorenzo," Rancho said as he came up from behind us. We slowly turned back and were met with guns pointed at our faces. Rancho was with her, the matron. She was pointing her gun at me with an evil old hag smirk on her wrinkly face," You thought you could run from me that easily? Well, as we say in France, think again. On your knees, you fools!" "Rancho, brother, put down your gun, please," Lorenzo pleaded as we slowly went down on our knees. But as he spoke to Rancho, he slowly slid a gun into the back of my lingerie. I figured, he was the one who fired the bullet as a distraction. I didn't resist and I adjusted my waist so it would not fall out. Stripper lingerie can be really disappointing at times. "Hands where I can see them," Rancho yelled at him as he went closer to my love. "And you, Valeria. I trusted you," the matron said as she put her gun away," You are our most seductive and celebrated dancer and that isn't enough for you? Once Rancho blows your lover's brains out, I'll have him torture you the same way your favourite client does." She was referring to the visitor from earlier on. The was a frequent at this brothel and he was merciless. But I didn't care about that, I couldn't let them take my Lorenzo's life. So in that second I made the another deadly mistake. One that bought me back my freedom, at a hefty price. I took out the gun from behind me and shot at Rancho. I had never held a gun before so the bullet only scratched his arm. But he was down for a second so I, at lightning speed, pushed the matron away, grabbed Lorenzo and ran. It was while we were running for our lives that I heard another gunshot. I looked back and saw him fall to the ground. Nevertheless, I kept running, tears running down my cheeks, but still running. Rancho and the matron tried to shot me, but I managed to escape. I got to a hidden alley and I stopped to rest. My breathing was out of control and my head was spinning. I was sobbing my eyes out and then in a fit of rage shot at the wall in front of me and I screamed," Lorenzo!!!" Then all I saw was black. I opened my eyes and found three figures looking down at me. My manager,Laura, my sister, Vanessa and my mom. I was in my dressing room again. "Valeria, are you okay?" Laura asked," what happened? your speech is in a minute." "How can you ask about her speech when you can see the condition she's in?" My mother scolded Laura," she's not doing it!" I was glad I was back and as mother scolded Laura, I drifted away in thought and realised I had a lot to be grateful for. I was still alive and about to tell my survival story to millions of young girls. I was about to tell them how to protect themselves from the same, about to give them hope and affirm to them that being a girl wasn't a crime. That the people who do these sorts of things to girls must and will pay. I was an inspiration and regardless of my past demons, I had the power to save so many other souls. And I felt my previous anxiety fade. I was ready. I sat up and said to my mom," Don't worry, mima. I'll be okay." And kissed her on the cheek and stood. As I walked on to the stage, the crowd went wild. I gave a brief smile at their supportive affection for me and I began," If you told me five years ago, that I would be standing here in front of all of you lovely people, I'd have slapped you crazy." And they all giggled. "Because I lost all hope, I lost myself. But now, God has given me back what the devils tried to steal, my life and my happiness." "Just a few minutes before now, I didn't know if this speech was actually going to happen, but I was reminded of how much I had to be thankful for." "That is why I stand before you tonight, to tell you a story. Not just any story," I said to intrigue them as I walked across the stage," the story of how I fell into the lion's den. Of how I suffered, then in the middle of that suffering got delivered and how I found a love that went as fast as it came." "A story that doesn't deserve any other beginning than... Once Upon A Nightmare."


Nadia has always seen things that others couldn’t. Her parents were on board with her imaginary friends until she started school, where the teachers were concerned about just how vivid and detailed Nadia’s visions were getting. She learned to tamp it down, to conceal the things she saw. When she saw a man in what looked like a toga sailing an ancient-looking sailboat in the harbor, she turned the other way. Once, she opened her fridge and found a shrunken head sitting on the top shelf, perched on a tub of hummus. She simply closed the door and pushed the sight from her mind.

The image that proved too difficult to forget, though, was one she’d only started seeing when she moved out and started college.

A beautiful woman, wearing a dress of vibrant olive green that flowed like the curves of an ancient statue over her robust hips and full abdomen. Her plump arms were adorned with thick gold wires coiling from wrist to shoulder like a gilded snake. A wreath of green foliage rested upon her head, among wild chocolate curls. Nadia saw this woman every day since leaving home and living alone. Always in a different place, perched in a rocking chair in the living room, standing next to the clerk at the local deli as she ordered lunch, even in the exam room during doctor’s visits.

Her visions were ever-changing, with the exception of the woman. Sometimes she would just notice someone out of place from the corner of her eye. This was easier to ignore, and made it less complicated to feign normalcy. Of course she wasn’t seeing people and things that weren’t actually there, Nadia told herself. She expended most of her energy pretending to be perfectly ordinary. But Sasmoae knew that Nadia was anything but ordinary. - Sasmoae was rumored to be older than time. A nasty bit of scuttle-butt undoubtedly spread around by Umuesoci, that hopeless gossip. Sasmoae was a Watcher for only about 500 years, thank you very much. A mere fleeting moment, a simple blip compared to some of the other Watchers who weren't far from celebrating their first millennium. Sasmoae was born from the ashes of a grove of olive trees. The trees had been struck by one of the Ancients: Lovtluota. Lovtluota was tired of witnessing the horror and atrocity that the humans inflicted upon each other. She was so heartbroken by it, in fact, that she gathered the other Ancients to do something to punish the mortals. Together, they burned down the olive trees, and from the ashes they formed the Watchers, including Sasmoae. The Watchers were tasked with protecting the Voshriie, a special group of gifted mortals who would one day save humankind from themselves.

Or at least that’s what some lengthy prophecy said. Sasmoae never had gotten around to actually reading the darn thing. But she knew the gist. The Voshriie were the only humans allowed to see the Watchers in their personified forms, though Sasmoae and the others like her were forbidden from initiating any interaction with humans, Voshriie or otherwise.

Nadia didn’t know any of this though. If you asked her what a watcher was, she’d scratch her head, maybe pull out a dictionary to recite the exact definition. Sasmoae loved to watch Nadia commuting to work on her bicycle. She loved watching the corners of her mouth twitch upward at the smell of freshly baked bread or a newly opened bottle of good wine. Fear used to flicker in Nadia’s eyes when she caught sight of the Watcher. The fear dwindled as the years went by, until all that was left was a vague sort of recognition. As if to say “Ah yes, there you are. There you always are.” She yearned for conversation, interaction, anything but lurking in corners watching the world, and Nadia, go by. One day, a day like any other, Nadia was commuting home from work on foot. After a break in several days of relentless midwestern rainstorms, Detroit was finally experiencing a beautiful spring day. Nadia had decided to forgo her bike, favoring a nice walk with the sun warming her face. She even took off her cardigan to expose her pale shoulders, hoping to get lucky and capture a little tan. But Nadia didn't see him yet. She didn't see him standing in the shadows of an alley, leaning against a dumpster, and watching her. - Sasmoae saw him before Nadia did. In fact, she wasn't sure if Nadia saw him at all. She would have recognized Drur anywhere. It was uncharacteristic of him to be without at least a few members of his army of Irondemons, but there he was. Sasmoae could sense Drur’s hunger before she saw him, balancing on a cane, wearing dated but nonetheless modern clothes: a plaid button-up, moth-bitten beige sweater vest, and too-big slacks. His telltale sunken eyes and veiny reptilian skin caught Sasmoae’s eye. He craved the soul of a Voshriie, and would do just about anything to lead one down to his hidden corner of the Netherworld. Drur was a diety of trickery and deceit. His ideal night on the town included coming up from the Nether, crafting a disguise, and trancing through mortal towns wreaking havoc, getting all sorts of humans into all sorts of trouble. He and his kind had been the reason Lovtluota and the Ancients created the Watchers in the first place. Drur was everything bad about the universe; he was every awful thing any human had ever done.

And he stood a block and a half in front of Nadia. - The man standing next to the dumpster hadn't been there two seconds earlier, Nadia realized. She directed her eyes to the pavement, keeping track of the cracks in the sidewalk instead of the hallucination she wished nothing more than to be free of. She dared to glance around the quiet street again. The sun was going down, and the streetlights had just flickered on. The street was empty except for the man by the dumpster who wasn't really there. He's not really there , she told herself. I'm alone. I'm alone. She wondered how many of her friends muttered those words as a way to make themselves feel better. Who in their right mind would long to be alone? - Nadia was ignoring Drur, so Sasmoae pushed the boundaries of what she was allowed to do with the mortal present. Still not speaking, since such a thing was strictly forbidden, she sped up to match Nadia’s pace and looked over, desperate to meet her gaze. When Nadia finally noticed her would-be guardian angel, someone she'd seen every day for years, the angelic face that she was so accustomed to seeing was contorted, frenzied, and ghost-white. Nadia looked away, and she wore neither fear nor dismissal upon her face. Annoyance. Oh , Sasmoae thought, frantic, that won't do. Drur was moving closer, and Nadia was ignoring him. So Sasmoae had no choice. "You're not alone," she hissed. Nadia's attention darted to the Watcher, who cut her eyes to gesture toward Drur and said once more, maybe because it was necessary and maybe because it just felt nice to speak to someone, "We're not alone." She grabbed Nadia by the arm, and they started running.


“Good day pretty girl. I’m Emeka. I’m a graduate of Abia State Polytechnic, Aba. I studied Business Administration. I’m managing a petty business for now. I like you. I have been seeing you around this neighbourhood. Can we become friends?” Emeka was after her beauty. “I’m Ezinne but you call me Ezy-mummy. I’m a HND final student, studying Mass Communication in Federal Polytechnic Nekede, Owerri. That’s all I can say to you. And for your information, we can’t be friends.” Ezinne harshly replied. Emeka was not the kind man she needed. She needed a rich man. “Alright, can I check on you tomorrow.” Emeka asked. “For what? What business do we have that would warrant meeting each other next time?” Ezinne asked. “Today can’t be a bad luck to me. How can this guy ask me for friendship, what does he have? Oh my God, I wished I had slapped him so that next time he won’t approach a damsel like me! He doesn’t have money but wants good thing, rubbish...” Ezinne mocked him. Without a breathing space, Ezinne chased Emeka away, and warned him never to approach her again. After two weeks, another spinning occurred. “Hi, call me Danny Boy but my parents named me Daniel. I can’t tell you my surname for now because my family has a big name as our personality counts. I’d rather keep it a secret than air it and get myself into trouble. My dad inherited his wealth from his late father, though he is not the only surviving male child of his late father. He has three brothers and a sister; they are five great children born to his parents. My dad’s mother is in her late 70’s, and lives with her first daughter in Los Angeles, United States. I’m a businessman, fortified by my father’s wealth and connections. If you don’t mind, can we become friends?” Ezinne was sitting under a big tree near the school library in Federal Polytechnic Nekede, Owerri with few of her girlfriends. Daniel visited his friend in the campus. He was moving around the campus, and was appreciating the environment. He moved near the library where he found Ezinne and her friends. “I’m Ezinne but you can call me Ezy-baby. I’m a HND final student, studying Mass Communication. Well, I’m not used to long conversation with strangers. My mom warned me to stay far from strangers, especially men. We can’t be friends because you’re a stranger and moreover, my final exams are fast approaching. I wouldn’t need any distraction.” She was saying all that to interest Daniel and make him see her as a responsible lady. “Don’t mind her, you can take her phone number and call later. She always pretends. I’m Chioma. Ezinne is my close friend, and I’ve known her lifestyles for years. Give me your phone number.” Chioma collected Daniel’s phone and typed in Ezinne’s phone number. “Thank you so much, I will call later.” Daniel said and left. “Let me save this number now, I have at least collected numbers from four girls in this campus today. I must have them to myself.” Daniel was talking to himself. Daniel is from a wealthy family and spends half of his life jumping from one lady to another. Ezinne was interested in Daniel but pretended, she thought that he was real. She wanted Daniel’s because he’s from a wealthy family. Emeka admired Ezinne because he has been seeing her in their neighbourhood. He weren’t approaching her for friendship; he was searching for a wife. Daniel on his own part was interested in her just to have access to her body. Later in the day, Daniel gave Ezinne a call and discuss with her over the phone. They agreed to become friends, and a new dawn was set. “Baby you’re a pretty woman. I would always want you beside me.” Danny Boy appreciated her beauty with a promise. “Thanks baby, I trust you. I’m always here for you.” Ezinne reacted. Along the line, Ezinne and Daniel went deep in a relationship. Ezinne’s love was on money while Daniel’s was on her body! They couldn’t last because Ezinne was after money and Daniel, after her body. There was no definition to their relationship. It couldn’t mature to marriage. Danny Boy achieved his aim likewise Ezy-mummy. A time came when Daniel became tired of her and set out to dispose her, he began to misbehave. “I’ve gotten what I needed from her. She doesn’t attract me any longer. I will ban her from visiting me.” Daniel was talking to himself. When Ezinne had found out that he was not assisting her anymore, she began to give excuses when it comes to sex. Formerly, she always begs for sex, because there was money. Emeka finally found a good woman, enjoys a good relationship with her, and she happened to be Chioma, Ezinne’s best friend. She was searching for a partner who has future. She needed love and understanding, and not after money or material things. “Sweetheart, I accepted you because I see future in you. I always feel relaxed and loved whenever you’re beside me.” Chioma confessed. “My baby, thanks for your kind words. Our future is secured in God. I love you so much. You have what I needed in a woman.” Emeka reciprocated. “I love you too.” Chioma replied. Ezinne has been used and dumped after a year and five months. She was not aware of Chioma’s affair with Emeka until a fateful day when Chioma and Emeka went for jugging near the polytechnic’s field. “Hey guy, can’t you hear me?” Ezinne tried to draw Emeka’s attention. Chioma was behind and stays far from Emeka, but stopped when she saw Ezinne. “Hi babe, it’s nice to see you again. How is Danny Boy?” Chioma asked. “Babe please, don’t even mention that name again! Can you imagine that that fool dumped me after we dated for a year and five months?” Ezinne bitterly cautioned Chioma. Ezinne bitterly explained all that had happened to Chioma. “Hey baby, what’s that?” Emeka voice echoed from afar enquiring to know why Chioma had stopped. “Sweetheart, I’m with an old friend, will catch you up soon!” Chioma replied. “Who is that guy?” Ezinne asked. “It’s my boyfriend. He’s a good guy, and we have dated for six months now.” Chioma replied. “Oh my God, I’m happy for you babe. You’d finally found your missing rib.” Ezinne complemented Chioma. After a while, Emeka draw closer to check on Chioma, there he saw Ezinne. “What are you doing with my baby? So you want to discourage her from loving me just as you had insulted and rejected me? Please stay far from my fiancée.” Emeka angrily shunned Ezinne. Unable to control her tears, Ezinne left them and headed near the library where Daniel first met her. Chioma was upset with Emeka’s reaction towards her friend. Emeka later explained to Chioma what had transpired between them. Chioma later went to her and consoled her, her friendship with her didn’t end. Emeka and Chioma got married after eight months. Finally, Emeka got good a job in the Federal Ministry of Internal Revenue.


Look at me! ***This story contains some sensitive topics which include mental health & suicide mentioned. Tabitha had always loved to be the center of attention. Oftentimes, she’d fake illness or injury in order to get people to talk to her. She loved it when people would stare at her. She didn’t care if it was because of being proud of her, pity or even shock. If people were giving her undivided attention, she would say and do anything. So, naturally, she enjoyed gossip. True or not, she’d spread things around much like a forest fire spreads. If Tabitha knew something, everybody knew it.               At one time, Tabitha made up a rumor about Chase Wheeler. Chase was already very depressed for someone of his age. He was a junior, halfway through the year. All the students were just coming back to school from holiday vacation. After about 3 days of being back, Tabitha realized she was becoming a bore. Nobody cared about anything she had to say, because she had nothing new to say. A while back she had heard (and spread) a rumor that Chase Wheeler was in counseling for an essay that he submitted to his language arts teacher. Of course, that little tidbit of information wasn’t interesting enough for Tabitha to get that look of sudden shock. So, she added a little bit of “in-between the line” information. She wasn’t sure if it was the reason behind why he was in counseling or not, but she told people he’d written an account about how he would commit suicide. Unfortunately for Chase, this was half true. He had written a short story about a character who killed himself. It wasn’t a plan for his suicide, but the story was enough to make his teacher raise his eyebrows and wonder about Chase’s mental wellbeing. Next thing he knew, Chase was supposed to see the school counselor once a week. Because of how close Tabitha’s rumor was to the truth, nobody would hang around Chase anymore. They were all afraid they’d say something to cause him to end his life & nobody wanted to be the guilty party. He was lonelier now than he’d ever been. This only encouraged suicidal ideations to grow, much like cancer. He had imagined just about every way to end his life. His mom’s oxy mixed with some vodka resting in a dusty bottle on the back of his fridge, a straight razor that he’d slice horizontally down his arm, sitting in the garage with the door closed and the car on, & even just climbing underneath his bed & using his dad’s beretta. Every day, it was harder and harder for Chase to get up and face the day. After a few weeks, people began to warm back up to Chase and he was a little happier. Still depressed, but not as far gone as he was. Tabitha had already spun just about every story she could. Nobody really told her anything before the holidays, because everybody knew she couldn’t keep anything to herself. People still talked to her, but she didn’t get that look of interest anymore. Nobody stopped what they were doing to look at her with their mouths slightly ajar and their eyes a little bit wider. That satisfying look of somebody hanging onto your every word, just because they need to know what happened next. Tabitha decided to take matters into her own hands & made the decision to spread a complete lie. She had crafted it ever so perfectly. “School shooting”, she thought to herself. She was filled with a warm feeling, knowing this was the best rumor to spread. People would absolutely believe her, because who wouldn’t believe someone was threatening to shoot a school up in America? And who would be the bloodthirsty maniac preparing to wield a gun up and down the hallways & shoot everybody who he blamed for his problems? Why, Chase Wheeler. Who else could fit such a perfect storyline? In Tabitha’s mind, Chase was already depressed, so it wouldn’t be a big twist to say that he was planning to shoot the school up. “I mean, it’s not like we don’t know if he is going to shoot up the school. For all we know, he could have a plan to do it anyway.” Tabitha justified her reasoning to herself. It was settled, she was going to tell people that Chase Wheeler was planning to shoot the school up. She’ll say she saw him scribble down the date in his notebook during her class with him, which was language arts. It was already Wednesday, so she’d decided to wait until Monday to initiate her plan. The week had come to an end & Tabitha’s exhilaration grew as Monday came closer. Monday was finally there. Tabitha decided to tell people right after first period. She was going to tell people he had planned to come into the school on Thursday, prepared to shoot their classmates. After first period, which was her class with Chase, she walked up to a group of people filled with 2 girls & 3 guys. She walked into the group as they were buzzing about the spring formal & who they were going to go with. “Oh my God” Tabitha uttered, with a petrified look on her face. The group silenced their discussion & looked straight at Tabitha. “What is it?” Some of them muttered, a little bit afraid to hear the answer. The last rumor they had heard from her was about Chase being suicidal. So, they were all prepared to believe whatever she threw at them. “I just came out of class with Chase & I’m not sure if I should tell the counselor or not.” The students stared at her, expectingly, wanting her to spill the beans. She took a breath and sputtered out, “Chase wrote that he is going to bring a gun to school on Thursday and shoot people.”. Everybody stared at her with giant eyes, their faces filled with terror. “We need to tell someone. Now” Said one of the boys in the group, Billy Colton. And with that, Billy was headed to the direction of the counselor’s office. Tabitha chewed her nails, a little bit afraid she’d be found out. Her plan was foolproof though; nobody could prove that he wasn’t planning to shoot up the school. The other students in the group were petrified and began to talk amongst themselves about how scary the whole situation was. The bell rang for second period & everybody scattered off to their next class. The fire had started. By the end of the day, everybody in the school knew about the fake school shooting supposedly happening on Thursday. Everybody had heard the rumors, except for Chase. He usually sat slumped in the back of his classes, headphones on & shutting the world out. The whole school kept a six-foot radius away from Chase, just in case he would pull out a gun and shoot them earlier than scheduled. The only thing in Chase’s bag was a water bottle filled up a fourth of the way, the room temperature liquid sloshing around as he moved from class to class.  He went home that day none the wiser. The rumor had marinated overnight & all the students came in on Tuesday morning determined to shed light on Chase’s plan to kill them all. Half of the students were lined up at the counselor’s office & the other half were having discussions with the teachers about their fears. Tabitha walked in, the only one aware that her rumor wasn’t the actual truth. She looked down at the floor as she walked past all the chattering and headed to the bathroom. She was prepared to sit in a stall until the first period bell rang. As she waited for the bell to ring, she read all of the chicken scratches and graffiti plastered all over the insides of the stall. There were boy’s names with hearts next to them, phone numbers & gum wrappers glued to the wall by chewed gum. Finally, the bell rang and Tabitha all but sprinted to first period. As she sat down in her seat, the class filed into the room. Chase was the last one to come in. As he came in, all the people in the classroom stared at him with a feeling of fear, even the teacher. They all believed he was secretly planning to take them all down. He didn’t even notice the extra attention he was getting as he plopped down in his seat and put his headphones in. “Coming Down” by Five Finger Death Punch blared in his ears as he read the assignments written on the white board. As he opened his language arts book, preparing to do his work for that day, the teacher tapped on his desk and motioned for him to pull out his headphones. “They’re calling you to the counselor’s office”, Mr. Riley said to him with a half-smile, secretly hoping that Chase wasn’t putting his name on the list of people he was going to shoot. Chase smiled back at Mr. Riley, packed up his bag & headed to the counselor’s office. “Maybe I can be done with counseling”, Chase hoped to himself.               Tabitha chewed the end of her pencil and tapped her foot repeatedly on the floor, nervous about what they were going to say to Chase in the counselor’s office. She waited and waited for Chase to come back to class, so she could get some kind of idea what was said, but he didn’t come back. She spent the whole day grazing her eyes up and down the hallways and all around the cafeteria just hoping she’d catch a glance of him. She never saw him. When Chase arrived at Mrs. Porter’s office, her door was open and she was sitting behind her desk, kindly waving him in to come sit on the couch that he sat on once a week, across from her desk. “Hello, Chase. How is your day going?” She spoke to him. He shrugged his shoulders and replied, “Eh, it’s alright, I guess. I thought I was only supposed to come on Friday morning?” “Yes, usually just Friday morning is fine. But it’s come to my attention that you may be planning something.” Chase looked puzzled; he hadn’t had any kind of specific suicidal plan in weeks. He had no idea what Mrs. Porter was talking about. “What are you talking about?”, he asked her. Mrs. Porter looked disappointed & said “Chase, someone in your first period caught you writing that you were planning to shoot students, here in our school.” Chase was outraged. Who would say something like that?! He hadn’t even written a suicidal story since the day he was forced to start seeing the counselor. He didn’t take a risk writing down his suicidal ideations. Why in the world would he write out a plan to kill other people if he wasn’t even willing to write down his own suicidal thoughts?! “I never wrote anything like that. Who said that?! I swear I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” Chase almost shouted, furiously. “Calm down, Chase. It was just something that came to our attention. I think maybe it’s best if you take the rest of the year and just do home study rather than here at the school.” Mrs. Porter calmly stated. “Are you serious?! I’m being punished because of a lie some lonely loser made up?!” Chase voiced, angrily. “It’s not really a punishment, Chase. It’s just what’s best for everybody, even you. I think it’ll be good for you to have more time at home. You would have more time to pursue your interests and you wouldn’t have to come deal with everybody here at the school every day.” she said, encouragingly. Chase rolled his eyes and calmly said, “Alright, whatever. Can you at least tell me who said I wrote that down?” Mrs. Porter smiled at him, grateful he had calmed down, and responded, “I’m not sure. Someone who sits behind you.” Instantly, Chase knew exactly who she was referring to. Tabitha. That bitch was the reason everybody knew why he was in counseling in the first place. Chase wasn’t one to blame others for his issues, but Tabitha was one reason nobody spoke to him much. And now she was responsible for him getting kicked out of school. Nobody even asked him if it was true and he was sure if Mrs. Porter had heard about him writing such nonsense, everybody knew about it. Chase was filled with that familiar feeling of never-ending dreadful numbness. He shoved his headphones back into his ears and swung his backpack over his shoulder. He walked out of the office, prepared to walk home. As he walked home, he was just filled with more and more sadness. He didn’t care anymore. All that progress he had made in counseling just didn’t matter. Nobody would believe the truth about the situation. Not with just his words. Nobody even cared enough about him to ask him if was okay when those rumors were being spread. Why did anything matter anymore? His social life would never get better. He wasn’t even allowed to go to school anymore. Unwillingly put into a home study program, he just didn’t understand how he was supposed to make anything better if he were stuck at home. He thought about the situation all the way home. As he walked up his driveway, he started brainstorming a plan. Tabitha went home after a long day at school, afraid that people would figure out she was lying. Anytime anyone had pulled her aside to speak with her about the rumor she started, she felt a prickling of anxiety. She was terrified someone would call her out and tell her they knew she was lying about the whole thing. Fortunately for her, nobody called her out. They all 100% believed that Chase Wheeler was planning an attack on the school. Tabitha was exhausted from all the worrying that day and attempted to go to sleep. She tossed and turned all night, wondering about what people would say tomorrow. Wednesday morning came & Tabitha headed to school. Everybody was whispering to themselves as Tabitha walked down the hallway. “Hey”, Ashley Green blurted out, tapping Tabitha on the shoulder. Tabitha turned around & looked at Ashley. “Chase got kicked out of school. He’s not allowed back this year. It’s a relief you found out what he was planning.” Ashley admitted to Tabitha. “Oh good. I’m so glad we won’t have to wonder and worry about him hurting any of us while we’re at school”, she responded. Ashley nodded & continued to her class as did Tabitha. As she walked through the threshold of the door of her class, she felt a pat on her shoulder and noticed someone in a black hoody practically sprinting past her. She looked at her shoulder and realized that there was a note taped to her. She pulled the note off her shoulder as she made her way to her seat. She opened it up as she sat down & read the note. “I know what you did. Meet me in the gym 10 minutes before the end of first period. Or else you’ll regret it.” Tabitha swallowed hard and felt the prickly sensation of terror and shame come over her. She raised her hand and told Mr. Riley she needed to go to the bathroom & he dismissed her. Tabitha headed to the gym.               When Tabitha got to the gym, she noticed someone standing in the middle with a hood over their head. She suspected the person who wanted to see her was Chase & as the person shook the hoody off his head, she realized she was right. She stared at Chase, ready to race in the other direction. Chase had his hands behind his back and there was red liquid dripping onto the floor behind him. “Is that blood?!” Tabitha thought to herself, afraid. Chase brought one of his hands from behind his back and revealed a spray can dripping red paint. “I know what you did, and I need people to know the truth.” He blatantly stated to Tabitha and then pointed directly behind her. Tabitha turned around and looked at what he was pointing at. Above her, on the wall above the door, read the words, “Tabitha is a LIAR. All she wants is ATTENTION. I never had a plan to hurt anyone at this school. Nobody even cared enough about me to know that it was a lie. -Chase W.” Tabitha turned back around to Chase, who now was holding a gun in his hands. He raised the gun up slowly & Tabitha took a sharp breath and began to curl up into a ball on the floor. He was going to shoot her! Tabitha waited for the loud BANG of the gun to go off, and decided to open her eyes to see what was taking him so long to shoot her. When she opened her eyes, she looked in horror as his finger squeezed the trigger.               BANG               The gun dropped to the floor & so did Chase. Tabitha stared in horror as all the blood puddled under chase and seeped into the old wooden floors. Then, the bell for second period rang. As the bell rang, Tabitha let out a bloodcurdling scream. Terrified and feeling guilty because of what she had just seen, she backed herself into the corner of the gym. As she sat in the corner, sobbing, students and teachers filed into the gym and instantly realized what had happened. The people in the gym stared daggers into Tabitha with looks of nothing but disgust. Tabitha regretted everything & for once in her life, she wished nobody could see her.