           This was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives, but fate had other plans for the bride and groom.            The weeks that led up to their wedding day were spectacular. Beth had been fitted with a beautiful silk and lace wedding gown, strapless and elegant, while her five bridesmaids were dressed in chiffon gowns with V-shaped necklines and a slit up the left leg.

Graham was fitted with an Armani stretch-wool tuxedo, basic black, with a black silk bowtie. His groomsmen wore similar black tuxedos but with bowties to match the dresses of the bridesmaids.            A caterer had been hired to provide a three-course meal to the 350 guests that had responded to the RSVP. A magnificent three-tier cake with banana filling had been prepared, and a popular DJ had been hired for the reception.            All that was left to do, was to say, “I do,” when prompted to do so. A harpist strummed on the strings of the harp, creating a wonderful and calming sound for all of those in attendance. Instead of the traditional, “Bridal March,” Beth and Graham had decided on the song, “Here and Now” by Luther Vandross that was performed beautifully by a young man that they had grown up with.            Everything about the day was going splendidly. Graham stood at the front of the church in anticipation as Beth slowly made her way up the aisle. His breathing felt constricted once he witnessed her beauty. It was as if he was seeing her for the first time.            Beth too was feeling some anxiety. A tear began to form in the corner of her eye as she spotted Graham standing at the end of the aisle. Her walk seemed to take an eternity and her legs began to feel heavy as if she were walking through mud.            When the two of them finally joined at the altar, Beth’s father had lifted her veil and kissed her on the cheek before taking his seat. The couple then turned to face the priest who was about to marry them.

“Dearly beloved,” he began, “We come together today to witness the union of Graham and Beth in Holy matrimony.”

When the priest reached the part of the ceremony when he asks those in attendance if there were any objections to the marriage, something unexpected happened.            Loud explosions could be heard outside of the church. Sirens sounded soon after. The ceremony had come to an abrupt stop as the doors to the church flew open and several armed men entered, blocking the exit. Many people crouched low in the pews, while the priest left the altar and approached the gunmen alerting them to the fact that they were in a place of worship. A dark-haired man with a long black beard stepped forward and fired three shots into the chest of the priest. He fell to the floor with a pool of blood forming around his dying body.            Everybody in the church gasped at the sight and began screaming in terror. Graham quickly grabbed Beth by the hand and pulled her down to the ground in front of the pews. They inched their way toward the rear of the altar where the doorway to the sacristy was.            They successfully entered the priest’s private quarters and made their way toward the rear exit when gunfire erupted in the church. Shouts of protest and shrieking agony followed. Beth thought of her parents and tried to turn back, but Graham held her tight and insisted that there was nothing they could do to help. They made it to the exit and escaped to the rear parking lot.            They could see fires burning all around the area including two police cars. The officers laid motionless on the ground beside them. Storefront windows had been smashed in and were also ablaze. Graham’s former military training had kicked in and his first course of action was survival until he could assess the situation.            They headed down a back alley away from the destruction and entered an apartment building that overlooked the downtown core. Adrenaline now raced through his veins as they took the elevator to the top floor then climbed a staircase to the roof.            At the south end of the building, they could see billowing smoke over a four-block radius. The terrorists had cordoned off the area. They seemed organized and well-armed. There was no way that Graham could handle this situation on his own and he knew it. He needed to get in touch with a few of his military buddies.            He did not want to risk his conversation being overheard on his cellphone, so Graham asked to use the landline of one of the building’s residents. The elderly lady reluctantly agreed. She decided that a couple dressed as they were could not possibly be terrorists.

“Harry? It’s Graham. Yes, it is good to hear your voice too. Listen, I need a favor. All hell is breaking loose downtown and I need you to round up some of the old platoon. Stay off the cellphones if you can or keep it coded, understood? Good. Meet me at 20:00 hours at Sharky’s. Be safe.”

At 8:00 pm, Graham and Beth arrived at a small shack on the outskirts of the city. It was owned by one of Graham’s platoon leaders, Sergeant, Gus “Sharky” Sullivan. He was a little unorthodox, but also one of the toughest men that Graham had ever met.            Sharky answered the door and invited them in, scanning the perimeter for anything unusual before closing the door behind them. Inside was a group of four other men and a woman. Graham made the introductions.

“Beth, you already met Sergeant Sullivan. On his left is Corporal, Harry Watson, that is Corporal, Emma Jackson, Gunnery Sergeant, Brock Kellerman, Private, Joseph Lakehead (Fish Head to his friends), and last, but not least, Lieutenant William Baker. Everyone, this is my fiancée, Beth. As you can see, our wedding was supposed to be today, but it was interrupted by a group of terrorists. That is why I called you all here today.”            Graham filled the platoon in on the details that he knew so far. They worked on various strategies to overtake the terrorists. Many of the scenarios could develop into a lot of collateral damage, however. There was one plan that could work, and they wasted no time getting started.            Brock still had a storage unit filled with military-grade weapons and full-body armor. That was to be their first stop. They needed to be prepared for anything. With their combined skills, they might stand a chance in defeating this enemy.            Lieutenant Baker, the communications specialist, and interpreter tapped into the radio frequency that the terrorists were using. It was not long before he discovered that they were an Islamic group out of Afghanistan, and they were targeting Christian-based places of worship and schools. The man in charge seemed to be an Al-Qaeda member by the name of Ayman.            Corporal Jackson made her way to the top of a building in the downtown district with a Mk-12 sniper rifle and an M-107 .50 caliber long-range rifle. She calibrated and focused, making sure that everything was set properly. From where she laid, she could take out any given target within 7,000 yards.            Graham’s specialty was cyber operations. Using drones, he could quietly scan the perimeter day or night to identify targets and guide his team to safe locations. The drones were equipped with refractive technology that made them virtually invisible from the ground.            Gunnery Sergeant Kellerman placed C-4 explosives in designated areas around the perimeter in case the terrorists chose to expand their assault.            Sergeant Sullivan was hunkered down in a café just outside of the fight zone waiting for his opportunity to start the assault.            Private Lakehead was an aquatic assault specialist. He could spend days in the water if he needed to. Fish Head, wearing a dark-colored wetsuit and diving mask equipped with night vision and hands-free communications, would slip silently into the pond in the middle of town. A rebreather is also attached for emergency submersions. On his feet are Chuck Taylor Maritime shoes which allow him to make a quick exit from the water without having to change from flippers to boots.            Corporal Watson’s specialty is in electronic warfare. His job is to knock out the electronic devices and communications in the area before the team moved in. He set up a device to let off an electromagnetic pulse just strong enough to affect the four-block perimeter.            Graham instructed Beth to get out of town and warn the military about what was happening. She “borrowed” a bicycle that was leaning up against a storefront and pedaled as quickly as she could toward the city limits.            When everyone was in position, Sharky gave the order to Harry to set off the EMP. The pulse knocked out all power within four blocks as planned. All enemy communications were down and with the streetlights off, the terrorists were left deaf and blind. It was time to move in.            With stealth-like movements, the team crept through the streets like ghosts, silently eliminating their targets using night vision goggles and a Strider SMF folding knife to sever their throats. Fish Head fired at targets who neared the pond using a waterproof 9 mm handgun with a suppressor attachment.            Beth had reached a police department in the next town and told them about what was happening. They immediately contacted the military who dispatched their anti-terrorist team.            One-by-one the enemy had fallen. This group of vets had done what seemed like the impossible. The last of the terrorists had been eliminated. The team met back at Sharky’s house to celebrate the victory and Beth was there waiting. Graham, still dressed in his rented tuxedo, promised Beth that they would have their wedding once all of this was cleared up.            Beth was grateful that they were still both alive and that they would still marry one day soon, but she wept for their family and friends who had perished during the attack. It was unlikely that anyone survived the ordeal.            By the break of dawn, the military had begun to arrive, but by then it was too late.


Chapter 1: The Weight of the Present James stirred from a fitful sleep as the first blush of dawn crept through his bedroom window. It looked very muggy and overcast. It was probably going to rain again today. His old bed was less forgiving than the memory foam mattress at his studio apartment. Only a few more days. He rubbed his eyes, he swung his legs over the bed and got up. The kitchen welcomed him with its familiar warmth. He went about fixing breakfast for him and his mother. Cracking eggs into a bowl, he then whisked them up with ease. The sizzle of butter in the pan filled the air, sweet and savory like a summer day. Poured a glass of fresh orange juice, its sweet and tangy smell mixing with the aroma from the eggs. As he plated the golden scramble, a spark of hope ignited in his chest. Maybe today would be one of her good days. He set the table carefully, making sure everything was close at hand. The morning sun streamed through the window, casting a soft glow. "Mama?" James called out, his voice gentle. "Breakfast is ready. It’s still nice and warm. Come and enjoy it with me.” James heard shuffling footsteps approaching the kitchen. His mother appeared in the doorway, her silver hair dishevelled from sleep, her eyes clouded with confusion. "Good morning, Mama," he said softly, moving to guide her to her seat. "Come on, let's get you settled." Margaret allowed herself to be led, her movements hesitant and unsure. She sank into the chair, her gaze darting around the familiar kitchen as if seeing it for the first time. James placed a plate of steaming scrambled eggs in front of her, his heart heavy with a mix of love and concern. "Here you go, Mama. Just how you like them." He turned to grab the toast, hoping to coax a smile from her with the scent of freshly buttered bread. But as he pivoted back, he froze. Margaret had picked up the glass of orange juice, her hand trembling slightly. Before James could react, she tipped the glass over her plate, pouring the bright liquid all over the fluffy eggs. "Mama, no!" James started, the words catching in his throat as he watched the juice soak into the eggs, turning them into a soggy, unappetizing mess. James felt his heart sink as he watched the orange juice seep into the scrambled eggs. A wave of frustration crashed against him, but he took a deep breath and pushed it back. Margaret's eyes widened in realization. Her face crumpled, a mix of embarrassment and confusion washing over her features. "Oh, I... I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I didn't mean to... I thought..." James swallowed hard, forcing a gentle smile. He reached out, placing his hand over his mother's. "It's alright, Mama," he said softly, reassuring her. "Don't you worry none. Accidents happen. We'll fix you up another plate in a jiffy." He squeezed her hand, ignoring the ache in his chest. "How about some toast while we wait? With a little honey, just how you like it." As James turned to the counter, he allowed himself a moment of quiet grief. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. When he faced his mother again, his smile was back in place, determined to make the best of the morning for her sake. James cleared the table, his movements mechanical as he scraped the ruined eggs into the trash. Next, he wiped down the counters, his gaze fell on a faded photograph taped to the refrigerator. It showed his father, strong and smiling, with an arm around Margaret. Her eyes sparkled with life, a stark contrast to the confused stare he'd seen that morning. The loss of his father had been a blow, but watching his mother slip away day by day was a slow, aching pain. James leaned against the counter, his chest tight with emotion. How quickly their lives had changed, the roles reversed as he now cared for the woman who’d raised him. He didn’t want to repeat the same mistakes with his mother. He still has a chance to connect with her. He couldn’t let the opportunity fade away like he did with his Father.

He glanced back at Margaret, who sat quietly in her chair, staring out the window. Rain started pattering against the house. A sudden urgency gripped him. Time was slipping away, he had to find a way to show his gratitude, something that would reach her even in her confused state. The thought of her passing without knowing how much she meant to him was unbearable. Chapter 2: Memories and Revelations James walked past the kitchen table, his gaze lingering on his mother sitting alone in the living room. An idea sparked in his mind. He walked over to the living room shelves, running his fingers along the spines of old photo albums. Carefully, he gathered an armful of photo albums, their leather covers worn and faded with time. He took a deep breath as he carried them back to Margaret. "Hey, Mama," James said softly, sitting beside her on the couch. "I thought we might look at some old photos together. Would you like that?" Margaret turned to him, a glimmer of recognition sparking in her eyes. James felt his heart lift. He gently placed the first album on her lap and opened the cover, revealing a page filled with snapshots from years past. James watched Margaret's face as they turned the pages. Her eyes lit up with recognition at some photos, a smile tugging at her lips. "Oh, look at you," she cooed, pointing to a picture of James as a toddler, covered in mud. But as they turned the page, confusion clouded her expression. She squinted at unfamiliar faces, her brow furrowing. He squeezed her hand gently and turned to a page showing his university graduation. ”Remember this day, Mama?" James asked softly. Margaret leaned closer, her fingers tracing the outline of his face in the photo. A lump formed in James' throat as he recalled the challenging years leading up to that moment. Late nights studying, constant worry about tuition payments, and gnawing self-doubt threatened to derail his dreams. "You were there for me through it all," he murmured. He remembered the care packages she'd sent, filled with homemade cookies. The long phone calls where she'd listened to his fears and bolstered his confidence.

James watched Margaret's smile waver, her eyes darting between the photos and his face. She nodded a bit too quickly, her fingers fidgeting with the album's edge. He recognized the signs of her struggle to stay present, to appear engaged for his sake. His heart ached, but he pressed on, determined to make the most of this moment. "Hey, Mama," he said softly. "Remember that summer we went to the lake house? You, me, and Dad?" He pointed to a sun-faded photograph of them standing on a weathered dock, fishing poles in hand. Margaret squinted at the image, her brow furrowing. "Oh... yes," she murmured, her voice uncertain. "The lake. It was...nice." James nodded encouragingly. "It sure was. Remember how Dad couldn't catch a single fish? And you ended up reeling in that huge bass?" He searched her face for a flicker of recognition, hoping to spark a conversation about that treasured memory. Margaret's eyes darted between James and the photo, her smile fixed as she struggled to recall the details he remembered so fondly. James closed the photo album, his heart heavy with a mixture of love and grief. He watched Margaret's face, searching for any sign the memories had reached her. The weight of unspoken gratitude pressed down on him, making his chest tight. He wanted to tell her everything – how her sacrifices had shaped his life, how her unwavering support had carried him through his darkest moments. But words felt inadequate, fleeting. James feared they would slip from Margaret's grasp, lost in the fog of her condition. His mind raced, trying to find a way to honour her that would reach beyond words. Something tangible, something she could hold onto even in her moments of confusion. James glanced around the living room, his eyes falling on the scattered family mementos. An idea began to form, vague at first, but growing clearer by the second. He could create something – a scrapbook, perhaps, or a memory box – filled with tokens of their shared history. Something that would capture the essence of Margaret's love and sacrifice, even when words failed them both. James squeezed his mother's hand gently, a small smile tugging at his lips. He had work to do on this rainy day. Chapter 3: A Heartfelt Connection James settled into his chair, the glow of the lamp cast a warm light across the weathered desk surface, illuminating a blank sheet of paper. He took a deep breath, pen poised above the page. "Dear Mom," he began, his hand trembling slightly. The words flowed hesitantly at first, then gained momentum as he poured out years of gratitude. James paused, reaching for the stack of photo albums beside him. He carefully removed a faded snapshot – him and Margaret at his college graduation, her face beaming with pride. Gently, he tucked it into the pages of the letter. More photos followed: family picnics, childhood birthdays, and quiet moments of shared laughter. Each image stirred a memory, adding depth to the words on the page. James found himself smiling through tears as he arranged the photos, creating a visual journey of their life. He hoped that even if his mother couldn't fully comprehend the words, these images would spark recognition, anchoring her in the love they shared. After hours of crafting, James held the letter, its edges slightly crumpled from his tight grip. He took a deep breath and stepped into the living room. Margaret sat in her favourite chair, her eyes fixed on the window. Sunlight streamed in, casting a warm glow on her silver hair. He slowly approached her and knelt beside the chair. "Mama," he said softly, gently taking her hands in his. Margaret turned, her eyes meeting his with a flicker of recognition. James swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. He unfolded the letter and rested it on his knee. "I've written something for you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. As he began to read, his words filled the quiet room. "Dear Mama, I've been wanting to tell you..." James paused and squeezed her hand. He looked up, making sure she was still with him. Margaret's eyes were focused on his face, a slight furrow in her brow as she concentrated. James continued, his voice rising. He gestured to the photos he'd included, holding them up for her to see. With each memory shared, he touched her arm or patted her hand, trying to convey through touch what his words could not. James watched Margaret's face intently as he read, his heart racing. Her eyes, usually distant, now focused on him with an intensity he hadn't seen in months. She leaned forward slightly, her brow furrowed in concentration. As he described the day of his college graduation, Margaret's eyes widened. A flicker of recognition crossed her face, quickly replaced by confusion. James paused, giving her a moment to process. He gently touched her arm, grounding her in the present. "Do you remember that day, Mama?" he asked softly. Margaret nodded slowly, her lips moving silently as if trying to form words. James continued reading, his voice rising with each sentence. He then held up a photo of them at the beach, Margaret's laugh frozen in time. Suddenly, Margaret's hand tightened around his. James looked up, startled. Tears glistened in her eyes, but there was a clarity there that took his breath away. She reached out and touched the letter with trembling fingers. "My boy," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "My sweet boy." James felt his heart swell as Margaret's words washed over him. "My sweet boy," she repeated, her voice stronger now. She reached out and cupped his face with a trembling hand. "I am so proud of you." Tears streamed down James' cheeks, hot and unexpected. He leaned into her touch and breathed deeply, savouring the rare moment of clarity. "I love you, Mama," he choked out. Margaret's eyes lit up with recognition and love. "I love you too, James. Always have, always will." They sat in silence, the weight of unspoken years between them. James held his mother's gaze, memorizing every line of her face. He knew this moment was fleeting, but it filled him with a warmth he hadn't felt in years. Margaret's hand slipped from his face and came to rest on the letter in his lap. She patted it gently, a small smile playing on her lips. No more words were needed. In that quiet moment, James felt the unbreakable bond between them, stronger than any illness.


A cliff of a ravine with shallow water Though void of decorations, such as paintings or family portraits, the white wall which Frank starred at was all the canvas necessary to compliment his inner world. He was motionless and expressionless, and one could only hope there was something happening behind those hopeless eyes – his chest occasionally stretching to signal air coming in and out was about the greatest indicator that he was, in fact, among the living. In his rented one room apartment, located on the second floor of a building not too far away but not quite in the center of Oslo, he was sitting on his bed, beside him a table with a lamp that was turned off, below which were a pen and paper, and there on the paper nothing was written. The bin next to the table was empty, the red stool by the table had a wet towel hanging over it. A school bag that was leaning to the bed was open, and in it were two thin books, a thick laptop and a thicker book, possibly a notebook. The room was indicative of scarcity, with its barren walls, no dining table, and the kitchen which was a part of the one room he inhabited, that included a sink with two hanging showcases above and an induction plate without oven. The bed had a single blanket, pillow without a pillowcase, a slightly not-in-place mat, and of course, Frank sitting and starring not quite at the window but the wall beside it. The kitchen surface had two empty clean glasses and a fork, as well as a dirty plate in the sink.

The tint of the outside light was slowly strengthening into red, and the angled sun began to get the better of Frank’s uninterrupted stare into the wall. He was far removed from reality to perform an extreme action, such as turn his head and body to the left or snap into consciousness and move away from bed into a more important duty of the day. On the contrary, he merged his eyelids and continued the stare. The view for him was still the same. There was really no change of scenery, as for the entire time he was not exactly looking anywhere, and there was nothing to see regardless of the backdrop. This stare is not of the type one may bring themselves into willingly, and it can be difficult to even conceptualize it, lest one is brought to the state that is its prerequisite.

While there can never be nothing that goes on, the thin fabric of the room’s atmosphere was a close authentic representation of what it may be perceivable as. It would be but natural to fall into a deep state of depression in such an environment, though it was not possible to deduce if it was the precise placement of things and empty spaces in the room that made Frank hopelessly melancholic, or the chain of events that led up until now, against which he was defenseless. The complexity of the matter may be the final nail in the coffin, the conundrum on top of a difficult-to-handle situation, that will entirely strip away his ability to feel ever again. The nothing which he now lives, it did not come from nothing, but it all mattered little, and it seemed to him that he had no willpower left to even consider the situation or attempt to deconstruct it. What is the point? He thought he did everything he could to eventually not be in this situation. But during the entire process of moving out from his parents, and pursing his independent life and career as a finance advisor, he dreaded this would come and vividly felt it in all the days leading up to it. He knew it would come, somewhere between the moment he was out of the door and laid a last proper look at his parents waving at him, and staring at the chemical compound which equates to white paint on the wall, that was visible only for a few moments before the void opened up and consumed all matter with it, leaving him to stare into nothingness.

It was useless for him to ruminate now, all that was left was precisely what was said. Certain as the situation was, and that beyond it was a fall over a canyon cliff below which was a shallow river, there was a grey dot located somewhere in the vast space of his inner universe. The grey square resembled little at first and he paid no attention to it. When inevitably glancing at it, it contained the imagery of all the steps and concrete action he took, all of which he was convinced were correct and done flawlessly. This was no solace, and the paintings of success he once painted, which were once able to orchestrate a parade of wonder and excitement, were now a white light behind a grey diffusion. The grey layer of diffusion, he figured, was the confusion with the failure, despite the perfection of accuracy in the steps taken. Those images now, hardly visible, were yet another burden dragging him down an endless pit. He wished time could stop, everything could stop and cease to continue existing. His desires only stretched to the vision of him dissolving into small matter and merging with the void. The void, however, was exclusively inside of him, and the fact that reality did not reciprocate it disappointed him even further. What is there even left to happen, that he can tolerate. Why cannot everything just cease to be? Where exactly is the end of all things? This stupid grey box was now a hindrance. Though pale the light of it as it was, it was becoming overwhelming to even glance at from the side. Frank refused to give in, he wished for no light, no more of anything. He wished for no change in the state of things, for even the light meant another change, a new thing, which will undoubtably be another hindrance in an already impossible state. He had no capacity to take anything new in, to even consider what the good in it might be. There would be too little good in it to weight him out of the gloom. No matter how it may look like, the new light is yet another occurrence to be disappointed by and a chance to be taken aback. No good was ever good enough, at least not in the amount he felt it needed to be. There was nothing now that could spring him back onto the surface, for he felt he was on the absolute bottom of all things. In the way it was, there was no space to ricochet from, there was no ground to build momentum on, there was no force to push with. The light from the grey box, however, was stubbornly persistent and began to increase. At first it was as if someone slightly opened curtains of a small window far up into the unreachable attic, visible as a dot from the basement in the house that had no floors. It then became a door left ajar, and soon after wide opened. There now was no roof, and it was all light. It began to be uncomfortable with closed eyes for Frank, but he refused to give in. The more it persisted the less he wanted to question it. Long gone are spiritual connotation he would put into things happening to him. The trials and tribulations of life that once were, were now occurances and him not refusing to open up to them in any way coated with meaning. The light building up inside his inner cave was no more than some bodily reaction, which satisfying as it was as an explanation, still left him in discomfort. It began to frighten him, mostly due to the confusion over the physiological phenomena. Determined not to give it its attention, he squinted harder his eyes, and his left eye began to water. He sensed this, to his own surprise, and began to dread that he might start producing more tears. The only thing worse than his abysmal state is feeling sadness for it. He refused once more to muster up and look for any capacity he might have for anything happening, in this case crying. He was now involuntarily annoyed. Then he was annoyed that he was annoyed. Then he was confused as to what was even happening inside of him, and he felt aggression piling up.

But there was simply nothing coming up, he thought. Nothing in life worth caring for. All of his investments that were meant to ease his life, make him more stable and put him into a favorable position have failed. And that was all there is to life, as he sacrificed everything else for that. Everything was put in place, there was just no fruit to be picked. It was the dry, barren season, and he had no means to attempt cultivation next year, he was going to starve by then. There was only this prison of a room, and the eye piercing light that populated all of his retina as soon as he closes his eyelids. He was tired of everything, and was still, despite the irritation and disappointment, unable to act out on his frustration. With his back he was now leaning against the wall he previously stared at, his arms loose and lifeless, legs stretching straight forward. He took a glance at his room and found no good reason to entertain reality again. He closed his eyes once more, but the light gave him no chance at continuing the stare from before. Reality will have its way it seems, though Frank was reluctant, and unable to see what is there to do. With little willpower that he had he decided to concisely do nothing, he refused to engage the idea that something greater was happening.

Now back at nowhere, through his head ran an onslaught of images, each pressing and making him feel heavy. They all were of vague scenery he was a witness to during the moments of greatest disappointments. His first breakup soon after moving out and subsequent inability to ever find someone else, his bank account having less and less digits as months went by, the first snow that came about a month early and made a mess of the traffic, and all the ugly faces that uttered words of rejection when applying to big firms, making him think he was not only foolish, but insane for even considering. When strung together, these thoughts gave an image of a wimp, and a man who might have overcalculated the estimate of his talents and abilities to make it in the world. He was blank for a moment more, and then closed his eyes. Embracing the unbearable light, too tired to swiftly react, he thought he saw something. He then opened his eyes and was certain that he saw the contours of a face in the light. It was his father, stern but not angry. The immediate association with the face was a recent email he received from the local Kiwi supermarket, where he was rejected due to there being more qualified applicants. Both sparked a similar reaction within him, and a feeling of a lack of self-worth. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Both of his eyes gave sings of starting to tear up, but he was able to deter the heaviness away. He merely puffed. To be rejected by a supermarket due to lack of qualification was a mighty blow he thought, though he was unsure about the degree it hurt him. In the nothingness of his soul, he felt that heaviness was akin of having shape, and therefore also occupying space. The vast space was still absolutely nothing, but he began to be a tangible reality in it. A notion of spite was shooting as if in a fast projectile, he dodged. Spite was too high of a state, and there was no good reason to be spiteful. It will lead into more action, and that action will lead into more disappointment. Not as if his father did not have fair judgement when he repeatedly suggested that he should join him in being a carpenter. But he tried to do the job himself and could never seem to do it properly, nor find enough motivation to master the craft. He was rather interested in the wages of all the workers, potential workarounds to more efficiently complete the project, the quality of material and that it should suffer the least when deciding the budget of a project. His greatest struggle was perhaps that there seems to be no world where he can actualize his affinities, where he can be useful with them, despite his grandest strives. And when he attempts to be useful elsewhere, though not wholeheartedly but still honestly, he is rejected and there is seldom space available.

There seemed to be no use in being eloquent and articulate, or even educated and well-versed in your craft, if that cannot be exploited to fuel the endless appetite of the consumers. In a way, the less you strive to be remarkable, noteworthy and more you curb your desire for autonomy, the further you will be slingshot into prosperity. That at least applies for the majority, to the class of workers, who have to build their wealth every month anew, and should they dare to take a break, they might as well end their life immediately. It was this exact thinking that made Frank stare numbingly into the wall, and that made him conclude long ago that thinking might just be the number one cause of all problems in the contemporary order of society. This time he was somehow overwhelmed and unable to resist. He was always aware of this reality, but he should never have allowed himself the luxury to ruminate in it. He was now in mud, all of the factors surrounding him indicated that he has failed as a human, and that it is late to go either way. How is there no force in the world on his side? He had a thought to end it all, though in this state he was numb to that idea also. He was numb to all sorts of suggestions that came and went by. That he should check his email to see if the last bigshot company has given a response, or to check the physical mail to see if the passport he ordered and took a portrait for seven days ago came. None of these invitations to perform an action were attractive enough, and he closed his eyelids, only to be reject by the inner radiation of non-existent light. Another puff of air left his mouth, and then an old image came. It was a long time before it last crossed his mind, though there was a period when it refused to leave – similar to the continuous light at the moment. It was the vivid memory of his mother waving at him, eyes filled with tears, smile spread across her face, from one end of the cheek to the other. He was now sure, that is the white spot, which now shone across the entire universe. It was only her that cared for what he wished to bring to the world. To her it was never about what the world might expect from him, but what he can aid the world with in the most profound way. He now remembered that it was precisely this vision that has kept him through thick and thin of his independent life. He wished more than anything to visit her, if briefly. It was now a grand fight between this new noble aspiration, and the quicksand in the soul.

For a while after moving out, this image was burnt in his head. It kept him in motion when he wanted to move the least, it was his sudden burst of energy a marathon runner feels when pushing beyond his limits just before the line. It then began to fade, as all images in life do as time marches on, and they climb up and down into relevancy in the ever-oscillating line through which thoughts swim. Crucial thoughts in their trajectory, even those that motivate, are not linear and it might have not been the cleverest idea to allow this important one to disappear for too long. He felt slightly silly about the whole thing. He was sure when he meets his mother, she will embrace him with the support unlike the rest of the world could ever give him. But then there was his father, the constant counter to all the positivity radiating from the mother. And maybe he is the one in the right, and his mother was foolish, baselessly optimistic and superficially kind. A thought of his mother being disappointed in him crept its way into his heart, he did not know what to do with it. It was entirely plausible that she too expected more of him, or more so of his situation. But so did he, and if anyone was to understand him, it will be her, maybe to a degree higher than he could understand himself. It may have not solved all his problems, but the memory of his mother made him stand up, and that was revolutionary. He will only need to open his email to find his acceptance letter, and pick up the mail to take his passport, but he is unaware of that – and it mattered little. He longed for her face, and for the warmth of her living room for which she was exclusively responsible. He will tolerate his father, that is the most he can do for him.


I was holding Mom's cold hand in mine when I saw the doors. I felt a really bad feeling, like a plum pit sank to the bottom of my heart.

They were even taller than Dad, and he’s like the tallest person I know. Mom stopped at the bottom of the steps and squeezed my hand so tight I pulled away! “Ow Mommy!” I said, “you hurt me.” “Sorry, sweety,” She said in a crackling voice looking down at me now.  I had to look twice to make sure it was my mom. Her eyes looked like a swarm of bees had stung them, and her cheeks sunk in like a landslide forced the life to fall from them. Her skin was all pink. Pink is my favorite color but I didn’t like the way it covered her. “Are you okay Mom?”I asked,

Her eyes started to water, probably from the bee stings, and she turned away. “I’m alright sweetheart, just be on your best behavior” She said,

“O-okay Mom,” I responded and grabbed her hand again. Ew! I thought, it was all sweaty and even colder now. But I didn’t feel good, so I couldn't let go.

My dad and little brother Mikey were waiting by the doors,

“It’s okay,” Dad said the same way he does when he’s mad. So I hid behind Mom, but she pulled me gently towards the doors. I followed behind her gazing up at the huge entrance, it was a really dark wood, and it had weird fancy designs carved into it. With Dad standing next to it I could tell I was right, it was almost 2 Dads tall and 2 Moms wide.

Dad pushed the door open and it told me to leave with a loud and scary creek.

I jumped so high, probably the highest I’ve ever jumped. I peeked inside and all I saw was very dark black, and I’m kinda scared of the dark so I was a little nervous.  The doors were prettier the closer I got but scarier too. They almost looked like the gates to some dark kinda heaven. Mikey turned away from dad and ran in through the open door. And when Mom and I walked through the gates I felt the plum pit in my heart digest. Not like it went away, but more like it tore into tiny lil’ splinters.

As we walked more I took in the sights, it looked like a king lived here. There was a big shiny light with crystals hanging from it. And the floor was made of pretty blue carpet. And I learned in my class the other day, blue used to be the color of kings. But I officially knew it was a castle when I peaked out the closing door and saw a fancy rich people limo pull up. And the door slammed closed,

“Hello,” I heard a fragile voice say, I turned around and saw a fragile looking old man that matched it. This was super cool for me, I had never met a real life butler before. He was bald and wearing a suit, just like the movies. “I’ll give you a tour”, he said, “You have the 12:00 reservation?” Mom nodded in silence. I was beyond excited, I had never gotten a tour of a castle before.

We followed him through the first hallway which wasn’t very exciting, except there were secret rooms everywhere. I know because I kept asking to go in, and the third time the butler said they were off limits. Which I’m pretty sure means secret.

We went through the first room and it was full of chairs, fabric was hanging everywhere, the walls and even the ceiling. And there were white curtains and the same blue carpet.

I knew what it was when I walked in, the king's personal speaking room. It was the coolest thing I’d ever seen.

But as we walked to the third room I felt the lil’ splinters of the plum pit dig their way into the walls of my veins, it hurt really bad. But when I turned to dad to complain I saw that he was busy wiping his eyes. Which was kinda gross to see cause I know he gets eye boogers. The butler opened the door with a push and It yelled a creak so loud my ears hurt. But Mom pulled me in anyway.

I gasped when we walked in.

“Treasure!?” I yelled, “Shh” Mom said sharply, “Treasure!” I whispered. She doesn’t like when I use my outside voice inside. And I felt kinda bad since I was supposed to be on my best behavior for the king. So I didn’t even run and look in all the treasure chests. But every wall was covered in them, the whole room was filled top to bottom with the chests.

The butler walked us around but didn’t open any of them, which wasn’t cool cause I wanted to see treasure. But I saw a small blue one was open at the end of the room.

When he walked us up to it I couldn’t contain my excitement anymore. I wanted to see treasure. So I ran up to it but it was empty. It just had white cloth and cushions in it. It was light blue just like mikey’s favorite color. I turned around and saw Mom, Dad, the butler, and… “Wait, where's Mikey?” I asked, I was getting worried now. He was missing out on the castle tour. “Not right now,” Mom said in a broken voice.

“Please get away from the coffin,” the butler said sternly.

“Oh it’s okay no ones coughing,” I said.

“Come here right now!” Mom said, sounding angry, but sleepy too. I walked back immediately, with my eyes still on the tiny treasure chest.

“Hey Mommy,” I whispered, “That ones Mikey's favorite color”

“We’ll have the blue one” Mom said, “Do you know where Mikey went?” I asked,

“Heaven,” Mom whispered, now crying. “It’ll be okay Mom!” I said hugging her as tight as I would my stuffed animals,

“I can’t wait till he’s back!”


“What the actual fuck is happening?” I was standing behind a trash can that smelled of cat piss. I reasoned that the sight before me was the byproduct of ammonia intoxication because people can’t just levitate ten feet off the ground, in the middle of the street, with no chords, ropes, or jet packs. “Isn’t that Jacoby, that weirdo from third period?” Clara questioned beside me. Not only was I not aware that she had been next to me, but I was confused as to why she sounded so calm. It was indeed Jacoby, the most random of people to be performing a miracle for the ages. How could she have sounded as haughty as ever in the face of such wonder unless I really was losing my mind.            “Claire Bear, can you please tell me, does it look like Jacoby is . . . doing anything strange?” I hesitated to just come out and say what I saw because I was already on thin ice. Ever since the death of my uncle Jerry, I had been walking around a little less than myself. The loss had dredged up a lot of, let’s call it, “stuff” and my parents had everyone on high alert as a product. Clara was for sure, though a decent neighbor, a backstabber who would spill business for anything she could perceive as an opportunity to make herself look like an invaluable person. “Him standing in the middle of the street like an idiot? Yeah sure. I should go over and tell him to move before he gets himself killed.” True to her word, she walked right over to him under the bright summer sun, a hand smoothing down the front of her white dress to keep the wind from lifting it up.            Jacoby didn’t seem to see her immediately but did float down just before she could come within a few feet of him. Her eyes were trained, when he was floating, on the space that he eventually stood, the entire time. It’s as though she could only see him in that very spot. He did not act startled or waiver in the least.            It was then that I decided I was losing my carefully kept marbles and so chose to straighten out from my bent position and make myself a respectable citizen by engaging with Jacoby directly. He and Clara had begun to chat and were walking towards the Paramount Pharmacy, the best in our well water town.            “So, yeah, I was just looking down the road. That was all Clara. I thank you for your concern,” Jacoby said as politely as he could muster though it was obvious, at least to me, that it pained him.            I smiled, a tight, cheek hurting smile when he looked my way. It was hard to meet his honey brown gaze. He had been in the air, I could have sworn but wouldn’t dare say, just a few seconds prior. When I did meet his gaze head on, his brow furrowed quizzically, and his eyes widened.            “My, Clara. You have been so kind as to check in on me. Always so helpful. Would you mind going’ on in there to the Pharmacy? I was supposed to ask about Ms. Sally’s ointment. You mind seeing if it has come in yet? I promised I’d do a check for her and keep my mouth shut about it. For a seventy-year-old math teacher, she can still be quite vain, you know?”            Clara shook, giddy with the gossip. She spared me a half smug glance then skipped on in to nosey her way into Ms. Sally’s business. Jacoby stayed behind, eyes fixed to me the whole time and I was painted red, my neck hot with flush.            “Hi Adams,” Jacoby said. He began to walk over to a nearby bus bench. The street was quiet for a summer Tuesday afternoon. Everyone in town was out celebrating in the square after that morning’s homecoming parade and I was exhausted from the theatrics. I was supposed to be heading home. My date, Abbey McKinnon, would no doubt have been in a rage if I were to show up late with the limo that evening.            Home was exactly where I was headed before I saw whatever hallucination of Jacoby.            “How’s it going Jacoby? Did you enjoy the parade?” I ask.            “Oh, no. I didn’t get a chance to see it. I was busy with something.”            The turn of his lips proved contagious as I felt my own twitch upwards in response, but only for a second before I looked away. I thought I saw his eyes flit to my mouth, and this left a hollow but at the same time full sensation in my center that filled me with alarm.            “But I hear congratulations are in order. Clara told me about our team. Good work, I’m sure Abbey is stoked to be with a winning King.”            I choked on a chuckle. “I most certainly will not be crowned king of homecoming. Not this year. Abbey and her girls, Clara included, decided it would be best for the books if we were runners up this year and won in our Senior year instead. She said ‘everyone loves an underdog. It’ll read better,’ apparently.”            I sat down next to Jacoby and my ordinary fidgets started in my legs, causing a wiggle, wiggle in my ankle. I apologized and shuddered away when I bumped my foot into his, but he waved it off with an easy smile.            “Jacoby, I uh. I thought I saw something back there, a moment ago.” “Oh, yeah? What did you think you saw?” He looked me right in my eye and my stomach couldn’t abide by the direct challenge. “Oh, nothing.’” “There you two are! Jacoby, you little rat. Ms. Sally ain’t asked for nothing.”  * The festivities of the evening went to plan as the women in my life had intended and they could not have appeared happier. My mother was all too eager to snap up picture after picture. She insisted on going to Abbie’s house and wanted to pay her portion of the limo and hotel fees the parents had agreed to. The other ‘rents had given Mama a bit of a discount with all the travel my dad had been doing as of late. No one wanted us to burn through the funds he’d left. They were meant to last. I had stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, tired of all the posing and fake deliberation on what it meant to be this year’s runner up with Abbs. Oh, me? Oh my, what a surprise and an honor. “Having a good time, runner up?”            Jacoby appeared beside me on the old brick wall by the dumpsters, his hands folded together. I felt a little shaken, like a rattle in a baby’s hand at the proximity. “Sure. It’s been a heck of a long day.” “I’d suspect as much.” We looked at each other and something about the eye contact, after a while, plied me like warm water softening plastic. “Where the fuck you come from? I didn’t see you inside.” Jacoby frowned, but that frown fell faster than a drunk falling for a stripper and it was replaced by a small smile that bloomed across the bottom half of his face like dye in a pail of water. “What?” I sobered, afraid that it would be my only moment to ask: “Do you know how to float?” He went still and silent, so I pressed on. “Look, I know this may sound like a bag of cashews and peanuts, but I swear I saw you like twenty-feet in the fucking air this afternoon and Clara acted like everything was normal and maybe it was, maybe I was - “ “You did see me. And no, Clara couldn’t. If you weren’t the person, I’m pretty sure you don’t want to be, then you wouldn’t have either.” To be honest, it took a moment to dissect what he said because that last sentence confused me. I looked up and down the wide alley we were in. The metal door to the cafeteria was left ajar, the night's festivities taking place just down the hall from it and audible even where I stood. “What does that mean?” “I uh. I am what some may call a warlock in training and my aunt totally told me not conjure a love spell so I may have used a levitating love potion which essentially makes me appear to be levitating to those who may sort of, kind of, be interested in me - which I totally am not accusing you of, seeing as you have a girlfriend and all but, yeah. You’re not crazy, but I completely understand if you now think I am.” I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or run. So, I did all of them. And somehow, my wiggly hands pulled Jacoby along with me.


As I step out of the car, reluctantly leaving the heated seat and the warmth of the confined space, and am instantly hit with the bitter cold wind of classic Melbournes mid-July.

I walk around to the boot to pick up some shopping bags, The wind irritatingly whipping tendrils of my hair, that I fruitlessly tried to bat out of my face.

The car park was deserted, save for a few lone cars of Coles employees that dot the also empty street. The bright white light of the supermarket looks to offer much better protection from the bitter wind, so I picked up my pace, closed the boot and hopped up onto the sidewalk. Bundling up my scarf and pulling the hood of my sweatshirt higher up onto my frozen face. I walk through the painfully slow automatic doors and am relieved to be greeted by the warmer atmosphere inside the supermarket. I personally find that supermarket shopping is best done at night. It means fewer people, less crowding and means I can crank up my music as loud as possible without having to worry about the odd looks I gather when people don't “appreciate” the smashing music of the great Nirvana, etcetera, etcetera. This overall makes walking around the endless aisles much more manageable.

At currently 10:45 pm the only people who seem to be milling around the supermarket are an older woman and a group of unruly teenagers. So I plug my Airpods in, grab a basket and begin making my rounds through the aisles. As I make my way through the supermarket, stopping periodically to grab stuff off the shelves, By the time I make it about halfway, I notice how strangely deserted the place is. I turn down my music and look around. The old lady must have left, but I didn't notice her leave and the sketchy group of teenagers disappeared as well. As I continue to wander around, I notice that there is also no longer any staff waiting at the registers or unpacking boxes of assorted foods in the aisle. Though I normally come late, it never has this level of silence and emptiness. In not generally a paranoid person, but I have the strange feeling I’m being watched. I turn the corner into the cereal aisle. Boxes of artificially coloured, overly sugared cereal boxes line both shelves. Their equally on-brand, bright cheerful packaging mocks the creepy tone of the supermarket. I make my way down the aisle and turn right. I can hear footsteps, slow quiet footsteps eerily approaching but when I turn around there is no one behind in the aisle. Then suddenly the lights go out. Immediately plunging the supermarket in total darkness. A round of gunfire splits the short silence and loud shouts fill the entrance area of the supermarket.

I don’t reckon these people are those teenagers. I drop my basket, my eyes haven’t adjusted to the darkness, It bounces as it crashes to the ground. l stay standing, frozen in fear. The basket's contents roll about on the floor, spreading out around my feet and disappearing under the shelving in the aisle.

The lights slowly go back on but remain flickering as if someone is purposely turning the light switch on and off. I almost laugh, it’s giving off very Stranger Things vibes.  All of a sudden I am no longer alone in the aisle. There is someone at the other end. Even through the periodic flickers of light, I can't make out any of the person's facial features under their hood. It’s pulled tight around their head, kind of like mine, but theirs,

It's underneath some kind of leather jacket. They seem to be wearing a strange kind of haptic suit, that covers from neck to feet, which are covered in some futuristic light-up kind of shoes. The world seems to spin and sway out of proportion all at once and I shuffle my feet, almost stumbling over a dented can of beans. The shouts start up again, but now they are getting closer, I can hear someone shoot their gun up into the ceiling, plaster falling into the aisle next to me. The faint sound of empty bullet shells clinking on the floor. Before I can even say a word, the strange person breaks out in a sprint right for me. I can feel their cold hands, urgently close around my upper arm pulling me along back through the aisle. We dive over the registers and break out in a sprint for the exit to the supermarket.

The people might have seen us because I can hear their footsteps and their shouts drawing closer. The person still has me, firm in their grip, I hopelessly stumble on after them. “Where are we going?” Feels like a stupid question to be asking now, this situation just keeps getting weirder and weirder. Their response is drowned out by the shouts of the people running out of the supermarket. I glance behind us. These people are covered in a similar but black bodysuit, but with some strange black bug-like helmets, with glowing red lights. And then the machine guns go off. And they are shooting right at us. The first round of bullets pierced the cars to my left and my right. The next round pierced the flailing corner of my jacket. “What's happening?” I yell with much more alarm this time. “We have to get out now.” Her voice shocks me. Sounding weirdly familiar. Before I can even turn to see how close the machine gun guys are, she pulls out a small grey orb and we dive behind the nearest car. The dive knocks off her hood. I’m staring at a face that seems all too familiar to belong to a stranger.

I’m staring at me.

“We have to leave this place now. you must follow me, you are in danger. You must trust me and follow the instructions that I give you, ok? Do you trust me?” her voice full of authority. She throws the orb and it explodes in bright purple, which illuminates the ground and a swirling cloud appears, almost like a portal. The words leave my mouth before I could process them. “Yes.” Without hesitation, she pushes me forward and we fall into the light.


The first day she saw him, he wore a brown cap and navy-blue tie. An oxygen tank sat beside his feet, and his hands trembled ever so slightly. On the second day, his tie was striped, and he ordered their new pumpkin-spice coffee with cream.

On the third day, a dandelion was pinned to his shirt. She smiled, nodding as she poured his coffee. “That’s a very nice flower,” She said, and he met her gaze with a smile. He tapped a shaky finger against the dandelions stem. “It’s my wife's birthday.” He said. She grinned. “You must love her a lot.” She said, and he nodded.

“Oh yes,” He told her, and reached for the steaming mug. “Very much.” On the sixth day, he was wearing a Veterans pin, and she asked him if he lived in one of the Senior Residencies. He laughed some, then raised his napkin against his lips as he coughed.

“Never,” He told her, and when he drew the napkin back to his lap, he was smiling. “I live with my nephew.” She nodded, using her thumb to wipe a drop of coffee off the lip of his mug.

“He must be very handsome, to be related to someone such as yourself.” She hummed, and the man laughed again. He shook his head lightly. “Oh no,” He waved his hand noncommittally and leaned forward, cupping the mug in his hands. “The only family I have is from my wife’s side.”

She asked about his wife on the seventh day. He smiled solemnly.

“My dear,” He said, “My wife has been dead for almost twenty years.” She had begun to apologize when he waved a hand.

“Don’t be sorry.” He advised “I’ve already cherished every moment and more.” Day twelve was slow. The cafe was empty except for the old man with the oxygen tank. The girl busied herself for a few moments behind the counter before pouring herself a cup of hot mulled cider. The man was looking out at the window, he looked up when she cleared her throat.

“Can I sit with you?” She asked, and he nodded, eyes brightening as he straightened. “Please,” He gestured to the chair adjacent and she smiled. She placed her mug on the table and pulled up the chair, crossing her ankles as she sat. She untied her apron and laid it across her lap. The man smiled when she did. He pointed a shaking finger to her torso.

“I hadn’t noticed you were pregnant,” He said. She beamed, glowing as pregnant women do, and crossed a hand over her blossoming stomach.

“It’s still early,” She said, almost humming as she glanced to her middle. She met the man's eyes again as he sipped his drink. “I’m only a few months along.” The man raised his mug, even if only a few centimeters.

“Congratulations.” He nodded to her, and she returned the gesture, clinking her mug with his. She smiled. “Thank you.” He hummed as he set his mug back on the table. “Y’know,” He said, grazing his tongue over chapped lips. “My Mother was the first great love of my life.” Her eyebrow quirked, and she smiled over the lip of her mug.

“Only the first?” She mused, and the man's eyes twinkled in response.

“Oh yes,” He said, and leaned forward for a second sip. He cleared his throat afterward and straightened his back along his chair.

“She was born 1916 in Czechoslovakia, only two years before it was founded, during the peak of the first world war. Reina Alexsandra Vartoughi, born premature to my grandparents, Friedrick and Petra. However, as peace settled, the Russian Civil War was just beginning, and my Grandfather passed shortly afterwards. My Mother was barely five years, and my Grandmother just shy of twenty-eight, when a group of Czechs made the move west. Seven widows, with thirteen children between them. "They ended up getting picked up by a French circus as they passed through Vienna. My Mother once told me that she had been terrified; sudden screaming, the sounds of animals and people alike, and my Grandmother, sobbing and pleading for refuge. They were caged and starved for three days; the elder women giving themselves up for pleasure. The circus owner was a vain man, with hats made of feathers and coats made of fur. His wife was even more so—a formerly Austrian woman nicknamed ‘Marie’ for her resembling aesthetic to that of the former Queen of France. She was passing through the circus train one day when she heard my Grandmother sing—like a nightingale draped in silks and other fine textiles—and struck her a deal. If my Grandmother made decent pay in the circus, she and my Mother would be released once they passed through England.”

“What did she do?” The barista asked, an elbow propped between her chin and the table. The old man's eyes shone. “She sang. Day and night. She learned to dance and taught my Mother, and once two months had passed, they arrived in Glasgow under new identities. My Mother's beautiful Czech name, shortened to Alexandra Vaughn. Other women were not so fortunate, and some much more. My Mother once recollected a bearded lady who had whip-marks across her back and shoulders, and later dedicated her teen years to advocating the abolishment of slavery.

"She was eighteen, one evening, and attended a protest that later turned into a riot. A bystander threw himself in front of my Mother to shield her from an oncoming blow, and landed himself in the hospital for three nights. My Grandmother called him a foolish boy, but even she couldn’t hide her discontempt for my Father. My Mother had brought him a poundcake whilst he was in the hospital, and invited him for dinner once he was released.

"They married soon afterward, once my Mother had gotten pregnant for the first time. My Father moved in with my Mother and Grandmother, and they converted the sewing room into a nursery furnished with lilac wallpaper and silk curtains. They lost the baby over the winter, a boy, as well as a daughter two years later. They accepted that it wasn’t time yet for them to start a family, and my Father enlisted in the army. He was deployed for four months before my Mother realized she was pregnant.”

The barista smiled.

“With you?” She asked softly. The man nodded.

“With me.” He smiled, then sighed. “She sent him a letter, but they never heard back.” The barista shook her head. “That’s horrible.” She said, and he shrugged. “Perhaps,” He agreed, and held out his mug with a smile. “May I have a refill?” He continued to come in every day afterward, and they told each other stories when the cafe was idle. On the seventeenth day, he stayed later than he ever had before. The barista removed her apron and dimmed the back lights as the sun began to set. The man was looking out the window when she joined him at his table. “Are you waiting for someone?” She asked, adding a packet of sugar to her tea. He nodded and drew his gaze back to hers. “My nephew,” He said, and she hummed. “On your wife's side,” She remembered, and smiled when the man nodded. “Will you tell me about her?” She asked. His eyes shone with boyish glee and he grinned, nodding.

“My Maybelle,” He crooned. The barista sipped her tea. “I was nearly twenty-one when I attended the University of London. I spent my first three years out of high school travelling the United Kingdom, when I found myself growing more and more peculiar about social work, similar to my Mother. I received word of my acceptance six months after I applied, and my Mother helped move me into a dorm the week following.

"Two weeks into my philosophy course, a fellow student and I struck a debate about equal wage. Things became so heated that she struck me right across the cheek and called me a privileged moron.” The barista tried and failed to suppress a giggle at the lovestruck expression dawning on his face. “Now, before then, I had never thought of myself as privileged, coming from a single-salary household with no father, but to a brown woman in her first year in university, I could imagine the misunderstanding. "I spent the next three days educating myself more on the topic, and found myself to be in the wrong. When I called my Mother to tell her of my predicament, she called me an idiot. So before class the following afternoon, I pulled her aside, presenting her a daisy and an apology. She had flushed, stroking the petals of the flower and stammering an apology for hitting me. I remember laughing, and telling her I deserved it. We ended up sitting together, passing notes back and forth like school-children, and do you know what she said to me at the end of the day?”

“What?” The barista asked. He smiled. “That for future reference, dandelions were her favourite.” He took a sip before continuing. "She was majoring in nursing, and often confided in me how she wished to be a neuroscientist. She was seventeen and a half when she’d applied, listing a recommendation letter from renowned practitioner Gail Heron. She came from a family of five; her mother, father, two brothers, and herself. They lived on the outside of London, in what she used to describe as the Dreary-Fog-Hour, where it was often miserable. Her father was crippled from war, leaving her two older brothers to provide for them, in one of the most discriminatory eras to grace Europe.

"At fifteen, she got her first job filing papers in a medical office, where she met Dr. Heron, who took an immediate liking to her. The older woman soon became something of a mentor to my wife, and I was introduced to Dr. Heron on our fourth date. Three days afterward, Maybelle broke up with me.” He smiled lightly at the baristas awestruck expression and shook his head. “I was distraught, to put it lightly. After only four dates, I knew I wanted nothing more than to marry her.” “But why did she break up with you?” The barista asked. The man gave her a sad smile. “She was raped. She was leaving one of her night classes when two boys from her class wrestled her into an empty classroom. She discovered she was pregnant the night I met Dr. Heron. I ended up reaching out to her after I’d had a few days to process the breakup, and she began sobbing over the phone. She told me she was dirty, and that she didn’t think I’d want anything to do with her once she had an abortion. That was the first time I told her I loved her. I accompanied her to her abortion the following week, perfromed by Dr. Heron. She later told me that was the moment she realized she wanted to spend the rest of her life with me.

"And she did. I proposed to her one year after she graduated, and we married the following year. She was the second great love of my life, and I’m thankful for every minute I was by her side.” A pair of headlights flashed through the window, and he turned his head. A faded pickup was pulling into the parking lot, and the man hummed.

“Well,” He said, pushing his empty mug into the middle of the table. “Thank you for the coffee.” She had a doctors appointment on the nineteenth day. When she got to work on the twentieth, his eyes lit up. “You weren’t here yesterday,” He said, already pushing his mug to her. She grinned as she poured his coffee. “I had a doctor's appointment.” She said, and the man's eyes faltered. “Are you okay?” He asked, and she smiled gently.

“Yes,” She nodded, and rubbed a hand over her stomach. “I’m having a boy.” His face stretched into a wide smile. He pulled his mug back towards himself with trembling fingers.

“I remember the excitement,” He mused, and traced his thumb along the lip of his mug. “My favourite part was decorating the nursery.” The barista met his gaze in bafflement. “I thought you said all your family was on your wife's side?” She asked, eyes sparkling with curiosity. The man hummed and waved her to the chair across from him. “Not always,” He said, smiling. “The third and final great love of my life was my daughter. Maybelle and I discovered we were pregnant the year she turned thirty. We both knew there were additional risks to having a baby while ‘older’.” The waitress grinned. “But we were absolutely ecstatic. We spent the next nine months preparing for the baby; decorating the nursery, going shopping, reading parenting articles, and telling Maybelles family. Everyone was thrilled, even Maybelles mother, with whom their relationship had become strained. Things only started going wrong at the beginning of her third trimester.

"Maybelles blood pressure kept rising, and she was confined to bed rest. It was a very stressful pregnancy, but she was worth it. Farrah Alexis Vaughn. Born seven pounds and two ounces, two weeks early, and deaf. The diagnosis took the first three months of her life, and Maybelle had been absolutely devastated for Farrah. We adored her more than anything, and we all cried the first time she got her hearing aids fitted. She was five when we found the perfect pair, and she had already been proficient in sign language. She loved music, and often laid down in front of the stereo to feel the bass.

"She had beautiful caramel skin, and curls that rivaled my own. I called her my Amber, the same gem as her birthstone, and the jewel that would be embedded into a ring I was planning to give her on her eleventh birthday. She was homeschooled up until Grade Six, by myself, whilst Maybelle finally began the neuroscience fellowship at the hospital. She was so bright, and incredibly skilled in mathematics, much like Maybelle. She thrived on puzzles; crosswords and sudoku, solitaire and cribbage.

"She started figure skating the same year she entered middle school, and Maybelle and I were cautious to say the least. We attended every practice, every competition, and every performance. She was like an angel on the ice. She’d never stop, not even when the old pond froze over.” His smile turned sad, and the waitress shook her head. “I’m sorry.” She said, and he waved his hand in a dismissive manner. “I’m not.” He rebutted. “She was a happy girl, even with her disability, and if nothing else I’m thankful she found something she was passionate about.” The waitress hugged her stomach. The man made a humming noise. “Do you have carrot cakes?” Day twenty-three was the last day she saw him, and a caramel toned man entered the cafe a few days later. The old man had passed away in his sleep, and they were holding a funeral at the end of the week. She was invited, and so she went. A kleenex in her purse and her hands cupping the rising bump of her stomach, she watched alone amongst others as a mahogany casket lowered into the earth, and remembered the last thing he’d said to her. ‘Did you ever remarry?’ She’d asked one day, and he shook his head. ‘Most people are lucky enough to have even one love of their life,’ He said. ‘I was lucky enough to have three, and I don’t intend to keep them waiting much longer.’ She arrived home that evening to an empty home, and an even emptier refrigerator. She laid her purse on the floor, curled up on her couch, and began to sing her baby a lullaby.


The dark-haired woman walked away from the graveside, wiping her eyes with a crumpled tissue. Her two young children, a boy and a girl, clung tightly to her long, black woolen coat, unsure why their mummy was sad, and and not liking the feeling of the light rain on their faces. They were too young to understand the concept of death, or funerals, but they didn't like seeing mummy upset. She led them, in silence, back to the car, opening the rear doors in turn and securing them into their seats, before walking around the car and climbing into the driver's seat. She wiped away one last tear with the back of her hand, before starting the engine and slowly pulling the car away. As she drove carefully down the quiet lane, she was unaware of the white mist trailing behind the car. The two young children stared out of their car windows for the entire journey home. Neither she, nor they, said a single word until the car finally arrived outside their home. As she turned off the engine, the white mist gently floated, unseen, up towards the roof of the house. “I'm hungry, mummy!” the little girl wailed. “Me too!” the little boy agreed, with a mischievous smile. Wearily, she got out of the car, and then opened each of the rear doors alternately, helping her children to unfasten their seatbelts, and watching as they raced up to the porch. She locked the car, then followed behind them, unlocking the front door and ushering them inside, out of the drizzle.

It was just beginning to get dark on this late October afternoon, so she switched on the hallway light and let out a light laugh, despite her sadness, as her children ran eagerly into the kitchen. As the siblings settled themselves at the kitchen table, she began to prepare tea for everyone, and the three of them were soon eating in silence. As she ate, with her back towards the kitchen door, she did not notice the white mist lingering there, having made its way down from the attic.

After tea, the dark-haired woman ushered her children upstairs for their baths, allowing her son to watch television in her bedroom whilst she bathed her daughter. Then, having supervised the little girl getting into her pyjamas and putting her to bed, she called her son into the bathroom. As soon as her son was ready for bed, she kissed both children goodnight and headed downstairs. The dark-haired woman switched on the television, and began to watch a movie, but due to the stress of the day, and the darkness of the living room, she soon fell asleep. Whilst she slept, she was unaware of the mist hovering silently above her, seeming to watch over her. A couple of hours later, she was awoken by the sound of 'white noise' on the television, indicating that the night's programs on that channel had come to an end.  Rubbing her eyes, she glanced at the clock on the fireplace. It was almost 2am, so she wearily stood up from the sofa, turned off the television and crossed the room. Turning off the one single table lamp, she made her way up to her bedroom. On the way, she glanced into each of her children's rooms in turn, and saw that they were both sleeping peacefully. With a contented sigh, she crept into her own bedroom, closed the door, undressed quickly and slipped into bed. Turning off the bedside lamp, she lay down, pulling the duvet up over herself, and was asleep within seconds. * The following day, Sunday, was the second day of the half-term holidays, and it was the day before Halloween. After breakfast, the dark-haired woman asked her children if they would like to decorate the house, ready for the big day. Of course, they were very excited by the idea, so she went up into the attic and began to bring down various bags and boxes of decorations. Despite many trips up and down the attic ladder, she did not notice a faint, white glow in the far corner. Grandma's ghost watched in silence as her daughter carried the boxes down, feeling proud at the fantastic job the dark-haired woman was doing of raising her children alone. She really wanted to reveal her presence to her daughter, but did not know how she might react, so she decided to wait until later.

For the next few hours, the trio busied themselves with a mountain of Halloween decorations, and by the time they had finished, they had the best-decorated house in the entire street (in their opinion, of course!) * Everything had faded to black for the old woman at first, as she left her old life behind, but then the light had slowly returned. Now Grandma found herself back in her daughter's house once again, this time unseen by anyone. 'So this is what it feels like to be dead'. Grandma had thought to herself. She had often wondered whether the 'afterlife' actually existed, and now she knew for sure. The family had no idea she was now watching over them. She was 'sitting' on the stairs in the hallway, watching them through the open kitchen door. They all looked so happy! They were laughing and joking, flicking flour at each other as they now made spooky biscuits and other treats for a little Halloween party, and for any Trick or Treaters who might pay them a visit. “Stay here, I'll be back in a minute. Be good!” the dark-haired woman smiled, as she left the kitchen briefly, to use the bathroom. As soon as she entered the hallway, the white mist that had been hovering on the stairs instantly faded away. Seconds later, it reappeared in the kitchen, floating above the kitchen table, glowing slightly under the overhead light. The two young children gazed up at the mist, but were unafraid.

“Hi Grandma!” the little girl said brightly. The little boy said nothing, but he smiled as he saw the mist seeming to glow more intensely in response to his sister's voice. Minutes later , the dark-haired woman returned to the kitchen, but as she reached the open door, she paused, and listened. She could hear her children talking and laughing with someone, but it was clear that they were definitely not talking to each other. She frowned and walked back into the room, just as the mist vanished again.

“Hey, guys. Who were you talking to?” The dark-haired woman asked. The children glanced at each other and shrugged. “No-one.” They answered in unison. She could tell from their expressions that they were hiding something, but, not wanting to upset them after such a sad day yesterday, she did not press them. “OK, come on guys, bedtime!” the dark-haired woman said, firmly but with a kind smile. So the children pushed their chairs back from the table, with a loud scraping sound, and ran obediently from the room and up the stairs. Within half an hour, both children were safely tucked up in their beds, reading their favourite books, and the dark-haired woman went downstairs to tidy the kitchen.

Later that night, when the family were asleep, the glowing mist floated gently back and forth between their three bedrooms, seemingly making sure they were all safe and sound. Then, apparently satisfied, it floated up through the ceiling, to take up residence in the attic. * The following day was Halloween, and the two children could not wait to go out 'Trick or Treating'. It was dark by 4pm, so the dark-haired woman helped them to put on their coats, gave them each a Halloween bag to put their goodies in, then ushered them out the front door. Thankfully, it was a dry afternoon, although it was very cold. The dark-haired woman blew hot breath into her hands, rubbing them together as she led the children down the road. Not wanting to wear the children out completely, they simply walked around the block, and were back home again within an hour. The children eagerly ran into the living room to examine their impressive haul, whilst the dark-haired woman slipped into the kitchen to prepare their tea. * Grandma's misty form floated a few inches over the fireplace, looking down on them as they emptied their 'Trick or Treat' sacks onto the living room rug. She smiled warmly at them, watching in silence as they sorted through their booty. The little girl held up a sweet, offering it to her relative, but the spectral old lady slowly shook her head. So the little girl shrugged, and popped it into her own mouth with a giggle. “K-I-I-I-D-S! TEA'S READY!” The dark-haired woman yelled suddenly, from the kitchen. When she got no response, she walked out of the kitchen, across the hallway and into the living room to fetch them. As she did so, the white mist floated up through the ceiling, out of sight. Then, as she returned to the kitchen, the mist reappeared in the passage, and followed silently behind her. Finally, the dark-haired woman heard her offspring trotting into the kitchen behind her, and she turned around to face them. The dark-haired woman gazed in horror at the white cloud, now floating in the kitchen doorway, and she dropped the open bottle of fizzy orange drink that she had been about to pour into spooky plastic glasses for her children. Just as the liquid began to spread across the kitchen floor, the doorbell rang. The children instantly ran back into the hallway, to answer the door. ”Damn!” she thought, snapping back to reality. “It can't be the party guests already, surely?!” A fraction of a second before the doorbell rang, Grandma's ghost, apparently sensing the visitors' approach, vanished into thin air. The dark-haired woman quickly mopped up the spillage and put the bottle on the kitchen table, then she walked quickly into the hallway, just as her children began to open the front door. “TRICK OR TREAT?!” came a loud shout from behind the front door. It wasn't the party guests after all; merely some hopeful children from down the street. Suddenly, the entire group screamed in terror and ran back up the path, most of them dropping their bags of sweets in their haste to get away. The dark-haired woman and her children turned around, to see her mum's ghost floating in the middle of the hallway behind them, silently laughing to herself. Realizing that the white cloud she had seen earlier, in the kitchen, was in fact also the ghost of her dear mum, the dark-haired woman heaved a sigh of relief, tinged with sorrow. The sight of Grandma's ghost laughing, coupled with the sweets littering the path, caused the two children to giggle. Seeing the two of them so happy, and 'reunited' with Grandma, the dark-haired woman began laughing, too. As they went back indoors, the dark-haired woman began to wonder if they could have some fun with Grandma's ghost during the party. She noticed that the mist had floated up into the attic after scaring the Trick or Treaters, so she made up her mind to go up there later, and see if she could persuade the spirit to make an appearance downstairs again, in front of all of the party guests. * Ten minutes later, everyone finally began to arrive for the party, and soon the house was ringing with laughter, and almost trembling with the rhythmn of spooky party tunes coming from the stereo. After making sure all of her guests were supplied with snacks and drinks, and encouraging them to mingle, she quietly slipped into the hallway again. Having overcome her initial fears, and sadness, at seeing her mother's ghost, the dark-haired woman now found herself actively seeking out the entity, whilst the Halloween party continued in the living room and the kitchen. As she heard laughter, and shrieks of delight in the kitchen, she crept back upstairs, opened the attic hatch, pulled down the ladder, and climbed up. “Mum? Are you up here?” She asked, hesitantly. As she waited, her heart pounded nervously in her chest. After a few moments, the mist slowly reappeared in the corner of the attic, glowing brightly.

“We're having a little Halloween party downstairs, with the kids and a few friends.” The dark-haired woman said to the mist. “Would you like to...join us?” It felt a bit strange asking a ghost to come to a party but, after a few seconds the mist began to pulse slowly with a bright white glow. She still had no idea that her children had already been communicating with her mum's ghost earlier in the day, but something told her that the pulsing light within the mist was, indeed, the spirit's way of responding to her offer. “OK, see you later”, the dark-haired woman said, before heading back down the attic ladder and making her way to the kitchen.

The party was in full swing now, and so the dark-haired woman decided to play a game with the visiting children. “Hey, kids.” She asked playfully. “Who wants to see...a real life ghost?” A few of the children shook their heads nervously, but the rest began jumping up and down, raising their hands, and calling out, “Me! Me! Me!” The dark-haired woman laughed, and then tried to quieten the children down. “Shush, shush, shush! OK, let's see if we can make her appear then, shall we?” she said. “I want everyone to shout out 'Grandma, where are you?' as loudly as possible, OK? After three. One...Two... Three!” “GRANDMA-A-A! WHERE A-A-ARE YOU-U-U?!” The children called in unison. Seconds later, the ceiling light began to flicker repeatedly, causing one or two of the children to scream, and then, a white mist began to seep through the ceiling, getting larger and larger. In spite of their fear, the visiting children watched open-mouthed, as the mist suddenly began to take the shape of an elderly woman.

The ghost hovered just above the floor in front of the children, smiling, then she began to wave slowly at them. Sensing that this was a 'good' ghost, rather than a 'bad' one, the children soon began to wave back. So Grandma's ghost began to put on a show for them, gliding through the walls and the ceiling, changing shape into various animals and cartoon characters, and pulling ridiculous faces.

The party guests were soon laughing and dancing around the room as Grandma's ghost entertained them, and, before they knew it, it was time for everyone to go home. As they left the house, each of the departing guests, including the adults, called out, “Bye Grandma!” * A few hours later, after all the guests had gone home, and her children were safely tucked up in bed, the dark-haired woman returned to the attic. As she knelt on the floor, the glowing white mist enveloped her entire body, giving her an immense feeling of euphoria. Finally at peace, the dark-haired woman crossed the attic, and made her way slowly back down the ladder to the hallway, just as the mist faded away for the very last time. “Goodbye Mum,” The young woman said quietly. “I love you.” THE END


“Hey handsome, does the Wurlitzer work?”

Buck raised his eyes and continued drying glasses behind the bar. A woman in her early twenties he hadn’t seen before, was standing between the door and the jukebox. He smiled and shook his head. “It works fine.” “How about floating me a few quarters, won’t you? We could use a little pick me up in here, don’t ya think?” She looked around the little bar with a bit of disappointment in her eyes. Buck assumed she randomly stumbled into Kelly’s Pub on her way to a better invitation. She was trying too hard to appear endearing, and Buck surmised she’d been pre-gaming even before venturing into the bar. He hoped a bit of subtle inhospitality would dissuade her from sticking around. “Darlin’, if you can’t afford the music, how ya’ gonna pay for drinks? This is a bar honey, not a birthday party.”

She smiled with her eyes, “Oh, I can pay, I have money. What I don’t have are quarters for the Wurlitzer. So, what do ya’ say, hook a girl up with a few?”

Buck didn’t protest any further, assuming if he indulged her, she’d be gone before the second song ceased to play. “Here.” he said cooly, handing her four quarters without making eye contact. He liked the way she referred to the jukebox as the Wurlitzer; showing it deserved respect.

“And they say there aren't any real gentlemen left in the world.” she mocked, sliding the coins toward her and dropping them off the edge of the bar into her open hand. “I just hope this squirrely, Podunk, back-alley shithole has at least one song worth listening to.” The young woman sauntered over to the jukebox and took her time reading each of the hundred and ten selections. Buck grew impatient; there was something odd about her, something he just couldn’t put his finger on. He thought of calling Mike, the owner but hated to disturb him. After all, how would it look to call for help the first time he was trusted to run the bar alone? Still, he watched with trepidation, ignoring the other three patrons who didn’t seem to care as long as they still had a bit left in the glasses in front of them.

Eventually, a steady beat emanated from the well-worn speakers; low at first building into an all too familiar introduction. Buck admitted to himself, he had underestimated her, assuming she’d choose something obnoxious and ironic. Instead, Skynyrd was about to lay down some cold hard facts about a state they didn’t even originate from. Maybe, there was some irony in her choice after all. She swayed ever so slightly as she stood facing the jukebox. Buck thought he heard her humming softly to the music before turning back to the bar. “Ok, handsome, how about a gin and juice for the lady?”

Buck remained unimpressed. “First, payment up front and a valid I.D.”

The woman shoved her hand in her back left pocket and proudly produced her driver’s license and a credit card, which she dramatically slammed down on the bar. “Surprise!” she goaded.

Reluctantly he poured, using a light hand with the gin. “First and last, got it?” She giggled and downed her drink in one fell swoop. “We shall see.” she teased banging her empty glass on the bar twice, then twirling her index finger in the air. “Don’t you worry, handsome, the card is good. Now, set me up again, won’t you?”

Buck obliged; the song changed, and the young woman intentionally situated herself, back against the bar, hands resting on either side. Skynyrd retreated back to Jacksonville where they came from, and Def Leppard took the stage with their oddly captivating rendition of the end of the world. She made her move. In one perfectly fluid motion, she lifted herself onto the bar. Seated at first, then, as if rehearsed, she was on her feet. Buck protested loudly, “Whoa, get down from there.” but she was already lost in the song, choreographing her every move to its quirky cadence. She was reckless; hip pops and hair tosses, yet careful, strategically timing kicks as not to impede the other customers' reticent shame. She’d done this before. Curious, Buck checked her license, Annie Sheldon, clearly not her stripper moniker. She continued to dance; her rhythmic timing was impeccable, and her movements were clean, intentional and strong. Buck thought, she was much more Burlesque than Exotic. She would make more sense with fishnets and a feather boa, rather than an old zip front hoodie, oversized jeans and sneakers which would occasionally catch on the thick epoxy, resulting in cringeworthy squeaks. He imagined a cute bowler hat she’d use as more of a prop than adornment. Annie Sheldon was pretty, he had to admit. Her thick dark hair hung in curls around her thin face, just barely brushing the top of her shoulders. He noticed, though, this Annie person seemed to miss having long hair; her hands reaching well below her actual length to toy with it as part of her flirtatious flair. She wore no makeup, but Buck found himself wanting to see her with pink painted lips and nails. What the hell was happening? He shook himself back to some semblance of reality, checking on the others, refilling their glasses. The music ceased. He reached up for her hand, offering to help her down from the bar. She giggled and carefully kicked her empty glass closer to him. “While you’re at it, barkeep, I’ll have another.” This girl was quite captivating. She stood, closed her eyes and anticipated the next song. Annie Sheldon ran her fingers through her unkempt curls, unzipped her sweatshirt and slowly removed it, tossing it onto an empty barstool. The intro played; she felt every note deep in her soul as if it were her personal anthem. That talent, that most distinct throaty, passionate voice; “ Oh, Stevie, you get me” , she thought as she raised her arms over her head, planted her feet and rotated her hips in isolated figure eights. She sang along softly, only stopping at the bridge to down her third gin and juice. “It's all right, all right….” Buck called her name, “Annie.” She did not respond. Louder this time, “Annie!” Still, she remained lost in the music. Once more for the people in the cheap seats, “Annie!!”

She smiled and danced. She hadn’t noticed Mike standing in the doorway until she heard him call out, “Amelia.” His familiar, authoritative tone was sobering and immediately directed her back to the reality she was so desperate to escape from. “Shit.” Mike approached. He handed his leather coat to Buck to stash behind the bar. Buck felt a wave of panic rush into his head from somewhere deep in his gut. Annie, on the other hand, managed herself into a seated position at the edge of the bar, feeling as if every drop of blood had drained from her brain into her body. “I’m a little woozy.” she admitted, hoping for even an iota of sympathy or at the very least a morsel of grace. Mike glared at her as if he were about to administer punishment to a naughty child. She half expected him to ground her, but what was coming would be much worse. “I’m calling Kate.”

Annie slid from the bar into the empty stool covered by her hoodie. She hung her head and avoided eye contact with both Buck and Mike. She whispered, “I might be sick.”, thinking no one would hear. Old Della however piped up, “Yeah well, serves you right if you puke.” Annie ignored the woman. She’d seen Della at Kelly’s many times before, sitting on the same stool, soaked in Tequila, pining for better days passed. She wanted to call her out; let her know she saw her staring, watching her move, jealous of Annie’s youth and vitality. But she was about to face the wrath of Kate Kelly and that in itself was enough to contend with; no additional confrontation necessary to completely fuck up her day.

Joe and Owen kept to themselves; a little sad the show had come to an abrupt halt. Still, they remained in their respective stupors, smart enough not to piss off the owner. Joe cleared his throat and Mike shot him a menacing look. He held up his hand, signaling the throat clear was purely involuntary without any agenda. Mike held the phone to his ear, waiting for Kate to pick up. Through clenched teeth, he hissed, “Someone should have called me the minute she got here.”

Owen hung his head even lower while Joe spoke on their collective behalf. “It’s not our place to babysit your sister’s degenerate. The kid was just blowin’ off steam, is all.”

“Mike?” Kate picked up before Mike could get into it with Joe. Another distinctive glare told Joe they weren’t done.

“Yeah, Katie, your girl is here. She must have walked from the house or worse yet, hitched a ride. I came in about ten minutes ago to find her dancing on the fricken bar! Get down here and clean up your mess.”

“Jesus Mike, calm down. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Tell Amelia, I’m bringing a tracker, and she brought that on herself. Did anyone take pictures or video of her little performance?” “I doubt it, but I’ll ask Buck.” “Mike, please for the love of God, make sure no one posted anything on social media. I can’t risk it.”

“I’ll take care of it, Kate. You know, I can’t say I blame the kid. She must be homesick, frustrated and resentful. We should consider ourselves lucky this was the only act of rebellion we have to deal with.”

“We? I thought she was MY mess?” “That she is, but when you confessed everything to me, when you decided for me, my inadvertent involvement, I couldn’t help but become invested. She deserves better, Kate; see to it she gets that chance.” Mike ended the call and relayed Kate’s message. Annie’s eyes filled with tears, but she nodded in compliance. Buck overheard and followed Mike to the stockroom. “Why would she need a tracker? “Hey, is she some sort of criminal? What does she have to do with your sister? Why did you call her Amelia, when her license and credit card have her name as Annie?” Buck was visibly shaken. “Hey, I’m serious, Mike. I can’t get involved in any bad shit. I’ve spent my entire life staying legit, and if you and your depraved sister screw that up for me, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“You’ll go back to work, that’s what you’ll do.” “Wait, did your sister kidnap her? Is she being held against her will? Oh my God, Mike, that’s it, isn’t it?”

“You’re welcome to leave, Buck. Just let me know as soon as possible so I can hire someone else to run the bar while I’m gone. I leave for New York in two weeks.”

—---------------------------------------------------------- Two weeks later, Mike handed the keys to Kelly’s Pub to a woman named Lynne. She was in her late forties, fairly attractive and great with his regulars. Lynne used to manage the diner in town before it was bought out by a chain restaurant specializing in artisan burgers and craft beer. “Thank you for this. If all goes well, and I sure hope it does, I’ll be back in a few days.” He hated to see Buck go, but his apprehensions and suspicion were warranted. Finding Lynne to run the place was a relief. His trip to the city was stressful enough without the added worry of his beloved bar being left in the wrong hands.

—------------------------------------------------------------ “All Rise!”

Mike stood. His heart was beating out of his chest, yet there was a slight feeling of relief creeping over him. The day was finally upon them and with the grace of God, all will go well. He kept Kathryn’s secret; he’d do anything for her. But he was really there for Amelia.

“Is Federal Marshall, Kathryn Kelly in attendance?”

“Yes, your honor.” “And, your witness, Amelia Cardone? Is she willing and able to take the stand?” “She is.”

“Has she been constantly and continually in your protection with the Witness Security Program for the past year?”

“She has.”

“These proceedings will continue without delay. We are here today in closed court to receive the testimony of Amelia Cardone who unintentionally observed in disturbing detail the brutal murders of Francis Macetti and James D’Tomasso, on February fourteenth in the year twenty twenty two. The criminal acts allegedly carried out by the defendants named, in association with perpetual unlawful allegations of the Scorsoni family, transpired behind the Biltmore theater where Ms. Cardone was then employed as an actor and dancer in the show, City Unseen .” Does council agree with the synopsis?” “We do.” “Ms. Cardone, please approach and allow the bailiff to officially swear you in.”