Robbie and I were best friends, at least that is until I achieved dubious fame. Missing Girl Found By Walker screamed the headlines, above a photo of me holding a bewildered, dishevelled child. Two days prior 5 year old Jennifer Dreaver had wandered off during a family bush walk. Searchers were combing another section of bush. We saw them on the way in , and of course Robbie wanted to join them. I managed to talk him out of it. Which is ironic considering that I emerged an accidental hero. Now that was a right circus. Amidst the scrum of reporters, photographers and rubberneckers I inwardly questioned the parenting skills of a couple who not only took their young child into the bush, but lost her there. Outwardly I smiled for the birdy, playing the hero. While in the background a mute witness to my newfound adulation stood Robbie.  His usual reticent self. Good ole Rob-Man, who not just had my back, but could be relied upon for his discretion. FFS who uses that kind of terminology nowadays? I was beginnng to sound like some great-granddaddy era stuffed-shirt. Discretion my big toe. In modern-day speak Rob Man was too busy having my back to have his own. Unlike yours truely self aggrandisement wasn’t his style. Which worked to my advantage as I surrendered that precious bundle (more like bludy nuisance) to her tearful (or as I saw it neglectful) parents. If little Ms Dreaver smiled and waved over her mother’s shoulder to that solitary figure who stood by now on the periphery of my fame it went unnoticed. After all it was me in the spotlight. I was the man of the moment, the walker who’d gone to investigate sounds coming from a clump of bushes off the main track. “Against my companion’s advice. Well I had to didn’t I? I mean someone could’ve been hurt, and isn’t it just as well I did?” ”Oh yes, yes.” The tearful mother fixing me with desperate eyes. No doubt imagining her daughter’s fate were I not to have happened along. While a grateful father gripped my hands, fixing me with an expression of profound gratitude and exclaimed. “Thank God you did son, and if there’s ever anything......” If I felt any guilt on Robbie’s part I brushed it aside. Sorry for casting aspersions Rob-Man, but I had to take out some insurance. You know, just in case you got any ideas or let certain things slip. Afterwards we drifted apart.  Given the circumstances a predictable outcome and  one that attracted considerable sympathy,  The man who’d saved a child’s life had become a victim of sour grapes, and from non other than the companion who was prepared to ignore little Jenny’s cries for help. And there were other benefits.... Debts I’d run up were forgiven, extensions granted on overdue papers and past grudges forgotten (for this read that people I’d wronged realised they’d get nowhere pursuing/harassing a hero). My home life also improved, with mum and dad heaping long overdue praise. They were overjoyed when Mr Dreaver a successful businessman made good on his pledge. “If there’s ever anything I can do.” They were magic words, assuring my future with little personal effort required. As for Robbie I heard that he was upstate washing dishes at some desert truck stop. With his rep in tatters he dropped out, which gave me brief pause. However I was far too busy to worry unduly, with an agent to manage personal appearances and a junior executive position with Mr Dreaver’s manufacturing company. I had places to go which also meant a hectic social life. With so much going on I almost envied my former bestie. ‘Rob-Man’s got it easy, no pressure or responsibilities. No hero rep to keep up, even after all this time. Washing a few dishes isn’t near as exhausting as being a real life hero. The man who found a missing child. Even now with the bludy kid a grown woman ready to graduate college. A grown woman who unbeknown to me had started having flashbacks.  When this development became known I had to wonder why the Dreavers never told me.  Just as I wondered over the years why despite giving me breaks they never quite elevated me to family friend status.  For a short while Jennifer referred to me as uncle, but was just as quickly disabused of that. “No Jen Jen he helped you when you got lost, but he’s not a relation.” Much later she became of age and a looker. But for the age gap I might’ve dated her. Perhaps I should’ve, because then she mightn’t have taken that desert road trip, stopped off at a certain truck stop and encountered a dishwasher on his break while looking for the bathroom facilities. An encounter that led to another flashback. I call it that flashback. Because from there my life began to unravel. They got talking, exchanged contact details, and after several months speaking with her parents and a counsellor Jennifer Dreaver took charge of the narrative and told the real story. “I knew I’d seen that man’s face before, the one at the truck stop. He had such a kind manner but it was his voice. When he asked if he could help me, and when I stumbled he put out his hands to steady me. Just like he did in the bush when I was a little girl. It was his voice saying it was going to be alright, and those same hands holding me. When his friend brought me out I wanted to tell mum and dad he was the one but there was a crowd and it was noisy. When I saw him over mum’s shoulder I smiled and waved but he never came forward. No one else saw and later I thought I’d dreamt it....” Because that day we’d been cutting classes. I had incomplete assignments due and wasn’t in the mood for drama. Besides it was too nice a day to be cooped up in a boring lecture hall. Robbie joined me because he didn’t think I was in any fit state to drive. Bunking didn’t come easy to him, but neither did letting me risk my neck. There were searchers in the carpark when we reached our destination, but I managed to talk him out of getting involved, It’d draw attention to our bunking class. It was Robbie who heard Jennifer’s whimpering sounds. This time I couldn’t dissuade him, but made my displeasure clear. Far from avoiding drama he’d walked right into the thick of it. Except the final irony turned out to be as simple as the call of nature. Can’t be helped, can’t be avoided, needs must. So while he did the deed I relieved him of the child, and that’s how the searchers found us. I could’ve told the truth, but held my peace instead.....payback for sticking his nose in. Until all these years later, when Jennifer Dreaver is determined to see the real man who found her recieve his due, While for me the usurper a label I have to wear now, the final irony‘s turned out to be as simple as that flashback,


Twelve-year-old Caleb Prescott was afraid to go home. All he could think about was what his foster father was going to do to him when he got there. He stood motionless for a long time. Until the neon sign of the pizza joint across the street turned off, signifying the late hour. And Caleb knew it was now or never. Snapping out of his hypnotic trance, he looked down and was surprised to see the aluminum bar of his mountain bike between his knees; he’d been straddling it the entire time. His grip on the handlebars felt stiff and achy. And the wind moaning through the half-naked trees sounded like the ghost that haunted his dreams each night. “You got this,” he told himself. “Just sneak back down to the dungeon, and then you can cry yourself to sleep remembering the flowery smell of her long soft brown hair.” But the truth was that holding on to those memories using the most fleeting of senses– the sense of touch and smell that fades so fast– was getting harder with each passing day. Spending a night in a cemetery filled with evil spirits would be easier, he reasoned. Case in point, wasn’t he pretty much doing that now? All alone on a dark deserted street, teeth chattering in fear from a creepy sound seemingly getting closer? Like a pissed-off ghost coming for him any minute? Only this ghost, when he calmed down and listened more intensely, sounded different. More like crying. Like someone in trouble. Not so much a ghost, perhaps, but a real person. Separating the sound from that of the breeze, Caleb decided it was coming from the alleyway. In a flash, his feet found the pedals and he sped towards the noise, a small-for-his-age, but quick and nimble kid, now on a mission. Rounding the corner, he hit the brakes and skidded to an abrupt stop. There on the pavement, under a nearby streetlight, he saw something that broke his heart, at least what was left of it. A Maltese terrier, its fur caked with mud, was whimpering loudly, as it lay trapped in a metal dog crate. The anger exploded in Caleb’s head like shrapnel from a bomb. Who would do such a thing? Though he wanted to spring into action, to perform superhero maneuvers fast and all at once, it felt like the opposite was happening. Like everything was swinging in slow motion on a gigantic pendulum. That frustration of taking too long brought tears to pool in his green eyes, clouding his vision, slowing everything down even more. Finally, his fingers forced the pin in the lock to come loose. Swinging the door open, he crawled on his hands and knees towards the frightened canine cowering at the back. Caleb brought his face within inches of the little dog. He looked into her eyes and a tenderness seeped into his ragged heart, softening the edges. The pup licked the teardrops snaking down his face and let him pet her. “I’m going to name you Midnight even though underneath all that filth, you’re white. But I found you precisely at that time, so that’s your name. Right little one?” Midnight’s reply was a bark that grew into three consecutive ones, and when she pushed her little snout past Caleb’s shoulder, he realized she was barking at something behind him. A second too late, he heard someone yell “Gotcha!” and turned around in time to see a chubby kid, sucking on a lollipop, slam the cage door shut with a clatter. Caleb’s heart sank like a thousand-pound anchor to the bottom of the sea. The freckled boy with orange hair and a Cheshire cat smile, deliberately, almost mockingly, pushed the pin down to lock Caleb and Midnight inside. Looking to be about fourteen, he wore tattered sweatpants and a stained yellow parka. “Please, let us out,” Caleb begged. “My dog is hurt.” “Your dog? Really?” the fair-haired bully drawled, “I don’t think so shithead. That dog ain’t yours, you just wanna steal it.” His lips formed an o shape around the sucker and pulling it out of his mouth with a popping sound, he pointed the fluorescent green lollipop at Caleb. “I think you’re a turd who wants to be a hero by rescuing the ugly mutt, right? he snickered. “Except you’re no hero, you’re just a loser with a black eye. Your bike looks like garbage too, but I might just take it anyway.” Tamping down on his anxiety, Caleb tried to think hard and fast on the fly. “You’re right,” Caleb said. “I shouldn’t have lied to you. But if you don’t mind me asking, what’s your name?” and then quickly added, “So I can show you some respect.” The teenager was speechless. And though Caleb had never been one of those count your chickens before they’re hatched kind of guys, he felt hopeful. “Yeah jackass,” the boy exclaimed, “you should respect me, so you can call me Richie when you tell me what that bike’s worth.” “Thanks Richie,” Caleb said, “and you’re right, that bike’s on its last legs. If it isn’t the chain falling off, then the handlebars don’t turn, and the worst part? The brakes are shot.” Richie,” he sighed, “it’s not worth more than a penny. But I’ve got something that’s much better.” Richie pulled the bare stick of the sucker out of his mouth and Caleb could hear him crunching the last pieces of candy between his teeth. Throwing the stick on the ground, Richie scowled at the bike like it was a vile thing. Giving up on it, he turned back to his prisoner. “Whatcha got?” he demanded, adding “it better be good or I’m gonna drown this mutt in the river.” Caleb opened his mouth to speak but closed it again when Richie pulled a BB gun out of a duffle bag next to him and said, “go on, tell me, pinhead.” Caleb said, “you let us out of here and I’ll give you my last ten bucks.” He held his breath, then released it when Richie exclaimed “right on, show me the dough.” With trembling hands, Caleb pulled a ten-dollar bill from his sock. Richie’s open-mouthed laughter, revealing gaps from missing teeth amongst a few black ones, sent Caleb’s mind sailing back to when being reminded to brush his teeth, annoyed him. Especially when he was tired. Now, the gratitude for his mom’s nagging washed over him like a hot shower after getting caught in the freezing rain. “You better not think about running before handing me that cash.” Richie warned. He aimed the BB gun, not at Caleb, but directly at Midnight. He said “that runt tried to bite me when I captured it and I wanna shoot it for payback. And fun,” he smiled. “But you give me the ten bucks, and I won’t kill it, got it?” Caleb nodded vigorously, afraid to breathe until Richie opened the cage and stood aside to let them out. Free at last, and seconds after Richie grabbed the money with his meaty fingers, Caleb made a beeline towards his bike, calling Midnight to follow him. But Midnight, terrified of Richie, froze when he suddenly stepped towards her, pointing the gun, once again, at her little face. As Midnight edged away from him, Richie turned towards Caleb and hissed “psst, I was lying. I’m gonna put a bullet in its leg first and then stomp on its face till it’s dead.” Caleb’s mouth went powder-dry, his stomach lurching like he was on a free-falling plane about to crash. He felt Richie’s threat slam into him, one sadistic word at a time. With a roar, Caleb rushed at Richie, his right hand curled into a fist and, before Richie could react, he drove his knuckles into the spongy cartilage of his nose. The crunch of bone, followed by Richie’s earsplitting howl, ricocheted down the alley. Blood gushed from Richie’s face. Moments later, the agony splintered through Caleb’s hand like it was on fire. Caleb wasted no time running towards Midnight. But before he could reach the little terrier, Richie aimed the BB gun at the dog a third time, only this time, he fired as she took off with surprising swiftness. As Midnight rounded the corner at the end of the alley, she let out a tortured yelp, and Caleb felt sick when Richie cackled in glee for hitting his mark. Hopping on his bike, Caleb followed Midnight at warp speed. But by the time he rounded that same corner, Midnight was nowhere in sight. Car headlights, road signs, and blowing trash, all became a blur through the onslaught of Caleb’s tears. Every bit of the fear, anger, and grief he’d been holding so tightly within, tore loose, like a deluge of water from a broken dam. Not knowing where Midnight was, whether she was in pain or even alive, was a new kind of hell. And speaking of hell, on top of his worry for Midnight, there were the horrors that waited for him when he got back to his foster home. He still remembered when the social worker brought him there on a hot August morning, dumping him on the doorstep, and heading for the hills right after. The act Darlene, his new foster mom, put on, was worthy of an Oscar and good enough for the caseworker. Determined to make a swift get-away, she never even set foot inside the house. Never even bothered to see where Caleb would lay his head that night. As soon as the woman drove away, Darlene grabbed him by the hair and pushed him hard through the door as she yelled “get the hell in there, march yourself down to your room in the basement, and stay there until my husband gets home. You understand me boy?” Caleb understood when Donald came down the stairs three minutes later. “You listen to me you motherless, unwanted, shit,” Donald spat. This room in the basement? That’s the only place you’re allowed. Food will be left outside your door two times a day, morning, and night. And you’re never allowed upstairs. There’s a toilet and shower here and that’s all you need. Got it?” Caleb was so scared it felt like horses’ hooves stampeding across his heart, and, unable to stop himself, the moisture began seeping into his underwear, spreading through the fabric of his jeans. His bladder had already been full to begin with, but Donald’s speech, that ugly word “motherless”, made Caleb buckle under the strain. He could no longer hold it in. And now he just wanted to disappear, to die right then and there. Better to see his mom again in heaven, than live like this here in hell. But it wasn’t over yet. When Donald saw that Caleb had peed himself, he hit him hard across the face, so hard that Caleb flew into the opposite wall. Donald barked, “you’re old enough to be toilet trained for God’s sake. Clean up and wash those filthy clothes in the sink. We don’t run a laundry service here.” Now, for the millionth time, Caleb cursed the car accident that killed his mom and turned him into a foster kid at the tender age of ten. Missing her was like chemical lye rubbed on a wound, and it was this pain that brought disturbing dreams of ghouls and monsters to most of his nights. But Midnight had changed something, soothed some of the hurt, like a cool salve applied to a burn. He had to find her. But then things suddenly got worse when Caleb spotted something terrible. There, on a telephone pole, was a poster of a little girl holding a dog. A Maltese terrier. It looked exactly like Midnight. The child’s name was Amber, and she lost her dog, Ivory. Only briefly did Caleb acknowledge the irony of the dog’s name. His pain was beyond raw and abrasive, it was sandpapering all the way down to the bone. Bad enough that Midnight was gone, but now she also belonged to someone else. Shakily he slid off his bike, leaning it against the metal pole, his legs unsteady causing the rest of his body to quiver. All he could do was stand there sobbing into his hands. In the cold autumn night, something slammed into his legs. A small, soft, something, that let out an excited bark and wagged its tail. Midnight practically jumped into his arms. He was so happy, he cried even harder. After she licked every tear from his frozen face, Caleb put her down on the sidewalk and knelt to examine her, looking for any signs of an injury. Other than a scrape on her ear, Midnight appeared to be okay. The BB gun bullet must have only scared her. But his relief was short-lived. What about the kid on the poster? Digging a quarter out of his pocket, he scooped Midnight up again and headed towards a payphone across the street. Maybe, he rationalized, he’d get an ‘out of service’ message and there’d be no chance of finding Amber’s family so Midnight would have to stay with him after all. Yeah, right, he thought. One ring, two rings, three rings, … what would he do if the answering machine came on? On the fourth ring, the machine did come on, but it wasn’t what Caleb expected. The message told callers that Ivory had been found and was safe at home. And Caleb’s world suddenly felt different. With Midnight at his side, he walked his bike towards Donald and Darlene’s place. At least he had blankets in his room along with some hidden food for both of them. But when they got there, the house was black. Specifically, a charred black, and those were only the parts that were still standing. The rest had burned down to ashes. Smoke, thick and acrid, still hung in the air, and Caleb suddenly remembered the six hundred dollars his mom had sewn into the lining of his jacket. And the cheap motel down the road where the owner once overlooked his age and rented him a room. And where the vending machine had the best sandwiches, he’d ever tasted. “Everything is changing,” he whispered in Midnight’s ear. From now on, he would slay all the monsters for her. And maybe even for himself too.


He exhaled a shaky breath. His plan wasn’t going to how he had thought it would be go. He never thought he have to do this .He never thought he would be in this position. It is all because of her. Yes, that her. Tracking her down had been fairly easy. She wasn’t the kind to leave details of her life to the public but there are still enough people who knew where she might be. That’s the way she preferred it and he knew it too well about her.  After few phone calls with friends, he had a location on where he could find her. After 5 years of no contact, he had to do this. He thought it was time. He was right. He just had to be right. He bit the inner parts of his lower lips to stop the quivering of lower lip. He didn’t think he would be this nervous. Coming to see her had unnerved him .With all that he has accomplished, he was surprised that confidence was disserting him at the time like this .The irony in that when it was the same ego that made him a name. Not a famous household name but a whisper of it could open few back doors needed and did make life pretty comfortable. His name meant something and that almost made life prefect. Almost. He at least had to be right about this. He cracked his knuckles so that he could feel and hear something to remind himself that all that is going to happen is real and not a dream. With the way things ended all the years ago, it was silly of him to daydream about her waiting for him. There were days he thought about her giving him the fairytale ending that mothers told their little girls about at night. Maybe life could grant him some kindness and at least show him that he made the right decision for the both of them that night. He had to know that she had a fulfilling life .That’s why he is where is at this moment in life .He was right about it then. He really needed to be right about it. His hands were clammy. He tried to wipe the sweat off his denim trousers and rearrange the daisy flowers that he plucked from a stranger ‘garden in his hands. He felt like the way an adolescent would be panicking on his first date with his dream crush in high school. He felt stupid for feeling and reacting this way. He knew what he lost and had accepted to sacrifice it before .In life it’s all a game of gamble; once the dice is rolled, not all the sides of the dice can be displayed .Whatever side one of the dice you want to call ‘jackpot’ will cost you the other sides. He tried to explain this to her that last night about life and its possibilities. He explained and he was right then. He is confident that he is still right now. He closed his eyes to clear his vision. He was envisioning that he was watching her at her house out in the lawn ,watching her with loving husband play tag with her dotting toddler at the front of her house. She would glance and notice a stranger staring at them across the lawn. She would proceed to walk to him when she recognizes him because she would be in disbelief. They would exchange greetings and talk about life in general. He would give her the flowers and proceed to give the speech that he has been preparing all this time. She would smile gently at him like she always did they were young and tilt her head to the side when she is listening. He would tell her what his ego couldn’t tell her all those years back .It would about their decade long friendship that spanned from naïve adolescent years to exploring undergraduate college years. It would be about the promise of what could have for their almost life .It would be about the decision. It would be about her life now without him. In return she would embraced him just for a moment and return to her family playing on the lawn without any further words. He would finally feel whole and light. He had not come to cause trouble only to see if she is happy. The chapter would be closed. He thought he was right. He was not sure anymore.  His throat was dry and itching .He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to recite all his rehearsed speech. This was it. This was the moment. Yet only make unintelligent sounds came out.  He prepared for this moment and could not afford to lose this .Grinding his teeth, he shook his head to clear his mind and think clearly .Irritation tingle at the back of his nose and words still failed to leave his lips. He could feel his chest tightening and his pulse started to pound. This was followed by harsh breathing as his knees buckled under the strain of the circumstances bringing him to his knees on the grass closer to her .His noise become uncontrollable as it became clear what was happening. He finally had gave in to what his body was telling him what needs to be done. “I am so sorry…..I was wrong …..Please “he cried with wet lines running down his face as he opened his eyes, the image of the would-have been moment fading. In its place on the well- trimmed green lawn, he now faces a cold oval granite marble stone evidence erected upright .He reaches out to touch it, to trace her inscription on her tombstone as he mourns for her. It was always about her and probably will be. For this man asking his greatest loss for mercy, the only response to his plea were the soft whispers of the wind rattling the fallen tree leaves around him.


I think about the Carters every day, but most of all on Saturdays. Those are the only days when the boy with giant glasses doesn’t careen past on his bike, laden with numerous copies of the Sherman County Journal and struggling to stay upright. Mr. Carter used to read that paper every weeknight while Mrs. Carter prepared dinner, and every Sunday morning while she scrambled eggs. Sometimes Mr. Carter would mutter about “that stupid goddamned war” or “that good-for-nothing Johnson,” but mostly he kept his opinions to himself. I think he just wanted to learn what he could about Timmy, and the papers seemed the best way to do that. Timmy’s no longer overseas, but I think it’s even harder to learn anything about him now than it was before. All I know is that on Saturday nights, regardless of the weather, he sets an umbrella at the base of the Carters’ mailbox. For some reason, no one ever took it down after the accident. The accident, of course, occurred on a Saturday. An ordinary autumnal night in these parts, when rain cascaded from the heavens as though the angels were already crying over deaths that had yet to occur. Then again, maybe they could predict the future; it’s not like I know that much about angels. I do know, however, that Mrs. Carter used to call Timmy an angel. Back when he was a baby, she would rock his swaddled body in her arms and coo like the doves that sat in the evergreens. “Forever and ever,” she would say, “you are my angel.” And she believed, I'm sure, that nothing would ever change that. Not when Timmy got his first F in school, and not when she found a pack of cigarettes in his desk drawer. Not even when he went off to Vietnam.

When he returned, he couldn’t hide his internal scars any more than he could those marring his face. Sometimes he would sit on the couch for hours, frozen like an ice cube and with eyes as glassy as window panes. Other times, he struggled to complete even the simplest of tasks, as if the war had stolen not only his heart but also his mind. Finally, after a year of nothing changing, Mr. and Mrs. Carter intervened. But while Mr. Carter worked hard to get Timmy a job, Timmy spent his earnings on alcohol and quit after two months. And when Mrs. Carter whispered to Timmy that he was still her angel, he shouted back that she was wrong, that he was now just her killer. Until one Saturday night, with a face redder than a radish, Mr. Carter told Timmy that fine, he was a killer, but no one could do anything to change it so he’d better just get over it. After all, he himself had fought in The Great War, hadn’t he? He’d even survived the Battle of the Bulge, the deadliest battle for Americans, despite losing two fingers to frostbite and most of the men in his unit, and hadn’t he gotten over it? Hadn’t he managed to get married, have a son, and find a job within six months of coming home, not to mention keeping that job for the next twenty years? Timmy nodded but said nothing. Mr. Carter had repeated this refrain for months, and it never inspired Timmy to do anything other than nod, with his shoulders slumped and his gaze fixed at the floor. But this time when Mrs. Carter shuffled toward Timmy, arms open and head cocked to the side, instead of retreating to his bedroom like usual, where he would sit on the windowsill and flick his folding knife open and closed until his fingers rubbed raw, letting Jimi Hendrix drown out his mutterings, Timmy dashed off and into the night. Mr. Carter snatched the car keys from the hook by the back door and yelled at Mrs. Carter to hurry. She raced out behind him, leaving her purse on the kitchen counter. Neither grabbed an umbrella. Mr. Carter’s Lincoln Continental roared to life and bolted out of the garage. Rain spilled from above, each droplet gripped by the wind and catapulted sideways. More bulleted down on the roof. Water surged through the street as if it were the world’s biggest Slip ‘N Slide. Seconds, minutes, hours ticked by on the cuckoo clock hanging in the living room. The one that Timmy used to sit in front of as a child and gaze at with youthful wonder, waiting impatiently for the bird to emerge and sing a little song. After the war though, he merely stared at it. When the Continental neared the driveway hours later, its windshield wipers whooshed to clear the rain. But clear it they could not—at least not well enough for Mr. Carter to see the oncoming truck, swerving across the road and with no headlights on. Mr. Carter wrenched the wheel at the last moment but the tires couldn’t grip. He rammed straight into the truck. Metal grated metal like two lawnmowers devouring each other, and Mrs. Carter launched out of her seat and smashed through the windshield. Only the pavement could stop her soaring body.

When the ambulance came, the EMTs lifted Mrs. Carter up off the pavement. They checked on Mr. Carter, still slumped in his seat, but took their time extracting him. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Carter ever returned. But Timmy did, later that night and every Saturday since. Like I said, he comes to leave an umbrella by the mailbox. And although I don’t know where he gets them, I don’t much care. In some small way, those rain protectors justify my existence. You see, Mr. and Mrs. Carter built me brick by brick, room by room, and where I once contained war mutterings and newspaper riffling, omelet smells and “angel” coos, now I stand empty. Like Timmy, I know that Mr. and Mrs. Carter will never return, so like Mr. and Mrs. Carter, I can only wait for Timmy.


Stranded   The sun is aggressively melting all that is around this ashen landscape which makes my bed today. A breeze blows through the ragged trees and dry twigs shoot from the ground bending to and fro.

   I’m all alone. Afraid of what may happen in the next hours I decide to hum to myself so I don’t fall asleep and miss an opportunity to be found. Instead of a warm soft bed to rest after the fight, I lay in the hard rocky dirt with little vegetation to shade me from this torturing sun. I’m not sure how I got here and I don’t know if I’ll see another day. With the remaining bit of strength available to me, I am writing a short note to whoever finds me or to my future self. An attempt to collect my carelessly thrown schoolbag has allowed me the opportunity to find a sheet of paper which I ripped out from my notebooks and a pen I had loosely left hanging on one of the inside pockets. I now am able to keep myself calm by scribbling these notes and waiting, wishing that I was sitting in cool café sipping fragrant coffee with friends. Except at the moment a bit of water may be a better choice to cool my parched lips and broken body.

  If I could go back to yesterday, what would I have done differently? What else would I do if I could have a tomorrow?  By thinking about tomorrow, I hope I could stay awake. If tomorrow comes I have to remember to stay away from trouble. Never should there come a time where in trying to be polite to someone, I avoid running away. In trying to be polite to someone, I enter a dark place that I can’t come out of. Sometimes our capturers wear a warm smile, yet they really have dark intentions. We may know someone but that doesn’t mean they are our friends.  It is important to be happy and meet as many interesting people as possible in fact.  We should embrace opportunities to laugh and dance, love and be loved because in the act of feeling, the vibrancy of the moment creates the person we would want to be. Though I have attempted to live life well and take opportunities that came my way, there was and will always be some form of regret. Something that could have been done better or shouldn’t have lost so soon.  That’s ok, the important thing is that time wasn’t wasted. Love is real, don’t lose heart, don’t give up.   Have courage, keep focused, never look back. If I make it out of this hopelessness I hope I never let the memory of this time effect the potential for my future. It’s often said that we should study the past to avoid future error. Right? Unfortunately, mistakes will still be made. We may have all the answers, but our instincts could still lead us into falling into destructive patterns within complicated scenarios over and over. The pain I feel right now is so great I don’t know if I could hold on. How could I be writing about a future when there seems to be little hope of being discovered. All I want to do is remind myself not to take for granted all that I have had. My studies, my family, my goals. These things are important. Will I ever have a chance to a future? I could really use an angel right now but all I see is an empty sky. With little to do I start remembering a story from a children’s book I use to read quite often when I was getting ready for bed. The story takes place in a military hospital after the second world war. In this hospital at the end of each day, the nurses would distribute medicine to the many patients, and serve the last tea throughout the wards. At that time a silence filled the hallways and rooms. In that silence the patients that were able to fall asleep did, but the others who may have suffered discomfort would only dream of a restful slumber because their discomfort was so extreme these men and women would lie in wait as I do now.   In that silence a man walked through the hospital unseen by security guards or nurses. As the story goes, if a patient had their hand raised high and their heart was pure, a man some believed him to be an angel, would ask the patient to rise and walk out with him enabling the patient to be rid of their pain forever. There was a sense of hope in this belief for the patients. They believed this angel opened the door to the gates of heaven and each person that walked with this man, who was more of a shadow than a human, would have eternal peace. I could never understand why this story was included within a bedtime story book. Many years now have passed since I held that old heavy volume of stories in my hands.    There are many people that believe in reincarnation. Our bodies die but our souls continue. If my soul continues when I die, I hope my soul will remember that I tried to be good. If in a future life if I’m a boy or girl, wealthy or poor, I have to remember to always be wise to the world we see on our daily path. It is important to remember that the eyes of a person do not reflect their true character. Some may argue it is their mouth. Be careful. No matter what reality awaits us our soul will imprint the experience to its essence. Though time changes many superficial and materialistic elements in our lives, I must remember that a wrong decision will always be wrong, and once that decision is made there is little chance of turning back. The right path if taken will promise you a tomorrow.

 Confined to this place, this dirt floor of stone and dry bush, I feel tired. I imagine insects starting to eat away at my skin though I can’t tell for sure because my body is so numb with pain that I can’t feel myself trying to wiggle my toes. I lay here in wait and hope that my memories of this lifetime will shine on in the next existence. If there is one memory I’d make sure to never forget and hope it remains instilled in the deepest core of my essence, it would be to never trust the cute boy with the ketchup stained teeth. He is my end.


Trigger Warning: Death, Grief, and Colorism The milky white mucus that would leak from her eyes had left lines carved into her face. A face I would only ever describe as hypnotically gorgeous was now contorted into a strange expression. My dull brain can’t come up with a fitting explanation for this. The only thing that comes to mind is that it was from an infection. Or perhaps the anguish of taking her final breaths. All that pain made the moisture in her body turn into an indistinguishable whiteness. It was like the clouds of her eventual resting place were already in her. Even with the aching written on every visible inch, I’d still say she was the most beautiful person. The color of her torturous infection was in direct contrast to her alluringly bronzed skin. The discharge, coupled with foundation shades lighter than her, made everyone whisper. "Ugly." It wasn’t an uncommon thing for dimwitted people to say about her. Her beauty mystified them, and with that came envy. Everyone else in my hometown had the color that comes into your bloodline when a master overpowers a slave. She was our original shade and was ousted because of it. The last time I’ll ever see her, they made her as hideous as they pretended she was. Some vomit crept into my throat as I looked upon the horrors of envy on her face. No one had even thought of shutting her eyes. Those pools of obsidian seemed out of place next to her falsely lightened skin. They no longer fit in her body, which was laid in a casket. I shiver while rubbing my hands against the cold mahogany. A splinter makes my finger leap from it. The small droplet of blood leaves a dark stain on the white cloth lining. That one speck of color is more in line with what she would have wanted to be buried in. White was a choice the town made to go against her. The vomit and pain in my chest made me do the unthinkable. I had to do it. I reached out my calloused, bloody finger to her still slightly warm face. I feel how the shea butter she always wears makes her skin so soft and supple. Her eyelids give in easily as I close them. In a time of mourning, the town always warns

not to touch the dead.  I spent so many days being told not to without being told why not. It was a veiled threat as successful as " don’t touch a hot stove." You have to do it to actually learn. Warnings are never enough to end curiosity. I almost want to laugh at the thought: If I touched a stove now, my fingers would blister, but I would never feel the heat.

"Don’t ever touch no dead body lying in their casket. They are only for God and rest now. You go ahead and touch them; they gonna steal something from you." My grandmother repeated this to me almost every second in the days leading up to the service. As if she already knew I was going to do it. They had slapped on some ill-fitting dress before laying her in the casket. They bought the wrong makeup before laying her in the casket. Left her eyes open in the casket. They were begging for me to touch a dead body. To disturb her sleep, and in doing so, she took something from me. However, I would have gladly given her everything. "Ain’t no sense in touchin' a roach, no how." "She ain’t a roach." Saltiness fell from my eyes in my many attempts to defend my lover’s beauty.

"Zama." Her mouth had formed enchanting notes the first time she ever spoke to me. She told me her name meant to try. And she had spent her whole life trying to defy expectations. Zama lays there unmoving, her eyes finally closed. I can tell she is

trying  to make sure I don’t cry. With that one touch, I could feel our past in her velvety skin. The tickles from the peach fuzz on her face bring me back to summer. The warmth of it brings me back to being under the sun, sitting on the peach tree in my backyard.

"There’s a roach in our tree. Go get it out. " My grandmother yelled out to me as I was sweating through my clothes, leaving wet stains on my bed sheets. The summer sun was brutal that year. The last thing I wanted to do was face it and risk burning. I never imagined that once my lazy feet made it past the threshold, I would see her. Not a roach, but a charming girl climbing up our tree. I had heard about Roach many times before. But I never gave that name to the stranger I would see in town. Zama waved to me before quickly making her way to the highest branch. Her family never fed her enough throughout the day, making the tree the perfect refuge. She appeared to be maybe a year or two older than me. One day I’d be older than her, while she’s stuck at this age. That time between girlhood and being a grown woman. I learned how to climb just so I could ask her what her name actually was. That became the most delectable pastime. Every day, I risked the sun to sit in a peach tree. We ate the unwashed fruits until our bellies hurt while telling jokes and swapping secrets.

The tart flesh of peaches would burst from their skin and into my mouth. That satisfying sensation was nothing compared to the first time Zama held my hand. I felt all the wonders of touch in her embrace. Her bluish-black skin made the sun and moon battle over who could show her off best. She would hold my hand under the light of both. The tingles and sweat from my palm would make her giggle. That was better than a peach too—not saccharine sweet, just right. Her clothes were tattered, but she only ever wore her favorite colors. Reds, oranges, and yellows fit in with the peaches. Red tempted the most; it clings tightly to her body like paint. Whenever she wore red, I swear dozens of peaches would fall to the ground to make room for her. And I'd smash them under my feet. They were undoubtedly jealous. Zama’s tiny frame felt like home whenever I reached out to graze it. I must be special to have been allowed to stroke my rough hands against her. On our last night together, she told me I was beautiful. A comment I was told by countless people but should have only belonged to her. I was dull. My loose curls looked silly next to her tightly coiled ones. Her hair stood taller than the trees. If it had grown any longer, it would’ve reached God. As her spirit left to greet him, he would detangle her hair and put it in braids for her. These braids would fall from the heavens to the earth, and I’d climb them. Even if the straw-like feel of them cut through my fingertips, I’d climb. Bloody, I’d embrace her before, even thinking to acknowledge God. I learned how to use these hands to climb and be with her wherever she goes. The image of her long braids and giggles in heaven pales compared to the sight of her in the casket. My hazy, tear-filled eyes can’t adjust to

this  image of her. When my hand finally leaves her, I let it fall to my side. There is so much we feel without even being aware of it. The light feel of air left my fingers. And before long, numbness trickled up my whole hand. When you touch the dead, interrupting their sleep, they take something from you. Zama took my sense of touch. Feeling was something that had already left me the day she died.   "Was it worth losing your touch? Never being able to feel the softness of a baby's face? Or the papery feel of a flower, the prickliness of wood, or the feeling of your own skin? You gave up all that to touch a roach?'' The whispers followed me out of the church and all the way down the block until I was in front of our tree. When I rub my fingers on the bark, I feel nothing.

But I am glad to have felt love once.


The sound of the circular saw filled the room. The 32-year-old man stopped to enjoy the smell of the fresh sawdust and lumber. The father exuded good health with an athletic form and not an ounce overweight. On the floor beside the father, Sandy—a red-headed six-years-old—searched for something to go with his wooden blocks. What he found was a board mounted on legs. He placed it beside his blocks. With a mallet, he pounded the circular block in the round hole and the square block in the square hole. Daddy, pleased at what he considered a child’s job, noted Sandy’s satisfaction. Then the father groaned at the sound of yelling boys. The source came from the lumber storage room. Once inside the room, the father took time to witness what was going on. Kim, the twelve-year-old son, said, “You weren’t playing with it.” He hung onto the front end of the large, toy dump truck. Terri, the ten-year-old son, hung onto the back end of toy truck. “So what! It’s mine!” Both children yanked their end of truck.            The father said, “Come here, you two.”            “Put my truck down, Kim!”            “I’m going to play with it! Dad told you to share.”            The stern, but calm, Dad said, “Carry the truck together and come here!” Both boys obeyed. “Now. What’s this all about? Kim, you’re older. You go first.”            “Terri wasn’t playing with the truck, so I started to,” Kim whined.            “What is your story, Terri?” asked Dad.            “It’s mine. I got it for Christmas.” Terri continued with his firm pull on the truck.            Kim responded with another hard yank.            The father, being stronger than both, grabbed the toy truck away from both boys.            “Kim, did you ask Terri first?”            Kim ignored the question and glared at Terri. “Just because it’s yours, doesn’t mean you will not have to share.”            The father pursed his lips momentarily before speaking. “Since you two are going to fight over it, I’ll just give the truck to Sandy to play with for now.”            In perfect unison, Kim and Terri said, “Dad!”            “I warned you during your last fight. I told you if you didn't change your attitudes, I would give it to someone who would appreciate it, like Sandy.”            “But he doesn’t play with trucks,” said Terri.            “It’s a dump truck,” said Dad. “He can put his wooden blocks in it and dump them.”            Ten years later, Kim and Terri—now young adults—sat at the dining room table. Sandy, now sixteen, joined them.            “Have you decided,” asked Sandy of the other two, “how to invest the money Dad gave each of you?”            “Not for sure,” said Kim. “I will ask my accounting teacher for advice.”            “I’m still a minor,” said Sandy, “but I figure I can still use the time to research my idea. I found some forty-year-old furniture plans. With the measurements I’ve taken from Grandpa’s old chairs, I can design a new line to sell. What about you Terri?”            Terri crossed his arms and formed a ”V” with his eyebrows. “You would like his old junk. He is so old fashioned.”            “Yep,” said Kim. “Old fashioned enough to tell me to re-order for oak lumber. Dad threw a fit because I ordered an advertised special . . . At least he is giving us a chance to prove ourselves with this money.”            “What good will it do?” snarled Terri. “It’s all for the company. I won’t get any good out of it.            “Why’d he give me any money? He didn’t like my ideas for advertising and modern styles. Obviously, he trusts you more than me.            “I mean what can you do with a $1000? Nothing!” Terri pouted. “I don’t even care what happens to it.”            Sandy replied, “Why don’t you ask Dad why he gave you only that much? If you spent more time with him, you would know what is possible.”            “Dad didn’t appreciate other things I’ve done for him. Why should I believe he will appreciate what I do with this money? If I didn’t have to obey him, I would be freer, happier, and better off.”            Five years later, the time came to examine the returns on the money the sons had been given to invest.            “Sandy,” the father and business owner said, “I’m receiving compliments on the new, that is, your line of furniture. And you brought it in under budget. Very good.”            “Those new orders mean we can expand. Kim, can I depend on you to help us?”            “Of course, Father. I invested my money in learning accounting. Here,” Kim handed him a paper with graphs and an annual report on the business. “I believe I can do a good job of forecasting with the new computer. It’s calculated in the last page of the budget.”            “Excellent!” said Father. “Now, how did you invest your money Terri?”            Terri remained silent, arms crossed, and motionless.            “Terri?”            Terri handed him a check.            Father considered the check, then looked at Terri. “This is the same check I gave you to invest. Not even a little interest? Didn’t you do anything?”            It’s not my money. I couldn’t even buy enough advertising for us for that amount. You need money—not skill or quality—to make a business today.”            “That’s not how I built this business!” stated the owner while controlling his temper. “I built it by caring about the quality of my furniture. And being devoted to my employees and customers.            “Just like years ago and that toy dump truck.” The owner snatched the check, “I’ll give it to someone else. Kim, void this check.” He handed it to Kim and continued, “Terri, I’m putting you at the bottom of the assembly line so you can learn hard work and the business.”            Kim voided the check by tearing it up into little pieces.            Terri exploded. “I’m tired of your ideas about what works and what doesn’t. I demand my share of the business. Today.” Terri lowered his voice a little. “I’ll show you how to run a business.”            Father said, “Kim, make the arrangements to get his share of the company.” Kim grinned at being rid of his brother. “Gladly.” “But, Terri, you have to make it completely on your own. You won’t live in my house.”            Terri observed out his office window, Mr. Bauman , his business building’s landlord. He came through the door under the sign “Terri’s Furniture for Less.” The building inside showed plenty of machinery, but no people to run them.            “Well, Mr. Terri Drayer, it’s the first of the month and I need my rent money.” He held out his hand. When Terri didn’t immediately offer anything, he said, “The rent is due. Do you have it?”            “No sir,” he said meekly. Then came the excuses. “It took more money than I thought for the equipment. Then I had to replace workers who wouldn’t show up or goofed off with ones who did the work right.” Whining, he continued, “They cost more. Then the advertising--.”            “I don’t care,” said Mr. Bauman “I run my business renting buildings, not a charity. The first two years you were on time with the rent. Then it started to be two weeks late. Finally, I allowed you six months without payment.”            “When Terri opened his mouth to speak, Mr. Bauman immediately cut him off. “No more time.” “You won’t give me any more time?!” Terri said.            “That’s right. But I tell you what. I’ll take all the equipment in trade for the back rent.”            “But—”            “Take it or leave it. Out within thirty days, or I sue.”            “I have no place to go with it all. Even if I found a place for the machines, I would have no place to go with the furniture.”            The landlord saw the lumber in the corner. “Tell you what. Give me the lumber for hauling all the wood and furniture and everything off. The high school pep rally is having a bonfire, and they could use the wood.”            Terri glumly looked at the walls, as if they could help. He took a deep breath.            “I agree. Now where will I get money to live on?”            The landlord examined all corners of the equipment. Without even looking up, he said, “They are hiring green bean pickers at the edge of town.”            Terri groaned.            Fresh air did not make the job of picking beans any more pleasant. Terri had to stoop over to pick them. He moved his half-filled basket by slamming it to the ground.            “You better not do that,” said his co-worker in the next row. “They dock for bruised beans.”            An irritable Terri said, “I’m not used to it. Fifty cents per basket is ridiculous.”            The co-worker stretched his neck to see into Terri’s basket. “You sure aren’t picking many beans. To make money you need to pick faster and not take breaks.” He moved ahead of Terri with almost a full basket. “Did you use to have another job?” Terri nodded. “Why’d you ever quit?!” “I thought I could do better than my father.” The co-worker finished his basket and moved out of range for talking. Terri spoke to himself. “I thought my father wasted money on benefits on behalf of the employees. Then he gave shares of the company to workers. I didn’t understand that. Yeah. Dad was generous like that. Even the janitor received benefits.” Terri straightened up, stretched, and considered his two-thirds filled basket. “What do I have to lose? I’ll go back to my father. I’ll go back to him and say, ‘I made a fool of myself. I used all the inheritance. I am not worthy of being called your son. Just let me be a janitor or some small job.’ That’s what I’ll do.” Now alone in the expanded office, Kim and Father discussed expanding the manufacturing building. Sandy rushed in, so out of breath, he could only speak one word at a time. “I . . . saw . . . him.” “Are you sure?” asked Father. Confused, Kim asked, “Who is it?” Sandy said, “I’ve been watching every day like you told me.” Pointing at the exit, he said, “He’s at the end of the driveway.” “Get the steaks out, Sandy! We’re going to celebrate tonight.” To Kim, Father said, We’ll give Terri the keys to the new car. Let’s go out to meet him.” “NO! I won’t go with you. All these years, I’ve stayed here and done what you asked. “But you never so much as offered me use of the company truck. And here, as soon as that son comes, you say ‘Get the keys! Get the steaks!’ Never mind he poured hard-earned money down rat holes.” The older man looked on his son, Kim, with sympathy. “Son you are always with me. I can’t tell you how much that has been worth to me. I’ve always considered what is mine is yours. “It is right to rejoice now. My son was dead and lost, but now is found and alive.”


Atlas was my only friend. My computer keys, worn and scratched with the pain of a martyr, were my link to happiness. Now that my keyboard was somewhere in the dumpster, my happiness was too. The darkness surrounded everything here at the Fawkes, but you could still see the outlines. Alcohol hung in the air, a smell that had never vacated its position. No one that found their way here forgot the experience, that was for sure. The glasses gave an escape, a door that we all strived to find in the bottom of the barrel. The Fawkes wasn't my home, though. I didn't have one. "Leaving already, Nika?" Jim, the bartender, was washing up behind the counter. They never miss anything, bartenders, you can't hide from them. "Yeah, it's getting late." I turned to go but rushed back to grab one more drink. You can never have too many. The night sky was muddled with brown, like dried blood on a piece of metal. If it was blood, though, then who was bleeding? I heard Atlas's impersonal voice telling me "Cannot determine, Nainika," and I laughed. It was nice to feel like I had a friend again. I was in Arctica, where the settlements were kind and welcoming. They gave a chance for a new life, one without the prejudice of the real world. I'd come here with the last of the scraps I made from animatron building, but it wasn't enough to live on. It was times like those, times where my stomach begged and pleaded for something to fill it, that made me miss Atlas. When I made it back to my dark hotel room, the cold biting at my shoulders, I was greeted by Penny. She was lounging on the couch with her socks off and watching a live broadcast. "What are you doing back so early?" Penny always talked with a sort of tone that made you think she was interrogating you. She was a great roommate, sure, but she was more of a partner than a friend. "I came home... you know... with my feet," I said. The Uni-heaters felt like warm wind on my bare arms. I settle onto the couch and shoved Penny's legs to the floor, much to her dismay. "Nainika." I kept looking at the TV, not talking to Penny. The odd thing was, though, that she didn't pry. "What did you just say?" She looked at me sideways, questioning my words. "I didn't say anything," Penny said. She sized me up for a second, and then turned her head back to the screen. The documentary on the screen was about a whale that swam across the ocean to find its daughter. It was a cute whale, if you could even call a whale cute. "I bet it's fake." Penny was always the optimist. I chuckled to myself, my fingers still flexing to combat the frostbite. The whale had a white birthmark, which was odd. I'd never seen a whale with a white birthmark. Then again, there were a lot of things I hadn't seen. "That's sweet of you, Pen," I teased, whacking her with a pillow. She kept her eyes glued to the screen, not acknowledging me. Well, some roommate. I went to the kitchen, still wary of the voice, and started to heat up a pizza. There were no good flavors, so I had to have Jalapeño Delight Magnificence, the worst name anyone would ever hear. The supposedly green peppers were now a sickly yellow, and my stomach turned in disgust. It was a great day for disgusting frozen food. "Nainika," the voice said. I had heard it before, it seemed, in another world. I could hear the flat tone, the pointed words. What was it? "Nainika." Atlas. He was calling for me. I grabbed my coat and rushed out the door, let the wind blow in behind me. The snow piled down on my hood but I didn't care. "ATLAS!" I screamed on and on into the darkness of the night, letting it echo into the glaciers. "ATLAS!" "Nainika," he whispered. It seemed almost like a song, lilting its way into my ears and taunting me. "Where are you!?" I couldn't hear any footsteps, but I have no idea why I expected any from an AI program. My chest felt raw, my heart pounding against my lungs and beating faster. Where was he? I needed him. I needed my only friend. "Why do you cry, Nainika?" "Because I have no purpose. You heard them. That's why you're here." "You have a purpose to me. Without you, I would not be able to understand the complications of human life. However little, that is a purpose." "...It's not the same." "What about your situation is not the same to the one that I described?" "Well, you don't count." "Why do I not count?" "Because I have a purpose in your mind, but you're not the world." "How am I not the world?" "Well..." The tears slipped down my cheeks as I held in the words like vomit. I would never release them, no, not even to Atlas. He would never understand, he'd try to minimize it. What if I just wanted to feel sad? What if I didn't feel like rationalizing it? The memory jarred my mind, the snow piercing my skin like spears. "Why do you cry?" Atlas's figurine appeared in the screen. The snow piercing my skin, the voice disappearing in the wind. Atlas would come back. He would. I knew him better than to leave me. When you come back, Atlas, I'll tell you all the things I've learned. I'll tell you about Jim the bartender and all of the stories he tells. I'll tell you about those documentaries that Penny loves to watch. You'd want to hear about that, wouldn't you? And I'd tell you all of my stories, all of the things I've done. You'd be surprised the places I've gone. I'm here, though. I'm here, waiting for you.


THE LEGEND OF THE MERMAID “Wake up, Oh Great Eland, I have come to you.” “You find me asleep – I watched through the full moon, and when the morning came I saw the dust of your trail many walks away, and then, satisfied that help was coming, I closed my eyes for a while.” “Can you still see so far?” “Oh yes, it is not my eyes that have deceived me, it is these wounds, I cannot even lift my body from the dust even though I urgently need medicinal herbs.” “Let me look, I will not hurt you. Yes, I see what you need, I will go and pick the herbs for you and you will be better in no time.” “No, do not leave me, perhaps something will happen to you so that you cannot not return.” “Are you not the great Eland, are you afraid now? Where is your brave heart, have you lost it? Think well while I am gone, for I want to hear the truth from the depth of your heart when I return.” “I am back, and was it so terrible that you wanted to collapse further, or did you use the time to think upon the reason for this sissy way of yours, hmm?” “Now please, do not take advantage of my unfortunate circumstances now, I know you are a woman with a heart of gold.” “So I am, else I would not have come to help you, I could have left you to the jackals and the leopards. Tell me, from the bottom of your heart. Everything.” “It was my friend from the farm who deceived me, and it was the witchdoctor who lied to me, and it was the mermaid who caused it all.” “Mermaid! The only mermaids I know of were written on the rocks in the caves by our forefathers in the Langeberg many, many lives ago.” “No, no – Oudtshoorn has a mermaid. She used to live in the pool beneath the waterfall here in Meiringspoort. Lots of people have seen her, and the children are not allowed to go near the pool lest she grab them and take them under the water with her, for she has no children of her own, and would love to have one or two.” “True, I have heard that story, but it is merely a legend to keep the children safe, for the pool is deep and extremely dangerous.” “You have worked far too long in the farmer’s kitchen, you are drifting away from our forefathers and from our traditions. You can say nothing, for, with a full moon a time ago, I as waiting for visitors to bring me a present, as is our tradition.” “Did anyone come to you?” “Yes, and I was hoping that my present would be a woman, for everyone knows that I am living alone.” “And?” “Nothing. They just told me about the mermaid. She is no longer here. With the last big rains, when the Olifants River came down in an enormous flood, the waters swept her away to the sea. She sits there upon a rock with her arms outstretched, beckoning me to come to her. That was my present. I could go to her and bring her back, they said.” “Agh no! How can you possibly go so far at your age?” “Listen further, or must I stop telling you what happened?” “Go on …” “When the visitors were gone I fell into a deep and peaceful sleep. I saw the mermaid where she sat on the rocks at the sea. The hair on her lovely little round head was parted into a hundred pieces, each twisted and fastened with a chip of ostrich shell, just like yours. I say, you are quite beautiful!” “Tch, tch! You are an old man, what are you talking now, about me, about a mermaid!” “Sorry. But she was beckoning me to come to her, and with a swish of her beautiful pearly tail she swam deep down to the floor of the ocean to her paradise of pearls. I went to my friend who works on the farm to ask if he could help me get to the sea.” “Could he?” “No, but he took me to his witchdoctor on the other side of the dry river.” “… and you talk about me leaving our traditions, a witchdoctor indeed! What do they do, have they a lot of bones that they throw about, and according to where they fall, they tell you what your destiny is?” “Something like that. He went into a trance and he was shouting that he saw little dots. Then the dots started forming a pattern. And then he saw her.” “Who?” “The mermaid. He said that the hair on her lovely little round head was curled with the red clay from a faraway river, each curl ending with sparkling yellow and red and blue and green beads, all held together on the top with the spotted feather of a guinea fowl.” “How very strange!” “Yes, and I could see the lust in his eyes!” “You should have run away. Did you?” “Just about. But he brought me good news. He would bring the mermaid back here with his magic potion which was bubbling in a pot with three legs on a fire in his hut. Through the smoke I think saw various animal skins with heads on them – a leopard, a wild red cat, an owl. He said that the mermaid would be in the river above the waterfall, and when the next big rains came, she would be washed down into the pool where she would be waiting to welcome me.” “Come on, do not hesitate, this is getting interesting.” “I waited and waited and waited for the rains to come. And then, at last, after more than two years, I saw a storm coming our way from afar, and I put in an effort to make my old legs come all the way here to the waterfall. And this is how I ended up, lying in the dust.” “What on earth happened?” “The storm broke out, viciously. The thunder hit against the ravines, the overwhelming sound hitting back and forth from side to side against the krantzes, the electric fire dancing about and the downpour smashing my body and my face, nearly blinding me. But through it all I saw her near the pool, beckoning me, beckoning me …” “It is alright, Great Eland, you are safe now … take a sip of this, and let me hear the rest.” “When … when I was nearly in her arms, she turned into a wild red cat with enormous fangs, and she wildly clawed at me … it is these wounds that have left me down on the ground.” “But what happed, how did you survive this terrible attack?” “Our forefathers looked down upon me in mercy, and I was saved. The lightning struck right next to me, but it struck him.” "Him? Wait here, I see you are confused. I am going to fetch help, for I alone am not strong enough to help you back to your hut.” “Quiet woman! I am not confused, just listen further.” “Sorry.” “He gave an unearthly scream when he was struck, he fell sideways and rolled down toward the river. The waters took him. Do you see that tree, the one that was washed down with the storm water but got stuck between those rocks? “Yes.” “Go and see what was caught in its branches, and then you will understand.” “Brr! The head and skin of the wild red cat! His camouflage!” “Yes dear.” “No wonder your heart has deceived you, it is too terrible a thing that happened to you. I am doing my best to dress your wounds very nicely with these weeds, tomorrow you will be better, and I will help you to go home, even if it takes a week or even a month.” “You are very, very kind. I think if I finish telling you what happed, I will be able to put it all behind me and get on with my life without nightmares. Will you listen further?” “My poor heart! What now?” “Keep steady. Before I tell any further I want to know how it came to be that you came to me here. Were you on your way somewhere, did our forefathers once more look mercifully down upon me, and you came to see me lying here on the ground?” “You said I have been working too long at the farm. But I have not lost my intuition. I had to leave the farm and follow the tip of the moon towards the two bright stars, until I came here. And I find a feeble old man! Tell further.” “Give me your hand. It’s so soft. It was my friend who worked on the farm. He was watching everything happen from behind some bushes. Everything turned out well for him.” “How come?” “He told me so. When he saw me lying helplessly and in need, he laughed at me. He told me his whole story.” “His story?" “Yes. He has a story too. He and the witchdoctor conspired against me. He paid the witchdoctor his only cow to kill me, so that he could have the mermaid.” “I cannot bear to hear this.” “What happened is that he heard that the witchdoctor planned to kill me, and then immediately leave to find the mermaid for himself, before my friend could find out." “No! What am I hearing today!” “My friend was so furious when he heard that he was now minus his only cow for nothing at all, that he decided to kill the witchdoctor after the witchdoctor had killed me. Then things turned out well for him – the lightning and the river took the witchdoctor, and I was lying helpless on the ground. The mermaid is still waiting on the rocks at the sea, she was never brought here, and he has gone after her. He can have her, I am over her now. You are here with me now." "I love it when you stroke my hand."


Thoko helped to carry some of the chicks that were failing to climb up the ladder of their home. Once they were safe inside the pen, she closed it and picked up her handbag that she had abandoned when she saw the struggling chicks. "Mum, you are home!"

Thoko looked up and saw her five year old son running to her. She opened her arms in time to catch him and they embraced briefly. Her son offered to carry her handbag inside the house and so they walked gingerly together while the boy explained happily his adventures of the day. Upon entering the house, the mother of four gasped when she saw how untidy and dirty the house was. Angrily, Thoko called out the names of her children who walked out of their rooms to see why their mother called. "How many times do I have to tell you to clean the house before I and your father come home? You are big enough to clean after yourselves!" "But mum, I'm tired. Why can't Dalitso and Sara help me mop or clean the plates? It's not fair to let me alone do the hard work." Flora, Thoko's older daughter complained. "Are you talking back to me?"

"No." Flora murmured before making her way to the kitchen. Dalitso and Sara started tidying up the house while Thoko proceeded to her bedroom. She sighed as she sat on her bed and began undressing the work clothes she had on. She debated on whether to take a bath then or later and she decided on the latter. She had to relieve Flora of her chores because if she worked without wanting to, the plates won't be cleaned thoroughly. Thoko's phone dinged which caught her attention. She took it out and found there was a message from her husband. He was notifying her that he would be later than usual since he was out with some friends. Instead of replying, Thoko called her husband right away and he answered on the first dial. "Before you start nagging, I promise I won't drink beer and I'll be home before 9." "Really, Aubrey? I asked you specifically to come home early today. I'm not feeling good and I need help with the kids." "I've just told you I'll be home before 9 and you are still complaining. What's your problem, Thoko? Do you want to embarrass me in front of my friends?" Aubrey seethed and Thoko sighed. It was no use arguing with Aubrey when he was with his friends but Thoko was desperate. She needed his husband home early. "I'm sorry, Aubrey but can you please come home. I need you, please." Thoko coerced her husband with a lovely tone but Aubrey abruptly ended the call. Thoko groaned and threw her phone on the bed. She quickly dressed and approached her daughter in the kitchen. "You can go, I'll finish up here."

"Thank you, mum." Flora smiled and raced out of the kitchen right away. Thoko searched for the pain meds she kept in one of the drawers in the kitchen and took two for her headache. She needed the meds if she was to go through this night sanely. She emptied the plates cleaned by Flora and began the cleaning once again. She cleaned the plates, mopped the floor and washed a few dishcloths. By the time she was done, it was a half hour late from starting dinner but she didn't mind. What she prepared to make was simple and wouldn't take long. She had just turned on the cooker when arguing noises rose over the animated voices on the TV. Thoko wanted to ignore it but when it seemed to go on, she decided to intervene. When she arrived in the sitting room, her three kids were fighting over the decoder’s remote. Samuel, the five year old, was sleeping on one of the sofas. He looked uncomfortable but before Thoko tend to him, she decided on ending the fight first. “Give me the remote.” It was an order and the youngest two let go of the remote but Flora held on to it. By the way she was clutching it; she had no intention of handing the remote to her mother. “Now, Flora.” “They are just being brats. They know this is my time to watch my show but they insist on watching the stupid sponge.” “Watch your tongue, young lady, they are your siblings. Now hand me over the remote and go study in your room.” In a fit of rage, Flora threw the remote and run off. Unfortunately, the remote went straight for Thoko’s nose and the hit was hard enough to cause some bleeding. She staggered backward in shock and her foot hit a corner of the sofa Samuel was sitting. She yelped in pain and when Dalitso and Sara inquired if she was alright, Thoko yelled at them to get lost. It wasn’t long before two doors were shut simultaneously. Thoko used her chitenje to catch the blood that was flowing out of her nose then she turned her head and stared at the roof to wait out the bleeding. The incident then reminded her of when she lost her temper that afternoon at work. She had thrown a shoe at one of her coworker’s in a fit of rage and caused a nosebleed like the one she was nursing. She had never quarreled with a single client, let alone a coworker, in all her five years of work experience but one woman, one moment, one sentence and one decision had ruined it all for her. It didn’t help that she had injured the CEO’s daughter and it wasn’t a coincidence that on the same day she hit her, the CEO decided to see Thoko first thing in the morning of the next day. Would he fire her? Her other coworkers were fearing the same and as the time ticked on, Thoko started fearing the same too. Thoko stood up from the floor when the bleeding stopped. When she saw Samuel, she picked him up and carried him to the room he shared with Dalitso. The latter wasn’t in the room when Thoko entered which meant he was probably with Sara. After securing the mosquito net on Samuel’s bed, Thoko went to her room to discard the bloody chitenje as well as to change out of her bloodied blouse. As Thoko was walking towards the kitchen after cleaning up, she was greeted by the smell of burnt meat. She ran to the kitchen and in haste of hoping to save the meat, she grabbed the hot pot on the cooker. Since she had already picked it up when she registered how hot it was, she dropped it and it scattered on the floor. Thoko opened the tap to cool her hot fingers. She hissed in pain when the lukewarm water did nothing for her. She then opened the deep freezer and pulled out a frozen water bottle which she dropped in a basin of water and soaked her hands in it. She sighed in relief when that seemed to cool off the heat in her fingers. “Mum, your phone keeps ringing- woah! What happened in here? Mum, are you alright?” Flora, who had come in the kitchen with Thoko’s phone in hand, frowned at her disheveled mother. Her nose was a bit swollen from the remote earlier but Flora knew nothing of it. Thoko brushed it off and gestured for Flora to hand her the phone. Her fingers weren’t stinging as much so she dried her hands and took the phone from Flora. She found missed calls from her close friend and knowing Esther, she only called when Thoko didn’t reply to her Whatsapp texts. Instead of calling her back, Thoko opened her app to check on the unanswered messages from Esther. What she found on Esther’s chat however, made the slight pain she was feeling in her fingers to go away and as she scrolled through the images Esther had sent, Thoko’s heart was hammering painfully in her chest.

Aubrey was on his knees, proposing to the same lady she had thrown a shoe at that afternoon. With how the images progressed, it was clear the lady had positively replied since they embraced, kissed and the woman posed a few pictures with the ring shining on her finger. The images were followed by Esther’s colorful words as she cursed Aubrey and the woman both. Just then, a message notification caught Thoko’s interest and she opened the message Aubrey had sent her. ‘I want divorce’ Thoko staggered helplessly with the intent to reach her bedroom to lie down and just when she was about to leave the kitchen, her foot slipped on the discarded burnt food that had scattered the floor and she lost her balance. She landed on the floor with a thump. Her phone that was in her hand was unlucky as it hit the floor with her. When she crawled to retrieve it from where it had ended up, the screen was cracked very badly and it wouldn’t even turn on. Thoko felt miserable and she sat on the floor while still clutching the broken phone. She was so drained both physically and emotionally that when the lights suddenly turned off, she didn’t have the energy to react in anyway. Her three children protested loudly and they called out to their mother. Throughout the whole day at work and the time she had arrived home, Thoko was trying her best to hold on as she reminded herself repeatedly of how strong of a woman she was but even the strong fall. After waiting at bay for so long, tears poured out of Thoko’s eyes like flood gates being opened at last.

She couldn’t help it but wonder where she went wrong. Was it meeting Aubrey? Perhaps it was not heeding the warnings of her friends. Maybe it was when she thought she had it all to keep a man like Aubrey on a leash. Or was it the moment she took off her heels and threw them at Natasha, the woman who taunted her at work? After mulling over the facts, Thoko then realized she was the defeated one. Her job was at the verge of ending and her husband of 17 years had just dropped the bomb on her. She had nothing going on for her and not even the four weeks baby growing in her would do her wonders. How would she raise four and soon to be five kids on her own, without a job? She was doomed to failure from here onwards. “Mum, where are you?” Flora asked. “I’m scared, Flora. What if Mum has left us alone?” Sara cried. “Mum will never leave us, silly. She’s a mum and mothers never leave their children.” Dalitso lightly scolded his sister but from his voice, it seemed he was trying to assure himself as well. Thoko sobbed silently; she was grateful there was a blackout and her kids couldn’t see how miserable she looked and felt. She held on to the darkness around her as she counted the minutes before her kids found her. Until then, she let herself be miserable in the darkness surrounding her.


They stared up at the old mansion with apprehension. None of them could name when it had been built, nor who had built it, just that both had been well before their time and that time had changed it immensely. The sheer size alone was enough take them aback, but it was the condition at a glance that truly shocked them, down to the youngest who was just 11 months old and had no earthly concept of what a mansion even was. The paint was peeling and washed out, showing old brick walls that looked more like raw, weeping wounds than the dry, red clay that they were. The shingles of its vast roof were almost all gone, and the roof itself looked sunken and pained with water damage, or like something had smashed in but not through it. All of its windows were broken and revealed nothing but pitch blackness inside, save for two windows along the centre which reflected the midday sun in broken shards that shone like eyes staring down, peeled open and malevolent, at the family who had trodden upon its domain. The husband, a barrel chested, younger man, step forward on the brick pathway, ignoring the pleas of his wife, a taller, older woman, to please get away from it, please. “It’s going to fall on your head Hal, for gods sake.” “It’s fine Luanne, I’m just getting a closer look at it.” Immediately upon finishing the sentence, he stepped onto the first cracked and dusty step and could hear the stone groan under him as he walked up with great caution to the front doors. They were in the best condition of any part of this old monster, firm and tall and carved with symbols of lions facing each other. The door knockers were around the crotch level, which forced Hal to avert his eyes as he wrapped a hand around one of them and found that he had to push it open. “Lousy design.” He muttered beneath the wailing creak of the door slowly, deliberately, opening inward to reveal yet more darkness. Hal leaned forward so that the clear blue sky and its huge spotlight of a sun did not get into his eyes, which helped them adjust. Inside the mansion was a floor made of wooden planks, which were rotted and soaked over with mold and fungus. The grand staircase, an enormous thing that may have once been quite proud, had collapsed midway up and the debris littered the hallway that, Hal gathered, would have led to some kind of kitchen or recreation room. Above him hung a chandelier, an enormous and complex structure of glass that, to his shock, seemed utterly untouched by the doubtless decades of decay and neglect that had put this place in its present state. It swung about, slowly side by side, of seemingly no accord. Looking down again, he saw on either side open archways that led into rooms he had no idea the use of. A low groan emerged from within the bowels of the mansion, beckoning him inside, deeper yet deeper, so that he may be shown even more of its sights. He ignored it and turned around in a huff, his lips pulled a tooth baring expression more suited for a baboon as he stomped back down to his family, his wife completely unsurprised. “It’s a goddamn dump.” Hal blustered out as he took his place by Luanne’s side. “I told you we couldn’t trust that website, but the offer was just to good pass up, wasn’t it.” “Don’t start up on that, you wanted this place just as badly as I did.” “Yes dear, I know, but I did offer the idea that it was too good to be true.” Luanne looked up at the mansion again, quickly squinting and looking away from the glare of the broken glass. “And you were right, are you happy?” “Not in the slightest dear.” Hal simply nodded and marched back to their car. “I’m with you on that.” He said as he pulled open the drivers side door and slipped halfway in. “What’s eating you? You look troubled.” “Aside from the house?” “Aside from that, yes.” Luanne sucked her bottom lip in and looked over her shoulder again at the looming beast behind her. “I have an odd feeling about the place, likes it got something wrong with it outside of how it looks.” “Well, you won’t have to worry about that honey.” Said Hal. “We’re going to march right into that real estate place and scream our heads off til we get our money back.” He gestured up at the mansion, his movements wild and exaggerated as he got more and more worked up. “They show us a beautiful house in those pictures, tell us it’s all furnished, and then we show up to THIS?! Not a chance in hell I’m letting that slide!” His sudden descent into hollering at the top of his lungs made Luanne and their baby flinch, and the baby immediately set off into a loud and miserable wail. Luanne went to work right away rocking it as Hal hurried over, his eyes wide with shame. “Oh Georgia I’m sorry honey.” He cooed. “It’ ok baby, it’s ok.” She said, and it worked rather quickly, as Georgia stopped almost as quickly as she started. Both parents were pleased. “Save it for the real estate agents Hal.” Luanne said. “Only if you help me.” He said right back, and the two kissed and walked back to their car. Once little Georgia was buckled securely in her seat, the two took their own and drove around the roundabout and it’s huge, concrete fountain (which held no water at all) right back out on the path they came in. They were gone for a minute, then two minutes, then five. It was on the fifth minute that the mansion, realizing that they really were not coming back, shut its still open door and let out a disappointed sigh. Maybe next time big guy.


Rachel!! Jeff!! Get your asses down here this instant. No pizza for a month if you are not down in 10....9….8….7….6….5…..4…..3…...2….. "We are here, Mommy. We are here." Two pairs of feet ran down the stairs and out the door to the car standing in the driveway. ‘Great! Let's go now. The vehicles will begin to traffic the roads in an hour. We must get out of the city before that.’ said Lisa, locking the door and keeping the keys in her pocket. ‘Wait, but we can order pizza next month now right?’ A chuckle made its way up Lisa’s throat and escaped from her lips. ‘Yes. Yes, you can. Let’s get moving for now, shall we?’ A collective hurray followed the proclamation and the car moved down onto the road, marking the beginning of a new adventure. Rachel and Jeff were going on their first-ever camping trip together with their parents. In the 7 years they had been on this planet earth, not once had they seen the jungles in their life. Sure, they’d been to Paris, Tokyo, New Delhi, New York, Sydney, and even Rome. Their parents loved traveling and saw to it that they traveled every 4 months. But never had they gone on an adventure into the woods. The kids were excited beyond belief. Rachel had even packed her binoculars. Jeff had taken his torchlight and rope with him. Their parents had told them that this trip would be different. They won’t go roam about the city, learn about its history and take nice pictures for the memory wall in their house. They would have to walk, run, get dirty in the mud, and even sleep without a proper bed. They knew they were bound to get tired but they didn’t know just how much. Nevertheless, the trip to the Chandertal Reservoir was going to be a memorable one, both for the kids and their parents. Why one may ask? One pair was coming here for the first time and the other after 20 long years.

The car ride to the Reservoir was filled with laughter, music, and fun. After a long drive of 5 hours, the family of four had finally got onto the road leading into the woods. By the time they reached their final destination, it was 2:00 p.m. and the sun shone brightly over their heads. The family found themselves in a clearing surrounded by trees in all directions. Any normal person would probably have said that they are in the middle of nowhere but Lisa and Ryan, they knew this place by heart. They had spent the best summer of their lives in this very forest at this very spot. Lisa and Ryan took out all the necessary equipment, set up the tents, and put up the barbeque station while the kids roamed about and inspected the place. Jeff seemed to be enchanted by the slow-moving bugs in the nearby bush and spent his entire evening sitting on his haunches admiring them. Rachel, however, was more energetic and ran around, climbed the broken trees, and annoyed Jeff.

The evening had them all tired and hungry. Lisa and Ryan sat in their chairs, looking out into the jungle. “They are having fun,” said Lisa, looking fondly over her children. “That they are. I told you they’d love this place. We did too.” “It's been so long huh? Who would have thought that you and I, of all the people, would end up together and bring our kids camping to this very particular spot.” “It's where it all began, love. Of course, we were bound to end up here.” The conversation was halted by two simultaneous shouts of “Mommy!!! We are hungry. What do we have?” Ryan laughed and carried the children into the van where the food was set up on the table. “Dig in, little monsters,” said Lisa as everyone took a seat at the table. The kids were quick to sleep after the tiring journey and dozed off directly after dinner. Taking a last look at the sleeping figures, Ryan made his way out of the tent, taking two bottles of beer on his way.

“Here,” said Ryan, handing one bottle to Lisa, who was sitting comfortably in front of the bonfire. Lisa smiled, took the open bottle, and clinked it with Ryan’s.

‘To old times.’ Clink. ‘Cheers.’

The stars in the night sky seemed like dancers running across an open room. Shining here at one second, and there at the next. The rustling of trees, chirping of the crickets, and the occasional sound of breaking of a branch rang out in the otherwise quiet forest. Ryan and Lisa sat in their folding chairs, taking occasional sips from their beer bottles.

“It was a night like this, wasn’t it? Clear sky, a forest eerily quiet, and a bonfire to keep us warm. Except there were 7 of us back then.”

A chuckle escaped Ryan’s lips as he murmured “We were all young. And so was the night.” Flashback “Get the food ready, boys. I and the girls will be done with the tents in a few. And you better cook it right, James. I don’t want to eat raw meat after doing physical labor.”, a shout was heard in the distance as the 4 boys danced around the campfire in their shorts.

“Yeah yeah. The food’s almost ready. And don’t blame us for having to do all the manual work. It was you who lost the bet, after all.” Laughter rang in the forest as the boys moved to high five each other and got the food ready for the girls.

30 minutes later saw the 7 teenagers sitting in a circle around the fire, plates of food in their hands while they laughed, sang, and played games. “Let’s play Dumb Charades”, suggested one and a murmur of agreement rang about. “James, you go first.” The 7 teenagers sat outside late into the night - talking and laughing. They were planning to go explore the lake nearby the next day. If looked hard enough, they may even find the Japanese Tombstone hidden somewhere in the jungle. Agreeing to meet at 7 a.m. sharp the next morning, they bid each other farewell and moved into their respective tents.

The next morning, all 7 of them were dressed in trekking clothes, bags packed with essential equipment, and ready to find the lake. They divided into three groups - of 2, 2, and 3 respectively and wandered into the forest. They were on a mission and they were going to complete it no matter what. The whole day, they searched the woods, looking for a tell-tale sign of water or the tombstone but to no avail. The group returned to the meeting point at 7 p.m. and proceeded to share their discoveries. Lisa’s group which consisted of her and James had found a bunker about three kilometers from their camp. Ryan, Maya, and Ollie hadn’t found anything interesting but they did come across a few pink ribbons hung on the tree branches. They’d followed them for two hours until they disappeared suddenly at a diverging path. Frank and Lorelai had only managed to go around in circles the entire day and only realized their mistake an hour before they were to gather back at the camp. This brought everyone to laughter. No matter how futile their efforts felt, they couldn’t deny the fact that they had fun.

The group then divided into two, based on who won rock-paper-scissors, one making supper and the other lighting the fire, and arranging the beds. They played truth and dare this time. When Maya was dared to kiss Ollie, Frank had seen red and stopped her from kissing Ollie by kissing her himself. That had certainly been entertaining. They’d called it a night after two more hours of drinking and sharing stories, for they still needed to wake up early tomorrow. The party once again began searching for the lake and the stone the next day. This time, they succeeded. Frank and Maya, when looking for a place to make out in private, away from the prying eyes, had accidentally tumbled into what they thought was simply a nook but had been the passage to the lake. They had gone and looked around the place and if one were to believe their words, it was simply mesmerizing. It seemed to have come to life from a fairy tale. That night, the group celebrated. Beer was replaced by champagne and the party danced to the light music which blared from the car speakers. The night had been filled with more than just music that time. Something in the air had shifted. They just didn’t know what.

The next day, the seven of them went to the lake together. Uncovering the passage hidden by the Ivy, Lisa questioned the truth behind Frank’s statement. It did not seem anything like a fairy tale to her. If anything, the tunnel smelled horrible and birds flew out towards them once in a while. “Just a bit more, keep moving. Go on, don’t stop.” After walking for about 100 meters, they came across another ivy covering, crossing which Lisa found the most beautiful place she’d ever seen. Surrounded by the forest on three sides and a veil of flowers on the other, a lake of clear water stood simmering in the afternoon sun. The blue water was so clear that they could even see their reflections in it. The group jumped up in joy and quickly got rid of their clothes, jumping into the water as soon as possible. They’d splashed each other, thrown people into the lake, and even had a jumping competition. This was the kind of fun they’d hoped they would have. It was a dream come true.

After having fun in the lake, the group had gone back to their camping site, making dinner and having fun. They had found the lake and all that was left was the tombstone. They didn’t need to wake up early though now, since they were already done with the lake. The next few afternoons had them running around the jungle searching for the tombstone. In the evening, they all swam in the lake, taking recluse from the sun in the water. One afternoon, when Lisa and Ryan were going to the lake, they saw another ivy veil a few meters before the entrance to the lake. This time, instead of a tunnel, there was simply a cobblestone path. A path that led them to the place where they most wanted to go. The Japanese Tombstone. They ran back to the lake to inform the others about the same and everyone cheered upon seeing the tombstone. They had finally accomplished their mission. They had found the two things they were looking for and they had had more fun than they could have imagined. The trip was a total success. Upon reaching back to the site, everyone sat huddled around the fire, once again sipping on their beer bottles, playing games, and laughing their hearts out.

They were going to go back to the city tomorrow. But they will be taking back much more than just a few pretty pictures or fun stories to tell the others. They will be taking with them stronger friendships, new relationships, and numerous promises to never forget this trip. The trip where they found themselves while finding the lake and the tombstone. Morning came earlier than expected that night. They had barely slept when the morning sun penetrated through the tents and woke them up from their slumber. They’d proceeded to get out of the woods soon after, singing songs in the car on their way back home.

Five years later, Ryan had asked Lisa out and they had been going strong ever since. Maya and Frank had ended up together, and so had James and Lorelai. Ollie, however, had chosen to stay a bachelor for as long as possible, for he was too much in love with his adventurous life for him to want to be tied down and attain stability. As far as Lisa knew, he was still traveling around the world, his travel agency making more than enough money in a year.

End of Flashback Lisa stared fondly at the fire, reminiscing about the days she spent in this very place as a teenager with her friends. Friends who were now all too busy to meet regularly. They still met each other twice a year, but that was about it.

“You know, I had planned to propose to you near the lake.” Ryan’s soft words broke the comfortable silence, eliciting exactly the reaction Ryan wanted from Lisa. “You did? Why didn’t you, then? Oh right, we eloped.” Lisa chuckled. “That’s one way of putting it. Yes.”

“We had so much fun here, Ryan. The jokes, the confessions, the teasing, I miss it. I miss everything about them.”, said Lisa. “I know you do, Love. I do, too. But now we have another story to write. A story that won’t always revolve around us.” A sigh made its way up Lisa’s throat. “I know. We should go to bed. It’s late and the kids are alone in the tent.” “Sure, let’s go. Goodnight. I love you.” “I love you too.” Lisa and Ryan shared a quick kiss before making their way inside the tents. They needed to sleep on time, all right. They were going to begin a new chapter of their lives. A chapter whose heroes were now Rachel and Jeff, and not Lisa and Ryan. They were here to show their kids what the best summer of their life was. One day, Rachel and Jeff might do the same.