The Runner

Jessica drapes the new scarf around her mother's shoulders and notices the slight twitches at her mouth corners suggesting a smile. The only time her mother's eyes light up nowadays is when she sees the porter, Charles, who often stops by her for a friendly chat. He also doesn't seem to mind that she calls him Steven.

A car accident, just over a year ago, left her mom with seemingly permanent memory loss and claimed her father's life. Jessica's weekly visits to the care facility often serve as a reminder of how little she knows about Victoria Harvey. With a gentle shake of her head, she tries to free herself from the pangs of guilt for not trying harder to get to know her while the opportunity was still there.

Victoria was not a bad mother. As an only child, Jessé was always well taken care of. She never lacked anything and she was not mistreated. According to modern-day parenting standards, one might say she was emotionally neglected.

Victoria was never a talker or an exhibitor of emotions. Jessé often thought of her mom as the keeper of family logistics; the person who ensured that everything was in place and operated smoothly. In addition to organising family life, Victoria also worked as a part-time bookkeeper for a small firm.

Jessica bends forward to plant a kiss on her mom's cheek as she gets ready to leave. She takes one last look at the woman who always had it all together, but whom she never really got to know.

Home is a modern and spacious city bowl apartment. Inside awaits boxes to be packed for their emigration.

Her fiance, Neil, got a once-in-a-lifetime engineering job in New Zealand. They will be joining some of their friends there in less than two weeks. Neil greets her with a takeout dinner as she enters. They ate quickly, as their minds were eager to return to unfinished tasks: Neil had some emigration paperwork and Jessé resumed her photo editing for a client. Against all odds, she did pursue a creative career, despite her mom's efforts to talk her into a BCom degree course.

Jessé was hesitant to leave her mom behind, but Neil felt strongly that his opportunity was too big to negotiate.

Besides, Jessé can practice photography anywhere in the world and they can visit her mother annually. He spoke about getting married at a Prestigious Hotel not far from where he will be working.

It felt strange to see him so passionate and excited. Not many things could excite him, as he was usually rather reserved. A good guy. Steady. Level headed. Marriage material as they would say. But to be honest, she's been feeling detached and bored lately. She is twenty-four. Is she ready for this level of boredom and commitment?

Going to New Zealand to say "I do" amongst white satin, diamantés and roses? Does he know she would prefer cotton, eucalyptus twigs and a bonfire? He never really asked either.

She plonked on the floor in her small study. Tonight the creativity doesn't want to flow. She is not doing her best work.

The coffee Neil brought her earlier tastes lukewarm. The thought of how it resembles her current perception of their relationship made her choke. "You ok?" a worried Neil asks from the living room. Reliable Neil. Always have her back.

Her eyes fall on a box containing some unsorted items belonging to her mom.

She starts unpacking. Two handbags, sandals, a hat, recipe books, more books, office stationery, a few small picture frames with family photos including one of her dad, greeting cards and an aged envelope addressed to "Victoria" in fancy bold curly letters.

Inside she finds a photograph taken of a painting against a wall. The painting depicts a person in mid-stride, running away from the viewer. The person is visible through a window, which dominates the foreground of the piece.

Jessica feels as if she is a secondary viewer to a very significant event. The work evokes poignant feelings of abandonment, sorrow, bereavement and evasiveness.

In the corner the painting is signed, T. Ori. The postal stamp dates back to March 1995. On the back of the photograph, in the same flamboyant handwriting, there is an intimate greeting, "Love always, Steven." Her parents were married already in 1995, although she only arrived five years later. The painting in the photograph is dominating Jessé's mind the entire night.

Tomorrow she needs to find some answers. Who is this Steven? A name so significant it is more retrievable from Victoria's deficient memory than the name of her daughter.

With Neil off to the office early the next morning to help wrap up some last-minute tasks at his current workplace, Jessie can start her search. It is no surprise that an internet search does not produce anything about a Steven or a T. Ori artist, considering it most likely involves small-town people during a time of limited internet exposure.

Within moments her mind was made up and she packed an overnight bag while declining a call from her client.

A phone call she couldn't elude was to inform Neil about her seemingly erratic decision.

She waited until she left the city and was well away on the open road. Neil seldom got upset. Today he did. In the four years they have been together he never shouted at her. She can't blame him. Less than two weeks before they leave the country she randomly gets in her car without even saying goodbye, leaving him behind with all the arrangements. Her inadequate attempt to explain leads to the inevitable question of whether she is even serious enough about their relationship to go with him. She thought she was. Is this obsession about finding answers relating to her mother's past her subconscious trying to interfere? She decided against that theory. A single day is all she is prepared to dedicate to this mission, then she will be back with Neil to assist him.

The open road feels good as she makes space for nostalgia and childhood memories along the way.

The town is very much unchanged since her last visit three years ago. Her initial plan is to enquire at the local media centre, which has been home to the local newspaper since the seventies. Perhaps Steven or T. Ori was sufficiently newsworthy for a small town.

The young girl at the media centre seems willing to help. Apparently, it is quite a frequent occurrence for those delving into the past to visit them.

The search was fruitful. No articles about an artist by the name of Steven were found, but there were three front-page articles during 1995 about a scandalous art dealer by that name. Steven Sinclair, under the camouflage of a low-key small-town art dealer, had a more brilliant main interest: illegal diamond trading.

Halfway through the article, a name very familiar to her jumped at her. "John Harvey, local art curator and gallery owner, laid charges of theft against Steven Sinclair for disappearing with a painting titled "The Runner" by the award-winning artist known as Tori, also the wife of John Harvey.

Could this be a misprint? Her father the art curator. Her mother the artist. Not T.Ori, but Tori, which is short for Victoria. Who are these people she was raised by? As far as she remembers, her father was a science teacher with a love for woodwork.

His project collection did include some impressive carve work. Jesse's head is spinning. She can faintly hear the assistant offering her some water. She hoped she declined politely as she found herself already outside halfway to her car. If there was a criminal charge, she needs a cop friend now more than ever.

A feeling of hopelessness washes over her as she approaches the middle-aged guy who seems irritated by her request. Despite his reluctance, he manages a polite "evening mam."

For the first time, she thinks about the time and realises it is past six in the evening. She still needs to book in at the local hotel.

The officer must be at the end of his shift. How on earth is she going to get any help from him? "Mam, I mean no disrespect, but if you are not in danger, or have no criminal activities to report, I would prefer to wrap up my shift and get home."

Her despondence is short-lived as a friendly voice fills the room. "Jessica Harvey? Is that you?" Jessé looks up at the fresh-faced, rather attractive-looking man in uniform. Before she could place him, Officer Grumpy introduced him as Sargeant Zimmerman, the man taking over the next shift. Suddenly Officer Grumpy produced a smile which made his eyes disappear in his cheeks as he cheerfully announced his departure.

Jessé remembers Harold Zimmerman. Harry. They went to school together. They were never close friends, but in a small town school, everyone is kind of friends at some point.

The typical exchange of a quick catch-up happens between them. Harry is still in town, joined the cops, got dumped by his girlfriend recently, but enjoys the company of his Doberman.

Jessé tells him about her search for answers. "It is your lucky night, as it is very quiet in town and I can do with an assignment to help me pass the time." He invites her through to a back office. "I'll get us some coffee," he says with the same enthusiasm she remembers him for from school days.

His pen scribbles quickly in his notebook as he documents her story. His usually jovial face is now a landscape of focus and concentration.

It takes a couple of phone calls to get information. Jessé is on her third cup of coffee when he finally declares there are some insights.

There was indeed a theft charge made by John Harvey against Steven Sinclair for theft of the painting titled " The Runner" by Victoria, however, the case was withdrawn and marked closed shortly after. Harry's voice became even more serious as he dropped the news that Victoria Harvey was a police informant of intel in the alleged illegal diamond trade investigation against Steven.

Unfortunately, those files are not accessible. It does seem however as if the painting titled "The Runner" got away and disappeared with Steven.

Jesse remembers Harry as a bit of a joker. Her disbelief led her to the conclusion that he is seriously messing with her. She scrutinises his face for a glimpse of teasing, but is met with deadpan seriousness.

For the second time today, Jesse feels faint. Her shock must be rather evident as Harry suggests he drives her to the hotel.

Nothing at the hotel has changed. The accommodation is basic but neat. It does seem as if the decor got stuck in the eighties. Jesse checks her phone. Two missed calls from Neil. Poor Neil. He doesn't deserve this. She just doesn't have the emotional capacity to try and explain everything now. Before she thinks it through properly, she hears herself asking Harry to have a drink with her.

Being alone with all this new information is not an appealing prospect. He looks a bit puzzled as he stands in her hotel room doorway. Jessé laughed embarrassed, "No, not here. The bar is open. I'm engaged, as you know." Harry looks more at ease. "I'll have coffee, on duty, you know."

During the two hours that follow the two try to make sense of Victoria's story. Harry creatively contributes over caffeine while Jessé sips whiskey on the rocks.

There is laughter and some tears. "She never painted again, you know," Jessé spoke softly into her glass.

When the time came for Harry to go, Jesse was sad and drunk enough to place a kiss on his lips. A part of her wishes she was not engaged and free from knowing what she does now.                           -------‐------------------------------------- As she walked down the familiar corridor of the care centre everything felt different. The lens of knowledge gives a different perspective indeed. This time she is carrying a canvas, paints and brushes to her mother's room.

Victoria's eyes light up similar to when she sees Charles. She gently starts touching and inspecting the brushes Jessé places in front of her.

Victoria speaks while painting the canvas, "Steven came today. He came to say goodbye. I once hung a painting in his gallery to warn him. To tell him to run. There was no time to greet then."

After a while, she puts her brush down and cups Jessé's face with both hands. "I have a beautiful daughter. She lives in New Zealand, you know. Please give this to her when you see her." Victoria passes the little canvas with a simple painting of a camera to Jessé. "Oh, and please tell her she must never stop what she is doing."

At the apartment, Jessé waited for Neil with supper and wine. He looked tense and unsure of what to expect. "Am I still invited to join you in New Zealand?" Jessé asked. "Only if you really want to", Neil replied. "Only if we can get married in a forest," Jessé adds.

Neil laughs and picks her up in his arms, “Do you want a drumming ceremony as well?" That makes Jessé squeal with laughter, "You DO know!" Neil shook his head, "No, I don't, but if you stop running, I promise to learn."


The Farne Islands are black places. Most places in the North Sea are. From their black cliffs a small fishing boat travels precariously between the rocks in the local harbour to Inner Farne on the near horizon. Around the boat, little black specs tornado in unison, their wings silhouetted against a thick sky. The boat eventually finds it’s mooring and a woman comes into view, her long blond plait falls from under two hats pulled low to her face. A seal breaks the water to watch the newcomer, buoyed in the angry water like it’s riding a wave machine at a kid’s amusement park. They lock eyes for a moment and the seal gets bored. The woman empties the boat carefully of food rations and equipment, though obviously not enough for a long stay. She stops and looks longingly at the boat for a moment, leaving a box of wires and a phone still in the dingy. Without hesitation she unwraps the rope keeping the boat moored and sets it free unpiloted. The sea takes it slowly at first, as if checking she means to let it go on purpose. The rope slips away and her only way of escape disappears quickly and vanishes to the black. The seal reappears looking visibly confused. Her job to be done is simple but important. Bird flu ripped through the local population on the small island, meaning no puffin, shag, turn or razorbill was safe. They had no respite from the disease, no technology to turn to for help. She felt she owed it to them; an exchange for her life where money could, and had, bought an easy life. The wind on the Island grabs jealously she walks up to the tower at the top of the black cliff edge. She’s never been inside but has seen the tower many times from the shore, it’s weather worn stones have seen Vikings, Christians, chavs, but yet it remains just so. Her hands begin to unpack rations whilst her mind is still with Max and Alex and Nicky in the city. Home comforts were gone; no cashmere, no Instagram. Only sheepskin rugs from the Northumberland mainland offer any respite; the smell of salt and smoke holds deep into the woven tapestry of the place. On one side of the room sits a desk, it’s screens and monitors and radios cast an unnatural blue hue over the ancient stonework. At it’s side lays what appears to be two sunbeds from circa 1994. They wait with their silvery lids open wide, invitingly clean and ready for use. Where a head would go protrudes a large metal probe, along with a selection of other needles and cables which attach messily to the desk close by. She rubs the back of her head. A screwed metal disc aches at the curve of her skull, not used to the severe North Sea cold. As if in response, all the metal plug points on her body itch in unison. Never again will this body be plugged in to charge, to repair, to reset. She shuts the lids on the life support machines so as not to tempt her. The wind rages but she takes the opportunity to begin her daily tasks. Outside the front door to the tower a sign reads ‘ONLY STEP ON THE BOARD WALK, CHECK FOR CHICKS’ and she imagines someone shouting it in her face. It is a black place as they said it was. Everything is hard. The rock, the water, the wind. It hurts. But this is what she wants, to repent for a life led with too much good fortune. She walks from one end of the small island to the other. Puffins come and go, their beaks filled with sand eels. Silver scales catch the sun which furiously tries to push through the heavy cloud. Against the patchwork of lichen and heather they flash their red beaks to each other like morse code. She still feels sick from the journey. In normal circumstances she would have changed bodies long before the sickness kicked in. It would have simply been put on charge until the system calmed down, she had plenty of spares at home. Her stomach sends out a stabbing pain in response. She ponders what people must have done hundreds of years ago when the tower was built; they must have had some medicinal remedies otherwise the whole population would have been wiped out. After a week on the island, the chores are second nature. Today she counts the puffin burrows to monitor this year’s breeding pairs. The work is manual but not too taxing for a fairly new body of which she is glad she still has. The sick feeling remains and hums deep in her body. Before she gets back to the tower for the evening she doubles over and vomits into the wind. Orange lumps fly out over the black cliffs, illuminated against an angry sky. She had never known anyone to be sick, no one had, not since the turn of the century when people still had to endure the frail bodies they were born with. They were taught this stuff in school, how disease was rampant back then but it became irrelevant when technology and Mindscaping were invented. With the ability to move your mind freely from one body to the next, the need to cure disease vanished, modern medicinal products were literally never created. You just discarded the sick like a Primark jumper gone wrong in the wash. She remembered the first exotic body she was bought as a youngster. She had decided on an overnight whim to become a ballerina, so her parents had shipped a model in from Russia. It was exquisite, it's porcelain skin was almost see though and bent in ways her other bodies could never manage. Unfortunately, it's feet got mangled and was quickly donated to a family in another town, no point in fixing. A storm rolls in from the North Sea and the sky quickly changes colour. She knows the drill and quickly pulls the few items gathered outside into the tower and bolts the main door. The kettle wines against the howl outside. She finds her mind slipping in the dark, taking her across the water to Max and Alex and Nicky. She cannot remember how old they are, she can barely remember how old she is, but she imagines them at home, drinking expensive wine and eating cheese. Nicky has a svelte body which she only uses on such occasions. The wine goes too quickly though, and she will sneak off mid evening to change models whilst the first has it’s stomach pumped from the alcohol poisoning. The storm outside continues to rage, dark and unruly. Mindscaping meant no one had any repercussions to anything. Sometimes Alex would fight his brother and they’d end up needing new bodies three times a week, hurting her pocket but nothing more. It was a hollow life. Built on an ease that comes only through no hard work, no effort, no strife. They would stay young forever, never experience the pain of loss, of suffering, of heartache. She closes her eyes and sleep takes her, eyes glued together by salt. On day 22 she wakes and washes. Her skin is starting to visibly grey but her mind is clearing. She begins another day of counting burrows. A puffin couple closest to the front door of the tower have been named Victoria and Albert, yet she tries to not get attached. Last week she found a puffin chick dead outside it’s burrow and spent the entire day crafting a burial for him as the wind whipped at her face not allowing any tears. As she read the sermon to the sea, a family of puffins perched on the lighthouse wall in silent prayer. She walks back having found eight burrows empty when they weren't the day before and falls through the board walk that needs repairing. Her ankle looks wrong and she screams into the wind as pain moves up her leg. She crouches down and lets her body crumple into the acute feeling. Once, her and her friends had snuck into her father's study to try on his models. She slipped into one he had used when he was in the army a long time ago. It was like eating power. Everything moved so easily, it had so much inbuilt skill it scared her. Her ankle bites back in retort. Every day she cries. Everyday something dies. It is an emotional battle filled with more highs and lows than she’s cumulatively felt in her long existance. Every day she closes her eyes at night, exhausted by the mental effort of living this somewhat simple life. She begins to acknowledge that the island is black, but the kind of black that is deep and never ending and alive. On day 31 Victoria and Albert's chicks fledge. She watches them from the doorstep of the tower and cries loudly. Her pride for them fills the island. Across thousands of miles, across land and sea and everything in between, these birds find each other every year and will do for their entire lives. Every year they continue to fight for each other, no matter the pain. Her body is slower now as she bends with difficulty to check the burrows across the island. She knew this body had cancer. She had come to the logical end of the road with it and with the shallow life she’d lived until these sweet moments. Out to the deep depths of the North Sea a white sailing ship peaks through the distant horizon, bathed in what seems like warm light from above. A few seconds later the moment is gone. She smiles. After a time, she walks back to the tower and puts the kettle on to boil. She closes her eyes.


Rebecca was thrilled about her new apartment. She was finally moving out of her parents’ house. It was about time too. She was 25 after all.                She had finally found herself in a career that she loved as a freelance writer and photographer for the local newspaper. And she had finally published her first novel. Her dreams were coming true. To her, her life was almost perfect.                She pulled her car in front of her apartment building. It was a beautiful brick building with white trim. It had a flower garden that wrapped around the building with a vegetable garden around the back where the tenants could grow their own vegetables. When she had done research on the area and the building, she had discovered that the building had originally been built in the early 1800’s as a hotel.                She loved old buildings and the history behind them. Things like that had always intrigued her. Everyone that knew her growing up had always said that she would work in a museum. And she had for a couple of years. Her time there had helped her realize her love of writing and now here she was.                She stepped out of her car and took a deep breath. This was the first day of her new life. She grabbed the last of her bags from the trunk. Then she headed inside. She had an amazing idea for her next book and she wanted to get started as fast as she could.                “Hello, Dear. How are you doing?” asked Georgia, her new landlord who lived on the bottom level of the apartment building. Her family had owned the building from the day it was built. She was a super sweet old lady who insisted on having community meals that she cooked for the tenants.                “I am doing good, Ms. Georgia. Finally got the last of my stuff from my parents’ house. How are you doing?” Rebecca asked politely as she approached.                “I am doing fine. Getting older,” Ms. Georgia said with a giggle. “After you put that stuff in your room, why don’t you join me in the vegetable garden and we can get started on your spot. I even have some seeds for you to pick from to get you started,” she added.                “Of course, Ms. Georgia. I would love that. I will be right down, just let me drop this stuff and change,” Rebecca agreed. My book can wait a little longer.                “Okay dear. See you in a few. I will be working in the back of the vegetable garden area, just come find me,” Ms. Georgia said, waving as she walked around the corner of the building.                Rebecca turned to go in to the building and noticed a strange man in strange clothing coming out the door of the building. It looked like he was wearing clothes from the 1800’s. It was the early 2020’s.

There must be some type of reenactment somewhere, she thought. She didn’t think about it again as she took the elevator up to her floor. When the doors of the elevator opened, she noticed a lady in 1800’s clothing walking down the hall towards the stairs at the other end of the hall. Her dress was a beautiful dark green color trimmed in what looked like gold lace. Then she disappeared around the corner.                “I have to figure out where this reenactment is at,” Rebecca said to herself, as she stepped off the elevator.                As she entered her apartment her phone started ringing. She fished it out of her pocket as she set her bags down on the couch.                “Hello,” she answered. There was a lot of really bad static on the other end of the line. She pulled it away from her ear to see who had called her. It showed her mother’s number. “Mom? Can you hear me? I think there is something wrong with your phone,” She said. “If you can hear me, I will call you back in a minute.” And with that, she hung up. She tried to call her mother right back, again there was nothing but static on the other end. Is my phone broke? What the heck. She thought again. So instead, she sent her mom a text: Hey, I don’t know what’s going on with my phone, but I will call you back as soon as I can. Love you. She immediately got a notification that the message could not be sent because of no service.                “What in the world is going on?” Rebecca asked no one in particular. She checked her phone and saw that she had no service at all. “That is so strange, I had perfect signal here yesterday.”                Thinking that maybe the cell tower was down, she put her phone on the counter and changed clothes. When she was done, she headed out to go back downstairs. She headed towards the elevator like always, but as she got close, she noticed the strangest thing of all.                The elevators were gone.                Like they had never been there in the first place. The doors were gone. As she stood there in her faded jeans and old t shirt staring at the spot where the elevators had been just 15 minutes before, a woman opened the door to her right. Again, she was in 1800’s period dress.                “Young man, what are you doing lingering in the hallway? What is your business?” she asked.                “Young man? I am a woman and I was looking for the elevators. Did I pass them?” Rebecca asked turning around, looking at all the doors she had past.                “I have never seen a young lady dressed as a farm boy in all my days. What is an elevator?” asked the lady, a very confused look on her face.                “Ummmm, I … never mind, I will just take the stairs,” Rebecca turned away and headed back down the hall. “A farm boy?" Seemed like these actors were taking the acting thing a little far.

But where in the world did the elevators go? I had just used them. Am I going crazy?

She made a note to mention this to Ms. Georgia when she met up with her in the garden. She headed down the stairs and to the back door of the building. She walked out into the warm sunshine. The garden looked the way it had on the day of her tour of the building, just a few more blooming flowers. She took a moment to breath in the scents deeply. Then she headed to the back of the garden.                There she found Ms. Georgia, but she was dressed in pettycoats instead of the jeans that she had seen her in earlier.                “Wow, I love your dress, Ms. Georgia. When did you change?” asked Rebecca as she approached.                When the lady in front of her turned around, it wasn’t Ms. Georgia. Or at least not the same age as she was when Rebecca had left her. This woman was much younger with blonde curly hair.                “I am sorry, dear. I fear you confuse me with another. My name is Margaret. What is your name, dear sir?” the lady asked as she looked Rebecca up and down.                “My name is Rebecca,” Rebecca answered, confused. “Can I ask you a strange question?”                “Rebecca is a very strange name for a young man. What is your question dear?”                “I am not a young man. I am a woman. What year is this?” Rebecca asked, looking around.                “The year is 1835, dear. If you are a woman, why do dress as a farm boy? Are you hiding from someone?” Margaret asked.

               “No, ma’am. But when I went in the building just now, it was 2021. I started seeing people wearing the same style clothes as you are. When I came out of my room the elevators were gone and now you are telling me that it is 1835?” Rebecca asked, shocked.                “What are talking about? Are you okay, dear? Are you ill?” Margaret stepped forward and placed a hand on Rebecca’s forehead.                “No, ma’am. I feel fine. Just a little overwhelmed and extremely confused,” Rebecca said.                “Come, dear. Let us go inside and get some tea. Then maybe we can talk this thru and see if we cannot figure out what has happened here,” Margaret said, putting her hand on Rebecca’s arm and motioned with her other hand towards the building.                “You know this building is over a year old and you are the fourth person who has said that they were from a different time. It really is odd,” Margaret said as in a way to make conversation.                “This has happened before?” Rebecca asked, stunned.                “Oh, yes. Just about every three months. It is nice to know this place is going to be around for a couple of hundred years. Tell me, does the outside still look the same as it does now as it does in the future?” Margaret asked, hopefully.                Rebecca glanced up at the building as they entered the back door. “Yes, it does. I think the only think that really changed was the city surrounding the building. It was destroyed by a fire in 1902. I think this building is the only one that escaped the blaze with no damage to it. I did a history report for school about a it few years ago.”                “Oh, what’s the city like now?” Margaret asked, excitedly.                “It’s huge now. With tall buildings everywhere. In fact, this is now the shortest building left in the city limits. Ms. Georgia keeps it running very smoothly, but I fear for the future of the building when she passes. She has no children to pass it down to. I would hate to see this beautiful place destroyed. Ms. Georgia is the landlady,” Rebecca said.                “Georgia is my middle name,” Margaret said, matter of factly.                “I wonder if you are related,” Rebecca responded.                “I think that we might be because each one of the people who have appeared here have confused me for her. So, we must be similar in appearance in a big way.”                “Did the other people ever make it back to our time?” Rebecca asked as she realized how scared she was by the thought of never getting back to her own time and seeing her parents again.                “Yes, they did. They were normally gone back within the hour. It is the strangest thing. They would go back up to their room and then they would be gone,” Margaret said.                “Room? They all had the same room?” Rebecca asked.                “Yes, they did. Room 213 as a matter of fact,” Margaret answered.                “That’s my room!” Rebecca exclaimed. “I wonder what would cause anyone that stays in that room to travel back in time like this.”                “Well, the first young lady that I met from your time said that there had been an awfully bad thunderstorm that day and that the building had been struck by lightning. And that when she came out of her room, she was here in 1835. Was there a bad thunderstorm in your time today?”                “No, but there was one a couple of days ago. But I was still in the process of moving.”                “Strange.”                “Ms. Margret, do you think that I could go into my room. To see if I can get back. I just need to know that I can. I don’t want my mom to worry about me anymore than she already does,” Rebecca asked, shyly.                “Of course, honey. Come on and follow me. I have a tenant in that room who was here for our last visitor, I am sure that she would be okay with you going in there.” Margaret headed down the hall to the stairs, “Has anyone from the past ever come to the future that you would happen to know of?”                “No, ma’am. Not that I am aware of but this was only my second day in the apartment. But I plan on being there for a while, so I will keep my eyes open. Maybe I will get to come back and visit in three months,” Rebecca replied.                “Oh, that would be nice. To have a repeat visitor. So far, they have all been different people. Well, here we are.” Margaret said as she knocked on the door. Rebecca could not help but gasp when she saw who opened the door.                Ms. Georgia just smiled and waved her on in. “Come on Ms. Rebecca. Your mother is quite worried that she has not been able to reach you in so long. She just called the landline looking for you.”                “Ms. Georgia? You knew?” asked Rebecca, as she stepped into the apartment.                “Dear girl, not much goes on in this old place that I don’t know about. This included. I was the very first one it happened to,” she said giggling, turning back to Margaret she said, “See you again in three months.”                “Until then,” Margaret said, bowing her head slightly.                The door closed. Rebecca looked around the room. It was her apartment. All her stuff was there. Her phone was even still on the counter where she had left it, vibrating as her mother called her again.                “Hey, mom,” Rebecca answered. “Sorry I was in the shower,” she lied, knowing very well that her mother would never believe what had just happened.                “Oh, thank heavens. I was so worried when our call dropped earlier. I thought you were hurt,” her mother said, relief in her voice.                “No, ma’am. I am fine. Ms. Georgia let me know that you had been trying to get a hold of me just now. Can I call you back when I finish drying my hair?” Rebecca asked.                “Of course, Dear,” her mother said. “I love you.”                “Love you too, mom.” Rebecca said. As she hung up the phone, she turned to face Ms. Georgia, but before she could say anything Ms. Georgia put her hand up.                “There will be plenty of time to talk about what just happened, but for now, lets go finish your spot in the garden. You know since you are going to be staying with us for a while,” Ms. Georgia said with a little twinkle in her eye.


The sounds of clanking filled the room when they dragged in the prisoner. Almost like bells , Anahera thought. What was that saying? “Every time a bell rings, an angel grows its wings,” she muttered. She leaned forward in the front row and the wooden bench creaked, a whisper against the grumbling chains. “What?” asked her sister, Charmeine, sitting beside her with her arms folded. Anahera shook her head. “Nothing.” Charmeine reached over and gripped Anahera’s hand. Two guards clutched the prisoner’s arms as they walked him down the courtroom. They wore cloaks as dark as night, a sharp contrast to the man in white between them. Chains wrapped around his every limb like iron pythons, snaking even around his neck. The shackles clattered against the floor as the guards shoved the man forward. Almost like bells . Across from the judge’s bench sat a high-backed chair covered in red satin. The guards walked the man past Anahera and her heart thudded. She could smell the sweat of the prisoner. She stared at him, willing him to look around. There was beauty beneath those chains. Strong arms. Bright eyes that did not meet hers. Anahera watched as the guards forced him into the high-backed chair. She swallowed hard and ignored the whispers of her brothers and sisters in the benches around her. “Peace, Ana,” said Charmeine. Her sister squeezed Anahera’s arm and gave her a warning look. Anahera nodded curtly before turning back to the prisoner. “All rise,” said another guard by the door to the courtroom, where the guards had just dragged the prisoner. Anahera stood, shaking, refusing to tear her gaze away from the shackled man.

The doors thudded open and a man in white cloak, not unlike the prisoner’s, marched into the courtroom. He walked down the center aisle, his nose held high, and stepped around the high-backed chair without taking a glance at its occupant. He took a seat behind the judge’s bench and cleared his throat before finally looking down at the prisoner. “One month of testimony, of evidence, of law, for a moment of justice.” The judge’s eyes flashed. “Michael, please,” whispered the man. His quiet voice echoed around the room.

“Gabriel,” said the judge, Michael. “We do not interfere with the humans. We watch, and we learn, but we do not interfere. And you have interfered in the most...lawless...way imaginable. You have saved .” Anahera felt her heart drop and her vision blurred red. An innocent life! she screamed in her head. W hat are we, if not protectors of the innocent? What are we, if not protectors of life? “She was just a young girl,” whispered the prisoner.

“Young girl, old man, goose, bear--when our Creator decides it is their time, we do not interfere!” said Michael in a low, creaking voice. Anahera shivered. “Please, Michael,” pleaded Gabriel. “Brother. Please!” Michael cleared his throat. “I, First in Command to our Creator Almighty, Leader of the Winged Ones, Lord of the High Court, do hereby sentence the archangel Gabriel… to the flames of Hell, for eternity.” “ No !” Anahera rose to her feet and lunged toward her lover. He craned his head around and met her eyes, finally, before shaking his head. “Stay back, Ana!” he said fiercely. “Stay back!” Charmeine grabbed her cloak and pulled, hard. Anahera sank into her arms. “Peace, sister,” whispered Charmeine. “Peace.” Gabriel looked toward Michael. “Please, Brother, Lord Michael! Please! Anything is better than the flames of Hell, anything , please--” “Enough!” roared Michael, standing. “Away with you!” As the guards took Gabriel away, Anahera’s sobs echoed through the halls of Heaven. *** Anahera shivered as she walked past the empty cells. Her breath clung to the air and she could hear a faint dripping somewhere close. “Here,” the guard said gruffly, stopping in front of a cell. “You have five minutes.” “Thank you, brother,” she breathed, touching the guard’s arm. She could see the blush even in the dark, and he cleared his throat before unlocking the cell door. “Not too long, sister,” he murmured before glancing around and walking to the end of the hallway. “Ana,” said a quiet voice near the back of the cell. Anahera rushed forward and sank to her knees, wrapping her arms around Gabriel. He didn’t wear as many chains as he had that morning, though a few still wrapped around his ankles. Blood dripped from a gash on his cheek and soot covered his face. She tucked her head into his shoulder and sniffed. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” “I should’ve--I should’ve told you to leave her alone, to let her die….” “Ana.” He pulled back and looked her in the eye. “What are we, if not the protectors of the innocent?” A warmth filled her as Anahera gazed at her lover, and she put her hands on his shoulders. “We are nothing.” He nodded. “A little girl, running in front of a truck… how could I not step in?” She sighed. “You are too good, Gabriel. Too good.” “A too-good angel. I never thought I’d hear that.” He gave her a weak half smile, and she caressed his cheek. “It’s not fair,” she whispered. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his cheek, right above the gash. “The fires of Hell…” “The fires of Hell. Anything...anything would be better than this.” He looked at her pointedly. “If...if you are prepared.” Ana straightened and widened her eyes. “Anything?”

He would know what she truly meant. Are you sure? He nodded, and closed his eyes. Anahera took a deep breath, and pulled a dagger from inside her coat. With a cry and a mighty slash, she severed Gabriel’s wings from his body. He yelled out and slumped into her arms. “Thank you,” he whispered. There was a flash of light, and he was gone. Anahera stared at the blood on her hands as the guard’s footsteps thudded toward her. The blood was dark--a cherry red that reminded her of kisses with Gabriel in the moonlight, back before the humans. “Anything,” she whispered.


The snow was the type you weren’t supposed to drive in, period. Especially not during the heaviest part of the storm, when white fluff was dumping at an astonishing rate. Meg was at the wheel, navigating in her minivan, which was the absolute worst type of vehicle to be in at this point. I listened to her chatter, looked over my shoulder at Beth, wondering why neither of my cousins seemed to be frightened beyond belief like I was. I was half-wishing I had gone with my father instead, safe inside his four-wheel drive SUV, confident in his winter-driving skills. But. Meg, Beth and I were cousins, all the same age and raised together, born in a decidedly fertile year for our family. As adults, my cousins and I saw each other rarely—the occasional death seemed to be it. So I wanted every single second with them, even at the risk of crashing on a snowy back road. We were on our way to the memorial service for our great-aunt, Libby. The title always seemed too long, so she was just Libby to us. Although she had died almost a year ago, the memorial had been postponed to allow southern family members time to coordinate travel plans. I’m not sure why we picked the dead of winter, but here everyone was, driving one behind the other on back roads while wet snow stuck, a chain-reaction pileup just waiting to happen. “Remember the elephants?” Beth said, and it had been anyone’s guess who would bring that up first. The elephants and Libby went hand in hand, a simultaneous thought, one that couldn’t be born without the other coming into play. Of course, we remembered the elephants. In attempt to keep my mind off the sliding van and Meg’s complete obliviousness to the treacherous roads, I elected myself to be the one to retell it. It was Christmas 1988 or some such year. We were all gathered at my grandparents’ home, a place that seemed to have been the setting for Normal Rockwell’s inspiration. Little had changed since the 1960s, not in décor or progressiveness. It was as though time stood still at its most idyllic point. With the exception of the semi-new television and the rabbit eared Casio radio in the kitchen, everything else was a relic of the past. The mustard yellow corded phone, the sunken living room with brown patterned wallpaper. The camaraderie between my father and his family, me and my cousins, and Libby. Libby was as eccentric as one could possibly be. Even as an adult—when I understood that her job as a museum curator indicated intellectuality, and her work as a Red Cross nurse during wartime indicated versatility, and her knowledge of countless subjects indicated that she was educated—even then, eccentricity was her stand-out quality. On Christmas Day, she dressed in billowing satin clothing, rainbows of bright colors, gifts from her friend Amari in Africa, she told us. It was her standard holiday wear. She always wore Birkenstocks, long before they were trendy, and long after they were trendy. She kept her hair short, her lips hot-pink, and her fingers adorned in turquoise and silver jewelry. A mashup, she was. Her home, a brownstone in New York City that she owned outright, was filled with objects that didn’t go together. It was a mashup just like Libby. Full of oriental rugs, first edition poetry books displayed on floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves, ancient pottery with tiny chips inlaid with gold. Paintings worth more money than I can imagine and an abundance of plants suspended in macrame hangers. Her financial independence was a nod to a state of being that was yet to become vogue: a successful, single woman. No husband necessary. As kids, we all sort of knew Libby was well-off and that’s where the elephants come in. Perhaps the most eccentric thing about Libby was her style of gift giving. Single, childless, and rich—she should have been the relative who indulged us with expensive gifts. Cash in envelopes, hard to score Cabbage Patch Dolls, or the brand-new, much coveted Nintendo system that was all the rage. Libby’s gifts, however, ran a different gamut. One Christmas, it was eagle feathers for all of us! She had spent the year collecting them on walks and hikes in upstate New York, and she was just over the moon that she had enough to present one to each of us. Something to tie us all together, she said. We spent the day playing Davy Crockett and tickling each other under the chin, but it was a strange gift to eight year old girls. Another year, she donated an extraordinary amount of money to MOMA, dividing the total by however many of us there were and giving us each a handwritten certificate stating that a donation had been made in our name. Gifts like this were usually accompanied by something small, a token to offset the disappointment in our little faces, I suppose. Her go-to was a coupon for a free Frosty from Wendy’s. One year, my dad decided to best her. On a summer visit, she commented on the loveliness of our rose gardens, and demanded to know what kind of witchery my father was using to produce such succulent blooms, such deep color. He explained that the cow farm next door allowed him to fertilize his roses directly from their manure pile. Libby was beyond excited about this, imagining what cow poop could do for her little terrace garden. But there was no time that day for my father to take her on a field trip next door. “I’ll wrap it up for Christmas,” my dad joked. And when that Christmas came, he wore a grin on his face that stretched from ear to ear as she opened the box and the read the note he’d attached to the bag. Ten pounds of cow manure, all hers. Quadruple bagged, though if you leaned into the box, you could still catch a faint whiff. Which of course we did, over and over. “Yes!” she cried out, punching her fists in the air like a small child. She was beyond tickled that my father would go to the trouble to bag up manure for her, let alone present it as a Christmas gift. Meg, Beth and I rolled our eyes and plugged our noses. That year, we learned, Libby was just as weird of a gift recipient as she was giver. Anyhow. The elephants. The kicker was the year that she’d spent months abroad in Africa with Amari, who we secretly gossiped was her lesbian lover, after overhearing the adults whisper their own suspicions. They were doing some type of missionary work with poverty-stricken children that seemed unreal to us cousins, living our spoiled, sheltered lives. While there, she’d become invested in the preservation of African elephants. Their herd numbers were declining, poaching was a problem, and help was needed to protect them. Libby couldn’t save the children and the elephants with her own two hands. So she fed malnourished toddlers rice on spoons (so I imagined) and bankrolled the elephants Through some program or other, she adopted three elephants. One for each of us—Meg, Beth, and me. Each year, she told us, she would continue to donate money towards the efforts to preserve the herds near the area that she and Amari had spent months living in bush-like conditions. In our names, of course. As we each opened our card, reading the handwritten notes to ourselves, I think we all felt a collective sense of disappointment. The three of us were nearly teenagers, so we smiled politely and said thank you. In her excitement about the three elephants, Libby had forgotten to include our standard Frosty coupon. “She was so excited about those elephants,” Meg laughed. We listed the other various gifts: wooden African beads, sent to her by Amari one year. Season passes to the Bronx Zoo (that one was actually pretty cool.) Original hardback copies of Nancy Drew mystery books, long after they were age-appropriate for us. Eventually, after she entered Sunset Retirement Community and later, a nursing home, the gifts became recycled Christmas cards. Slipped inside would be a five dollar bill and a note encouraging us to spend it on something special , whatever special thing five dollars could possibly buy. The Frosty coupon seemed to go the way of our childhood and the elephants...in the past and forgotten about. “You know, I missed getting those damn Frosty coupons,” Beth said. I looked back and smiled at her appreciatively. I knew exactly what she meant. “Did you ever look up the elephants?” Meg asked, as she slid her van into the parking lot and I breathed a sigh of relief. Ironically, as Meg turned the van off, the snow stopped and the clouds began to reveal patches of blue behind them. “No," I said. "Why, did you?" “I did,” Meg said. “Did you know they’re still alive? Well, mine is anyhow. There’s a website. I’ll send you the link later. We'd better hurry.” We hopped out of the van, following Meg and the throng that was trickling into the building, the rec center of Sunset Retirement Community, where Libby had spent a large portion of her retirement years. I couldn’t seem to get Meg's words out of my head. How many years ago had the elephants been? Had Libby’s money directly kept those three bad boys alive all this time? I had never, not once, thought to ask about or investigate saving African elephants. I glanced back at Beth, who seemed to read my mind. She was teary-eyed. “Our elephants are alive! That just makes me…” She couldn’t find the word. “I know,” I said. Inside, we found ourselves surrounded by family. Not just our immediate family, but the extended family. Libby’s other nieces and nephews, second cousins we knew in name only, their children our age but complete strangers. Everyone smiled tentatively at one another. But there were more people than could possibly have fit on our family tree. I elbowed my dad. “Who are all these people?” He smiled. “Her friends.” The memorial got underway quickly. One of Libby’s nephews thanked everyone for braving the snow, and explained that this was a day for us to remember Libby. No agenda, just an open forum in which anyone who wanted to speak about Libby was free to do so. I looked around the room. I was in disbelief at the amassed crowd. My dad had said they were her friends, but these were people of all ages—some younger than I, some wrinkled and elderly in wheelchairs pushed by aides. There were quite a few people in scrubs. I expected that my dad would be the one to stand first and speak, but I was wrong. As I turned forward again, I realized a line was forming at the lectern. My dad was maybe tenth or eleventh. I nudged Meg and Beth, each on one side of me. “I don’t think we’ll have to speak,” Meg whispered, as awestruck as I was at the crowd and the line. "Just look!" The first person at the microphone was an attractive man wearing scrubs. He introduced himself as Daniel, one of the nursing home employees. He was perhaps thirty, and I was shocked to see tears openly run down his face as he described what a joy, what an absolute light Libby had been in his life. He was unabashedly emotional as he spoke. At the end, he pulled something out of his pocket. “She gave me this a few weeks before she passed. Just a polished rock from a souvenir shop, she told me, but it was still special.” He held his palm out, just enough that we could see the shiny jade-colored rock he cradled. He chuckled and then spoke again. “She gave it to me because, she said, ‘it’s pretty and so are you’.” Daniel laughed and along with him, so did all of us. The next person at the microphone was one of my dad’s cousins, who spoke of summers spent with Libby in New York City when he was a troubled kid, an attempt by his parents to set him straight. “There I was, fourteen and trying to score drugs and Libby thought the antidote was to take me to the museums and teach me about the Renaissance.” He shook his head, the second grown man in ten minutes to choke up. “Well, she was right,” he said, quickly stepping down, his emotions all too much for the moment. I looked back and forth between Meg and Beth. We were all crying. Beth passed us a little packet of tissues. Next, the head of Sunset. She spoke eloquently about Libby’s presence in the community. She talked about the monetary contributions Libby made each Christmas to the food pantry that the retirement community was involved with. She talked about how, on Christmas Eve, Libby snuck around like Santa Claus and left little coupons on each resident’s door. “You know,” the woman said, “Those ones you get at fast food places? For free fries or a Frosty?” Now Meg was laughing and crying at once. I reached out and clasped her hand in mine. There was no way I was going to be able to talk, nor were she and Beth. But this? Listening? Was a tonic for grief. Was a balm on the empty space left in each of our worlds. It felt like Libby was right there with us. Probably watching all of us with her hands clasped together, her mouth open in sheer delight. My father’s words of his Aunt Libby began with a story from childhood, when Libby was the only adult who went sledding with them, no matter how wet and cold it was. Who taught them how to lay low and gain speed on their wooden sleds with metal runners. Who was there at every Christmas, with her silly and weird and wonderful gifts in hand. “I guess we all know what Libby’s gifts were like,” my father acknowledged, and the crowd collectively laughed. He wiped his own tears—my father!—and shook his head. “How lucky was I,” he said, “that she was my very own aunt.” On and on it went. The friends from the retirement community—too many to count. Employees of Sunset. Neighbors from the New York City days. The final woman to speak was Lucy, the daughter of Libby’s cleaning lady in New York City, who was the recipient of her numerous fur coats when Libby finally sold the brownstone to move to Sunset. “My mother and my sisters and I had so little, we really struggled. Libby always wildly over tipped my mom, and then, when she left, we had the fur coats!” Lucy said. "She had no way of knowing, or maybe she did, that my mother didn't have enough money for winter coats that year." It was not lost on me that while I, a privileged child in suburban America, received only coupons and feathers, this young lady's family was the one to get the fur coats. Their worth was accentuated in warmth over monetary value. In fact, it seemed, for all the money she had, she only invested in things that really needed it. Supporting the arts. Food pantries and hungry children. Elephants in danger. After Lucy stepped down, Libby’s nephew instructed us to move to the next room, where there were light refreshments for us all. We began to shuffle out, the hum of the crowd rising, tears dissipating and replaced by laughter. In the room next door, in a large, glass-paned stand-up freezer, a man reached in and out offering everyone one of the dozens of child-sized Frosties from Wendy’s. Ice cream in a snowstorm in the rec center of a retirement village, a hundred people gathered together for Libby. It was perfect. People began to mingle outside of their collective circles. I wanted to talk to Lucy, to tell her I remembered meeting her once, when I was visiting Libby, and Lucy's mother brought her along to clean. I wanted to see if she could recall playing with me on Libby’s terrace, pretending we were in a jungle amongst all the growing plants. As I looked for her, I saw that others seemed to be doing the same. My dad was shaking hands with the head of the retirement community. Daniel and Meg were laughing over the stone, which Daniel was showing her. Meg, no doubt, would tell him about the elephants. Old people, young people, relatives, friends, employees—every single one of us, connected only by Libby. Each of us at one time or another a recipient of a gift from Libby—more than once, if we were lucky, like my dad said. As I watched the connections being made and ate my Frosty, I realized this was the gift--this was the ultimate gift. I could not imagine anything that would have delighted Libby as much—not saving the elephants, not cow poop, not eagle feathers or shiny stones or collectible books. This. The people of her life together, right here. The culmination of her existence in terms of love. This, along with Frosties, was her final gift to us. And what a gift it was. Tossing my paper cup, I reached into my purse as I scanned the room. I felt my fingers touch the African beads I had long since taken to carrying, letting them serve as a worry stones. I rubbed them while searching the crowd for Lucy. I wondered if she had worn one of Libby's furs today. I hoped she had.


August The foyer of St. Mary’s orphanage smells likes lye soap and freshly baked bread. “Professor Gray, bless you for coming.” The click of heels echoes through the hallway before I see her face—stoic and smooth, much like her black, unwrinkled dress. “Are you Sister Marie?” “Yes, that’s me.” She smiles and extends her hand. “I came as soon as I received your letter.” “And I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you’ve agreed to take this on, Professor.” She exhales in a huff. “Your letter—I read it three times as I could hardly believe the details.” I lower my voice, lest little ears lurk nearby. “How has the boy been adjusting?” “Well, Professor, it has not been easy.” She matches my volume. “He possesses a very turbulent nature.” “And has he spoken? Anything at all?” “Nothing intelligible, sir. We’ve tried putting him in classes with the youngest children, but we are simply understaffed and not trained to meet his… unique set of needs.” Her eyes grow misty. “So, you can see why you are a godsend.” “Well, I’m not sure about that. I’ve only heard tales of situations like this, and I must confess, perhaps it is my professional curiosity more than my charitability that has urged me to take the boy on.” “I applaud your honesty, sir, but I am certain if anyone can help the boy, it’s you.” She places a hand on my elbow and begins down the main hall. “I will show you to your classroom then.” The building is dimly lit, and the floors creak as we walk, like nervous squeals imitating the anticipation I feel within. “Sister Marie,” I rush to keep up with her long stride. “You said the hunters who found the boy brought him back to the nearest villages, but tell me, have all attempts been made to locate his family? Is no one looking for a missing child?” She shakes her head. “If anyone had been looking for a lost child, it appears they gave up many years ago, as we believe he must have been missing for quite some time.” She continues down the hall, speaking in hushed tones. “No one from the village knew anything about him—though some did try to care for him—at first.” We walk by a classroom full of children silently scratching pencils to paper. Every head turns as we pass. Sister Marie lowers her voice to a whisper. “There was a kind family who took him in—farmers who thought he might take to the work—but the boy was too wild, too unpredictable. He attacked them in the middle of the night and one of their daughters nearly lost an eye.” “Good heavens.”  “After that, none of the villagers wanted anything to do with him.” A round-faced woman greets us in the hall and Sister Marie stops her. “Sister Margaret, will you please prepare Matthan for his lesson with Professor Gray? In the blue classroom.” “Yes, Sister,” and she walks away. “Matthan?” I ask. “It means “ hope, ” as we are hopeful that he will learn our ways and thrive here.” “That’s good of you, Sister Marie. But I am curious, how did the boy end up here then?” “Oh, it was quite providential.” She smiles over her shoulder. “Apparently, the hunters spoke of him all through town when they had gone to trade, and one of our benefactors was there on business. He heard the story—heard about the disaster with the farmers—and said he’d take the boy back with him and establish him here at St. Mary’s.” “Incredible.” She takes us deeper through the building, pointing out the dining hall and the kitchen, then steps inside a cramped staff room. She eases herself into a chair and gestures for me to sit in the one across from her. “Professor, we are grateful the boy has been rescued and brought into our care,” she steeples her fingers, “but he must learn to assimilate—to learn basic communication skills and exhibit civilized behavior—or our directors have informed us that he will not be allowed to remain here.” “What would happen to him then?” She looks at her hands. “He would be taken to an asylum—a fate I do not wish upon any of our children.” “No, of course not. I can’t imagine how isolated the boy—Matthan—must be feeling. To communicate is human, and to be—how old did you say he was?” “We believe he’s between 8-10 years old, but it’s… difficult to say.” “Interesting…it’s been theorized that a first language is impossible to acquire beyond the early developmental years, but perhaps, with rigorous training and extended exposure to—” “You’ll have until the new year, Professor Gray.” “What? But that’s hardly six months!” “I’m sorry sir.” She chews her lip. “I know that’s not what you wanted to hear, but this wasn’t up to me. If you can prove by the end of the year that Matthan is at least capable of learning, then we will reevaluate his position at St. Mary’s.” “Well.” I catch myself rubbing my mustache—a mindless habit. “So be it. I guess theories exist to be tested.” I clap my knees. “Then we shall have to get to work.” She smiles. “This is why I wrote to you , as I could think of no one better qualified to help him than an expert in linguistics and communication.” She rises from the chair. “Come. I’ll show you to your classroom.” We walk down the hall and stop at the last door. “Oh, I nearly forgot.” She reaches into a pocket, pulls out a silver hand bell, and folds it into my hand. The metal is cool and serious against my skin. Her hazel eyes meet mine. “If there’s any trouble, just ring this and one of the sisters or I will come to you.” I stare at the bell in my hands until Sister Marie touches my arm. “Don’t worry Professor, everything will be fine; the tonic keeps him somewhat tranquil, just be sure to give him a wide berth.” She opens the door to a sparsely furnished classroom with peeling blue paint on the walls. “Matthan, this is Professor Gilbert Gray. He’s come to talk to you.” In the corner, a dark-haired child sits hunched over with his head crooked to one side, chewing at his fingernails. I clear my throat, nod my thanks to Sister Marie, and step inside. When the door clicks shut behind me, the boy whips his head around and stares at me with a set of wild, frantic eyes. “Hello.” I say, offering a slight wave. “It’s nice to meet you, Matthan.” The boy backs away, growling, and I can see a row of yellowed, jagged teeth in his mouth. And then he barks. September “Let’s go over these again, Matthan. One at a time.” Late morning sun trickles through the room’s single window, and dust dances in its rays. The boy stares, his shoulders hunching inward as I continue. “Say it with me, A, as in apple .” I hold up a card with a bright red apple drawn on it. Silence. “That’s alright. Let’s try the next one. B, as in boy . Like you—boy.” A gurgling sound claws its way out of Matthan’s throat—a sound that resembles nothing like “b”. “Alright. What about this one: C, as in cat .” The card shows an orange striped tabby with a long tail. Matthan shifts in his seat and growls, drool sliding down one corner of his mouth. “ C , C. Just try.” But Matthan only grows more agitated and begins rocking back and forth. “It’s alright. We’ll move on.” The next card displays a large capital D drawn above a picture of a scruffy gray dog. “Can you say, D ? As in dog ?” Matthan leans toward the card, a strange whine working at the back of his throat. He raises one hand and scratches the dog’s face with a dirty, curling fingernail. He begins to scrape and claw at the card, then throws his head back and howls—a mournful, disturbing wail. “Matthan! It’s alright!” He jumps down from the seat and tears at his rumpled shirt. A button breaks away from the fabric and clatters against the floor. “It’s okay, we’ll stop!” Matthan thrashes and scratches his own face. I reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder, desperate to calm his hysterics, but when I do, the boy snarls and lunges at me, sinking sharp teeth into my ink-stained fingers. Drops of blood dribble down his lip and along my hand. My screams must have alerted the sisters, for as I fumble for the silver bell in my coat, round-faced Sister Margaret appears in the doorway with brown bottle and a spoon. “Help me hold his arms, Professor.” She speaks in a calm, monotone voice, belying no sense of unease at the boy’s outburst. I do as instructed, looking away as she wrestles the concoction down his throat. When the boy finally calms, I hear the breathlessness in my voice when I speak. “I need a moment.” I race from the building and onto the front steps. Noise from the bustling streets seems muffled and faraway as I fumble for my pipe and tin. I light the tobacco and watch as it glows. Inhale. Exhale. How could so much ferocity, so much savagery be trapped inside such a small child? October The room holds a chill that seems to wrap itself around my vocal cords. “Repeat after me, Matthan. A .” His lips part ever so slightly. “Yeee.” “No,” I shake my head and lean closer. “ Aaay .” “Yuuuuh.” “Open your mouth wider.” I make a motion with my fingers like a flower opening. “ Aayy . Now you try.” “Eeeyuh.” “You’re getting closer. Let’s move on. B .” Matthan grunts. “ B . B . Look, Matthan, see my lips.” I point to my mouth and smack my lips together. He touches his own lips. “Yes, those are your lips . Can you bring them together like this? Now say bee .” He leans in. “Buuu.” “Yes! That’s it! You’re getting it!” We move through the alphabet, with Matthan showing decreasing aptitude and attention as we progress, and I start to wonder if any success we’ve had has been coincidental. Matthan struggles at the letter “J,” and grows frustrated. He leaps down from his chair and retreats to a corner. I rest my head in my hands and try not to think about how fast the end of the year is approaching. Someone raps on the door. One of the sisters pokes her head in. “It’s time for the children to go outdoors now, Professor.” Then she directs her voice to the corner. “Matthan, we’re going outside.” The boy turns his head at the word and begins to half run, half crawl to the door. The woman holds a pair of shoes out to him, but he refuses them. “Professor, you’re welcome to join us.” I stretch my sore muscles and rise from the desk. “I think it would be good to observe Matthan beyond the classroom.” We step through a backdoor and into the play yard where Matthan immediately shuffles over to a patch of grass and crouches, watching the children play. A few girls jump rope on one side, a group of boys huddles along the fence, likely plotting a coup against the sisters, and others gather around the swings. I make my way near Matthan. “Why don’t you play with the others? Look, they have a ball over there.” He doesn’t follow my finger when I point or acknowledge my presence at all, but neither does he flinch or run away. Soon, a sister returns to collect the children, but Matthan pays her no mind. She tries to guide him back inside, but he bares his teeth and rages at the woman. “It’s okay. I’ll stay out here with him for a few more minutes—if that’s alright.” She nods and leaves us alone. I lower myself to the ground beside Matthan and pull my pipe from my jacket. “You’ve got the whole place to yourself now.” Matthan says nothing, but watches me as I light the pipe and pull air through its slender tip. His eyes follow the wisps of smoke rising into the sky. “This is a pipe. Pipe .” He crawls closer and plucks the whole thing from my mouth. “Hey now!” He puts the narrow end in his own mouth, breathes in, then sputters and coughs, smoke spewing from his lips. I reach for the pipe, but he backs away, taking another pull before I can snatch it away from him. I can’t help but laugh. “Now don’t you tell the sisters you had a smoke. They’ll have a holy fit.” Smoke rises from the endless chimneys jutting all around us, billowing into one all-encompassing cloud of smog above the city. I picture families tucked inside their homes, gathered around the fireplace telling stories—communicating as easily as breathing. We sit in silence a while longer, then Matthan turns to me, his head cocked to one side. “Sssmoke.” November “Moon. Can you say moon?” Matthan sits at the desk with his legs pulled to his chest, bare toes splayed across the wooden seat. He never wears shoes. He stares at the card, then rasps out the word. “ Mooon .” “Yes! Wonderful, Matthan! What about this one? Can you say sun ?” I wait, my pocket watch ticking in the silence. “Sssun,” he finally utters. We move through the stack of cards, eventually coming to images of animals, which always pique Matthan’s interest. “I think you know this one. Come on.” His mouth works. “Berr. Berr.” “Yes, you’re almost there.” “Berrrduh.” “Yes! Bird ! Very good, Matthan!” I feel myself smiling. “Alright, what about this one?” I hold up an image of a green snake coiled in a pile. Matthan growls, baring his teeth at the card. “It’s alright, Matthan. It’s only a picture. It can’t hurt you.” He jumps down from his chair, keeping his distance from the card, and begins to pace around the room. “Please, talk to me, Matthan. What’s wrong?” But he moves to the corner and turns his back to me, shutting me out of his world. I stack the cards in a neat pile and let the hour run out in silence. December I have never been to an orphanage Christmas party before. The festivities are humble, but the spirit is wonderfully infectious. Someone has wheeled the piano into the dining hall, and a sister plays Christmas hymns. Children sing and spin about the rooms, laughing and wiping remnants of figgy pudding from their mouths.

Sister Marie walks around with a heaping basket of parcels wrapped in brown paper and distributes one to each child. She lingers at my table where Matthan sits beside me, licking the crumbs off his plate. “I see someone enjoyed his meal.” She raises an eyebrow. I can feel him stiffen when she leans in, see him recoil when she extends a package to him. “Matthan, it’s alright.” I offer. “It’s a gift—for you.” He accepts the package, sniffs it, then rips the paper away and removes a blue knitted scarf. I help him drape it loosely over his shoulders. “There Matthan, you look very nice.” He returns to the food on his plate, and I leave him to it. “Sister Marie,” I rise and follow her as she continues dispersing gifts. “I wanted to ask, well, if it’s been decided whether or not to extend my training with Matthan.” I lower my voice. “If he is staying, that is.” She pauses, resting the basket on her hip. “I cannot say, as I truly do not know what will be decided. But I’ve certainly seen much improvement in the boy.” “As have I. I am hopeful that, with just a bit more time, he will begin to—” My words die under the ear-piercing rattle of a child’s shriek. I instinctually turn to the table where Matthan had been sitting, and my heart sinks when I see he isn’t there. Sister Marie abandons the basket, and we both race toward the sound. A small girl, maybe three or four, runs between the tables, clutching Matthan’s blue scarf in her hands. He bounds behind her in a crouching shuffle—growling. “Matthan! Stop!” Panic rises in my voice. The girl dashes under a table, between the stocking clad legs of other orphans, and Matthan pursues her, toppling chairs and children to squeeze himself into the space with her. Her screams turn my blood to ice. “Move everyone! Out of the way!” Two women rush to one side of the table, Sister Marie and I to the other. We fling chairs aside and I crawl under to see a tangle of limbs and hair and clothes as Matthan pins the girl underneath him. I grab him by the ankles and rip him away from her, my stomach heaving at the trail of blood his body smears along the floor. Someone behind me wails. Children whimper. Sister Marie clamps a hand over her mouth. The girl remains still, unmoving in a heap under the table, a row of jagged teeth marks in her neck. “Matthan.” I whisper. “What have you done.” *** I pack up my books and cards and stacks of notes and click my case shut. Sister Marie meets me in the foyer. “Professor Gray, I—” “I thank you for this opportunity, Sister Marie.” I reach for her hand and fold the silver bell into her palm. “I can assert with some confidence now that if language is not acquired in one’s developmental years, it is too late.” I pull my pipe from my jacket and step through the open door. “Matthan never had a chance.”


It’s time to visit my father again. I hate going there, hate visiting him when he’s no longer the man who raised me. The care home is only a fifteen-minute drive, but I avoid that route even when I need to go shopping. My mother phones me twice a day, always to check on how my father is, but never to check on me. I understand why. It’s hard for her, difficult to accept that her husband can’t remember the woman he married. I pull up into the car park, turn off the engine, and stare at the wheel for a good five minutes. The care home workers are probably suspicious of me. I’m sat in my metallic blue Kia Sorento, which is massive, and dwarves all the Minis parked beside me. I tap the wheel one last time, take a deep breath, grab my bag, and leave. After making it all the way here, I know I should go inside and visit my dad. The care home seems like a nice enough place. I’ve only visited once before, but I’m still shocked by how warm the yellow of the wallpaper is, and how gentle the staff are. Today, there’s a lady only slightly older than me, grabbing my arm and chattering away without a care in the world. I don’t listen as she speaks, instead staring at her blonde curly hair. It’s greying on top, and I can’t help but wonder when all my hair will disappear. I still have a few strands, but they’re precarious, and I’m sure I’m going to wake up one day without a single hair left. I had jet black hair when I was younger, but by the time I hit twenty-four, it had started to recede. My father had told me there were new surgeries to help if I didn’t want to be bald by the time I was twenty-six, but I’d refused. We’d never really gotten on, and visiting him in his old age was my apology. “Mr Hawkins, if you’d like to follow me, your father can see you now,” the nurse said. Her tone was jolly, sweet, and almost too fake in an environment like this. I didn’t understand how she could keep up the chirpy act. Despite the pleasant atmosphere, I just felt like I wanted to run and hide and never return. Still, I nodded at her. She led me into a comfortable-looking room. There were several armchairs scattered around the room, all different colours, with two cushions on each. In the centre was a massive rectangular table, with see-through boxes underneath. In the boxes I could see board games and dominos and packs of cards. It felt as if I was visiting a friend, rather than a man virtually on his deathbed. My father was on one of the comfortable-looking chairs. His round glasses sat perched on his nose, and his eyebrows were raised as he scanned a newspaper. He was muttering something to a poor social worker, who wore a strained smile as the staff lady and I approached. As I neared, I could hear him muttering about the lack of sports news, and tried to refrain from rolling my eyes. That was my father, alright. The social worker glanced up in relief as we approached, and then said goodbye to my dad, who coughed in response. I patted my bag in my hand as I waited for him to address me. I’d learnt not to address him first the last time I’d visited. My dad’s memory was fragile at the best of times, and a shock wasn’t needed for his system. The staff member waited with me until my dad closed the newspaper and then she addressed him with a smile. “Hi, Martin. You’ve got a visitor. It’s your son, Jeremy. He’s come to visit you, isn’t that nice?” she asked. Her voice was a bit patronising for my liking, but my dad didn’t seem to care. He was too busy looking me up and down. “Son?” he said, and I felt a weird sense of pride. The last time I’d visited my father had just stared at me, unseeing, as if I didn’t exist. It was the weirdest sensation. I think he’d thought I was there to give him his dinner because he kept glancing at the clock and then rubbing his stomach. Never one for words, my father. “Yes, dad, it’s me,” I said. The staff member had left, and it was just me and him. “How are you doing? Are they taking care of you? Giving you all your medication?” “I’m fine, as I always am,” my father said gruffly. “There’s nothing wrong with me.” That was my father all over too. Never admitting he had a problem, always in the right. It had always bothered me when I was young, but I’d never said anything to him about it. He wouldn’t have listened to me, anyway. At least now he had an actual excuse. “What were you reading?” I asked, trying to keep up the conversation. I’d never been good at small talk. “What?” he snapped. “In the newspaper, just now,” I said. “What were you reading? Any good news?” “I… I don’t remember,” my father said, and I frowned. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to forget everything a minute after I’d done it. “Was I reading a newspaper?” “Yes, you were reading one when I came over,” I told him. I wanted to help, to help him remember such a mundane thing. “Don’t you remember?” “No, no,” my father shook his head, and then stared at me again. I went cold as he looked me up and down, a bemused frown on his face. “I’m sorry, son, who are you?” It felt like ten buckets of cold water had poured over my body in a second. I felt tears welling up in my eyes, but didn’t dare shed one. If I showed any weakness, my father would take advantage of that, and refuse to listen to me. Still, it hurt to not be recognised by someone I’d known for so long, someone who’d raised me. “It’s me, dad,” I said. My voice was thick, and I felt any second like I would burst into tears. “Your son, Jeremy. I’m here, like you wanted.” “I don’t have a son,” my father said. I knew he didn’t mean it, that his memory was fading, that he was regressing back to his past, but it still stung. I wiped my eyes on my shirt sleeve, and blinked a few times, forcing back the tears. “You must have me confused with someone else.” “No, dad,” I said, shaking my head. “I know you. I know that your favourite meal is a steak and ale pie with boiled potatoes and mushy peas. That your favourite song is ‘Under the Boardwalk’ by the Drifters. That your favourite pudding was mum’s blueberry pie. It’s me, dad. I promise. I’m your son.” “Blueberry pie?” my father questioned, scratching his chin. “That sounds good. With a nice dollop of cream. Now I’m hungry.” “I don’t have any pie,” I told him, opening the bag I’d been clutching since I’d entered. “But mum told me to bring some of her cookies along. Ginger snap ones. She said they were your favourite.” “Ginger snap cookies?” my father asked, staring at my bag as I unloaded the box they were sitting in. “I love ginger snap cookies.” “Yes, I know,” I said, releasing the lid, and handing him the box. My father leant forward and took an intense sniff, a smile gracing his face as he took in the scent. I could smell them too, a combination of ginger and nutmeg and cinnamon. They smelled heavenly. My father picked one up and took a bite, letting out a pleased sigh as he ate. I smiled as he picked up another. He held it to his eye and then glanced at me. “These are just like Velma’s,” he said, smiling. I jolted. My father had not mentioned my mother once since he’d been in here. I’d heard many a time from my teary mother that he had failed to recognise her when she came to visit him too. But he’d said her name. Just then. I’d heard it loud and clear from where I stood next to him. The cookies had helped him remember her. I knew I had to tell her straight away, but I wanted to see if my father remembered any more. “Velma?” I questioned. My father looked up at me, gulped down the rest of his ginger snap cookie, and smiled. “Yes. Velma. My wife. I’ve been married to her for years. I proposed to her just after she made us a batch of these cookies, you know.” “Oh?” I said, eager for him to continue. I hadn’t heard the proposal story in years, especially not from my father, and I could feel pride bubbling within me. “How did you propose?” “Well, I got back from working down the mine,” he said, snapping the cookie in his hand and offering me some. I took one. “I was sweaty and disgusting and covered in coal, but Velma didn’t care. She just took my hand, led me into the kitchen, and sat me down to a nice bowl of beef stew. We had these ginger snap cookies for dessert. We ate them in silence, but we were so content. It was then that I knew I had to marry her. So, I put the radio on and asked her to dance with me. Elvis was singing ‘Always On My Mind’, and I was dipping her. She was wearing her nicest dress, blue with flowers, and I was so in love. After the song finished, I kissed her, and asked if she would marry me.” “And?” “And she said yes,” my father continued, voice loud and proud. “It was the best day of my life.” “She sounds like a wonderful woman,” I said, pleased that my dad had remembered something. In all the times of visiting, he’d said nothing about his past. Not to me, or to my mother, or anyone else. Today had been a breakthrough. “She is,” my father said, nodding. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s lunchtime.” “Okay,” I said, nodding to one of the social workers to signal I was leaving. “I’ll visit you soon. You can keep the biscuits.” “Thank you,” my father said, and I smiled at him. It was the first time he’d ever thanked me for something, and he didn’t even know who I was. “No problem, dad,” I whispered as I left. I made my way back to my car and let the tears fall. He’d remembered my mother, and I was so happy about it. My mother had been so upset ever since we’d sent my father to that care home, but now there was a chance he’d recognise her when she visited. I had to let her know the good news at once. With a smile, I picked up my phone.


That’s the thing about this city. It’s so loud and it never seemed to sleep, yet at dawn, it shows its mellow side. The streets are still almost empty, the train platform desolate. The first train of the day crawled towards me like a giant yellow caterpillar. Sleepy-eyed, I pulled my luggage and entered the wagon, inhabited by few sleeping passengers. I sat on that long, empty bench beside a luggage area. The train's announcement was played, mentioning the next station followed by the Arabic and English versions of the phrase,

Doors Closing. I looked out of the window as the train ran on the elevated viaduct, passing by the Sheik Zayed Road skyscrapers, buildings that looked like tall mirrors.

Next Station, Dubai Mall. Doors Closing. A few passengers hopped in the wagon on Business Bay station, and then we headed to the next - Dubai Mall. I was mesmerized once more with the world's tallest building and biggest mall backdropped with the lavender sky, standing on land that once was pure tangerine sand. I've watched the construction of these magnificent structures, like watching a kid grow up, from a tiny thing that crawls and holds on to your knees to an independent stranger. In time, I felt like I've watched a time-lapse of the city's progress, just like how you watch kids grow up. They become bigger and bigger, and they outgrow you, kids, and cities alike. Next Station, Karama. Doors Closing. We passed six other stations and reached Karama, a place as old as time, a hotpot of culture, a house like that of your grandma's, where you will meet all first, second, and third cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews, and nieces, unbeknownst to you. Some buildings in that area were almost crumbling, waiting for the demolition team to take it to its final rest. Karama was always noisy during rush hour, and at night, the aroma of different spices lingered on the street as small cafes open up for ex-pats craving comfort food. This place is where I first tasted the sweet and savory Nasi Goreng and the homemade Momos. I've also tasted the spiciest Indian curry there that I vowed never to eat again after all the spasms I experienced after that meal. Next Station, Burjuman. Doors Closing. Burjuman station was next. My beloved old town Burdubai where I found my first family in this sleepless, lonely place. I earned peanuts that time and could only afford five-Dirham shawarma for dinner - that cheap meat on a slow-turning vertical rotisserie. That's where I found the first guy who broke my heart as I sat in a small café drinking a fresh mango juice after downing one greasy shawarma. He offered me networking products, and I gave him my heart. I was young and was swayed easily by his sweet nature. He told stories. I believed. He made me laugh. I fell in love. On a 50-degrees Celsius summer afternoon, he took me to the historical

Bastakiya,

where they sold colorful Moroccan shoes, Turkish carpets, and Arabic souvenirs in tiny shops along a narrow, unpaved alley. From there, we took a ride on an

abra  to the other side of the creek, the traditional boat taken by either wide-eyed tourists or laborers who wanted to save money on fair and avoid traffic. We sat side by side with men on safety shoes who stank of sweat, cigarette, and dust. Pigeons flocked towards the other side of the creek. The stench of rotten fish and diesel filled the breeze. The boat engine filled my ears along with the lapping waves. I thought it was romantic until I found out, I wasn't the only one he took for an

abra

ride. I almost believed in destiny until the day I walked home with red-streaked eyes along Khalid Bin Al Walid Road, my shoulders hunched, almost wanting to replace the genie inside its magic lamp. Next Station, Al Rigga. Doors Closing. Ah, Al Rigga, my second home. The place taught me how to be tough and strong, where I met a guy who stole my heart before stealing my life. I lived on the 2nd floor of a five-story building. There were five flats per floor, and ours was at the farthest end of the dimly lit corridor. Its poor ventilation made me aware of all the neighbor's dinners every time I arrive from work. I would know which flat would have biryani or fried fish for the night. I went home one night and saw a guy standing beside the door of flat 203. He was playing with the smoke of his cigarette, puffing minuscule clouds into thin air. I didn't say anything, although I knew that smoking wasn't allowed in the building. I only minded my own business. Our eyes met. His was piercing; mine was intimidated. The next day he sat on the floor outside his door with a cigarette stuck between his lips while his hands were busy playing the solo of Sweet Child of Mine. I noticed the tribal tattoos on his arms and the black earring on his right ear. He didn't look at me that night; he was in a world of his own. He did that for days on until one night; he called my name. I was petrified. He handed me tickets to the bar where his band was playing. I watched his gig. It didn't take long until we became a couple. I adapted to his lifestyle and became that stage girlfriend who accompanied him on all his gigs. I lost some friends along the way. It didn't take long until I also lost my job because I couldn't keep up with my work after late nights on his gigs. He said,

'it's ok, you'll get a new job.'  But the job I did not get any time soon. I spent all my savings until my bank was empty. He started spending his own money too. At first, we were surviving. Later on, we both retreated into silence, leaving issues unspoken until they grew into a snowball and exploded big time. It took a little time to restart my life, but somehow I did. Next Station, Terminal 1. Doors Closing.

The train went above ground once again.

My first ever flight to Dubai landed in Terminal 1, where my life here all started. I was a wide-eyed nineteen-year-old, hoping for a job that can feed my family back home who told herself she'd be back home once she completes her two-year contract. But two-years turned into three, then into five, then before she knew it, it was already a decade. This terminal was my beginning, and the next will be the end. Next Station, Terminal 3. Doors Closing. As we approached Terminal 3, the city was already awake, and the sky tinged with amber. The train stopped; I pulled out my luggage and headed to the exit. I looked back at the train, and for the last time, I'd hear that recorded voice, 'Doors Closing.'

The train left, and as I looked back at the city where I came in, pulling a suitcase of dreams and what I would go with a luggage full of memories. I sat on the window seat, and as the plane took off, I looked at the iconic city built on scarlet sand, kissed by the deep blue sea.

For one last time, I bid this city goodbye, and with this, I close the door to this chapter of my life.


"He needs the new set of photos by midnight." It's not my problem. How did it get this way? He used to shoot photos for high school graduations and weddings. The porn business just paid really well. Too well. Too well to quit his job. He walked up the narrow staircase muttering to himself all the while, trying to compensate for his nerves he began humming a little tune. He was supposed to meet this woman at 2pm at her studio apartment to take some pictures, and she didn't come to the door. Someone let him in, and now he was walking up the stairs feeling like a criminal about to be caught for missing a deadline. A porn magazine deadline... There was a brief but very noise of breaking glass and then absolute silence. What the hell was that?! Room 202 That was the apartment he was supposed to be in. Jeremy edged closer when he was knocked on side of the head by the door and dropped the camera as the door swung wide open, he fell back wheezing, clutching his chest having a panic attack. Someone ran out the door entrance and down the stair. “They’re watching” "Its broken." “Be Ready” Jeremy looked down at his shoes. The photo shoot was a failure "It can never be fixed." I'll never be able to prove it. Ghost would not be pleased. Ghost was his manager. Ghost ran a porn magazine business that scored the income and he was past his deadline, and he was underperforming and now, he had a broken camera. Jeremy collected himself and peered inside the entrance. Bad idea said his brain, good idea said his legs. He was already inside seeing if there was anyone in there. There was no sign of life. Everything was a mess, and the place had been turned inside out. He was relieved to discover the source of the noise was the chaos of this destruction, and not someone being murdered or hurt and hopefully his model/now potential robbery victim was ok. He thought to call her or text, but the next idea came to him. “I’m in her apartment. I’m a potential suspect.” His legs began to take life of their own when he saw it. One just like he had in his youth. A film camera in the corner of the room. He decided that’s all he would take – justice for the thief who broke his—and he would hide it come down to any pending investigation, after all he witnessed the real thief and he wasn’t the one who ransacked the place. He took the camera, barely touching the thing as to preserve its identity until it was safely stowed away and hidden. When he got home, he realized the camera also contained an old used roll of film still intact. He could take the film roll without the camera to be developed without drawing any suspicion. The next day was Tuesday, Ghost was emailing, texting about the importance of regular photo-shoots and how he had missed quota for the month. On Thursday there was a call that his film roll had been developed and the pictures were ready to be picked up. He was too busy that day with three photo shoots and on Friday he went to the store to retrieve his pictures. Well, they weren’t really his. And that was the problem. They were glamorous. Haunting. Surreal. They were pornography meets romance, desire and beauty. A woman with shadowy eyes holding flowers in a seductive way during a light rain, with the background of the rainforest. A hippie tanning on a nude beach, three friends naked in a sunflower field dancing, A threesome in a tree house with blacklights painting each other’s bodies in neon glow in the dark finger paint. A woman in a bathtub where you see only the bottom half of her and not the top. A man and a woman in a hot spring who both of long hair and look gothic. A gothic chic with tons of piercings on a motorcycle in the desert smiling. A lady with deep maroon lipstick, eagle spread on a white feather bed, dangling a cherry over her breasts, kissing a diamond, fully nude mounting another woman loosely dressed in satin, draping a scarf across the room words could not describe or do these images justice for the beauty of these women, their curves and bodies. Four thick curvy women and one heavier man pillow fighting in a hotel room. Pornography as it should be fun seductive happy flirtatious. A woman sipping a martini on a beach somewhere in only her sandals wearing a pearl necklace. Another image shows a man fully nude, with a woman. The content was explicit yet exotic. Jeremy did exactly what he thought he could and wanted to do, he sent them off to Ghost. Ghost liked the content and approved and published them in a magazine. There was instant praise, and then Jeremy found himself getting a knock on the door by the FBI. He was now the centerpiece of a sex-trafficking porn smuggling criminal investigation. Since Ghost was Ghost, of course Jeremy’s name was on the copyright, also giving him sudden full right to the royalties of the magazine he bought and hiring a lawyer before it would be seized by the FBI. As for porn smuggling, “it’s the internet” so a few images got sold on the dark web, that’s not porn smuggling, that’s inability for someone to protect data. And immigration laws should be changed so that women don’t have to resort to porn to make a living, or to live a better life in another country. Since money talks and Jeremy’s fingerprints were only on the camera, unlinking him to the model- --Jeremy’s defense worked—and since his accusers used the photos copyright ownership in order to pin the crime on Jeremy, he was able have the camera and retain the magazine royalties since no one else claimed them. Jeremy won the case and is now a millionaire. Ghost lived happily ever after too as ghost, where he may be…. probably living it up in Tijuana. The End