The Tree                                                                                2647 words The wind raged through the winter-blackened branches of the great forest with the ferocity of the sea-wolves, from whose land it came. The oaks creaked and swayed with the blast, acknowledging the force, but holding fast against the attack - just as the humans, who lived on the forest fringes, held fast, trying to repel the warriors from over the water - warriors who came in dragon-ships to destroy, pillage, steal - and then retreat across the eastern sea. The humans loved the forest, it sustained them throughout the year with its bountiful provision: they revered its maternal presence; its wood for building homes and warming the hearth; its thickets and glades in which to hunt and forage; its summer shade and wild honey to collect from the split heart of the biggest tree; the medicinal plants and dyes for wool; and finally, as a place of autumn rooting - acorns and beech-mast for fattening the hogs before the Winter slaughter. Even during the long nights of the solstice on the the dark side of the year, they knew that life's wheel would turn to begin the cycle anew. The storm increased its force under slaten clouds, slashing the upper branches and sending ice-bound rain to soak the crevassed bark of the patriarch, the special one, the proudest, most ancient of the stand. The humans had garlanded it at the equinox, revered its presence, drew comfort from its enduring strength, but now, like a cold breath through the teeth of the edge of the world, the tempest stripped off the mistletoe and holly tributes - as if cursing feeble human endeavour. Lightning cut the darkness as the storm ripped off twigs and whole limbs, spitting ice and debris along the forest floor. Small animals within the colossus, whimpered, trembled and huddled together. For centuries the sacred oak had provided, sheltered, shaded, nurtured, fruited, but finally, aged and weakened, it shuddered and split with a sickening crack before the power of the storm. The heartwood, fresh and vital even now, splintered as the mighty trunk fell onto a carpet of its own progeny, biting into the fecund, acorn-rich litter of the earth and causing the whole forest to shake. Calmness settled over the trees; chill water dripped, but the greatest one of all lay shattered. The spared ones sighed, bereft, as their branches swayed into stillness. A red squirrel scampered off, seeking refuge and a startled fox slunk away to find a new territory to claim. Task accomplished, the wind abated, leaving those that remained to mourn. Winter sunlight, wan, but penetrating, touched the forest floor for the first time in centuries, allowing a new story to begin. * As the days lengthen into Spring a jostling crowd of pink-tipped shoots pierce the earth, tiny frilled leaves seek the sun; slender roots reach for moisture, grappling for a foothold in this new arena of opportunity, this new fight for existence. But, even in death, the fallen tree, and its heap of amputated limbs, continues to shelter the red deer and their young; the fawns nibbling all but the hardiest of the seedlings which are now competing for prominence in the clearing. Through the heat of the Summer, worms, ants, beetles and a myriad forms of life colonise the tree's entrails, thriving, multiplying, seething, but slowly, inevitably, hastening its decomposition. When the year's cycle again reaches the time of harvest, the humans create a new sacred grove, and spill the sacrificial bull's blood beneath a different tree, hoping to assert the old regime. But times are changing: the forest people are moving westward and the sea-wolves come upriver, abandon their dragon-boats and stay, to cut and carve the oaks to decorate their long-houses, and to coppice the under-growing hazels and willows for wattle and fencing. The strongest of the oak's saplings, the one growing closest to the fallen trunk, where it is protected from the searching lips of the fawns and the squashing weight of the adult deer, continues upwards straight and vital. Life in the greenwood goes on: birds find nesting places; men hunt; pigs root; women collect herbs and berries whilst their children gather moss and bracken for the home. Monks from the new priory, their dark homespun robes tied up with twine to avoid the briers, pick galls to stew for ink. Charcoal burners arrive clearing the undergrowth around their encampments, coppicing alder and maple and collecting young oak branches to set up their smouldering heaps. Lumbering ox-carts gouge tracks along the forest floor, and, at the edge of the trees beside the new houses, bird-song is silenced by rhythmic raspings from a saw pit. To the newcomers, who pass along the widening track, the mouldering remains of the sacred oak are barely discernible from the rest of the undergrowth, but are a Garden of Eden for tiny creatures: voles; rabbits; hedgehogs and mice. The funereal humped mounds of moss, almost hidden amongst towering bracken and advancing brambles, cloak a fodder of decayed wood, a russet compost nurturing all manner of growing things - and one silver barked little oak tree showing its first immature acorns to the Autumn sun. The humans no longer throng the sacred grove at harvest time: different rituals are enacted amongst the cornstooks. But one year, the land is uneasy – new invaders threaten, this time from the South. The villagers come into the forest with a sense of panic, of fear, to hack at the stands of ash, choosing only the longest and straightest of the branches, searching out lengths of fallen oak with swollen, gnarled ends to carry off into battle. Then there is silence. A waiting time. A bated breath, as the forest regains its solitude and, even in the village, there is no sound. Badgers, deer, squirrels and small mammals continue their innocent existence and the little oak reaches ever upwards. At the dark time of year, when the nights are long and the sun so pale and low, that the light barely reaches the forest floor, bands of armed horsemen clatter along the cleared track, with a fierce urgency. Shouts come from the village, drifts of wood smoke, the acrid stench of burning thatch, of timbers - and of something else - hangs amongst the skeletal trees. The forest animals go to ground and the deer twitch nervously in the trampled bracken. When summer raspberries hang heavily in the dappled shade, the charcoal burners return. Lumbering ox-carts laden with earth and gravel - and later with white building stone - creak along the road towards the expanding settlement, hampering other travellers. Armed soldiers wearing acorn- shaped helmets with long nose coverings, gallop and shout, to clear the way. Many of the tallest oaks are felled and, once again, the saw pit emits its rasping snarl. New stands of evergreen-oak, elm and beech are planted to replace the increasing number of trees being felled, the wood is needed for houses and furniture, weapons and coffins, vehicles and ships. Coopers come to choose and cut the perfect timber for their barrel staves. The village grows, surrounds the white stone castle and extends eastwards, almost to the water meadows, where masons are lodged to work on the construction of a new abbey. Fewer and fewer people come to enact magical rituals in forest and field. Beltane fires are rare, but now a bell is rung, at the beginning and end of the working day, in the tower of the squat little church, where the people go to receive solace and fear, in equal measure. The peaceful rhythm of the year is no more - unrest is rife and there is clamour in the market place - no invasion this time - but a call to travel, to fight in a distant, heathen land. By the abbey gates, cloth tokens are handed out to be sewn to clothing. Serfs are pressed and freemen are mustered, their hymns echoing around the vault of the forest, as they depart in a fervent throng. Our little tree, heir to the fallen veteran, flourishes, now providing a home to a colony of bees, who prosper in a fungus-eaten cavity where a young branch was pulled off by a foraging stag, years earlier. Strong and sturdy, it is still too small to be worth the labour of felling for timber, too insignificant to be noticed by the increasing number of soldiers and hunters, carters of grain and wool, or carriages and processions passing between the trees. But, even with its lower branches trimmed by nibbling deer, its foliage-roofed cave is well able to shelter outlaws or fugitives who seek sanctuary in the greenwood, easing their starvation with the bounty of the bees, whilst starlings and jays shriek in the upper canopy. Years later, the tattered remnants of the hymn-singing company straggle home to pick up the pieces of the life they left, to find solace in home and hearth - but not for long. Soon, when the crop of acorns hangs heavily on our little tree and the town is eerily silent, the monks and the women steal through the forest to collect willow bark, wild garlic and black nightshade. A family comes to take shelter under the oak, willing to risk the threat from prowling wolves, content to sleep in the open, to breathe the clean air away from the pestilence. A large pit is dug outside the town walls, and carts creak out by night to unload unknown lumpen cargo. Later, the pit is closed, filled in, but the forest remains unvisited. No garlands hang in the sacred grove: these are turbulent times. One summer, troops of men with longbows of yew, unstrung against the rain, march off at the start of more than a century of war and conflict. The rhythm of life is disrupted, fancy cavalcades no longer venture through, but a ragged crowd of shouting peasants, clutching farm tools for weapons, marches to the town to ransack and destroy the castle and the grand buildings. Summer breeze lifts charred fragments to drift on the air and settle on the pristine foliage and on the abandoned hovels at the forest edge. The people return, but not so many, some to scavenge, some to hide, and some, once again, to cut trees for building. The forest track is busier and the sound of galloping hooves is commonplace. There are smaller deer now, fallow and roe - hunting parties come and set up pavilions, and then the greenwood rings to the sound of horns and clamour. Eventually an area is cleared some way to the west of the place where the great giant fell five hundred years earlier. A hunting lodge is built, using oak spars in decorative angular patterns in the walls. Some days, cavalcades of opulently dressed riders make the ground vibrate under the hooves of their brightly caparisoned horses. Very few ordinary people come here these days, and then only under cover of darkness, for the penalties for trying to feed a starving family are brutal. The new enclosures make life more and more difficult for those who seek the traditional maternal bounty of the forest, but Nature is resilient: the deer multiply and, when all is calm, will gather beneath the spreading branches of the adolescent oak which is slowly becoming the new colossus. One year there are no horns or galloping hooves. Ordered work-gangs with carts, axes and saws, set about felling the oaks – but not for houses. Over the next century, thousands of trees are cut and hauled across country to the shipyards. New trees are planted and harvested in turn to fulfill the burgeoning need for ships. The heart of oak of one flagship alone consumes six thousand trees on forty acres of ground, but, for some reason, our new giant is spared - perhaps its serpentine branches are the wrong shape? - and it is left to tower incongruously above the new plantations. The saplings thrive but the tallest tree takes the brunt of the winds from the East and its heavy crown groans in the winter storms. In Spring each year, tiny red flower buds, yellow catkins, and startlingly bright, lime-green, leaves adorn the dark twigs, but when the wind is in the West, the air is not so pure. The settlements beside the little streams on the slopes of the western hills, are creeping, merging, expanding: water-powered workshops and coal-burning, satanic, furnaces, belch soot, which blows eastwards, darkening and choking the tender foliage. The spreading city, which was once a town, which was once a village and once a hamlet, now blankets much of what is left of the forest. Suddenly, one year, sirens wail, and concrete shelters are built and painted green to ape the canopy of leaves. The deer are gone from the woods. Searchlights take their place and rake the dark sky when droning engines are heard overhead and the city is alight with leaping flames. But, in a twinkling of an eye, the buildings and lights disappear. Peace returns and the great tree is revered once more. A fence is erected around it and the ancient limbs are supported by chains, for fear of collapse. In summer, tourists and picnickers arrive. They park their cars on a gritty patch where the voles, rabbits, badgers and foxes used to live amongst the greenery. The visitors read the notice, which bears a nosegay of the tree's own distinctive leaves, and seem content to admire what is left of the majestic wild wood as they try to stop their children ignoring the fence and climbing too far up into the gnarled branches, where the bees still hover. The track which once saw the passage of bare feet, of hooves, of wooden wheels and marching boots is no more; in its stead are four lanes of black tarmac edged by shining metal barriers and unhappy grey bushes. The constant roar of vehicles passing along it ensures that silence has disappeared from the greenwood - perhaps for ever? The forest has shrunk. The winter storms arrive with increased vigour, unpredictable violence and inflict greater punishment. The winds howl with primeval energy to attack the pollution-blackened limbs of the major oak causing it to bend before the blast. The storm renews its force under slaten clouds, slashing the upper branches and sending ice-bound rain of unprecedented, biblical, intensity to soak the crevassed bark. Like a revengeful breath through the gritted teeth of the injured world, the tempest rages – as if to curse invasive human endeavour, interference and self interest. Lightning cuts the darkness as the wind rips off, first twigs, then whole limbs, spitting ice and debris along the old forest floor. For almost a millennium the oak has provided, sheltered, nurtured, fruited, but finally, isolated, aged and weakened, it gives a last shudder and splits with a sickening crack before the power of the storm. The heartwood, fresh and vital even now, splinters as the great timbers fall onto the carpet of its own shattered self, biting into the fecund, acorn-rich litter of the earth and causing the land, again, to tremble. * In the days that follow, humans, holding clip-boards, and wearing plastic helmets, yellow jackets and rubber boots, pick their way around the sad debris, the broken remains of the old tree. They climb over the corpse, heedlessly, unseeingly, trampling on the delicate, hexagonally-patterned, fragments of the bees' nest. They take photos. Shout into phones. One of them kicks a fallen limb of the ancient one and turns to his colleague: “No problem now then with Conservation Issues - or planning gripes. I'm sure we'll get the go-ahead ASAP.” He grins. “Then we can clear the lot.” The other man looks around at the destruction, slips his phone into his pocket. “ Yeah. Best result we could hope for really.”


Strings of ants crawled on the walls of my seventh-grade French classroom, really a trailer. Our middle school, like most in Georgia, had little money and too many kids. When the classrooms run out of space, they put up trailers. A cluster of them parked outside the gym. It was freezing in the wintertime, scorching in the spring, with bees and hornets visiting class daily, as if we were pioneer children educated on the Western frontier. The French teacher hated children. You could see this wasn’t what she wanted in life. She snuck cigarettes between classes and ended up married to the P.E. coach.

But I loved French class because Johnny Ramsey was there. He didn’t do anything. He sat hunched, pencil in his mouth, eyes blank. I was in love. All class, I switched between my favorite channels, Johnny Ramsey, then the ants, watching each carefully, gathering every detail of his nose and his back, then when his head turned towards me, it was on to the ants. They had a tag team system. One ant finds something, then comes to another, touches antennae, that ant then relays the message to another. They seemed not individual souls but parts of a network, like neurons snapping electricity in a shapeless brain.

I hate killing ants. I hate killing anything, it feels like bad karma. And with ants, you have to destroy the whole system. Individual ants are replaceable. If you want them out, you have to be thorough.

I would order the ant spray online, but I worry about pressurized cans sitting in the heat. The package has so many chances to explode along the route. I would also let the ants live in my house. There’s space. But when I first moved out, my mother had this thin-lipped look, as if I were still a teenager with poor motor skills driving for the first time. She doesn’t consider me competent enough to live alone. The house is already a mess -- I imagine her visiting, frowning at the ant colonies sprawled in my kitchen. She wouldn’t even say anything. She wouldn’t be surprised.

I used to love grocery shopping. Before the pandemic, I spent hours gliding through the aisles, stopping to look at a new cereal box design, the bug-eyed fish frozen on styrofoam trays. But now, shopping is a tense affair. The mask is on, the clock starts. It’s in and out as quick as possible, minimizing time spent sharing air with other people.

A new personal record, fifteen minutes. I wait in the checkout line, the can of ant spray shining in my cart. What a thing to buy, what a story it always carries.

The cashier’s mask covers the lower half of his face. He’s lucky, he’s got nice eyes, good hair, both now emphasized by a lack of other features. That blank stare, it reminds me of the fish still sitting on ice in the freezer section.

Ah, of course, that’s Johnny Ramsey who’s about to scan my groceries. I remember those eyes, that hair. I spent collective hours committing them to memory. He hasn’t changed in our years of separation. My turn comes and he’s grabbing the ant spray, scanning it, punching in codes for my artichokes. I’m thankful for my mask concealing a stupid little grin.

He doesn’t know who I am. He never did. He’s a hot boy, and that’s all he’s been. He’s never had to think about things, figure things out for himself. There’s nothing he and I could ever talk about.

Still, the silly, stupid animal I fight with for control over my body, the little ferret, the weasel, the pure mammal woven of milk and meat, she’s giddy about this. Only her and I know the significance of the cashier handing me my receipt. We giggle together beneath the mask as he tells us to have a good day.

What a thrill! I sit down in my car, peel off my mask, put my hands over my fluttering belly. I missed this. I missed the intrigues of normal life, the glances, the stares across rooms, simple words whose meaning you spend the rest of the day analyzing. It’s all delicious. It’s usually one-sided, just me finding pleasure in looking and wondering, and it’s ridiculous, the one part of me resisting evolution, set in her schoolgirl ways. But it’s a vital part too, one that needs activation if I am to be excited about life.

I’m home. I look at the ants crawl, door to kitchen. I hold their death in an aerosol can. It’s too much power to think about, and I decide to wait, to focus instead on this newly unearthed part of myself. How will she be fed now that her hunger is remembered?

There’s dating websites. They don’t do it for me. I like nuanced rom-coms, where you wonder will-they-won’t-they end up together, and dating websites

pull the tablecloth of suspense from beneath the silverware of conversation, like movies where they tell you the end right at the beginning. I hate being locked in, talking one-on-one when our phone algorithms match us. I much prefer to stare from afar, revelling in the magic of the present moment, of our proximity, drafting all the potential ends this situation has. Where’s the magic in being asked your favorite song for the twelfth time in a day by yet another poor guy just trying to make conversation, just trying to find common ground?

The French teacher didn’t even know our real names. She gave us French names to use in class. Mine was “Marion,” pronounced Mary- ohn , the last syllable spat like something vile. She sounded disgusted whenever she spoke to me, but maybe that’s just French. 12 year old me offended her sensibilities. I was messy, unkempt, my books fell on the floor with a loud thud every class. These American children, she probably thought. Disgusting. Dégoûtant. Women like her, like my mother, terrified me. I had to prove myself to them, over and over. I always failed.

I use “Marion,” not my real name on the dating website. If I must date digitally, I will still inject mystery, like Juliet wearing a mask the first time Romeo sees her. In five minutes of scrolling, I learn the pandemic has densely populated the dating websites. No one can go outside, but everyone wants love.

It’s embarrassing, being so reliant on computers. They’re electronic butlers we once used to fetch the slippers but now control us fully, holding our memories, our schedules, our work, our friendships in their wired fingers, personal assistants you can’t fire because you’ve forgotten how to function otherwise. And they’re matchmakers now too, processing our wet, slobbery human desires into code, linking through signals and electricity desperate hearts of blood and yearning.

That’s the thing, it’s hard to imagine the pixels on my screen as real people. There’s Mark, there’s Bradley, smiling faces holding beer cans and fish, profile after profile. They have flesh and dreams, desires, personal histories of blind, radiant joy and needle-pricking pain, but to me, they’re no more than flat, singular images, no more defined and alive than a magazine ad. And I’m the same to them. What does the computer know about human connection? What does it know about the delicacy, the fine spider’s web woven from words and glances when two people first meet? Johnny Ramsey’s profile comes up. In his pictures, he looks like every other boy, strong, smiling but not grinning, not too happy to be here. It takes long, but I swipe “no” on him. No need to drag old mud into my new house.

The computer hurts my eyes. I shut it off. I ought to clean said new house -- it’s horribly messy. But first a snack.

I make coffee and grab some chocolates. As the coffee brews, I remember French class again, one day when we had a substitute teacher. She was young, still excited to be with children. We made a collaged mural of a farm, labeling the animals, le cheval, la vache. We worked in groups, and I was paired with Johnny Ramsey.

For those forty-five minutes, I hated him. He was stupid and lazy. His tongue sat heavy in his mouth, his French pronunciations stretched and condensed like kneaded dough. I ended up doing the drawings and the labels for both of us.

The next day, our regular teacher returned. No more group work. Johnny Ramey sat silent and ublinking and I was once again in love with him.

My coffee is done, my hands are sticky with melted chocolate. I return to my bedroom. My mother never let me eat in my room -- she said I’d get ants. Now, I don’t eat in my room, and I still have ants. Might as well indulge now. I take my clothes off too, a living-single privilege I forget I have. My sheets are crumpled, my pillowcase needs washing. My chocolatey fingers leave a smudge on the mattress and as I sip coffee, a few drops scald my bare chest then leap to the blanket. It’s all disgusting.

I love it. I love this, I love me, my body, my every room, the ants in the kitchen, the bitter coffe-taste staining my teeth. It’s all an ugly truth, something perverse and revolting but it’s honest. If I cleaned, it wouldn’t be for myself -- it would be for an imaginary, invisible pair of judging eyes. There are no eyes here but my own, and they find no fault in chaos. Really, I don’t want any other eyes. Men who consider themselves romantics think their duty is orchestrating something grand, spectacular, flowers and grand pianos and diamonds-on-a-string. But what man could predict that I this is what I like, with my coffee lukewarm and my chocolate half-melted, my books to be in lopsided stacks around the bed, my jackets splayed just so over the cabinets and chairs? Only I make myself happy. I am in love with me for it. And the supposed objects of my affection, Johnny Ramsey and every other boy before and since, they are best treated as marble statues, silent, beautiful, untouchable. The second they open their mouths, fill that lovely, uncertain empty space between us with their hot breath, the love evaporates.

Once the coffee is warming my stomach, I go back to the kitchen. The horrible task must be done. I crouch, still naked, holding the spray can as far as I can from my bare body. The ants run panicked from the toxic droplets, acid rain coating their little insect lungs. I whisper I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It isn’t fair. This isn’t what I want. I finish spraying, toss the can. I really don’t know what I want. I’m standing wide-legged, hands grabbing the fat around my hips, and I don’t know what the next move is. Really, I wish someone would tell me. I wish there was someone else to move the air around, break the ever-solidifying stillness. I want no more coffee, no more chocolate. I don’t want to get dressed and I don’t want to clean. What else is there?

I sigh, go back to my room, open the laptop back up. More profiles have loaded, more smiling men. Maybe one of them will be understanding and bring me only lukewarm cups of coffee when we both awaken on my messy sheets each morning.


“Deadly Desserts” by Francesca Quarto The table was like a setting sun, floating inside the otherwise gloomy dining room. It was alight with candles; five burning in each candelabra; five gleaming silver holders running down the center of the long banquet table.  The dark wood of the table appeared lustrous under the gentle sway of the flames. Each place setting was laid with near geometric precision, not one spoon or knife breaking the perfect line and pattern. The fine china was a delicate cream, bordered in intricate golden vines. The heady fragrance of freshly cut roses wafted through the doorway where five people stood in a huddle, staring into the room. “Harrison, I don’t think we should just seat ourselves. Let’s wait until the butler returns from checking on the electric.” The lights in the imposing manor house had begun to flicker like fire flies before they all went out. The butler left the guests standing in a shadowy hallway outside the dining room, assuring them of his imminent return. Margery Gladstone was speaking softly to her husband, but there were murmurs of agreement among the other three. Harrison Gladstone thought about this, but after another minute of lurking outside the room, asked “Why not my dear? We are, after all Bradford’s guests, and he won’t want us standing about like a mob of sheep in his hallway.” There was a giggle from Mandy Clarkson, the young woman they met when they arrived. As they were handing coats and wraps to the servant in the brightly lit marble foyer, the chatty girl said she and her husband Bill were newlyweds and still unpacking boxes in a cottage they rented in the village.

“It was real nice of Mr. Bradford to invite us tonight.  Bill only just started in the tool shop at the factory, so we barely know a soul outside of the local pub and butcher!” She laughed as did her new spouse, looking at her affectionately.  Gladstone raised his eyebrows at the mention of Bill’s menial labor as a factory worker.

His factory to be precise! He grabbed Margery’s elbow and steered her into the dining room, sitting her next to him as he took the chair to the host’s right as was befitting his station in the community. He provided work for over seventy men and kept food on their tables. His factory produced fine farming equipment to all the surrounding regions, even shipped overseas to American agricultural suppliers. He was an important man, with important responsibilities.

The young couple sat across from Gladstone and his wife, leaving the fifth guest to take the chair next to Mindy. He had merely nodded his greetings to the rest of them when he first arrived and joined them in the foyer. Harrison wondered at his silence, but was never one to offer his hand to a man who hadn’t proved his credentials in a formal introduction. The silent guest smiled at Margery, ignoring Harrison, and turning toward Mindy and Bill spoke for the first time.

“Good evening. Doctor Malcom Mallory at your service,” he said bobbing his head slightly. The candlelight reflected off the bald circle at the crown of his head. Bill Clarkson reached across his wife awkwardly and offered his hand. Harrison Gladstone gritted his teeth at the cheek of the man! His harumph did not go unnoticed by Mallory who had a thin smile on his narrow face. “Exactly what kind of ‘doctor’ are you Mallory?” Gladstone gruffly asked. Margery sighed deeply, knowing her husband would be out for blood at the afront of being ignored by this Mallory person. “Why, I am a Doctor of Divinity sir.” “Humph. And what connection have you to our host?” he went on to ask, a sharp edge to his voice. “I am here to speak truth to lies, sir. As simple as that. But first, our diner seems ready to be served.” A servant carrying a silver tureen, appeared out of the shadows surrounding the diners. Another servant followed, placing a small soup bowl on each guest’s plate. The first servant approached the table, while the other carefully ladled a thin broth into each bowl. The guests were all silent during this process, only Bill and Mandy saying a cheerful “thank you much” to the servant. Margery could hear Harrison gritting his teeth at such inappropriate behavior. The Doctor watched the others from under his bushy brows, as they sipped at the odd tasting broth.  His own silver spoon merely moved around in the bowl creating tiny wavelets. Ten minutes went by and Mandy asked the table, “What did you think of that soup? Kind of plain, but very tasty I’d say.” Harrison could be heard groaning at yet another faux pas. “Where in damnation is our host?”  he growled. Margery’s hand was on his arm trying to calm the ire that rose along with a deeper flush on his florid face. “He’s likely fussing with the electric dear, trying to repair it so the lights come back on.” They all turned as yet another two servants appeared out of the shadowy hallway carrying platers of meats and side dishes. They set these down on the sideboard a began the slow process of serving the five watching guests. “Where is our host, Mr. Michael? We’ve been sitting here now for a good forty minutes in a half-darkened room and no sign of the man!” Gladstone’s voice was tinged with indignation as he stared daggers at the servant. He’d only accepted this invitation because this Michael character was a promising new customer, though he couldn’t recall who had passed that information along to his attention. But unless he showed himself, and soon, Gladstone would be out of there! “I can assure you your host will join you in time for dessert, sir,” the unruffled server answered. Before Gladstone could ask anything more, the servants both melted into the shadows. The two couples began to eat from their generously filled plates. The Doctor pushed his food around the plate, using his heavy knife to slice into the tender meats, but not eating. His odd behavior caught the attention of his young seat mates. Bill leaned down to see past his wife. “Don’t have an appetite Doctor Mallory? This here’s fine meat I can tell ya!” I prefer to save my appetites for dessert young man. But I am sure the fare is quite fine,” he smiled warmly into the young man’s honest eyes.

Margery was always a quiet woman, as her husband preferred, but she was drawn into the conversation between the Doctor and the young man, adding she loved her sweets as well. Her husband looked over at her saying, “And it shows my dear.” Her blush was so deep it glowed pink under the soft light of the candles. Mandy was immediately drawn away from enjoying her meal by the cruel comment lobbed at the older woman. “I think a real gentleman would never say such a thing to his missus!  You look fit and strong Mrs. Gladstone; both are gifts from the Lord.” Gladstone’s fork clattered on the bone china plate when he threw it down. “How dare you speak to me in such a manner? What would the likes of you know of gentleman, when you are not a lady in any sense of the word!” Before Bill could rush to defend his wife, a servant materialized from the gloom surrounding them like a dark mote.  “Your dessert is ready to be served ladies and gentleman.” A tall man, stepped from the dark hallway into the shallow light pulsing around the guests.  He was dressed in a silvery suit that fit snugly around his well-muscled body, looking like tightly woven armor in the soft glow of the candles.  His hair and coloring were so pale he could have been albino, except for his eyes, shinning like obsidian from a beautifully sculpted face. His voice was like a trumpet call in its clarity. “You have been expecting me for some time, but time is nothing put a weak reminder of our existence, wouldn’t you say Doctor Mallory?” “Indeed, sir. I am ready for whatever dessert you deem justified for me.” “What kind of babbling is this?” Gladstone spat out. Ignoring the outburst, their host turned to the young couple who’s hands were intertwined and their faces open and trusting. “You two have brought your light, even briefly, into this dark world. Your love will forever shine.” Grabbing at his wife’s arm, Gladstone was pulling Margery to her feet. “No Harrison!” she said firmly. “I will stay for dessert!” “Madame,” the host said. “Yours has been a life of long suffering with a brutish husband who never valued your kind heart and sure wisdom. Your desserts will be many.” Gladstone growled like a caged animal. “How dare you? Who are you to try to lord over me? I don’t need to be insulted at anyone’s table, no matter how finely it’s set! Margery, I’m leaving with or without you!” But when he tried to move, Harrison Gladstone found his legs were frozen in place and he couldn’t rise from the chair.

“It’s plain to see you have no idea where you are Mr. Gladstone. Perhaps it would be better if I showed you.” There was a sudden bolt of blinding light.  Gladstone felt like his eyes were seared in place and he fought desperately to blink them for relief.

“You will no longer be able to close your eyes to the truth,” the gleaming Archangel said to the petrified man. “The fire in your factory spread to many nearby cottages, and many died trying to save the workers, such as Bill.  You, Gladstone, lived a life of greed, envy, cruelty and lies and now you will be served your Just Desserts.” The candles were snuffed out, one after the other. With each darkened candelabra, one of the guests disappeared, leaving a small pool of light for the one remaining. The candles burned, but never melted. The flames were dancing for him alone and his loneliness became overwhelming.

“How long have I been here? Hours? Days? Years!” He began to howl into the darkness surrounding him, wishing to find eternal oblivion instead of and eternity of eating his banquet of thorny desserts.

                                      The End


Sun peeks longer this summer at San Diego- a suburb of Alhambra. It is exactly five in the afternoon, and the sun’s still grinning up high. What a perfect Sunday to go on multiple dates. This is evidently why eighteen-year-old Antoinet Garcia is racing for the train to arrive at Merlin tonight. Yes, Antoinet, without its t and e at the end, for completion purpose. The reason why she won’t marry until she changed her name to a more feminine, Toni. She demanded the world to call her only that. She wear pink blushes that run across her nose, and scarlet lips. She’s all set for love at Merlin. “You’re at it again?”-says from the other line. Toni stopped in front of a mini-shop. It goes by the name, J Surplus . She steps one feet closer. Then, leans her forehead on and through the glass, she could see random items. Tea sets, geisha dolls, and a wall clock far in one corner. “No, I’m at the grocer”, Toni says, eyeing on the clock. “Don’t give me that. So which one?”, says Margot. “No way, it’s four and nine..”, Toni mumbled as she stares at the hour and minute hands, urging her feet to go in. “What?” “No, go on, what do you mean?” “C’mon, you can’t fool me, I’ve been there” “Here? When?” “I mean, the lying part- wait, is it the one with that pointy, you know, a gentle face, who hides cigarette butts in his shirt pocket?” “He has a name, it’s Wayne. And yes, I know, there’s that but, he’s not entirely bad. He’s cute..”, Toni walks in slowly. Her eyes looked like it was mesmerized. Her periphery, it seemed to her it was slowing down, in motion. From Margot’s voice shifting to that of a giant-like sound, to the lips of the cashier forming an upward curve as she held out a receipt. “Okay, fine, but you only met him TWO days ago, Antoinet” uttered Margot, Antoinet meant to trigger her, “how can you be so carefree-” “Sorry, later”, Toni ended the call, but her phone is still glued to her ear. She glances over to her wrist, “it’s five, thirteen.” She then hold her head back at the clock. “That’s two hundred and fifty dollars” said the saleslady. “I- again?” ‘who the son of a horse spends 250 dollars on a crippled clock?! Well, I’m not that of a good judge of antique items either, but’, she thought. “Two fifty, no bargaining” “Uh I’m not in- um, well, about its hands..” “..does it always points at four forty-five?” At first, she thought that maybe this clock is a trend. Despite how it looked. And maybe most shops just had the same clock. But, if the hands stay at the same numbers, the story will be different. Today should be the third time she witnessed how the minute hand stopped moving at exactly forty-five. And how her eyes zoomed it in while her periphery moves slower. This made her felt like she wore the same clothes and that she went in the same shop, and had had the same conversation with Margot, in other day before today. “What d’ya mean? It’s passed five now babe” “I mean, I think it’s broke” “Broke?” the woman was skeptical yet rushes closer to check on it. “Nothin’ I sell here’s broke- good heavens, no!” cried the woman. “Wait, five?” she snapped then looks over her wrist, “God I’m late!” One more hour and twenty minutes before rush hour. And, people waiting by the shed could watch this unexpected entertainer from a mini-shop for lifetime. As if her life’s on the line, Toni strides fast despite the long slit skirt and four inches heels. She didn’t- she can’t care how hell her hair could transform nor the straps falling off from her shoulders. Nor the head-turner heavy clatter sound of her shoes. “Train.. must.. wait.. me” she uttered in between miserable breaths. Although, the last train will be at seven. Unfortunately, she is not allowed to stay out late at night. Toni wants to spend more time with her three-days lover. Not just two hours! That’s pure pain. After all, what can she do? The train had just run passed her, leaving her disheartened. She had no room now for excuses. If she had just leave one hour early or if she had not stopped by that shop. Toni only meant to make him wait for 20 minutes. And made him believe she’s less interested in him than he is to her. And taxi is expensive, she will be left penniless in front of him. She felt more weary thinking how’d he react. She stood by for more minutes in front of the tramway, grinning alone. She fell in love with his voice first, that day he spoke to her. It was deep and rough. And she remembers the faint smell of smoke and alcohol from his morning breath. She laughed how she find herself crazy before impish boys. And that she never had liked even one righteous guy. “Guess it’s not my day today” Her room is dimly lit as she wakes at 4 am, only to think nothing but sweets. The outside’s seemed cold that it pulls her from getting out of the bed. Yet, painfully, she should. Toni treads down the stairs, squinting her way towards the fridge. At long last, her lips form a grin seeing a bottle of cooled fresh milk and vanilla waffle biscuits. ‘Life is good’, she thinks, enjoying its sweet aroma after removing the lid. Recalling how her last Sunday went, she drank directly from the bottle and the liquid made quite a sound in its way down. If she had not ruined their date, she would have gone to an Italian cafe. And they would’ve been texting each other until midnight. Those thoughts crossed her mind many times, because Wayne had never reply since then. Almost a week now. And that she have been sulking herself in her own room. The milk was halfway now to nothing when she noticed flickering lights from the sala. Her face immediately went blank. “That explains the loudness.. at 4,” she says, her bubbly voice in complete monotone. Toni thought the noises were from the next door. And felt instant guilt from thinking they’re so restlessly- they’re weird. ‘Just recalled someone ready to renounce her children every single morning, because of the bill, then does the opposite’ Toni complains in her mind, “Lovely”. She sees her mom asleep over the couch. She ended warming her up with her sleeve pajama. “Well, ‘guess it can’t be helped when it gets hard to sleep” and grabs the remote. But it ended up rolling on the floor, together with the waffles. Her eyes are now locked in on the TV screen- I mean, her whole being. She, is seeing Wayne, all the over the news. “Wayne Perez admitted leading other three men to Anna Turner’s murder..” the news was going on. Toni had hoped it’s not him. But from the way his back curves as he walks, to how his hair bounce against his neck, to how he say “Genovese” as his reply to the police’s question: “where did you first brought Anna?.” Toni recognized it was the name of the famous Italian cafe from Merlin. She was about to shut off the TV when the screen showed her the picture of Anna Turner. Anna is only a minor, a high school girl with a cheery grin. “And then?” ask the police. “To motel”, uttered Wayne. “Then?” “To where you found her” Toni felt a flush fear as to how calm his voice was despite verbalizing the places they went to murder her. Yet became more skeptical later. Maybe he was forced or he was framed. You must’ve brought in the wrong guy! She slowly bend over the table and luckily, a phone appears in her palm. After a few taps, a rough voice from the other line utters, “what”. It’s Margot’s. “I’m.. I'mma go over”, declared Toni. “Why?” “You won’t believe this” “Seems so. It is.. four in the morning, Antoinet, four-”, “-toot” “What?- wait, no!” She need to be sure so she immediately browse his name. There were over a hundred articles in the results. She read many “rape”, “murder”, “sewerage” words as she scroll down. And as her breath became heavier. Wayne raped her with other three men then stabbed Anna's chest three times with a hotel knife. Later of Monday, at 6:13 am, Anna's body was found stuck in the sewerage after the townspeople nearby noticed the lump of waste.. “Wayne! why!” Toni cries. “Toni? Something wrong?” “Mom..” “What?” “Everything’s wrong!” “What are you moppin’ at early in the morning?” Toni immediately grabs her mom’s coat on the hatstand. “Oh and can you do the grocery today? We’re out of food- where are you going? the money-” “Mom, later” She almost laughed. Toni had a lot of first times today. That was a first that her mother had asked if something’s wrong, although it did not ended nice. This is the first time she had run without knowing where to go nor she can stop her tears. Her emotions are overflowing. When.. did it all start going wrong? Her mind flashes the glimpses of events that happened to her this year. A series of pictures that could answer her. And then her mind paused at one item. She knew she saw it not just once. That item she saw at the mall when she first dated Miggy. She remembered how devastating she felt after knowing Margot was pregnant with his baby. The next place was inside her school canteen when she had her first kiss with an employee that frequents the hamburger stool. And soon after their lips moved apart, she was cuffed by his wife. They were dating for over five months without knowing she’s became a mistress. The last one was just last week. At a mini-shop. When she was desperately catching for the train. She paused. Whenever she sees the clock stopping at four forty-five, that’s when the accidents happen. She runs again and this time, with a goal. Toni read again the name of the mini-shop while she was rolling her eyes. Then, went in with quite an entrance. “Good-” “Where is it?” “Oh, I know you” said the woman, scanning her face. “You mean the clock over there?” “Yes!” “Uh, it was sold?” “What? But it’s broken!” “Calm down dear” “Please, tell me, I need it! Please, put on the price, I don’t care. I will pay you. I just need to see it once” “Uh okay, okay dear. Wait here” During those few minutes, her feet just won’t stop stomping briskly against the floor. The people inside were disturbed by the sound that they throw evil stares at her before going out. “Here, here” She quickly opens the box, and she had never felt more tragic. “A..are you sure it’s this clock?” “Why? Is it not what you’re looking for dear? I ‘ly have one clock o’that shape and color. I felt relief just by looking at it so I hung it” It’s different. “This one’s working”, Toni said before she left the woman dumbfounded and rejoicing, at the same time. Walking on her way home, she was laughing. “Today is once again, another beautiful Sunday everyone..” The radio’s running on. And the prickly wind through the terrace spread out aromas of detergent. “What a sight! The world must be ending. No dates today?” “Go away sis” Toni calmly shoved her. She’s out in the terrace, hanging out clothes as it made the drip drop little sounds. And where the wind is a lot harsher. “Maybe, I’ll try good guys in my next birthday” But really, deep inside, she wanted to be a judge on her next birthday. A good judge of character. If only, she never reads them as superficial as one’s reflection in the water. Then, maybe she would not have memories of three worst betrayals. Nor a nightmare of mourning voices at her own burial. Nor the creeps from seeing the same item following her. If it wasn’t for it, she is living her best life right now. But at least, she has something to throw on the blames- a thing that remains unhurt no matter how. Little she know, the time had saved her countless times, at four forty-five.


"Today, we are planting in two rows along this stretch. There will be ten trees in each row. You two will be working on this side." The Corrections Officer points to the other side of the road as we shuffle into our high-vis jackets beside a pick-up truck full of sad trees. The Officer continues in her monotone, "The tools are in the truck, and I'll be with you shortly to give you a short demonstration."

Why does this Corrections lady presume that I wouldn't know how to plant a tree? Entitled prick! To be moderately fair to her, most people here look like they would have no idea, especially my partner. White shoes, cropped jeans, dark coat and slightly curled hair. Everything I have seen a million times before and everything that says, "I am too scared to make any decisions for myself, but I still wanna be classy." Well, Classy Clara, I don't know what you did to get you here, but time to get your hands dirty. I walked to the truck to pick up the tools and motioned her to bring a tree over to the first spot. I start digging, and Clara looks for the water hose after placing the tree next to me.

One thing I will give to Classy Clara, she knows how to get a job done. I was ready to lay into her bougie ways if she even as much winced at anything, but she seemed to be prepared and precise. I had purposefully been a bit sloppy while digging and made sure earth flew in the general direction of Miss Classy Cla- "It's Krissy, by the way", she interrupts, "what's your name?"

"Kristen, don't tell me Krissy is short for Kristen!" I hate seeing her triumphant smile. She thinks we have something in common now, doesn't she? Well, Missy Krissy, don't blame me for the lack of imagination on my parent's part. "Well, I go by Kris anyway", I said and started loosening some of the soil around the roots.

"Well, Kris", she says with barely concealed glee, "Do you want to take the odd numbers spots and I'll take the even, or would you rather work together? If we work together, I would appreciate it if you didn't test my patience. My shoes don't need mud on top as well as under them."

I hate her, I hate her so much! but that annoying normie has a point. It would be faster if we worked together, now that we both know the other won't shrug the labour off. "I'll dig; you prepare the trees", I say and move to the next spot. * Why am I always stuck with these artsy, narcissistic types? Even the way she sits is infuriating, manspreading in her torn jeans, unnatural hair and scuffed boots, judging me for not occupying enough space. She ensures we all know she is not listening to the corrections officer. She is visible and visibly bored as she doodles in the dirt with the heel of her shoes, her next 'masterpiece, perhaps.

But everything need not be a fucking masterpiece! Sometimes it is okay just to be alright. Things will not work if every cog hogs the attention. Some things need to work quietly and consistently. The world doesn't owe you its attention; your demands for it come across as petulance. I wish I could say any of these things to the jerks back at the office who hold up every document for not being "engaging and creative enough". Listen, I am sorry that the excellence of others or the want of courage from you has thwarted your literary ambitions. I am genuinely sorry that you now write technical documentation for a technology you barely understand, but none of this concerns me. No, I don't care that everyone misunderstands you. No, I don't want to listen to your 'real' work, and No, I will not be in awe of your 'talent'. All I see is a mediocre writer who has flawed self-awareness. While I don't have the impish desire to bring this to their attention, I also don't have the patience to put up with their borrowed opinions and bold jewellery. The clinking of some brings me back to the dirt patch next to the road, where she is busy shovelling dirt on my shoes. I can read it clearly in her; she thinks she is different with her hundred chains and artistically poor clothes. She has already cast me into the role of a prissy, tidy snob and feels a bit of mud will send me running. Well, darling, whatever floats your boat. I just need to finish my hours and move on with life. But what can I do about that ugly paint on my car? That's what brought me here, one giant flow of nauseous green paint dripping over the side of my defenceless car. I am sure the idiot who did it would call it "motor envy" or some such nonsense. The police later told me that this person had been targeting other cars over the last few weeks. Still, it came at the end of an unhinged day at the office, so I uncharacteristically kicked a nearby bike into the adjacent store window. That qualified me for a dozen apologies and two dozen hours of community service, the first few of which were spent in a silent struggle with Lady Karmilla Krampus before I asked her her name. After the initially satisfying shock, Good Ol' Kris finally seemed to realise that it would be best to work together and thankfully stayed quiet after.

* We are near the end of the row; just two more trees left. Krissy pats the earth around one while I get the last tree from the pick-up. The Officer nods to me. "You guys did quite well", she says. "Go to the office before you leave. They will give you the next assignments. You have sixty more hours, and she has twelve." I drag the tree back to where Krissy stands, and we continue working. I still wonder what her crime was—drunk and disorderly? Shoplifting? Nothing too exciting, I am sure. I didn't know if I wanted her to know mine. She didn't seem the type who would appreciate it. You see, I had recently gotten into pouring paint down White Toyota Corollas as a part of my Corporate Greed Collection. From what I see, I am doing the owners a service, turning their ugly, run-of-the-mill cars into art. They were part of something unique now, not just factory born. They are baptised in paint, a beautiful Ninja Turtle Green. But no good deed goes unpunished, and they caught me at my sixth car. The bike rack beside the car proved an obstacle, and the cops had no problem detangling me from the fallen bikes.

After the last tree, we dumped the tools in the pick-up and dusted ourselves off. Back at the office, we got the next assignments, Krissy was to work at the library, and I had to paint some school walls. We said our half-hearted goodbyes and walked out into the parking lot. As I opened the trunk of my car, the pungent smell of leftover paint hit me in the face. I turned to see if Krissy noticed it. She did. She stood staring at me next to a White Toyota Corolla with beautiful green paint poured over the driver's side. Oh, Shi-


April 15, 2017. It is always darkest before the dawn. River could still hear her grandfather’s words as she quietly stepped out of the front door 15 minutes before the sun was to rise. She was out here specifically to watch the sunrise. A moment she and her grandfather use to enjoy together. With his passing two weeks ago, she wanted to start to make this a tradition for herself. It didn’t need to be every day, but she wanted to continue the act of watching the sunrise and remembering the good moments of life. This is what she and her grandfather would do. She could remember that her grandfather would get her up early, he would have his coffee ready and hot chocolate for her. He would already have a blanket set up for her outside, and it would always be warm even if it was one of the coldest mornings. Sometimes they would be outside too early and would listen to the animals beginning to wake up. They would listen to the changes in the air. They would watch as the last of the night light would leave the sky, and the temperature would dip to its lowest point. And then the first rays of the sunrise would show. The light would suddenly reemerge in the sky. Her grandfather would tell her that the sun was pulling in all the energy it could so that it could create a dazzling show for them. So that nothing else could take away from its spectacular self as it brought the day to the world. River knew that it was not the truth, but it sure seemed like it was a good way to look at things. March 12, 2020 . It is always darkest before the dawn. River was called to an emergency meeting. She hated anything that had to be told to them in an overwhelming way. And emergency meetings were never calm and organized. She took a deep breath and told herself that it was just the dark moment where she would hate everything of the unknown to come. When you don’t know what is coming you can’t prepare for it. You can’t tell yourself all will be fine because you know that it is just a lie. How can the sunshine if the next step is the brightest moment you ever see? How can you suck up the energy to shine when you don’t even know what type of energy there is to pull from? Her entire office crowded into the small conference room. Only during emergency meetings do they all need to be in this space. And it seems with all this talk of a major illness going around they would have found a better way to do this meeting. The last thing River wanted was to get sick. She had some important presentations coming up, and she did not want to have to do them while fighting off whatever this thing was. As she sat in the room she looked around at some of her colleagues wondering what they have all been up to since some of them were closer than they had ever been. She wanted to mention personal space, but then that seemed a little rude. The regional manager stepped into the conference room and everyone went silent. “Hello everyone. I am going to make this quick because as of noon today we will need to begin to follow social distancing protocols. And as of tomorrow at 2 pm this floor is closed.” There were murmurs and some raised ends of sentences that buzzed all around the room. “I know this is sudden, but it would seem that we will need to close the office doors for at least two weeks. I want you all to take home the office laptops you have been issued. If you have not please see Sophia immediately so we can get you one.” She paused. “I know some of you are working on projects, please continue this. There are a few presentations next week, these will … I am not sure yet. They may be postponed or we may just work on a new way to do them. Keep working on them, and we will…see what happens.” She paused again. River could see that she was working on fumes. That she had been working really hard and understanding and organizing how to continue the work of the company in a new format. “I want everyone to make sure that you bring all your contact information home so that you can continue working.” She paused, took a deep breath, “Does anyone have any questions?” Noise erupted. It was like the room was sucked clean of energy. River suddenly couldn’t breathe. She stopped to look around her at what looked like murmuring clowns. There were faces of panic, concern, mortification, and complete confusion. The noises all merged into one. Everyone was trying to be heard, and yet no one was at the same time. There was no way anything could occur with this crazed mass in this small office space. Quietly, River slid her chair back, and she turned to step out. She stood behind her chair and lifted it back, tucked it under the table. She breathed out and took a slow and low breath in. She turned and stepped away from the chaos. She moved to the door and stepped out into what was fresh air. Into where there was space to be and to breathe. River went to her desk, where everything was nicely organized. She unlocked her cabinet to the left of her desk and pulled out her work laptop. She placed it into her work bag. She then grabbed her notepad where she kept all of her notes and random contacts that were not already saved to her phone. She glanced around; the floor still quiet. And she realized that while the world broke into the chaos she just emerged from, she was going to go home and be safe. She was going to be able to keep her normal routines, just all from the comfort of her own space. June 15, 2021. It's always darkest before the dawn. Working from home was not as amazing as River had hoped. It was nice at first, and then it just dragged on. She was still productive. She was able to complete projects and to work on her presentations. She found new platforms that made her simple old plain presentations more fun and eye-catching. But she also found that in order to fill all the time she used to use to go do things, she was working. Or she was working on making things better for work. It was like work took over her entire life, because, well…there was nothing else to do quite frankly. River just wanted to feel more normal again. In fact, she was beginning to miss the office. Not necessarily all the people, but the ability to leave her space, to sit in different locations that are not just 15 feet from her own kitchen. To use an office kitchen, as gross as it may be. River had a meeting with her boss in 15 minutes. She was pretty sure it was to just go over the new project she received. It did not look too overwhelming, and in fact, look like a typical process she had done many times. In some ways, River felt like this project was her specialty. River looked over the overview one more time to just make sure. She figured the meeting would be quick with the boss and then she could just go about her day. Maybe she would go for a walk today to get out and catch some fresh air no that things were calming down. Maybe actually get some food and eat it in the park. Be outside for a few minutes without a mask. River watched as the time was ticking closer to the meeting time. She opened the zoom meeting early. She hated to be late, and she feared that the link would be wrong if she waited until too close to the meeting time. The link took her straight to the waiting for the host screen. She checked her water, and that her pen worked. And then the screen changed. Her boss was signing in early too. “Hi, River. As usual, you are prompt.” “Hello. I don’t like to be the last one in. That is sure. Kind of sucks the air out of my lungs when I do that.” Her boss smiled. “So, I asked to meet you today because we are going to start bringing people back into the office. And some we are going to leave on work at home. I know that you have been super productive from home. Almost too productive. I have seen some of your email times are really late. I know that schedules are weird over the last 16 months, but you have to take time for yourself.” “Oh, yes, that is something I know I need to work on. You said some. What are you thinking about for me?” “Well, that’s just it. I really want you to come into the office. I think I need you here. Mainly because…I need you to head a task force to ensure we are all following the new protocols and policies.” She paused. River’s face did not change. “Am I asking for too much?” “You are not! I was just thinking that I missed those darn walls in that building. I have no problem coming in. What do you need me to do?”


The moment McKenzie landed in this small town, on the outskirts of Scotland, he knew he was going to have a good time here. Stonehaven was a harbor located to the east of Scotland, distinguished for being a lovely spot to stay. And now he understood why. This little borough had it all: the lush greenery, the lovely folk, the tranquil tourist spots, and above all, the serenity it held. That was what drew him the most. But, he was not here to stay; he had only one job to do here, and it had to be a quick goodbye. David, for one moment, wished he was just like everyone else: a happy family, a tedious office job, a stable retirement, and a place like this to spend his last days. But, he was not like everyone else; he shared a dangerous line of trade. David McKenzie was a rigid man in his early sixties, but his physique was as stocky as a middle-ager. Yet, his features did nothing to conceal his age; the wrinkled skin and the neat hair combed over to the left gave away the gentleman’s love for the ’60s. He always wore a suit; his line of trade persuaded him to do so, and he had no reason not to love it. He perfected his coat as he got out of the cab-- work habits . David had left the resort almost twenty minutes ago; an overnight stay to get him ready for the job. A flawless false ID won him all the way through until then, in this little town, but he could not ignore the possibility of doubt in the dubious of minds: the local souls. So, David had to get it all over soon, before things got out of hand. He raised his head and assured whether he was at the right location, and for someone’s misfortune, he was. The pawnshop looked nothing more than ordinary. But this day, it meant a lot, lot more for some personages. It homed some treasures that it could never have even dreamt of possessing; some valuables that belonged elsewhere, in safer, more powerful hands. And that was the reason why McKenzie was now in front of this store. He had some possessions to retrieve. David pushed open the front door and let himself in. The insides of the shop lit by the evening sun, it all was perfectly normal. A stout young man came in from behind the hall; his brown hair all messy, his eyes red and sunken. David could now understand what he was dealing with; it had made things easier for him. The young man observed David top to bottom; he didn’t have many customers in suits. And when he had them, it meant jackpots. So, the ‘junkie’ was undeniably interested in the deal that was about to happen; so was David. “Well, sir. How can I help you?” the ‘junkie’ asked, his tone almost mocking. He was already awaiting someone, and this stocky, aged man seemed to satisfy the criteria. But he needed to confirm, and sure as hell, they had their silly little passcodes. “Well, I share a dangerous line of trade, kiddo,” David replied casually, resting his arms on the desk; this was a procedure with which he already accustomed. And his years of experience had him report this line even more times than he ever beckoned his mother. The young man smirked at the comment and retraced his path, back to the hall behind the desk. “Come with me,” he announced as he stepped outside the room, and McKenzie followed. The ‘junkie’ locked the door behind them as McKenzie entered, and strolled over to the opposite side of the hall. The hall was gloomy and was a complete mess; overturned chairs and a heavy wooden table filled the room. But, David couldn’t notice any other cabins inside; his confused eyes followed the young man. “Name’s Chris,” the young man spoke as he pushed the heavy, wooden table out of its position. A hidden vault, McKenzie was enjoying this endeavor; it was approaching his expectations now. He assisted Chris in moving the table over. The young chap was in no condition to move the furniture all by himself. When the table was out of frame, Chris hunched down on the floor and yanked open a tile, and as David anticipated, he found stairs that led to a bunker. Now, this is getting better. Chris hopped down the stairs and switched the lights on. But as fit as he was, David still found stairs difficult; his legs had faced grave injuries in the tumultuous past, and the pain grew with him. When he reached the ground, he was impressed by the little cellar; the insides were mostly wooden, illuminated by an ordinary filament bulb. The yellow light almost strained his eyes; old age was affecting him in various ways. The cellar was not very spacious, but it provided enough space for these two to move around. Chris tossed many items around, grabbed a suitcase, and sprang onto the slab, his eyes inspecting David all over again. “So, how about the payment, old man? You got cash? Cheque? ‘Cause cheques don’t work for this stuff.” David stayed silent for a moment. Then, he pulled something out of his coat pocket and walked towards the young man, “I was thinking about an exchange.” He slipped the thing that he carried across the slab. The ‘junkie’ leapt off abruptly on the shocking sight, his eyes and mouth hanging open. “That’s, that’s the Medallion of Orkzestar,” he stammered. “Freak, this stuff can get you millions, if--if not billions. And you want to swap this with some silly papers from the 15th century? You are a psychopath.” David smirked at the comment, and replied, “Well, it’s an emotional thing.” His reply was brief, and Chris was beyond amazed by this gentleman. He sauntered over to the other side of the cellar, swaying his head sideways; something seemed wrong about all this; but still, the amount of profit blinded his intuition. “Alright, it’s all in the suitcase. Farewell, sir, may we never see each other again,” Chris stepped back, saluting David with a confused look on his face. Child’s already dreaming, David grinned. He leveraged the suitcase from the desk and turned about to face Chris. The next thing he did, however, drove Chris bothered; David again pocketed the Medallion. Now, he was preparing to leave with both the Medallion and the suitcase. “What are you doing, man? You can’t do that. Put the rich stuff down.” David didn’t bother; he just continued on his way to the stairs. Chris could not hold it in anymore; he grabbed his pistol and pointed it at David, “You are not going anywhere, sir.” The next few seconds were too quick to perceive; the moment the bullet left Chris’ pistol, McKenzie made a swift turn, impossible for his age, grabbed his gun from behind, pulled the trigger and Chris was down on the ground. “Ah, shit! Shit! What’s the problem with you, dude?” Chris muttered loudly; deep in pain, he clenched his teeth together at the sight of a gap between his elbow and palm, his flesh hanging limp, blood now flowing in all directions. But, David did not stop; he came closer to Chris and pointed the gun at his temple, his face stagnant of expression. “Woah, Woah, cool down, man. Just leave. Take whatever you want. Please don’t kill me. I am sorry. Sorry. Jesus! You are a freak. Give me, give me a chance, man. I won’t do anything. Just go, please.” David didn’t flinch; he kept the gun pointed at Chris’ temple. “I don’t believe in second chances, kiddo, ’cause I never got one.” Another gunshot reverberated inside the cellar. David climbed back up and arranged the hall all over again, the table back in its position. A hidden vault; it’s always interesting.


Her screams, her earth shattering screams tore through the building, jolting Violet wide awake. It took her only a moment to realise the source of those screams. It was happening again. It had been six months since the last time it had happened. Wrapping her chiffon nightgown around herself, Violet sprinted down the dimly lit hallway until she reached her daughters bedroom and flung open the door with a bang.

Mia’s eyes were firmly shut. She was still fast asleep in the large four poster ‘princess’ bed that made her look every bit of the five year old she was. She was so tiny, even the shrill cries that came out from her mouth seemed way too big for her. Hearing those cries, seeing her thrashing in that bed and crumpling her bed sheets, absolutely terrified the life out of Violet. A picture ingrained into her mind but a picture that no parent wanted to see. Most parents hated seeing their child in distress and would do almost anything to alleviate their child's pain. There was nothing that Violet wouldn’t do but standing there in the doorway, she felt completely useless, a failure. She had mistakenly believed that after all the therapy sessions, psychologist appointments and assessments, Mia had gotten better. She had made great progress after all, not a single nightmare in the last six months. But maybe that was just a fool's hope as it appeared that they were back exactly where they had started. Violet struggled to see where they could go from here after exhausting all the options the professionals had previously listed. What more could the professionals do that they haven’t done already? All she knew in that very moment was that she needed to be Mia’s mother. She needed to comfort her, protect her and banish whatever evil was currently infiltrating her sweet dreams. Violet walked over to Mia’s bed, the blush carpet soft under the balls of her bare feet and sat on the edge of it. Mia continued to toss and turn, totally sucked in by the terrors that haunted her unconsciousness, the darkness totally suffocating her. Violet shuffled over on the bed towards her, the bed whining in protest as she did, and placed Mia’s head on her lap. Although her face was flushed and her golden curls were plastered to her forehead with sweat, she was so cold. Violet tucked Mia in closer and wrapped the blanket even tighter around her. Staring down at her angelic face, she began to sing her favourite lullaby. A fitting lullaby about a boat sailing worries away.

After a few minutes, Mia’s shallow breaths evened. She had finally returned to a peaceful sleep, dreaming of unicorns and fairies, Violet assumed like any other normal five year old girl. Yet, she was aware that Mia was not normal. She felt it with every fibre of her being that there was something not quite right with her little baby. She had been having these recurring nightmares since she was two. It could have been longer than that but that was the age she first uttered “same mommy” after being asked what her nightmare was about again. As she grew older and her speech became better, Mia was able to give more information about her nightmare but she refused to divulge in the details. The only details she did provide was that it was indeed the same nightmare every night and her mother featured in it.

The next morning, Violet stood by the stove making waffles for breakfast and heard Mia before she could see her. Unlike last night, the sound of her voice was sweet, full of joy and happiness. Upon hearing her entrance, Violet turned to face her. She skipped into the kitchen, her curls bouncing with the movement. She wore a smile so bright that it could obliterate even the darkest shadows from existence.

“Morning pumpkin, want some waffles for breakfast?” Violet asked, already knowing what her daughter's reply would be. Mia jumped up and down and rubbed her stomach “Yes, please mommy. I sure do love waffles.” Mia was still wearing the pink and white unicorn pyjamas that she wore last night. Pyjamas that Violet could no longer look at without thinking about how terrified and dainty she looked as she violently thrashed in her bed the evening before. The dark circles set around her eyes was also yet another reminder of it. It was a Sunday and there was nothing she could really do until tomorrow. Violet would have to make all the necessary calls then, including a courtesy call to update Mia’s father. Even after a turbulent and abusive marriage, a messy divorce and a strenuous custody battle, Violet tried to keep it somewhat civilised with Simon for Mia’s sake. Violet did not believe that Simon deserved one ounce of her kindness. He did such terrible things during their marriage and most likely continued to do them now but he was still Mia’s father after all. For that reason and that reason alone was why Violet provided Simon with updates about Mia and allowed him supervised visits to see her. Violet had met Simon fresh out of school whilst working at a garage on the outskirts of town. She fell head over heels for him. It was love at first sight, a dream come true. He was charming, witty and his icy blues would make even sapphires appear dull in colour. It wasn’t until a couple years into their marriage when things started to take a turn for the worst. Simon’s addiction problem spun out of control. With that came the lies, the deceit, the abuse and the debt. Violet was miserable most of the time but there were moments, those few moments, that the old Simon would make an appearance. The caring, kind and thoughtful Simon. The Simon that she fell in love with. The Simon that she married. Violet held on to those moments and for that reason she stayed.

Violet made the decision to finally leave Simon a week after discovering she was pregnant with Mia. It was a day that she would never be able to forget, a day her world almost fell completely apart. Violet was doing the dishes, listening to Gotye’s ‘somebody I used to know’ on the radio when Simon stormed into the house. She could tell by the sound of his clunky black boots stomping across the hallway that it was going to be one of those days. Simon entered the room, the reek of weed and God knows what else clinging to his clothes, and switched off the radio. In the absence of the music all Violet could hear was the raggedness of his breath. His pupils were so dilated that his eyes had almost turned entirely black. After seeing those eyes, eyes that flashed with a wildness that you would only expect to see in a viscous caged animal, she returned to her task blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. With her back turned to Simon, Violet furiously scrubbed each dish as she listened to his steps come closer behind her inch by inch. She could feel the warmth of his breath tingling the back of her neck. She could smell the whiskey on his breath, almost tasting it. Violet glanced up to the window overlooking the garden and caught sight of him in its reflection. She watched nervously as his fist rose up and came down on her head. The beating had lasted three torturous hours, leaving her in a coma for three months. She spent those months dreaming of cool mountain breezes and boats of various shapes and sizes that waited at the dock, waiting to take worries away. She was lucky to be alive and it was a miracle that Mia survived. The day she was discharged from hospital, Violet decided that not only for her own sake but for her child's, she was going to file for a divorce. From across the table, Violet sat as she watched her miracle baby devour the stack of waffles covered in golden syrup. A choice Violet had instantly regretted once she saw her sticky, mucky hands. Ignoring the looming mess that she would need to clear up, she picked up the Sunday newspaper and sipped the freshly squeezed orange juice which tasted just as divine as it smelt. While in the midst of reading about an acquisition made by some tech giant, Mia’s utensils clattered on the table. Violet peered over the newspaper to give a look that only a mother could master. However, Mia’s eyes were affixed on the front page of the newspaper, her face turning a couple of shades paler than it had been two seconds ago. Mia froze, her sticky empty hand still hanging mid air. Violet folded the newspaper and set it down on the table. “What’s wrong pumpkin, you ok?” “Mommy, when the door -” Mia was cut off by the loud rapping sound on the door. With a screech of her chair, Violet rose to her feet and made her way to answer it, wondering who on earth would be calling this early in the day. “Mommy don’t ...” Mia screamed as Violet pulled the door wide open. Mia’s screams were a fraction too late. The gun shot fired with a reverberating bang. All Mia could now do was watch as her nightmare, her greatest fear played out in front of her conscious eyes. Violet sank down to her knees, her hands falling to the wound on her abdomen. She tried to conceal the puncture but it didn’t matter how hard she tried, it was impossible to stop the river of red from flowing. The warm, sticky liquid covered her delicate hands, seeping into the cream tunic she wore and staining it crimson.

Violet was so tired. Her vision distorted and blurred as she attempted to keep her eyes open. She wasn’t sure if the male wearing a balaclava before her, gripping a pistol firmly in his right hand, was a figment of her imagination or not. The masked man side-stepped Violet like she was nothing but a beggar on the street. Violet shouted at the man to leave her daughter alone, but no words came out. Violet tried to kick, scream and bite the intruder but instead slumped onto the ground where she lay on the cold, hard, marble floor.

As she sprawled in a pool of her own blood, it finally occurred to her. Mia had known. All this time Mia had known she was going to die. Violet had always tried to be brave for her daughter, never did she think that her daughter was doing the very same. Her little girl had carried the weight of the world on her tiny shoulders, never revealing the true horrors that haunted her at night. Now, even more weight has been added to her already heavy shoulders. With one final look before slipping into a permanent sleep, Violet observed Mia’s bottom lip tremble as the intruder snatched her up from the ground and held her in his arms. The intruder with his face concealed except for his eyes, his icy blue eyes.


If someone were to peek in on my room, they would probably see a pretty basic room for the average sixteen-year-old. I have a standard bed with a bright pink comforter, filled with numerous floral pillows. My walls are painted a bland shade of white, but they are decorated with numerous polaroid photos of me and my friends at the pool in the summertime. If an adult were to randomly go in my room, they would probably note that my closet, filled to the brim with numerous types of dresses, looks exactly like the closet of their own daughters or nieces. However, I don’t think that anyone would ever guess what I hide in my room at night (no, it’s not my phone or a TV!). The thing that I hide in my room is furry, yellow with brown spots, and very tall. In other words, I have a pet giraffe.

“How does one come to own a pet giraffe?” is a question everyone would ask me if they knew that I had a pet giraffe. The story of how I obtained my pet giraffe started out as just an ordinary summer day. I woke up, had some breakfast, and began texting my friends, trying to figure out a plan for going to the pool that day. But, then, my mom made an impromptu announcement:

“Kids, get dressed! We're going to the zoo!”

When I first heard the proclamation, I was a bit confused. Prior to this day, I had not been to the zoo since I was seven years old. I didn’t mind going to the zoo, but it was a surprising way to spend the day.

“Mom, how come we're going to the zoo?” I asked.

“I just won tickets for an exclusive tour of all the animals at the zoo!” my mom said excitedly. “I thought that it would be a fun thing to experience!”

“What do you mean, ‘exclusive tour?’” I asked, genuinely curious.

“We’ll be able to pet all the animals at the zoo when we get there!”

My younger brother, Luke, started jumping up and down. At five years old, he was obsessed with Animal Planet.

“Giraffes! Giraffes! Giraffes! Giraffes!” Luke started chanting.

“Let’s get in the car and go see them!” my mom said, pushing us out the door and into the car.

When we got to the zoo, we met our very friendly tour guide, Hannah. “Where to first?” Hannah asked.

Again, Luke started chanting, “Giraffes! Giraffes! Giraffes!” So, off to the giraffe exhibit we went.

When we arrived at the giraffe exhibit, I was awestruck at the beauty of the giraffes up close. The alternating tan and brown spots of the giraffe formed a checkerboard pattern, and the long fur on the giraffe was perfectly groomed. Before this moment, I had never realized how beautiful the eyes of a giraffe were: the eyelashes on the giraffe were a sharp black color, and they curled inward, protecting the fragile eyes. I understood at this moment why Luke was so obsessed with giraffes!

For the most part, the giraffes were experts at social distancing, and they kept a healthy distance from us. I was glad that none of them ran away in fear when we entered their small grassland home. However, one giraffe, a baby was especially friendly towards us, and she kept nudging herself over to Luke and me.

“Can I pet her?” I asked Hannah when the baby giraffe kept flinging its snout at me.

“You sure can!” Hannah replied. “Her name is KoKo; she was just born just two weeks ago! You must be the giraffe whisperer! I’ve never seen any giraffe be so friendly around humans!”

I was flattered by Hannah’s compliment, but I felt warmth fill my body the first time I stroked the luscious fur of the baby giraffe. Tears rolled down my cheek onto the giraffe’s tiny charcoal nose as I dug my fingers into the giraffe’s fur. KoKo kept cuddling my arm, and, although I felt a strong urge to hug her, I refrained from doing so, careful not to ruin our strong bond.

“Let’s go see the gorillas!” Luke shouted, arousing me from my intimate moment from KoKo. Reluctantly, I took my hand off of KoKo and waved goodbye. As I exited the pen, she made direct eye contact with me,and I could see through the slight curve in her eyes that she was saddened by my departure.

“Love you KoKo,” I said as I trailed away, already falling behind Luke and my mom, who were very eager to see the gorillas.

The rest of the day at the zoo was quite eventful; we visited the gorillas, penguins, and meerkats. Still, as fascinating as the tiny, yet speedy meerkats we're, I couldn’t help but revisit my encounter with KoKo. I could still feel the warmth of KoKo’s breath on my hand as I lay down in my bed that night. Little did I know that, in just a few days, I would feel that warmth again.

Five days later, I was in my bed, my eyes blinking rapidly, just seconds away from my head smacking down on my pillow when the home phone started ringing abruptly. Startled, I raced down the stairs to retrieve it.

“Hey, is this Mrs. Evaen?”

“Hannah?” I responded, bewildered. Immediately, I heard concern in her voice.

“Hey, Dominique,” Hannah replied, her voice heavy with stress. “Is your mom around?”

“Actually, yeah, she’s right here,” I said just as my mom walked into the kitchen, looking confused.

“Who are you talking to Dominique?” my mom questioned. “It's 11 p.m.”

“It’s Hannah.” I mouthed back.

“Hey, Mrs. Evaen. We have a bit of a situation over here at the zoo. KoKo, the giraffe that you guys saw here the other day, hasn’t slept or eaten in five days. She’s super stressed now that she’s not around Dominique, and, well, we think that she may have imprinted on Dom.” “Okay, well, what does that mean?” my mom asked tentatively.

“Well, we were thinking that it may be best if KoKo could be around Dominique for a few days, just until we get her eating again.” “I’m sorry, Hannah, but my daughter cannot sleep at the zoo.” my mom responded, slightly disgusted.

“No, it may be better if KoKo comes to your house.” Hannah spit out before immediately going silent.

“Is this some sort of joke?” my mother scoffed.

“No, if KoKo is around Dominique, then she’ll start eating and sleeping again, and, if she’s at your home, then she’ll eventually start to crave her natural environment again and want to be home.”

Before my mother could answer with a hard “No,” I snatched the phone away from her and asked Hannah, “What will happen to KoKo if she doesn’t come home with us?”

“Well,” said Hannah, “there’s a possibility that she could become too weak and die.”

I looked at my mother, tears welling up in my eyes. I didn’t have to say anything to beg her to let KoKo stay with us for a few days.

“Fine!” my mother yelled, repulsed at the idea of having a wild animal in her home but still too kind to let an animal suffer. “But, Dominique, she is staying in your room, and you will take care of her at all times.”

I began to squeal in delight, jumping up and down and making a big thumping noise that reverberated throughout the house.

“Great!” Hannah exclaimed! “We can drop her off tonight!”

“She gets forty-eight hours in my home.” my mom firmly stated.

“Perfect, that should be enough time for her to recover.”

“Yes!” I yelled as soon as my mother got off the phone. Immediately, I started showering my mom with compliments: “You’re the best mom ever! I love you so much! You are amazing! Have I ever told you how kind and loving you are!” “Enough,” my mom said with a chuckle. “You won’t be getting any presents on your birthday until you are thirty.”

While I waited for KoKo to arrive, I danced through the halls of my house, not even worrying one bit that I may be disturbing my dad and Luke, who were already sleeping. Finally, I heard a soft knock at the door, and I sprinted toward it, eager to see KoKo once again.

I opened the door, letting Hannah and KoKo in.

“Okay, “ Hannah said, making herself at home on our couch. “Here are twenty bags of carrots, hay, and acacia leaves for KoKo to eat. Just leave the food open and available in your room so that KoKo can just eat it whenever she’s hungry throughout the day.” I nodded excitedly, trying not to let KoKo, who was already smothering me with her tongue, distract me from Hannah’s instructions.

“Take her outside a few times each day to let her go to the bathroom, but try to keep her inside for most of the day. That way, she will begin craving her habitat outside at the zoo. Thank you for doing this!”

“It is my honor,” I beamed, petting KoKo. My mother sighed, seriously questioning her own sanity.

Soon after Hannah left, I led KoKo up the stairs slowly. Her legs powered up each step, surprising for the weak and emaciated state that she was in. When I got KoKo into my room, placing my largest and fluffiest blanket on the floor for her to lay on, I lugged all of her food bags into my room. I sprawled them all over the floor of my closet, which is where KoKo would be staying for the next two days.

The first day that I had KoKo, she spent most of the day eating her food, catching up on all of the nutrition that she had missed. I spent the day in my room with her, stroking her beautiful fur while she placed her head and hooves in my arms.

The second day that I had KoKo, however, she seemed eager to get back to the Zoo. When I tried to pet her, she reluctantly allowed me to, but she was no longer moving her neck towards me and embracing me. She continued to eat, but she kept walking towards the small window in my closet, almost as if she were searching for the zoo. Even though I still technically had until the night with KoKo, I knew that it was time to call Hannah.

“Hannah,” I said, fighting back tears, “it’s time for you to come get KoKo.”

As I led KoKo down the stairs, she began to hiss and kick at me. Still, I felt immense love for KoKo. I was proud of her for eating again, and I knew that she would be able to thrive at the zoo.

“Goodbye, KoKo,” I said as Hannah led her out the front door. This time the tears did spill out, even though Hannah reassured me that I could come see KoKo anytime at the zoo. My mom hugged me. “I’m proud of you,” she whispered. “You’re the best giraffe mother I know!” I couldn’t help but laugh.

Every once in a while, I go to the zoo to visit KoKo. Although she never runs to greet me anymore, I am always happy to see her frolicking with her siblings in the grassland area. I am forever grateful for our friendship, even though it had an abrupt ending, and I will always care about KoKo. And, let the records show that, I had a pet giraffe for two whole days!