Wind whipped through my hair, tangling it about my face even as I twisted it and tucked it back under my hat again. The height of the crow’s nest exaggerated everything. The sharp bite of the wind, the pitch and the sway of the ship. I wrapped one arm around the mast, even as I leaned out over the ocean. The sea is a temperamental creature, but she wears her heart on her sleeve. Some days she is a tame beast, glassy and clear. Other days she is exuberant, blue and white-capped, playing in the sunshine. Some days she is angry, dark and fomenting, slapping the hull of the ship. Today she is a moody gray, all troubled currents, and uneasy waves.                Much like our captain. I could see her standing at the prow of the boat, one hand clutching the railing, black hair escaping the long braid down her back to wave in the wind like tentacles. She hadn’t moved from that post for three days, always staring down the horizon as if she could make land materialize by the sheer force of her gaze. She’s a fierce woman, smart as a whip, and faster with her sword than a diving hawk. She has a formidable will, but she has always been reasonable. Until three days ago. Promising us a legendary treasure, but refusing to tell us what it was or where we were going, refusing meals and sleep, demanding that we increase our speed.                I ran a thumb along a pocket in my vest. Earlier this evening I had snuck into the captain’s cabin to try and find answers to the strangeness of our captain’s behavior. The crew had begun to mutter about a curse or treasure sickness. We needed answers. I drew the short straw.                I had never been inside the captain’s cabin before. My heart had beat against my ribcage like a bird trying to escape, even though I knew the captain was above deck and had not moved from the spot for days. The cabin was a sight, I will say that. A bed on one side, bolted to the floor, shrouded by velvety red curtains. But the most majestic sight was the rounded wall of windows, through which the sky and sea could be seen, and a broad mahogany desk upon a thick carpet. Maps and star charts sprawled across the surface of the desk, weighed down by a candelabra on one end and a coral encrusted glass bottle on another. The clamor of the sailors above deck had been muffled, and the loudest sound had been the creaking of the ship and the ever-present roar of the ocean bearing us onward. Hot wax had dripped down the side of my candle and onto my hand as I peered over the salt-stained parchments and rifled through the curled pages of the captain’s logbook. I couldn’t make heads or tails of anything. Headings scrawled along map edges had obscured coastlines, and when I compared the star charts with the logbook, all I could see was that we were heading towards a circled spot on the map. But it was just a patch of empty ocean.                In an effort to find more answers I had tugged open one of the desk drawers. It had stuck a little, the wood warped by the moisture of being at sea no doubt. Something had clattered at my feet and I had thrown myself backwards, but it had just been a large coin of unidentifiable currency with a hole in the center. A string had been attached, and a small folded note. I had scanned the note, but it was just an old personal note. No answers there. I had tried to fit it back under the drawer, but it wouldn’t slide back underneath. I had pocketed it instead. The papers in the drawer hadn’t been much help either. An old captain’s log. A leather-bound copy of the Pirate’s Code. More charts and maps, some old letters. I had come across an interesting page, however, with jagged edges, as if it had been ripped out of a book. It was some kind of short entry on myths and legends. On one side was part of an entry describing a compass that pointed you towards what your heart desired most, and a pocket watch that could somehow turn back time, but on the other side was the description of a aqua-colored diamond called the “Heart of the Sea.” Perhaps it was this legendary diamond the captain was obsessed with.                A sudden gust of wind blew me back, and I almost pitched off the edge of the crow’s nest. My arm was almost wrenched out of its socket as I grabbed the mast tighter. I should have been keeping better watch. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon like black gauze, flickering with lightning.                “Storm dead ahead,” I screamed at the sailors below. A group, white shirts billowing in the wind, glanced up at me, and then at the horizon. They ran to the captain. She nodded and waved her hand, dismissing them. Surely we would change direction.                “Riley, ring the bell!” Alfred shouted up to me. “All hands on deck.”                All hands on deck meant that the captain intended for us to ride out the storm. “We should change course!” I shouted back. “It looks bad. Real bad!”                Alfred glanced back at the prow. A couple sailors were arguing with the captain, but she kept shaking her head. As I watched, she turned to glare up at me. “All hands on deck!” she bellowed.                I rang the bell, my eyes on the darkening horizon. This was going to be a long night.                Sailors spilled onto the deck like ants emerging from an anthill. They scattered across the deck, tying and untying ropes. A few began to scale the masts, to tie up the sails. They were all wide-eyed. The atmosphere crackled with tension, like the static in the air before a lightning strike.                The waves grew more agitated. The mood of the sea had changed. The color had deepened, the swells steeper, the white foam turning to frenetic gray froth. The wind too changed. Before it had been strong, but playful. Now it had begun to howl and wail.                The storm grew quickly overhead, turning a moody evening into a premature night. I climbed down from the crow’s nest, clinging to the rope ladder as the ship pitched in the angry waves. The first drops began to fall as I reached the deck. Someone threw me a rope to tie about my waist.  That was not reassuring. It meant they expected men overboard.                The rain began to fall in sheets. I gasped at the cold, water streaming in my eyes as I made my way across the slick deck. Thunder rumbled across the ocean like a growling beast. “Riley!” someone shouted, gesturing for me to help with tying up one of the sails. I slid across the deck, stumbling as it heaved underneath me. As I wiped rain away from my eyes and shoved soaked tendrils of hair behind my ears I saw that the captain had finally abandoned her post at the prow and was headed toward the wheel.                “Has she really lost it?” someone shouted at me, to be heard over the rain and the wind.                My reply was lost as a crack of thunder overhead sent us all running. Lightning split open the sky, blinding white. A wave crashed against the side of the boat, drenching us all. Someone shoved a bucket into my hands. The ship pitched violently down, and my stomach dropped. With a thunderous crash, it broke through a wave. A wall of water slammed me against a mast. I stumbled away, trying to get my bearings. The timbers of the ship shivered under my feet.                The night became a blur of shouts and screams, thunder and lightning flashes. Water was everywhere, rain slicing at me from above, spray being whipped into my face by the wind, waves crashing from all sides. I bailed out water, I hauled rope until my hands were chafed, I stumbled across the deck, clinging to whatever surfaces I could find as the ground bucked unpredictably beneath me. Lightning sliced through the dark, revealing white-knuckled hands and strained faces, and the heart-stopping swells that our ship sailed through. Lightning struck one of the masts, and sent flaming pieces crashing down from above. Jo had to scale the mast, slick with rain, to tie up the sail by hand so it wouldn’t be ripped to shreds. Alfred was almost tossed into the ocean, saved only by the rope tied around his waist. And the captain, through it all, at the helm, wrestling with the wheel, trying to steer us straight.                I didn’t know how much time had passed, but some time later I was clinging to the edge of the ship, soaked through to the bone, chilled and exhausted. The wind still screamed above, and the waves still flooded the ship, and the lightning still streaked and danced in the sky. But a cold feeling swept over me, like my heart sinking, my stomach dropping. I was near the front of the ship, but in the dark and the with water streaming from my eyes I could barely see the pointed prow. But then, a flash of lightning illuminated the sea. A giant wave, enough to overturn us, gathered before my eyes, creating a slope so deep it looked like the prow was almost pointed straight down.                “Brace!” I screamed, hoping that all sailors would find something to grab onto in time to not be swept overboard. I had seen lesser waves pluck men from the deck and toss them into the deep like ragdolls. And then I held my breath as the mountain of a wave crashed down over our heads.                A terrible sound filled the air, a wail, a screech. The sound of nails being wrenched from their boards. A shrill creak, a scraping that sent shudders down every spine. I was certain we had been overturned and the sea, in her wrath, was tearing the ship apart beneath my feet.                I lay curled on the deck of the ship, arms wrapped around the rail, eyes squeezed shut. In the quiet that followed the awful shrieking, I realized that the sound of the storm had grown muffled and that rain no longer pummeled me from above. I opened my eyes to darkness.                Slowly I uncurled my fingers and hauled myself to my feet. I could still hear the splash of waves. I was still breathing air and not water. I patted the deck beneath my feet, my fingers skimming across the wet wood. The ship was still there.                What had happened?                Sounds of confusion began to rise up around me, as the rest of the crew realized our situation. We seemed to be sheltered from the storm, but in total darkness now. I touched my hand to my nose, but I couldn’t see it. All the sounds had gone strange and echoey, bouncing off some invisible surface.                And then a light flared. I caught sight of the captain, hair wild around her face, torch in hand, her teeth brilliant in the glare of the light.                “We have arrived!” she shouted.                “Arrived where?” someone shouted back.                “Lower the boats,” the captain ordered, and she stuck out her arm. Another torch caught fire, and slowly the place began to take shape.                We had sailed straight into a cavern. Torches lined the walls, affixed in braces. The ocean turned into a far more placid pool within this cave. We scrambled into the boats that were lowered, and rowed ashore. The pool led to a rocky beach within this cave, where we left the boats. Each of us soon had a torch, orange light dancing over all our faces.                The captain led the way and we followed behind, except for a “skeleton crew” left behind to guard the ship.                Someone had carved steps that led up to another pool inside this vast cavern. A waterfall spilled into it, but I couldn’t see its source. We passed by on a narrow ledge of dry ground, deeper and deeper into the cave.                The captain held a compass in her hand and her first mate had unrolled a map. They led us deeper into the cave, past strange pillars that dripped from the ceiling like melted earth, through winding tunnels of jagged stone, through another small room of smoothed, rounded stone whose walls glistened with salt crystals.                Finally, we reached an even larger room within the cavern. It was so big that every sound was echoed back a dozen times, and the light of our torches could not show the edges of it. A bridge stretched across a chasm of indeterminable height. It was little more than a couple pieces of ropes tying together some rotting planks of wood. We crossed one at a time, holding our breath, gripping the edges as we swayed above empty air, and testing each step before committing our full weight. Alex broke through one plank, but she was saved by grabbing onto the ropes and pulling herself forward.                On the other side, four pillars jutted up from the earth like the pointed fangs of some beast. And nestled between them was a great wooden chest. It was locked, but rusted and the captain smashed it open with the butt of her pistol. Was this the legendary treasure she had promised? Was it the Heart of the Sea? The crew all gathered around, with bated breath. The captain flung open the lid. A sigh of wonderment escaped us all. Full to the brim with glimmering treasure. Goblets, a crown, silver bowls, a necklace and all sunken in a flood of coins. We cheered, our shouts echoed back by the cavern.                The captain began to shout, flinging the treasure from the chest. At first we thought it was in joy at finding such a treasure, but then we began to hear her words.                “Where is it? Where is the watch?”                We all looked at each other in confusion, watching our captain tear through the treasure, wild and desperate. She turned to her first mate. “It’s not there. It’s. Not. There. The watch.”                Together they dug through the treasure. But to no avail.                I pulled out the folded page that I had stolen from the desk drawer. “Captain? I thought we were looking for the Heart of the Sea?”                The Captain snatched the parchment from my hands. “The Heart of the Sea?” she said. “What on earth are you talking about?” She glanced at the page. “The Watch. That turns back time. That is what I’ve been seeking all this time.”                “But…why? What use is that to us?”                “What use!” The captain threw her hat to the ground and sunk her fingers into her tangled hair. “What use?”                She turned her back on us.  I noticed her shoulders begin to shake. Was she … crying?                The crew backed away from her. We glanced at each other, wide-eyed, like frightened horses showing the whites of our eyes. We could handle savage tempests at sea and we could threaten sailors at sword-point, but tears turned us all weak-livered.                I ran my thumb along my vest pocket. The coin pendant, tied to the folded note still nestled inside. Tentatively, I followed her and put a hand on her back. I don’t know what strange courage possessed me to do such a thing. She flinched away from my touch.                “Captain?”                She wept silent, airless sobs. “I needed … that watch.”                “To…turn back time? To…what?”                She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “Four years ago. My…I need to visit someone.”                “Visit someone? We have a ship. We can sail anywhere.”                She laughed, short and dry. “I suppose you could sail to the realm of the dead. But you won’t come back.”                “Oh. I see.”                The Captain heaved a deep breath. “While I was at sea…my mother…It was pneumonia. She drowned on dry land. A friend told me.”                “It’s not your fault. People get sick on land and on sea.”                The Captain shook her head sharply. “The last thing she said…she wanted to see me. Asked for me. When I was going to come home…and I was at sea.” The Captain turned to me. “Don’t you see? She died alone. Thinking no one loved her. Because I could only think of myself!”                I touched my vest pocket and brought out the coin with the folded note. Some strange impulse prompted me to show it to her.                “I found this, it…fell out at my feet just earlier today. I don’t know why, but I feel like I should return it.”                The captain pinched the coin in her fingers. She gasped. “My mother gave this to me. Long ago. I haven’t seen it for years. What…”                She unfolded the note.                I had already seen the words. I know you must choose your own path darling. The sea and freedom is yours. And I know you must chase that love, even as you love me. I fear my health is failing me quickly and I may not see you again. So carry my love with you always.


Ben shivered as the spider crept dangerously close to his nose. He could see its spindly legs pluck at each filament as it made its way across the web. Ben's mother always told him he shouldn't be afraid of spiders; that they were more afraid of him than he was of them. But this spider didn't seem afraid of him at all. He hated to admit it, but considering how frightened Ben was, and how not frightened the spider seemed, he could only assume his mother had been wrong. And if she was wrong about the spiders, what else might she be wrong about? Ben filed the question away for consideration at a later time when his brain wasn't so distracted by more pressing thoughts. His brain had plenty to do right now as it was. He was supposed to be thinking about what he'd done, which as far as he was concerned was impossible. He hadn't

done  anything, so how could he think about it? It's what his father would call a real head-scratcher, which didn't make much sense to Ben since his head wasn't itchy at all. Now that he thought about it, though, his nose was starting to itch. Did that make it a nose-scratcher? He added it to his mental list of things to ponder later so he could get back to thinking about what it was he hadn't done. It was no use telling the truth. He had tried that right off, but his father said he mustn’t make up lies. That’s when he sent Ben to stand in this corner, which he probably hadn’t realized was already occupied by the spider, to face the wall and think about what he’d done. Or hadn’t done. Of course, now he could add lying to the list of things he hadn’t done but was being ordered to think about. It was all very confusing – or would have been for someone with a lesser mind. Ben considered himself a pretty advanced thinker for a boy of six. Maybe even for a boy of nine or ten. He liked to think about things; he liked to know things. He spent a great deal of time reasoning out the how and the what and the why of things, and he usually arrived at an answer that made sense. But thinking about something he hadn’t done didn’t make any sense, in Ben’s opinion. His list of things to think about was getting longer by the minute, and here he was, dillydallying. If only he could think of the right words to appease his father. Telling the truth wasn’t an option, since that had failed once, and he certainly wasn’t about to lie. Lying was wrong – especially lying to your mom or dad. The spider hadn’t moved in a very long time, and Ben wondered what it was waiting for. Why had it built its web here in the first place? It didn’t seem like a very good place to catch bugs. Maybe this spider was intent on catching wrongfully accused little boys who were sent to stand in the corner. If that was the case, it was going to need a much bigger web. All spiders were stupid, of course, but this one seemed especially dim-witted. It was also very distracting, and Ben wished it would go away. He tried closing his eyes but immediately snapped them back open. Had the spider moved? Was that it’s game? Wait for Ben to close his eyes or look away, and then pounce? Then what? Did it plan to bite him? It wasn’t a very big spider, so Ben didn’t see how a bite from it would hurt that bad. What was it that spiders did that made them so frightening? Was this a poisonous kind of spider? Ben didn’t see any fangs dripping with venom. He realized what he knew about spiders was shamefully inadequate, and he added it to the list. After a moment’s consideration, he moved it up to the top of the list. If he was going to be frightened of something, he should at least know why. It was important to know the why of things, Ben believed. In fact, most of the things on his list started with why. Why did birds have feathers instead of fur? Why did he have to go to bed so much earlier than his parents (and what did they do after he went to bed?)? Why did sticks float but rocks sink? Why did the air feel cold when he was wet? Ben was of the opinion that, with enough thought, he could reason out the why of just about anything. But not Peter. Peter was his older brother, but even at nine years old, Peter wasn’t quite the thinker Ben was. No, Peter needed to see things – to touch things – in order to figure them out. Ben supposed there wasn’t anything wrong with that, exactly, except that it was sometimes messy. And sometimes it landed Ben in a heap of trouble. And sometimes – like today – it was both. It all started when their dad brought home a kitten. It was a tiny thing – with gray stripes, a white face, and a little pink nose. They had agreed to name it Socks because of its white feet that looked like, well, socks. One day Peter decided he wanted to know why kittens purred. Ben thought that if he just had some time to think about it, he could come up with a suitable answer to his brother’s question. But Peter, as always, was impatient. He just had to find out for himself. He just had to see . Unfortunately, by the time Peter had finished with the kitten, they were no closer to knowing why kittens purred. Ben was no more a tattletale than he was a liar, and he didn’t want to get Peter in trouble, but even Peter agreed it was important to always tell the truth. And besides, Peter had a way of getting out just before they got caught, so he was never around to take the blame. Their mother had been beside herself when she found Ben with what was left of the cat. From the blood on his hands, he couldn’t blame her for jumping to the conclusion that it was his fault. He tried explaining that he had been trying to stop Peter, and that’s how he got the cat’s blood on his hands. But of course, Peter was nowhere to be found. *** “The psyche is a fragile thing, Mrs. Lawson. When a person suffers a trauma, as your son did, the mind can fracture. Each piece takes on an identity of its own – in your son’s case, the identities of the loved ones he lost in the accident. Your son feels responsible for their deaths, and to deal with the guilt, his mind has recreated his wife and sons from the fractured pieces of his psyche.” “Doctor, what are you saying? Th—that my son has split personalities?” Dr. Norris nodded. “Though today we call it dissociative identity disorder.” “S-so what he did to the cat –” “I believe from talking to them that it was Peter who was responsible for the cat.” “No, Peter would never hurt a fly, let alone…d-do something like that.” “Remember, Mrs. Lawson, it wasn’t actually your grandson. Peter and Ben and Diane are gone. Though these identities James has created manifest as his family, they are a coping mechanism for a trauma his mind can’t face. James is actually quite distraught by what the Peter identity did. He’s even asked me to help Peter, which is a very good sign. Why don’t you go home and get some rest, Mrs. Lawson? You’ve been through an ordeal yourself, and this is a lot to process. Your son is in good hands, here. We’ll do everything we can for him. With time and the right treatment, I’m optimistic we can manage your son’s condition. But I must warn you that he may never fully recover.” *** “Why is it just sitting there?” Peter asked. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure—” Ben started, but his older brother cut him off. “Why do spiders need eight legs, anyway? Why can’t they be satisfied with four legs, like a cat? Or just two legs, like a person? Let’s see if it can climb that web with just two legs…”


Taeyeon had just finished redecorating the Christmas tree with Jungguk. They were now sitting on the couch. "Who's gonna go buy more candy canes?" Taeyeon asked. "How about we don't? I'd rather eat the fudge that Artemis gave us. Taeyeon sighed. "Whatever." Jungguk and Taeyeon had only eaten a few pieces of fudge when Taeyeon's phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. It was Korean. (Translations are italicized) "Yeoboseyo?" Taeyeon said. "Hello?"

"Annyeonghaseyo, gimtaeyeon-ibnikka?" The voice on the other side asked. "Hello, Is this Kim Taeyeon?" "Ye. Nuguseyo?" "Yes. Who is this?" "Jeoneun yeonghwa gamdong-ibnida. ulineun sae yeonghwaui kaeseuteuleul mo-eugo issseubnida. ulineun dangsin-i uliui ju-ingong-idoegileul balabnida." "I am a movie director. We're gathering the cast for our new film. We would like you to be our main supporting character." "Jeongmal? Hangug-eseo?" "Really? In Korea?" "Salamdeul-eul tongjehago nugungaga yesanghaji moshan il-eul hal taekkaji geudeul-ihaneun modeun geos-eul algoissneun jeongbue gwanhan yeonghwaibnida." "Yes. It's a film about a government that controls it's people and knows everything they do until someone does something they didn't expect. "Maeu heungmiloul geos gatsubnida. Maenijeowa iyagihagessseubnida." "That sounds very interesting. I'll talk to my manager." "Johguna. sigan nae jusyeoeso gamsahabnida." "Alright. Thank you for your time." "Choedaehan ppalli yeonlag deuligesssubnida. Annyeong." "I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Goodbye." Taeyeon hung up the phone.

"You should take the role!" Jungguk said. "But, if I take the role then I won't be able to hang out with you guys until the shooting is over! That could take months!" "I thought it was a movie?" "He didn't really say what it was. It could be a whole series! What if it takes a year!? What'll I do without you guys?" "Well, talk to your manager like you said you would. We'll talk about it with everyone once we get more information. * * * "I can't believe I'm on a plane right now. Actually, I can't believe I even let Jungguk talk me into this! What am I gonna do without everyone?" "You okay?" A voice next to him woke him up from his thoughts. He turned to look at a girl that must've been twenty or twenty-one. She couldn't have been much younger than himself. "Yeah." "Oh, good. You looked kind of worried." "Um. Where are you heading too?" Taeyeon asked, trying to start a real conversation. "I'm heading to Korea. I'm gonna be acting in a new movie! Where are you headed?" "I'm actually doing the same thing." "Really? What's the movie you're acting in called?" "Predicted." "Oh my gosh! I think we're acting in the same movie? Who are you going to be?" "They said I'm a main supporting character. I think I'm probably going to be the second lead or something close to that." "Cool! I'm the main! How long have you acted?" "I've been acting since I was young. You might have heard of me." "Oh! I totally forgot about names! My name's is Park Yumi. What's your name?"

"My name's Kim Taeyeon. I've heard of you before! You were the main in Find Me! My friend loves that series!" "Well, it's nice to meet you!" Taeyeon shook Yumi's hand. * * * They had landed and checked into the same hotel. In fact, their rooms were right across from each other. Taeyeon had rented a car before he got to Korea and he offered to take Yumi to the first day of shooting. So, there they were, awkwardly sitting in the car, wondering who would speak first. After many minutes of silence, Taeyeon cleared his throat. "So ... How old are you?" "I'm twenty. What about you?" "I'm twenty-three." The car was once again filled with silence. Taeyeon was now hesitating to try to start a conversation again. He worried that he might be annoying her. Maybe she didn't want to talk. "Do you have siblings?" Yumi asked. "No. I'm an only child." "Lucky! I have a younger sister and she's always taking my stuff!" "I live with my best friend and we're about the same size so he's always taking my clothes too! He steals my candy all the time! That's what annoys me the most." "My little sister does the same thing!" The two laughed. The rest of the ride was silent but it was no longer awkward. The silence was light and comfortable now and it stayed that way for the rest of the ride. * * * Taeyeon had been sent a script but he had only skimmed over it. He was very confused when he found himself sitting in the makeup room for the next hour, getting interesting markings drawn on his face. As it turns out, he was the second lead but, he was with the evil, alien government. He wasn't very happy with all of the makeup but he was happy to find out that Yumi was having her make-up done right next to him. The enjoyed talking for the majority of the time and they went over lines together until their make-up was done. He then watched Yumi go first. "Mom. Why can't I do anything that I want to do?" "It's dangerous. You shouldn't even try! They know everything that you have done, are doing, and will do!" "But I want to be free! I don't want them to choose my life for me! I want to be able to choose what I like and who I like and love!" "That's dangerous! Please listen to me! They've taken people in before. If you even try to attempt to do something that they can't predict you'll be taken away and I won't ever get to see you again!" "Isn't there some way to stop them?" "They make sure that there isn't. And there won't be so, please listen to me. As your mother, I'm telling you not to make any bad decisions." Her mother stared into her eyes until Yumi's character sighed. "Okay, mom." "CUT! PERFECT!" The director said. Yumi complemented the lady who was playing the mother before stepping off of the set to find some water. Taeyeon walked up to her and tapped her shoulder. When she turned around he handed her a cold bottled water. "Thanks." "No problem. You were amazing up there!" Yumi was going to thank him but he was called up for his first shooting. "Well I'd better go. I hope I do good. This role was kind of unexpected. I've never been on the bad guy's side before." "I think you'll do great!"


The heat escalated between them and shirts flew off. Jenny lay back on the bed while Hugo leaned over her, their lips locked and tongues intertwined. The wet smooches of their passion mixed with the sound of their delightful sighs and the soft rustling of bedsheets. Then, the sound of a zipper cut in, loud and sharp. Hugo’s pants fell. Jenny looked him in the eyes with naughty playfulness, and he stared at her with a poker face. She frowned. “What?” “What if I can’t get it up?” he whispered.

Jenny rolled her eyes. “Now’s not the time to worry about that.” “Now’s the perfect time to worry about that,” he said. “When, if not now?” “Just… don’t think too much, okay? Relax, it’s gonna be fine…” She reached up and kissed his lips. He kissed her back and the heat was back on. Their hands started going towards the hot zones and as Jenny’s hand began reaching under Hugo’s boxers, he pulled out of the kiss. “I don’t want you to think that you’re not attractive,” he said, explaining it like a professor. Jenny blew air. “God, chill. Why are you thinking so much? Just let go.” “I’m very aroused by you, you’re very hot,” he said, making it sound like an excuse. “It’s just… It’s my first time…” She gave him a smile, hoping it would be enough to comfort him, but no. He kept staring at her as if waiting for her to say something. “What?”

“Is it your first time too?” Her smile faded. A look of annoyance replaced it. “Well, is it?” “No,” she said.

“How many times did you do it?” “I’m not going to answer that!” “Okay, sorry.” He paused.

She rolled her eyes again, the heat escaping like through the cracks of an old badly insulated house. “Shall we continue?” he inquired. “I don’t know, you tell me.” He nodded. “Let’s continue.” He ran his hand up her thigh and planted slow sensual kisses on her neck. His hand went up and up and elegantly around the jackpot, barely not touching the panties. That turned the heat back on and Jenny found herself sighing again. His kisses and his hand approached her breasts and she ran her hand down his stomach and into his boxers. Like a startled cat, he leaned back all of a sudden. Jenny yelped in surprise, not expecting such a reaction from touching him there. “Whoa,” he said. “I almost felt your hand on it, down there.” She frowned. Wasn’t that the point? One moment she was indulging in passion and the next he was acting like a pastor, flinching away at the slightest touch. “So… you don’t want me to touch you?” “No, I do,” he said. “Just warn me before you do, okay? So I can prepare.” “Prepare?” “Yeah. You know, so I get it up in time.” Jenny shook her head, disbelieving. “Dude. Stop. Thinking.” He snorted. “Yeah, like that's even possible. Look, I want to be hard for you when it’s time for it, so I would appreciate it if you could tell me, is all.” The heat dropped down to room temperature. His touch could make her so horny, but as soon as he opened his mouth the words dressed her in a nun’s gown. If she wasn’t half-naked already she would have stood up and go do the laundry or something. But she wanted to get it off and by God, she will get it off!

“Just stop talking altogether,” she said to him. “Let’s just have sex, okay? No more words.” Hugo frowned and opened his mouth to object, but she gave him a look that did not allow compromises.

“Yeah, sure,” he said. He hesitated for a moment and then kissed her, starting again at her neck, and working down. His hand moved between her breasts, down her tummy, and around her lady parts to her thigh. A little spark of heat ignited again. She undid her bra and helped guide his hand over there, hoping her bosom would cause him to have a reaction. He groped them and stared at them like her little brother stared at the new iPhone he got for Christmas. Jenny suppressed a snort and reached for Hugo’s things again. She ran her hand up his back and then down, over his abdomen and over the boxers. She reached underneath and searched… “Yeah, no,” Hugo said and pulled back. “This is not working.” “God, what the fuck, man?” She hit the bed with a fist, infuriated over the rollercoaster of hot and cold she had to ride on. “Can’t you just fuck me already?” His cheeks flushed and he swallowed, not knowing how to respond. “I’d like to,” he said, his voice unsure. “But I just can’t get it going.” “Look,” she said, drilling her eyes into his. “I like you, okay? I like you a lot, or else we wouldn’t be lying here, naked. I love the way you touch me, you’ve got feeling. Just let go, don’t think about anything, and pretend it’s the most normal, easy thing you’ve ever done, having sex with a girl. Okay, Hugo?” She topped that with the sweetest smile she could muster under the circumstances. Hugo seemed to consider. He was thinking again, which made her even more irritated. “Glad to hear it,” he said after thinking thoroughly. “I like you too, Jenny. I think you’re very pretty and hot, but more than that, I think you’ve got a cool personality. I like that in a girl, that she has her own attitude.” Jenny blinked, genuinely surprised. “But,” he said, “for some reason, even though I’m obviously attracted to you, I can’t get my body to respond physically. I think it’s because I’m a little… shy.” He looked at her like a wounded puppy and she felt a little bad for being harsh with him. He did say it was his first time, so it was only normal he was nervous. “Well, how do you normally get it hard?” she asked. “Perhaps we can try that approach.” “I watch porn-” “No way, mister.” “I masturbate-” “You can do that on your own. What am I here for, then?” Hugo thought for a moment. “I did notice getting aroused while driving on a bumpy road.” “You’re kidding?” He shook his head. “Baker’s Street, it's under construction and the potholes-” “Oh, don’t tell me that potholes make you hornier than my holes!” Hugo’s face tensed up with embarrassment and Jenny blushed. A moment of silence fell upon them, the heat gone completely.

“We could go for a ride…” She snapped a look at him and tapped the bed. “Yes. Right here, on this bed.” “I… Yes, of course, that’s what I want too. After we drive on Baker’s Street for a while. Just to get me going, then we can hurry back here and try again.” She closed her eyes and laughed in torment. This was not how she imagined the day would go. But she really did want to get that big O on her face, so she found herself considering his proposal. And accepting it. “I must be desperate,” she said. “Alright, let’s do it. Why the heck not? It’s better than being tortured like this!” “Agreed,” he said and nodded like a starship captain, jumping off her and putting his clothes back on. Jenny reluctantly put the bra on, the skirt and the blouse. She wondered if she’ll be taking them off later in the haste of passion. They left his apartment and walked down the stairs in silence, reaching the parking lot. They sat in the car and drove off. He didn’t put on any music and she didn’t try to start a conversation.

They drove for ten minutes and then Hugo finally broke the silence. “Fuck.” Jenny couldn’t help but snort. “You’re the one to talk.” Hugo glanced at her and then pointed ahead. “Look.” Jenny looked at the street ahead of them, cars passing by, people walking, sun shining… “What?” she asked, trying to spot anything out of the ordinary. “It’s the asphalt,” he said. “It’s new. They’ve repaired the road.” With an expression of defeat, he looked at her. “This is Baker’s Street.” “Yeah, well good riddance,” she said. “Those potholes were wrecking my car.” “Those potholes were supposed to make me hard.” “Oh. Right.” The car barely shook or wobbled as they drove on the brand new road. The smell of fresh asphalt rose into the car through the air conditioning. “God, I just love that smell,” Jenny said, sniffing like it was coke. “Fresh asphalt! It’s almost as good as the smell of petrol, or freshly mowed lawn!”

Hugo began coughing. “Ugh, don’t say that.” “Say what?” she frowned at him. “I hate that smell!” “What, fresh asphalt?” “No, the other.” “Petrol?” He shook his head. “Fresh-cut grass. It makes me want to puke.” Jenny stared at him dumbfounded, unable to comprehend how can someone, who complicates so much and hates the smell of grass, make her so horny with his touch. She decided she had enough surprises, shocks, and disappointments for one day. “Let’s go back,” she sighed. “Sure,” he said. They both knew that this was probably it. Their relationship barely took off but was being snuffed out, as indicated by the silence that fell upon them again. Jenny watched the houses pass by and noticed that Hugo missed a turn. “You’re supposed to make a turn there,” she said. “Um…”

“You know where to go?” He nodded absently. “I think the brakes are gone.” “Ha?” He glanced at her. “I’m not kidding. Look.” He stomped his foot on the pedal, but the car kept going. And as fate would have it, there was a small decline up ahead, with a sharp turn at the end. The turn with the view of the sea, where the cliff was highest. “Dude, this isn’t funny,” Jenny said, feeling a spike of panic pierce her heart. “No, it’s not,” Hugo agreed and kept stomping his foot, but the car kept going. “Damn, I knew I should have taken the car to the workshop…” “You drive around in a death trap?” “Hm, panic won’t help-” “We’re gonna roll off a cliff and die!” “Relax,” he said. “I’ve lowered the gear so the engine will help brake and if we still end up going too fast I’ll pull the handbrake.” “How can you be so calm?” Jenny was starting to breathe faster as the bend got closer. The car began rolling down the road and it was picking up speed. Hugo went silent. “Well?” Jenny yelled. “How about that handbrake?” “It’s stuck.” “WHAT?” “Funny thing,” he said, eyes telling he didn’t think it was funny at all, “I heard this strange noise when I drove to pick you up today, and now I know what it was.” “Hugo, stop this car right now!” Jenny placed her hands on the dashboard and observed with horror a couple walking on the sidewalk, right next to the bend. She could see the distant white-foamed waves of the deep blue ocean through the pines. The car kept speeding up. “Hm,” Hugo said. “This is not good.” “YOU THINK?!” “My insurance agent will kill me, but we have no choice. Hold on!” “What are you-” Hugo turned the steering wheel and the car tires screeched on the fresh sun-glistening asphalt. Jenny screamed louder than on any rollercoaster she ever rode and held for her dear life. The car hit the edge of the road and jumped up on the sidewalk. Pedestrians turned in surprise and jumped out of the way as Hugo slammed on the horn, giving them a warning.

“Watch out for the-” She closed her eyes as the car slammed into a wooden fence of a nearby front yard. Planks and rattan hit the windshield, causing it to crack. Hugo’s hands worked frantically as he struggled to keep the car from spinning and turning over, while they drove through someone’s front yard. And backyard. And through another fence, into another front yard. A dog’s house was destroyed, luckily without its occupant inside. A gorgeous looking rose bush got mauled over by the front grill of Hugo’s battered Subaru Impreza. A mother rescued her laughing baby from the kiddy pool just in time as the car splashed into it, sending an explosion of water in all directions. Jeny screamed her lungs out, holding so tight her knuckles hurt and did not dare to look. Hugo barely made a sound next to her. The car jumped and roared and shook like one of those enraged bulls in rodeo and Jenny tensed up, expecting to get catapulted through the windshield at any moment. “Oh no.” She peeked with one eye to see what was so terrible that made Hugo finally let out a sound and noticed a stack of beehives in yet another backyard, and an elderly beekeeper, blissfully taking out the honey, with his back turned towards them. “MOVE AWAY!” Jenny yelled and Hugo slammed on the horn, but the old guy didn’t notice them. Hugo cursed and performed a sharp turn, steering the car towards a patch of bushes. But the turn was just a little too sharp. The car hit a bump in the grass and it flipped. Jenny felt weightless for a split second, stretched into an eternity of dread.

Then, the car slammed to the ground and began rolling downhill like a kid rolling down a snowy slope. The seat belt locked and held Jenny in place while sunglasses, umbrella, car manual, and various debris from the outside were flying all over, hitting her in the face, hands, and legs. The world spun and roared around her and then it all stopped abruptly. The car stopped as if hitting an immovable obstacle and fell still. The only sounds that came were the clinking of heated metal and Hugo’s heavy breathing. Jenny didn’t dare to breathe, didn’t dare to open her eyes. She feared that if she looked, she might find herself split in half. “Jenny? Are you okay?” It was Hugo. “Look at me.” She forced herself to open her eyes. Hugo was staring at her, his eyes pulsing with adrenalin and he smiled. “We’re alive.” She inspected her whole body, but save for a few bruises, she was unharmed. The car stopped by hitting a tall tree and they were inside a thicket of bushes somewhere. If she listened closely, she could hear the waves crashing somewhere nearby. Hugo let out a cheer. “Whoa! Now that was something! I’ve never been so close to death before, ever! Makes a man feel alive!” He climbed out of the car, pushing away the bent doors and helped Jenny come out as well. She leaned on him for support as her knees barely held her.

“We’re alive,” she said, her voice trembling. Hugo laughed. “Yes, we are! Some luck, huh?” She looked at him, not knowing whether to punch him in the teeth or jump in his embrace. Instead, she decided to sit down on a rock, as hse couldn’t stand. Hugo helped her, holding her hand. “Jenny,” he said, while she was taking deep breaths to calm down. “I think it worked.” “What worked?” she asked, her mind absent. “You know, why we went for a ride in the first place. I think I’m ready.” She gave him an incredulous look, not knowing what he was talking about. Then she noticed a bulge in his pants. “You’re out of your mind.” “Yes!” he agreed. “I am, finally! Out of my mind and in my body! How about it? We’ve got, what, ten minutes before the ambulance and the police get here? Someone must have called them, we drove through nearly half the neighborhood!” Her head was light and her emotions swirling. They just survived a car crash, barely escaping death, while causing mass property damage and perhaps even murdering someone. And he got a boner from it! She stood up, fists clenched, intended on punching his smiling mouth. She raised her arm, swung… ...and wrapped herself around him, jumping up into his embrace. He grabbed her ass and she wrapped her legs around his waist. “Alright, mister,” she breathed, drilling into his eyes with hers. “Ride me like you rode that car, then; don’t stop until I’m nearly dead!” As rescue finally arrived eight minutes later, they were shocked to find a wrecked car and a couple, not crushed to death or trembling with shock, but rather butt naked and completely shameless, making passionate love right there in the grass.


Strangling limbs cover any sight of my plastic. Seas of fluorescent green, chrome, red, blue, white, bright yellow and matte black swirl above my painted-on eyes. Slightly, soft streams of night light blue and warm gold-bulb drip between the narrow gaps. I can't breathe. I am drowning. Waves of hardened coloured oil brushes against my skin - coloured and textured like a uniform. Like a uniform which isn't mine, this isn't my skin, I can't take it off even if I tried. I was burnt, melted and frozen in the wrong shape. Material meant for long dandy stilt legs; squeezed into blocky tight lumps. Material meant to be plain so I could have flare, stained by dull patterns and dark colours. Material meant to be elsewhere. The long halls of metal logoed trees; row after row reaching up constantly. Stilts of iron reflecting behind themselves over and over and over. Such sore scaring images of where I was bought. Clear but impenetrable solid walls separate this flood of silently proud play things from touching the grass of wool. Masses of mustard cream fields stretch from the wall to the tall moving mountain. I scramble through the bodies. I was burnt, melted and frozen in the wrong shape. Tall, skinny and plain coloured. Curved, slender and dazzling. To be dressed up in flowing dresses with plastic dogs yapping at my plastic heels. To be pink and drink from imaginary cups. Not grey and damaged from real action. Peering passingly through the glass outwards to the room of my buyer. The one who puts me here after having his fun with me. I gasp for air as I reach the surface. He sleeps in black and white circle framed bed with posters of those in here bolted religiously on the wall. A shrine to them, the thing he wants me to be. I wish I was sometimes. At least I wouldn’t feel wrong, this alien about this feeling… Eyes and mouths and ears and grins and stares. I am surrounded. Watching, with all their attention, quiet crawling of sight picking me apart before they even grab me. I slowly, gently, swam through the sea to the shoreline . They are following me. Their drawn expressionless eyes follow my every small jolt forward. They are following me. Little claws, fingers, fist and guns raise to my movement. They are following me. I hear them in their heads. Welcome to the 'glorious' marine Corp of forever war land. We are all soldiers, dying for the child maniac god. Because that's our purpose, we live to fight, to die, to play, to die, to fight, to die... That's the mantra of this box. We are either allies or enemies. Doesn't matter if we like it or not. I grab the hard transparent sand. The clawing, gnarling, snarling sound behind me inspires a leap of faith into the long strides of cotton. I am brought into the warm embrace of fabric. Is this it? I wonder. Do I feel different? I ask myself. What now? I ponder. Tiles of stone. One foot by one foot and repeat outwards. Fitting the pattern of the design endlessly further than the inked eyes can glare. Maybe the right hand is where I should be. The house of dreams with those I wish to look like. Will they be welcoming despite my design flaw? I bravely venture out. Pushing passed the glades. Pacing strongly. Onwards to the mountain which moves. Bright golden rays line the opening. A gap. A hole. A way out. It'll do. Give me pink. Give me roses. Give me fairy lights. Give me a pool of glitter. Take my gun. My poor skin. My shape. The light dangles from the sky above like a falling sun. Cream roots like ropes hang the star above. Large royal sized frames encrusted on the solid plane walls. The paintings of gods from the steel eye leaves their likeness still in the ink. Are they watching me? The thought stops me in my tracks and I freeze. A shiver overcomes me. What if they are right and I am just designed to fight the make believe war for the rotten little ruler.

My painted eyes felt almost as if they’d fall off. I dreamt of a dreamhouse. Not the box. But before the build up could run off the paint I see something else in the picture though. Gentle, kind, soft eyes. Rosey chump cheeks, long flowing locks of bright blonde. Narrow pointy chinned face. Bright pink plump pronounced lips.

And holding her was another god. A kinder one maybe. Maybe she will

play with me the way I was supposed to be.

A determination and reassessment set me back on my path onwards. Even if these gods see me they see that I am going to them.

Onwards through smaller glades of cotton coloured in deep red and dark purple. I come to another mountain as I end my travel through the world between worlds. This one was wide, welcoming. Glitter on the walls. Hanging photos and there is the sleeping god. Resting draped in fluffy clouds and sleeping on a plastic long throne fitted with an adorably small but jewelled tiara.

I really hope she is kind and not cruel like the boy-god of war. I'm here, I'm where I was supposed to be. Finally, Relief passes into me finally for once. I gaze upon the pink castle, pink cars and pink slide. Pinstripe walls like waterfalls of shallow indigo. Glades of grey cotton almost pull me in further. A white unicorn with long bright rainbow hair strides up to me. I'm home! The welcome party of long dolls exit the dream house and look at me. I'm home. But their expressions are dull, uninviting and piercing. Cruel and disgusted. I would have hoped they’d be kind but they are as hurtful in their judgement over my faults as the war crazies in the box. But, at least it's home...


Somethings change and some things never change. I thought about this for quite a while and looked back on life's ups and downs. Smirking while going down memory lane was fun, until I pondered and criticized myself. Of course, I found a lot of self-doubt, stupid and dumbing down moments that were not cool. Why? The kids in the middle of the family had the good, the bad and the ugly moments. I was in the middle and more times than not, had to play the nice card. Big sis had the say, all the time, and was a bulldozer from the get-go. Sometimes it was fun and then I wanted to run and hide under the bed. Little sis followed the leader and that was that. How did our personalities become so different yet the same in many ways? The family dynamics were what they were. Our mother, and dearest dictator of us kids, was the boss from morning til night. She was the one with the whistle who called the plays until one time she locked us out of the house. We were who we were aka KIDS. But then how many times could you keep going in one door and out the other with dirty shoes on? When dinner time came it was the whistle that called us home. I mean a two finger in the mouth whistle that always got our attention. How embarrassing when the kids in the neighborhood heard it too and laughed us out of their yard. It was just one of a bunch of moments you wanted to just plug your ears. We grew up in a sheltered neighborhood. NOT. Our playground were the woods and everything in and around the outdoors from streams, and ponds to the highest trees to climb. We were given such a free rein to just go; go here, go there, go everywhere, well, within reason. Our neighborhood were the five houses on one side of the road. That's it. Our bikes were the freedom riders, and they were our golden chariots. I mean who could peddle all the way and make it to the beach? Unless it was green hornet season mid-summer and then that was a wasted adventure. But that turned around really quick when as tired as we were, the number one detour to get back home was to make it over to Benson's. Pennies, nickels and dimes saved from our 'to do' lists came and went with a drizzle of chocolate sprinkles on top of that yummy ice cream cone.

School time was a never-ending story and one long chapter after another in the book of life. Blending in with others from everywhere was sometimes not so easy when you lived out in the sticks with only a bunch of kids you knew and hung out with day after day. Personalities ruled the classroom. Even the teachers had their own totem pole and you hoped for the one that looked at you and not through you. We didn't buy food. Lunch of the day was pretty much baloney sandwich after baloney sandwich. An apple was always a treat and maybe an Oreo or two was a nice way for the queen to keep her underlings happy. More time spent at school was where the brain came on or went in silent mode. How much could you keep in that upper space when outside recess time had you playing so many made up games? Thinking, learning how to beat others while playing a game as one or with teams, having the rules set up, was the way to go! Being in my own space without big sis or little sis in my face made me learn about how to belong with others who were different. Which of course changed as soon as we all got on the bus to head home. Move over!

More change crept into our lives as the more we did things courtesy of the dictator and mother of the household. Our dad had quite the say in doing stuff, too. We took his lead on how to be a true Yankee. Lots of fun was in the learning of random stuff like how to use a screwdriver or saw some wood. Then it was time to clean up which then equaled more play time. Never a moment lost over the years. How this becomes ingrained is like playing a song on the piano over and over. Keep doing it until you get the right melody. Your brain has a place where it keeps all the right notes.

From the first grade, the left brain was in competition with the right brain. That became the way my pathway meandered throughout book learning from the get-go. It was a tough road at times as school was all about how much information was worthy of retention. How we were separated into A, B, and C classes from middle school through high school was not the way I was happy in order to be judged on your way to Smartsville. I found my way through it all but of course book learning sometimes became the leading cause of my self-doubt and dumbing down moments. How was I going to survive the game of the mental monster? This happened until I woke up to another book that had the most colorful and brilliant pages. ART. This became the right brain way of teaching my left brain how to cooperate. You can't have one without the other. To this day it is way I move with purpose. It's all about going forward with that one word leading the way. It has been a transformation to understand and give worth to something that had been calling to me for so long there was no way to pretend to hide or ignore the reality of what that true part of life is calling you to do. Go forward, most definitely yes. Backward is just a word in the dictionary. Is everything changing? Well, yes and no. Yes, is how we get up and go from one thing to the next. Look to the stars and find the guiding light. It has been there all along. Change can be a great road to travel if we take ahold of the reins that will lead us down the right path.


It isn't fair. You walked upon floors of shining gold and jewels, bathed in exotic spices and fragrant flowers. Your hands are as soft as silk, never daring to lift more than a silver spoon to coat your tongue with the honeyed fruits of my labor.

Hatred swarms my blood as the flies that plagued my broken body do. My tears are the only water I can drink, bitter and burning against my lips.

You will be immortalized within the palace walls; your porcelain body laid to rest. I will be a lump of dirt, a sacrifice to the Earth in hopes of a new life.

You could not take the one thing you desired, the last of my possessions. My heart is still within my chest while yours stains my hands in lovely shades of fury.

Yes, what a joyous sight it had been. You were as broken as I for a moment in time. Your castle was reduced to crumbling sand before me. I held what no other could begin to touch, and I had relished your pain as I destroyed it.

I wiped your tears when your favorite jewel was sullied. You laughed as my spine broke under your pressure. I searched the lands for the finest leaves in which to make your tea; you would not spare a cup of water. Your lips boast of great adventures and the highest finery, your throat spewing lies with ease. You claimed the Earth was yours if you so wished, no thing could escape your grasp.

When will you learn? I am more human than you. You are the one who has become a thing, a monster to prey on desperate souls. Pretty decoration to hide the blood in the cellar, no more use than a glistening rock. I am the ocean, sent to drown you. You filled your lungs with me, believing you could own me. Your hands grasped my waves, and I slipped through your fingers. I am the trees, I remember. Though my body may turn to dust my soul lives in the branches that saw your misdeeds. Take an axe to my bark and scream as I do not fall under your blade. I am the ground you wish to tread upon, daring to spit upon me. I watch as you fall through my cracks and laugh as your bones break upon my stones. You say there is no thing you cannot have, yet you forget I am not a thing. I am the fear that creeps down your neck, the hatred that sears your mind.

Yes. Sit pretty within your beautiful walls, light your incense and pray to your gods. The gods refuse to hear you.

No longer will my body be another unmarked grave, the only proof of your transgressions. No longer will your words destroy my mind as I beg for mercy on your golden floors.

As I lay dying, I feel no fear. No sorrow, no regret. You took those emotions from me as I took your sanity. Do you still believe I am the one insane? Perhaps I am. Is that why I laughed as you broke? The way you had broken me? If I am insanity, then you are destruction. You destroyed every good thing in your path.

I loathe you with every ounce of my being. I care not for a peaceful death; I wish for the world to mourn. I wish for the people to see the state of my corpse as I rot. The way you took every part of me. You took my eyes, so I could not see your wicked smile. You took my ears so I would not hear your evil schemes. You took my hands and feet so I could not run.

You asked why I had not left if it was truly so bad, but where was I to go? Beyond your rose-colored windows only death awaited me. Dirty streets and groping hands. No family nor friend would open their doors, they believe these marks upon my soul were due to my own faults.

Now, surely, you had learned your lesson. I had denied you my heart. Despite all your greed it is something you will never have, not even as you tried to cut it from my chest.

Your anger was expected, if not welcomed. My choice in the matter taken as your gold and jewels could do nothing to stop the flow of fate. My blood stains your floors, my cries marked on the Earth. "It isn't fair." I had whispered to no one but myself. Now, your expression is priceless, your pain is beautiful.

Is this what you felt? How truly drunk off of power I am as you fall before me, cries for mercy replacing your glittering lies. Oh, how sweet. I savor this. Your helplessness, your confusion. No promise of heaven nor threat of hell could compare, my bones dried in the earth yet my spirit standing before you.

Burn me to ash, call your priests and hold your holy books for they mean nothing to me. Feel my brokenness, feel my death and drown in my blood.

It isn't fair. How dare you walk where I once crawled, laugh where I once cried? Your glittering trophies adorn the walls that saw your sins. You drink of expensive alcohols that fuel your violence and laugh. How dare you? I lived as a broken shell, incapable of anything beyond surviving, and even that was stripped away from me. In life you escaped my revenge, your power over me steadfast. In my death I was given the power of the Earth and all her fury. I clawed my way back with every intent to rip your beating heart from your chest, and I did.

No one will leave flowers for my grave, yet dahlias bloom beautifully, a symbol. A warning. You paid no mind, but I did. I refuse to have died for nothing. It isn't fair. I will drag you over your floors made with gold and jewels, choke you with your spices and flowers, tear you apart with your silver spoon. Then I can rest. Only then will it be fair.


“I will make money from writing, you'll see!”, I insisted, "To start with, I will win fifty dollars in the Reedsy writing contest!” “What a fortune!”, dad laughed, “I tell you what! I will bet you another fifty bucks that you won’t win but if you somehow do, I won't mention law school anymore and you will be free to become a screw up!”, dad said. “Deal!” *** "It was autumn and it was cold and dark. Leaves were falling out from the trees. Cold wind blew some of the leaves around. Birds were very cold and besides there almost weren’t any birds left cause their went south. Maybe just some crows flying and walking around on the ground, covered with fallen leaves. It was very sad…" “Spare me, dear God!”, Judy said into her coffee mug. She called her dear friend, Martha. “Hey. Martha! Listen to this!” She read some of the story over the phone. “What’s with the trees and birds!”, Martha said laughing. “Right? And have you ever seen a crow covered with leaves before?” "Ha ha ha ha! Please... stop... And those repetitions? This could be taken care of with just one sentence!” “Writing is hard and yet everybody thinks they are a Hemingway these days!”, Judy observed. “Well at least they’re doing something that makes them grow as opposed to whatever stupid stuff kids do nowadays!”, said Martha with a slightly more serious tone. “Good point…” "What was the prompt for this one anyway?", asked Martha. “Write a story about a character who has found something precious”. “Looks like you just found it, ha ha!” *** “Robert submitted his first story to a real writing competition!”, mom announced proudly at the table. I always resented her embarrassing me in front of people. She probably didn't mean it but somehow everything I did sounded childish or weak the way she described it. “Robert, sit up straight, honey! You spend all your days at the computer and if you keep slouching, you will look like Quasimodo at a young age!” She proceeded to scrubbing some imaginary schmutz off my forehead with her saliva moistened thumb. “Mom, please…” I wanted to run as far away from the table as possible. “So what is the story about?”, uncle John rushed to my rescue. I could barely break through my embarrassment. “About a girl who lost a leaf and was trying to find it…”, I mumbled out finally. “Why was she after a leaf?”, asked my cousin, Cody. It always felt like he was out to get me. Ice hockey was all he ever talked about. “It was her lucky leaf…”, I explained. “Couldn’t she just find another leaf and make it her new lucky leaf? I mean there’s plenty of leaves to go around!” Uncle John gave Cody a warning stare. “So did she find it?”, asked mom. “Her friend who was a crow found it for her…”, I said. “I don't get it!”, said Cody. “Cody!”, uncle John interjected. “Sorry…” Dad was quiet. As far as he was concerned I was going to make a fine attorney. “Well, I think it’s a great honor to have a budding writer sit with us at the table”, Aunt Lucy chimed in. “So when will the winner be announced?” “In about a month or so…”, I said. “I’m crossing all my fingers and toes!”, said aunt Lucy. I always liked her. *** “The sea was very stormy…” “Oh, boy, here we go!”, Judy thought. “I think I know where this nautical wonder is going. Let me guess… It was dark as well?” The story continued: “… and very dark.” “Bingo!” “The mast broke on the boat and the sail was all torn in half. Captain was the only person left on the boat that was not dead. The boat was small and made of wood and it was lost at sea…” The prompt was “Write a story about a character who overcame an ordeal”. “That one is impossible to overcome...”, Judy thought. She closed the internet browser and opened Candy Crash instead. *** “What are you doing with your life, Robert!”, dad asked rhetorically. It was clear he meant to point out that I was wasting it. “Dad, I’m trying real hard! My writing's getting much better! I even got a like on Reedsy for my new story about a sea captain who made a hot air balloon out of torn sail fabric…” “That would never work!”, dad blurted out. I wasn’t sure if he was referring to the balloon or my future plans. “I'm just looking out for you, son! Don't you know that even the big shot writers out there are often struggling to make their ends meet? Writing doesn’t pay off, son!” "Dad, we made a deal!”, I reminded him. "All right! I'll be quiet until of course it's your time to pay up from your attorney salary..." "Ugh!" *** “Dorothy seated down on a chair and then took a deep breath and then exhaled and then she was trying to relax but she couldn't. She had a very hard day at work because her boss almost fired her because she was late from flat tire. She had lots of bad memories from childhood and she worried about what will happen next… ” Judy cringed. She wasn’t looking forward to reading through the entire story but she made it far enough to realize it won’t fly. “Write a story about being in the moment” was this week's prompt. Judy has been a Reedsy juror for quite a while now. One of her selections, a fictional story about cicadas, made it all the way to the top but the one she just tried to read would be in the hard rock bottom category. *** There were two months left before my graduation and quite some time passed after I gave up on writing. Not only my stories failed to win the prize but they were ignored by other members of the blog. I submitted one, sometimes even two stories every week but I haven’t received a single like apart from some troll nick named ‘Brat’ who kept liking all my stories, probably just to mock me. “You won, dad! Looks like your son is going to become a lawyer after all!”, I resigned. “Don’t jump the gun, my son!”, Dad said with his head immersed under the open hood of his beloved Corvette. “You’ve got two more months before your time runs out. Submit another one, then you can pay me in cash... or in beer!” “Fine!” I just wanted to put it to bed once and for all. *** Aunt Lucy handed me a mug of hot ginger lemon tea. “So, what did you write about lately? Did you win that contest yet?”, she inquired. “My latest story was about a woman who discovered she could change her entire past with the power of her mind… but... I was hoping we could talk about something else…”, I said. “Sure, Robby! What is it?” “Dad has been a real pain. He keeps pressuring me about that law degree… and since you grew up with His Stubbornness, the King of Asses, I thought maybe you could give me some pointers or even talk some sense into him…” “Oh, Robby, dear! That’s a tough one. As you pointed out correctly, your dad is as stubborn as a tree root! He’s always been a good brother to me but changing his mind about anything has never been easy…” “Was he always like that?”, I asked. “To a certain degree yes, but he became even more strict after he graduated from the military school”. “Figures…”, I sighed. Pause. “Let me show you something…”, aunt Lucy said excitedly. She took me to a spare room in her attic. It was filled with remnants of the past stashed away in boxes and plastic bags ‘just for when’ - the kind of room found in most old American houses. She opened one of the boxes and handed me an old folder filled with some hand written texts. “This is your father’s from when he was about your age…”, she said. I started reading one of the pages: "She opened the gates to the sacred temple of her mind and basked in the sunlight of the moment. Her lustrous thoughts freed themselves up from her tepid body. They meandered in and out like a flickering swarm of newly hatched butterflies. Lightweight, fragile and fleeting, just the way thoughts should be!” “Dad wrote it?”, I asked with surprise. “Yes, my dear! He used to be a budding writer just like yourself. His writing was beautiful, except…” “Except, what?” “His stories, though very well written, lacked a certain spark that would make them worth reading. His writing style was flawless but it always seemed like he was out of stories to tell…” “Can I have these?”, I asked. “You can borrow them for a while. Just don’t tell your father!” “Don’t worry, auntie! I’ll be discrete”. *** “When Chris woke up, he was turned into wolf but he didn’t notice anything for a long time when he was in bed. He noticed that something was different only when he got out of bed. He felt very hungry for raw meat and started crawling around the house on all fours. He also felt like going outside. It was very strange and scary…” Frank kept reading his son’s next submission to Reedsy contest. This one was in response to the prompt “Write a story about a character experiencing a sudden change”. It was awkwardly written, there were redundancies and repetitions all over the place and it was almost impossible to go through except the story line and premise alone were very compelling. It was about a wolf who had a dream about being a human. He gave it a like. “I must say, even though he can’t put a sentence together, that boy has a knack for storytelling”, Frank thought. His chest started feeling heavy and achy out of the sudden... *** They told us to come in a few hours once dad wakes up. He had to go into an emergency surgery right away. It was very fortunate that he was holding his phone when he felt something was wrong. It saved him precious seconds. Now it looked like, for the entire month before my graduation, he will have to be in recovery. When we saw him at the hospital he seemed a little weak but it looked like he was going to be alright. Aunt Lucy was already there. “Robert, my son, I want to tell you something”, dad said with a slightly exaggerated tone of a dying father from Brazilian telenovelas. “What is it, dad?”, I inched closer. He glimpsed at aunt Lucy. She gave him a nod. “Forget about that stupid bet. You don’t have to go to law school. I was wrong to pressure you…” “That’s alright, dad. My mind is already made up. You were right, my writing stinks and I would never survive as a writer. Copyright law seems close enough to my interests and might prove quite useful...” “Yes, your writing does stink but... your stories are wonderful…”, he said. “Wait, what? You've read them?” “Who do you think kept liking them on Reedsy?”, he asked. “Wait! You’re the... ‘Brat’? I should have known that one…”, I said. He chuckled. “There is something I need to tell you too, dad…” “Oh?” “Aunt Lucy showed me the stories you wrote when you were young.” “I know. Your aunt just told me...” She smiled at me. I continued... “Your stories are very…” “Let me guess…”, he interrupted, “They are beautifully written but they lack in storytelling…”, he said as if reciting a threadbare nursery rhyme, “Yeah... I've heard that one many times”. I made a 'you said it' face. Aunt Lucy approached the bed. “Frank, I think you've been a little unfair to Robert. You were almost as insufferable as our dad was to you. At least you didn’t forcefully sign him up for the military school…” “Grandpa did it to you?”, I asked. “He wanted me to serve a cause greater than myself… He couldn’t stand the thought of me wasting my life as a weak writer…” “That’s harsh!”, I said. “I don’t hold any grudges and in the end I’ve been very pleased with my military career, but now I do think he should have let me choose...” We sat in silence for a while. “I have an idea”, aunt Lucy turned to dad, “Since Robert is a born storyteller and you are going to be in recovery for at least few more weeks, how about you two engage in a little father and son bonding project!” “I think I know what you have in mind, Lucy but I don’t know… It’s been too long. I'm pretty sure I've lost my flare…” “Nonsense!”, she protested. She grabbed a notepad and pen and threw it on dad’s bed. “Now! I don’t want to hear any more excuses! Get to work, you two!” She kissed our foreheads and left. *** “Write a story about two characters who solved a dilemma by working together”, was one of this week's prompts. Judy finished reading a story by an anonymous writer nicknamed 'Robrat'. She called her dear friend, Martha. “Hey. Martha! Listen to this!” She read the entire story over the phone. “Looks like you’ve got a winner!”, said Martha.


**Beware of gothic gore! ** Dear Diary, The winter weather arrived more than three weeks early this year with a blizzard that caught us by surprise. We've had to make accommodations to keep the daytime help here in the Château instead of sending them home. The path leading down to Gilberta is too treacherous for travel and will probably remain so for many weeks to come. -Bayle Dear Diary, Monsieur Traver and Mademoiselle Gwendolyn arrived unexpectedly from Paris this morning. From out of a white windy storm, the front door opened, and there they were. I don't know how they made it up the path. Luckily, both Rafe and Saulie were here from the carriage house to see to their cart and the half-frozen horses. -Bayle Dear Diary, I found the door that leads to the cellar unlocked and wide open. Odd, but I don't think anyone noticed. I relocked it. -Bayle Dear Diary, The storms keep raging. We may have a bit of cabin fever already. Perhaps that was why Madame Andress was a bit snippy today about not being able to see out the kitchen window again. I don't know what she expects me to do about it. -Bayle Dear Diary, I found the cellar door open again. As I closed and locked it, I noticed the new girl watching me—Henrietta. "Please keep a close eye on that new girl," I asked Madame Andress. "I think she's up to something." I used my most polite voice. You would have thought I'd asked for the moon. -Bayle Dear Diary, I found the cellar door open three times today, so I closed and locked it three times as well. Rafe caught up with me this afternoon and said his key to the chateau was not hanging in its usual place. He has searched everywhere and cannot find where it's got to. I told him I'd get him another, but later when I opened the closet where the spares were kept, they'd all disappeared. I'll have to speak to Madame Andress. I wonder if Henrietta has anything to do with it. -Bayle Dear Diary, Gwendolyn has been especially mischievous this season. Even though she's middle-aged now, I still think of her as the little mademoiselle. Y esterday, she spent the day following her brother, Traver. Today she is following me. I wonder who will be next. I'm still surprised the two of them are here. I thought for sure they'd stay in Paris for the winter. -Bayle Dear Diary, Madame Andress has asked me to do a better job of keeping the cellar door locked. "The staff are starting to think we have ghosts," she said, and she tried to laugh it off. I, too, have heard the talk. The staff are saying some spirit has come back to haunt us. Well, there are worse things than ghosts. At least ghosts don't bite. -Bayle Dear Diary, I found that new girl Henrietta dead in the dungeon last night. Most of her neck had been torn away. She must have gotten too close to the dungeon bars. It's why we've kept the door locked day and night for all these years. At first, I amazed myself for keeping a calm head. I dragged her body into a separate cell and locked it. Then I fetched buckets of soapy water and cleaned the blood off the dungeon floor. By the time I brought down the meal of raw beef I had served faithfully for nearly twenty years, I was crying. That poor girl. How sad for all these young women to end up in this way, and now—where there had been only two such creatures for years and years, we now had the burden of caring for a third. Madame Marie still wore the tiara they'd laid her out in and the same dress, though it was in tatters now. She gnashed her teeth at me and tried to growl. That priest/alchemist Traver brought in from abroad to help them have a child, gave them both a potion, and they'd taken it together, the two of them. Traver and Marie knew the risks, but they took it anyway. Lucas was born because of it, and what a blessing he is. Tall and strapping. Everyone loves Lucas. However, they hadn't expected Marie to die in childbirth. She was laid her out on the bed in all her finery, and it was winter, or they wouldn't have gotten away with it. When the midwife Cerise, came in to pay her respects, Marie attacked her with long sharp teeth. I was there. So was Madame Andress and Traver. We threw something over her head, so she couldn't bite us and smuggled her down to the dungeon. And Cerise. She was added a few days later. I should have told Madame Andress about Henrietta right away, but instead, I went to Traver, who was writing at his desk. Gwendolyn sat quietly nearby with an embroidery hoop in her lap, a picture of normalcy. "Could I speak to you for a moment, monsieur," I asked. He looked up and rose at once on seeing my expression. Something must have been written on my face. We went out to the hallway. Thankfully, Gwendolyn did not follow. "I found a girl dead," I whispered so Gwendolyn would not hear. "She was killed in the dungeons. I don't know what she was doing down there. Her neck was ripped open." I hesitated a moment to let it sink in. Then I continued. "Someone keeps unlocking and opening the cellar door. I suspected it was the dead girl, Henrietta." Monsieur Traver was shaken. "What should I do?" I asked him. "When others notice her absence, what will I tell them? It was quite late. The staff were in their quarters, keeping warm by their fires, and no one was about. Traver wanted to see. By the time we went down the cellar stairs to the dungeon, Henrietta had come back alive. She was the most grotesque yet, with that open gaping neck. I couldn’t hide my shock. "What have you done, Marie, my lovely night creature?" Traver whispered to the snarling thing in the first cell. "Were you lonely?" I interrupted and asked again, "What shall we do?" Traver squared his shoulders. "We must tell the truth, Bayle. The time has come. Perhaps they will understand." He surveyed the three of them and nodded his head, determination in his expression. I don't know what Traver planned to say, but I planned to let Madame Andress know first. She always seems to have a solution. I never got the chance. When we arrived at the top of the cellar stairs, we found the door closed and locked, with us on the wrong side of it. I had left my key in the door. We didn't want anyone to hear us shouting, so we waited silently and hoped whoever locked us in would return to let us out. I was thankful for the light of my lantern and that we were far enough away not to hear the creatures. It was Gwendolyn who opened the door. She danced with a large ring filled with keys, playing a game. I grabbed for them as she danced past me, but she skittered away. It was by now very late, and everyone was asleep. Surprisingly, no one had reported Henrietta missing. I left Monsieur Traver to deal with his sister and took myself to bed. -Bayle ~*~ (Letter addressed to Madame Laurene Renard from Madame Josephine Andress) My Dear Laurene, I had hoped to welcome you back as the new bride of Château Renard with all the joy and celebration your arrival deserves, but it is not to be so. Instead, you will be greeted at the door with the heartbreaking news that Monsieur Traver has been killed in a tragic accident. I had a room done up beautifully for you and Lucas, but now it matters nothing. I think Monsieur Lucas will not want to stay once his father's funeral and the formalities are over. We are a house of sorrow and secrets once again, and I wonder if the chateau has ever been anything else.

When you arrive, you will no doubt hear from the staff that it was Gwendolyn who pulled the trigger that shot her brother, but I assure you this was not done out of anger or malice. It was but a horrible accident. We found, too late, what she's been up to; stealing the household keys and adding them to a great ring she found somewhere. She's been unlocking the locked doors of Madame Marie's old room, the cellar to the dungeon, and other places, following people, and spying. I can only speculate that she found a gun with a stolen key and took it. When Traver tried to take it away, it went off. By the time any of us realized what had happened, it was too late. That's not all. Bayle caught me last night, just before he turned in. A girl new to the staff was found dead under dreadful circumstances, something that never should have happened. Two deaths in two days. Perhaps the years so plagued with misfortune and sorrow have changed the Château Renard into a beast with a taste for blood. Perhaps she should be set on fire and left to burn to take her secrets to hell. Anyway, I ask mercy for Gwendolyn. She's an innocent, and I love her like my own daughter; I never had any of my own, you see. I still remember when she was born—a tiny fairy creature with pale white hair. There were times when no one could reach her, so lost she was inside her own head. On other days she would dance and play make-believe with her dolls. Those were the good days. She could also be disruptive, as she's been all this winter, but I've always had a way with her. She listens to me. When you and Lucas come, I'd like to return to Paris with you to care for Gwendolyn. Anxiously waiting for your return, Madame Josephine Andress ~*~ (Letter addressed to Eloise Moreau, from Aubrey Moreau) Dear Eloise, Lucas's father, Monsieur Traver is dead. He was killed two mornings ago, shot by his sister, an accident. No one can grasp it. While I'm happy you are safely away in Paris attending to Madam Laurene and Monsieur Lucas, I miss you terribly. It's been horrible at the chateau without you, and every day gets worse; so much worse. To start things off, a new girl, Henrietta, sneaked away to the carriage house to spend the night with Saulie. Her not-slept-in bed scared everyone into thinking the worst, but her remorseless self arrived during a room-to-room search. Madame Andress gave her the scolding of her life. When we found her bed untouched again, several days later, we paid it no mind. However, when Saulie and Rafe plowed a path from the carriage house to the kitchen door because of yet another heavy snow, Saulie told us he hasn't seen Henrietta, and now he's worried along with the rest of us. Ferguson woke up Bayle to help with the search, and that's when a gunshot blasted out—the gunshot that killed Monsieur Traver. Bayle gave us the rest of the day off to mourn, and it didn't seem appropriate to bring up Henrietta's absence. No one ate the noon meal, and after cleaning up, I went to the common room with everyone else, but instead of mourning Monsieur Traver, I mourned Henrietta. I keep imagining her frozen to death in the storm outside. I regret not being kinder. The next morning when Bayle didn't come to breakfast, Ferguson left to check on him and found his bed empty and unslept in. We broke into groups and began another search. We found the cellar door to the dungeon wide open. Ferguson thought Bayle might have gone down to the cellar, and worried something may have happened to him. "The stairs are very steep. I think we should check," he said. No one said a word. "We should wait for Madame Andress," I warned, but it was as if I'd never spoken. "Is anyone willing to come with me?" Ferguson looked hopeful, but no one replied. His face then got up some courage, and he grabbed a lantern for light then disappeared down the steps. "Come back," I shouted. (Or maybe I only whispered.) "It's too dangerous. There are big rats down there!" I knew Bayle took a domed platter of raw beef to the dungeon each night. I told you about it, remember? Bayle told me it was poisoned meat for the rats. "Dungeon rats are huge. Do stay away," he cautioned. Anyway, Ferguson disappeared. We couldn't see him anymore, and we barely breathed as we waited. Our ears strained to hear something. "Ferguson! Are you alright?" someone shouted. There was no answer at first, but moments later, he cried out from somewhere deep within the cellar. Nothing could persuade anyone of us to venture down that steep dark staircase, so we just stood there, willing Ferguson to come back unharmed. Suddenly he came running up the stairs. He'd lost the lantern but held Bayle's ring of keys. His arm dripped blood. "What happened?" we asked. "Did you find Bayle? Is he alright?" He never got the chance to answer. Madame Andress appeared from out of nowhere, her face white with fury, or maybe it was fear. She reached for the keys and locked the cellar door. "It looks like a rat bite," she said of his wound. "They carry disease and start plagues. You'll need to be isolated for a few days." She took Ferguson away by his good arm. Mademoiselle Gwendolyn followed. When I tried to follow, Jared held me back. (Do you remember Jared? Tall, handsome, brown curly hair?) "Let them go," he said, but Saulie followed them and reported back that they had climbed the tower to the turret room at the top. We stared at the locked cellar door. No one moved. I tried my best not to think, but I was terrified. Was Bayle down there? Henrietta? "Something's not right," Rafe said. "If Bayle is in trouble, we need to check on him. Stay here and watch for Madame Andress while I search her room for another key. Let me know right away if she comes." We waited in silence. I let my imagination search for answers. "What if Rafe doesn't come back?" Natalie asked. "Are we going to disappear one by one?" I wanted to tell her to shut up. Rafe returned about ten minutes later carrying a book. "Bayle kept a diary," he said. "I couldn't find a key." We passed the diary around from person to person, until horror filled every heart. "What shall we do?" someone asked. Ideas from barricading ourselves in the kitchen, to taking our chances in the storm and walking all the way to Gilberta, were tossed about. We were close to panic. Rafe and Jared were the only voices of reason. Together we’ve decided to go to the carriage house for now and when the wind dies, in days or weeks, we'll make our way to Gilberta and enlist the help of the authorities. We're anxious to get there before dark. Jared says to gather quilts and blankets for wrapping the supplies we need and that everyone should pair up. No one should be alone. So, that's how it is. I'm paired up with Jared. I have everything I own in one blanket and food packed in another. We're waiting for the others to finish up. I'm leaving this letter for you to find, next to the one Madame Andress has left for Madame Laurena. I also left Bayle's diary. Read it before you start opening doors and stay out of the dungeons and the turret room. Perhaps when you return, Madame Andress will greet you at the door with a smile and Ferguson and Gwendolyn will be drinking tea. Hopefully, you'll find the rest of us warm and safe in Gilberta. Love to you, my dearest sister, Always and forever, Aubrina ~*~ To: 1022 Willow Place, Paris, France Monsieur Travis and Monsieur Lucas Renard, I regret to inform you that the Chateau Renard caught fire in the night, but with the weather being as it is, there was nothing we could do to save it. A day later, we could still see the smoke and flames. Our prayers are for your staff. We pray they found refuge in one of your outbuildings and will remain together until we can send a rescue party. I assure you that as soon as the weather clears, everything possible will be done to bring them to safety and a full investigation will ensue. With regrets, -Graham Blanchard, Gilberta Village Chief


"Pardon me," a woman says as she tries to navigate her way through a crowded sidewalk to her cab. “Pardon me,” I say mockingly, pretending to do the same. “O, why do you even go the lengths to mock these people, they can’t even hear you!” Sheldon said.  “Well, some can,” I say smiling big.  Sheldon rolls his eyes and we both continue down the busy city street. “I mean seriously, who talks like that; no one.” “Why do you always have an attitude,”? Sheldon responded with annoyance, “This has been an everyday thing and I’m wondering if this is going to be you for the rest of my lifetime.” “WHAT LIFETIME, WERE DEAD!” I yell. We both stopped and looked at each other. It had been a year since the car accident. My boyfriend, my best friend, her boyfriend (Sheldon) and I were T boned. The passenger side where Sheldon and I were sitting was struck hard killing us instantly. “I also don’t have to be reminded every 5 minutes of that either.”  We continue to walk. “I’m sorry, you’re right. But it’s all so confusing.” Sheldon nods in agreement. “I mean nothing is like I thought it would be when I died, you know. I though you die then you get judged, then you live your life in either heaven or hell.” “What life remember?” Sheldon says slightly joking but with understanding. “But I get it.” “Thank you, I keep wondering if this is hell? Living, or whatever we’re doing.” “Being.” Sheldon said. “Right being in the living world but not in it. I guess being on the underside of the living world. Having consciousness, but technically not having a body. Like I can see you, but I don’t see a body I just see a… a… a soul…. a persona… a..” “A being.” Sheldon says.  We both chuckle. “A being really describes it perfectly.” “Then why are you so confused?” Sheldon questions. “Well because we technically don’t have a body. And we know that emotions are stored in the body, so I’m trying to figure out why I have emotions and why I can feel them intensely’? Sheldon gives me a puzzled look. “I don’t know. I feel like I can feel my emotions and my emotions of my past lives even though I can’t remember me having a past life. Well besides the last life. I’m not sure if I would call it my past life or my last life.” Sheldon laughs. “See how confusing this is. I also didn’t expect to be in middle earth with no way out of here. No one to talk to but fellow ghosts, until they just randomly disappear. I thought the worst that could happen was dying. My whole life I have literally held on to the fear of dying. Just to realize that dying was the easy part. It’s dying and not having anywhere to go afterward. It’s dying and seeing anyone I want to see, but they can’t see or hear or touch me. O, why didn’t anyone warn me?”  “And who was supposed to do that, Sheldon asked.  “A ghost of course!” I say with feigned enthusiasm. “Look at it this way. You can go wherever you want to go. See any and every place you ever imagined. Observe. And absorb. Do you know anything about oneness. Mindfulness. I think that sort of thing could prepare you better than anyone’s expertise about death.” Sheldon said in a matter-of-fact way. “I’ve heard of oneness and mindfulness, but I’ve never practiced it before. Why do you think mindfulness is the key to escaping hell.” I said frankly. “Because that’s the only cure to loneliness that I have found. And that sounds like the problem you are having.”  “It is a plethora of problems I’m having.” I say clearly frustrated “Whoa, whoa wait. Time out. WE ARE DEAD as you like to remind me every so often. Are you telling me that your problems have yet to cease?” Sheldon asked. “I am telling you that I’m still suffering.” I say. We walk in silence. I watch the cars go by and listen to the hustle and bustle of the city. Manhattan is just like I remember it. It was my favorite place to visit when I was in college. Sheldon was right. I can go anywhere I want. Do anything I want. But here I am finding a reason to sulk. Well, isn’t that what ghosts do. I smile to myself at the thought of identifying myself as a ghost. I am not a ghost I wanted to so proudly say, think, and feel. The reality of the situation is that I am a ghost. A ghost stuck in the underside of the world. Death is prison, I keep thinking. “You are going to turn into one of those hooded crypt keeper looking ghost if you don’t learn.” Sheldon utters. “Learn what?” I ask. “Acceptance.” Sheldon says. Acceptance, I think, is this man crazy? Who would accept such a horrible fate? What I am experiencing is total and complete nothingness every day. My mind is plagued with the thought of what was. The crazy most paradoxical thing is that when I was alive all I could think about was what was to be. The future. Here I am now, with no future, just another past life. We arrive at the Empire State building. I look up at its massive stature. I am ready to go up. We could just float to the top of the building but being human for a lifetime conditions you to remain within the confines of the laws of physics at times. We decide to take the elevator. One thing about being a ghost, I can choose the experiences I want to have. Not just whether we’re going to Guam or Tokyo, but whether I want to experience things as a human or a ghost. We get to the top and Sheldon and I float the roof and take a seat. “The city is beautiful.” I sighed. I close my eyes and imagine what it would have been to see this when I was alive. “You have to stop doing this” I say to myself out loud. “What”? Sheldon asked genuinely concerned. “I have to accept this life as a ghost Sheldon.” I will forever keep torturing myself. It’s been a constant struggle for a year and I can feel myself turning into the grim reaper himself.” “O so you are deciding to take my advice finally. Look I’m not perfect. Sometimes I dwell too, but the point is that this is final and we can’t change this. So, it’s better to just accept it. And practice mindfulness.” We both came together and sat in silence. I thought about my life; my now past life and I mourned. I mourned my family and my friends. I mourned my boyfriend, my job, and my future plans. One by one for hours, I mourned things, places, and people. After a while mourning began to feel like soul cleansing, and I knew that acceptance was what I needed. When I finally looked up at Sheldon, I could tell he was in a better place as well. I close my eyes and when I looked up again, Sheldon was gone. I began to feel my being floating involuntarily towards a light. It was too bright for me to look at, but I could feel the energy from the light drawing me closer. I didn’t fight. I had no more questions. I only had acceptance. Acceptance for what was, what is, what is to be.