ELLISON IN PARADISE “Isn’t it just WONDERFUL to be able to live out your WHOLE life on a tropical ISLAND like this!” Ellison is one of those persons who do not ever really listen to other people; she does not need to. She KNOWS. Early in her life, she had made up her mind about life, the universe and everything . Not only is she certain about everything concerning herself, she also instinctively knows (so she is convinced) what others need or think. When she does (appear to) ‘listen’, it is merely to catch a keyword or two, as convenient hooks on which to hang her pennants of sagacity. She is unable to understand the ancient islander’s answers anyway; he does not speak her language, nor does she his . How well their interpreter (whose command of English is basic at most) manages to translate her ebullient outpourings, nobody knows. Given that she is not genuinely interested in the old man’s sentiments, the fidelity of the renditions of his words does not matter much. Their torturous interchange is taking place on a truly picturesque island on the southeast coast of Africa, a two-hour boat ride away from the troubled mainland. Inhabited by an ancient tribe of fisher folk, it has only recently been ‘discovered’ as a quint and unspoiled (not likely for much longer) potential destination for wealthy international tourists.

Ellison herself is no mere tourist; she is here as an esteemed member of a band of gold-standard tour-operators, visiting the island to gauge its suitability as exotic holiday haven for their upper-crust clients.

Her interviewee, in contrast, is dirt-poor. He is rumoured to be the oldest inhabitant of the small island. Their innovative interpreter is a younger islander, one who had enjoyed some schooling on the mainland and picked up some English in one of the larger towns ‘over there’. The aged islander has an earnest request for his important visitor; it is the sole reason he agreed to the awkward interview. He has been waiting for the right moment to voice his desire – his fervent longing to escape! “The old man, he says”, the interpreter reliably relates, “Him want to go to mainland, want to see world before he die.” “No, he DOESN’T!” Ellison counters decisively. “This life is just PERFECT!” She whirls her body around, her outstretched arms enveloping the whole land- (and sea-)scape. “Just LOOK at it all! It’s a HEALTHY, SIMPLE, PERFECT place! Why would anyone EVER want to leave it? Oh, if we could just ALL live like THIS, the world would be a much BETTER place!” Technically, she is, of course, correct, but wholly unaware of the deeper truths underlying her flippant remark and its implications for people like her, as much as she is blithely unconscious of what hardship their lifestyles causes the global poor. “We have problems!” responds the interpreter on his own, then, conveys his remark to his kinsman, who solemnly agrees: “Yes, often we have droughts and famines. Then no fruit. No vegetables. No help from government. Only fish.” Ellison manages to catch the key words ‘ fruit’, ‘vegetables’ and ‘fish’. “Precisely!” she gushes. “To eat a HEALTHY Mediterranean diet every day, fish, coconuts, uh, pumpkins? whatever, for…” She glances at the old man, then look at the interpreter. “How OLD is he?” A short interchange, then he replies: “About 77, he not very sure.”

“SEVENTY-seven years of healthy food each day and… just LOOK at him, doesn’t look a DAY over 55!” The interpreter looks at the old man with reappraising eyes; 99 is what he would have guessed. “Also”, continues the old islander via his helper, “not always get plenty fish. Foreigners come with big boats, catch too many fish. Other time, big ship breaks, oil over everything. Sometimes…” “FISH OIL!” interrupts Ellison, “just ONE of the many beneficial NATURAL indigenous MEDICINES. I bet they have lots of traditional HERBS and potions, and secret recipes carried over from GENERATION to generation. Here you have a healthy, absolutely SELF-SUFFICIENT community! Our type of guests will just LOVE it!” Dubiously, the duo responds: “There is no hospital here. Only small clinic. Few medicines. Crooked officials. Big bribe to get medicine. If go to hospital on mainland, most never return. Others come back worse or die.” The interpreter adds: “Old cures, traditions lost after war. Many people displaced. Many die. Some old women try to be healers; only make people die quicker”. “You just don’t know HOW LUCKY you primitive people are! With your rustic philosophy of life, you simply ACCEPT illness and death as part of life. You have it so much easier than us who STRUGGLE with the very concept of suffering and loss. How we should all desire to be MORE LIKE YOU!” For the interpreter this is pure Greek. To the old man he says: “You not worry about many words. White woman speak crazy!” “O, if it could have been possible for ME to live out the rest of MY LIFE like this! Sadly, people like me are so BURDENED by responsibilities! But just imagine: to SWIM in this warm, calm tropical bay each day; to leisurely STROLL along these pristine beaches; to relax in the mellow evening BREEZE…” This time the translator catches the drift. The old man listens intently, then responds with an affirmative nod: “WIND, yes, we have lots of wind . Every summer big storm come, sometimes more. More, bigger, stronger cyclone every year. Blows off our roofs, sometimes whole house. Too much rain. Road like river. Water at windows. Many people die. Some when houses fall. Others drown. Then, later, many sickness come. Also, many boats broken, others wash away. Not enough food, too little fishing.” “Oh, I just LOVE your quaint little HAND-crafted fishing boats. Takes one right back to ANCIENT times. Such a NOBLE age-old profession. Primitive man against NATURE, proudly providing bounty for his family. HEALTHY eating, too; fish is beneficial for development of the BRAIN, they say. Your CHILDREN must be very clever!” She does not seem quite convinced of her own last remark. Adding his own embittered musings to the old man’s response, the interpreter wearily (and in vain) relates: “Only small school. Teachers not good. Too many children. Some go morning, some afternoon, some evening. Not enough books. Must pay bribes for children to pass. Few go to mainland for high school. Most not ready there; come back. To pass, girls must sleep with teacher. When pregnant, school finished. She comes home. Men not want to marry her.” “Your WOMEN must be the most contented in the world! Life is so SIMPLE here, so basic: only a small HUT to clean. Healthy FOOD to prepare for her precious family. Few CLOTHES to wash. Time spent with the EXTENDED family. No extraneous CAREER! So much elementary FULFILMENT!” “Wives work very hard . Must try find enough food. Rice expensive. Little money. Cook slowly on fire. Wood scarce. Walk far to pick up driftwood. No water in house. Bring with pails. Many children die young. Many sickness come. Much grief. Women get old quickly . Also, many husbands drink too much palm wine, hit wives, children. One policeman, never take side of women”. Neither the old man nor the interpreter sound the least proud of this facet of their island culture. They look ashamed and weary. “Only ONE policeman! I guess there is LITTLE crime here, in such a warm, close-knit COMMUNITY, where everyone KNOWS one another. I’m SO jealous. You cannot believe how tough WE have it in our cities: all those break-ins, carjackings, fraud… oh, not to even mention the DRUGS. How I ENVY you!” Much of these remarks pass right over their heads. Drugs they understand. The translator himself relates with anguish in his voice: “Smugglers come here with drugs in boats. Force our young men to take it to mainland. Bring elephant tooth, hard wood. Pay little. When police act (if not helping criminals), our sons, not smugglers, go to jail. If we not obey, they kill! ” Ellison, of course, only hears what she wants to hear. This time she prefers to hear nothing. Disagreeable facts can only derail her well-crafted myths. The islanders sorrowfully continue: “Also, last year, extremists come. Sons must be soldiers for them. If not, cut off heads. We are so fearful. Government is useless, afraid. World does not care”. “Yes, indeed, you SHOULDN’T have a care in the world . Imagine, no TV, no radio, no newspapers, no knowledge of all the CRAZY happenings in the cruel world outside. Few responsibilities. Safely ISOLATED on your remote utopia!”

The interpreter is starting to believe that the old man must be senile. How can he continue to listen to all this rubbish, even if somewhat diluted by means of his own creative renderings? It looks progressively more justified to feed her to the sharks (“Yes, we have them too!”), the longer the so-called ‘conversation’ drags on. However, the old man struggles on bravely in the face of her vocal torrents. “We have radio. We know about world. We have politics. In village we have two headmen. War disrupted everything. Some men become soldiers. Some girls were stolen away. Some strangers come here to flee enemy. Families become broken. Traditions get confused. Two men claim to be real chief. Their sons, now grandsons, still fight. Peace? No peace.” None of these lamentable chronicles should have been novel to Ellison (if she managed to hear anything at all, or did a little bit of basic research). Everything the old man shared with her is simply recently recorded history (admittedly, buried deep below weighty gossip about celebrities and news of momentous first-world problems). Indeed, the world does not seem to care much for the island folk. “Oh how DELIGHTFUL!” interjects Ellison. “I’ll have SO many stories to tell my friends when I get home. ‘The tale of the village with two heads’ . One could make a SHORT story out of it.”

She seems to be already composing it in her mind, her eyes staring off into the distance. She abruptly returns to the moment. “Sorry, what did HE just say?” “He wants to know, you take him in big boat to mainland, to see big world?” This single time Ellison manage to grasp it all. She mulls the request over in her calculating mind. “I guess I COULD talk to the manager. It will make another nice after-dinner STORY, good promotional stuff too. ‘His FIRST time off the island in 77 years! '. Great! I’ll QUICKLY go and ask him”. She trots off towards the rest of her group. The old man frowns. He is starting to wonder about the wisdom of his plan. Turning to his friend, he worriedly inquires: “THEY ALL LIKE THAT OUT THERE?” The interpreter shakes his head. “Some, not all! Thanks heaven, not all of them!”

Watching Ellison tripping away, the islanders solemnly shake their heads. She does too.

“Imagine, wishing to LEAVE the island, when you have practically been living in PARADISE your whole life long!”


The day that the witch was meant to hang, a black cat darted across the road in front of Verity Adams’ window.

Verity watched it go, hurrying across the lane and disappearing beneath her window as if it knew how cursed and unwanted it was in this town. It looked like an average black cat — like two bright green eyes in a cat-shaped void — but she knew it would be a grim reminder of what had been on the townspeople’s minds for the longest time: witches. Salem had been swept up, among other towns, in a full-blown witch hunt. Feuding neighbors accused each other of witchcraft; girls and women wilted before a council as they asked them questions that couldn’t be answered; those who weren’t on the stand anxiously counted down the minutes until they were accused; condemned after condemned died by the gallows as the days went on. It had been weeks and there were no signs of stopping. Verity stretched, raising her arms above her head. She had been sitting in the small room for hours now, and her limbs were stiff from lack of movement.

She knew the townspeople would think of witches if they found the cat beneath her window. Everything seemed to scream witchcraft lately. If you could swim or read, if something mildly inconvenient happened while you were around, if you did anything abnormal at all, you might as well tie the noose around your own neck.

Nevertheless, Verity stood, stretching her legs, and opened the window to search for the cat. Its two large, green eyes were the only thing she could see of the cat. Despite its previous furtivity in trying to scurry across the road, it seemed perfectly calm right now. Verity clicked her tongue softly, beckoning the cat closer. When it came close enough to the window, she gently lifted it up into her arms, backing into the room and closing the window behind her. The cat jumped out of her arms almost immediately, but when it landed on the floor, it was no longer a cat. It was a young man with dark hair and bright green eyes, the exact shade the cat’s eyes had been.

“Good afternoon, Will,” Verity said. “Good afternoon,” Will replied. His green eyes seemed to glow in the now semi-darkness, which wasn’t surprising — he was Verity’s magical familiar, after all. “Busy week?” “Not really,” Verity replied. Her father was a doctor, and she helped her mother’s side business as an apothecary. Business had been slow the past couple of weeks, and not just because of the declining population in their town. “Everyone is more suspicious of us these days.” “I understand.”

“How was Plymouth?”

“Rather boring, if I’m being honest.” Verity smiled. Though he was mostly human now, he still acted like a cat. There were voices outside. A spike of alarm pierced her heart. Was it time? She peered out the window. The noise had come from down the street. Verity relaxed, watching as the townspeople left the meeting house, discussing the trial. More likely than not, there would be a new resident awaiting death at the prison within the hour. “Verity?” Verity knew the process: first they would drag you to court to answer questions before the judge, the governor, the minister. They demanded to know everything. How long have you been a witch? When did you make your covenant with Satan? Why did you curse your fellow townsfolk? When you couldn’t answer any of the questions to their satisfaction, everyone muttered among themselves that you were certainly a witch. Verity, along with many other girls, had watched the process uneasily, knowing the whole affair was the scale of justice tipped against the undeserving accused and wondering if she would be the next one to suffer through the questioning.

“Verity?” Will called her name for the second time. “Is everything alright?” She exhaled deeply, trying to slow the quick beating of her heart. It would do no good to think about it at this point. “Everything is fine,” Verity said. “There has been a lot of action lately. I suppose you’ve guessed that we’re in the midst of a witch hunt.” “I heard them say they’ve found a witch,” Will said. “They say she’s on house arrest now.” His tone invited an explanation. He probably deserved one, since he’d been away for so long. However, Verity wasn’t in the mood to give one, and even if she was, she doubted she could. “Did they find a real witch?” Will asked. “One of ours?” Verity shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

Will sighed in relief, then asked, “Who?” Once again, Verity shook her head. She returned to her bed, where she’d been sitting earlier, and forced down her panic. They weren’t coming for her. Not yet. “Verity, you’re worrying me,” Will said anxiously. “What happened?” “Will,” Verity said, not as a warning, but as a plea. She sighed. She wished he’d come later, when it would be safe, when it was too late to complicate things by trying to intervene, but there was no helping it now. Verity buried her face in her hands. What was she to do now? There was nowhere to go, and the longer Will stayed here, the longer he was unsafe. “Verity —” “Will, I intend to terminate our bond.” Will flinched as if she’d hit him. “What?” “I must terminate our bond.” Hurt flashed across Will’s face; he masked it quickly, but Verity had known him long enough to see her words hurt him.

“You don’t wish me to be your familiar any longer?” Will asked. His voice conveyed what his face did not. They’d been working together for nearly ten years now, and they were as close as brother and sister. Under normal circumstances it would be insane to terminate such a bond, but Verity knew her stubborn cat would fight too hard when they came for her, and he would only get hurt. Voices outside again. Verity’s pulse quickened as the voices grew closer. It was definitely time. She had to do this quickly.

“Will, I’ve always considered you to be my brother, and I your sister. You know I would never break a bond unless there was a good reason. You’ve been away too long to realize how dangerous it is here. To even be associated with a suspected witch is to condemn yourself.” Will’s look of hurt changed to one of horror. “But — do you mean to say —” “William Bourne, faithful Cat, I release thee to live thine own life. We are unbound, I am no longer thy Familiar, you are no longer mine. I release thee to thine own life.” Will pulled back his sleeve, searching for a binding mark on his forearm that was no longer there. “Verity —”

Verity heard the front door open. They were coming for her, they were here, there was nothing she could do now. “I’m sorry, Cat. But it had to be done. Now go before they capture you, too.” Will held her gaze for a count of three. “Go, Cat.” Will hesitated. Then, reluctantly, he turned back into a cat and leapt out of the window whence he came. A moment later, the sheriff, followed closely by the Reverend and the governor, entered her room. “Your time is up, witch,” the sheriff said. “Now, come.” Gathering her courage, Verity turned away from the window, where a dark blur was running back across the street, to face the sheriff. She nodded, signaling that she would not resist. It seemed like the whole town had come to watch her death as if it was a twisted play. The people she’d known her whole life had arrived to watch her take her final breath, and Verity knew they’d view it with satisfaction. She didn’t hear her own death sentence read out; she was scanning the crowd for someone she was praying wouldn’t see what would come next. She didn’t hear the Reverend saying a prayer for her soul, she was trying not to look into the eyes of the girls who’d pointed at her and said “witch” after they’d promised their friendship years before.

“Verity Adams, do you have any final words to say before your fellow countrymen and before God?” asked the minister. She had lots of things to say. She’d been thinking about it for days. However, all the words in her mind seemed to have floated away. She said softly to the minister, “Please end it quickly. My life, and this senseless massacre.” The rope was rough against her skin; the wind was cold against her face. She closed her eyes as the rope closed around her neck. She blocked the noise of the minister claiming her soul for God and announcing her necessary death.

The ground fell beneath her feet. A crow cawed and broke the eerie silence.


ten. “Hi.”

I look up to the source of the voice. There stands a woman, sunny hair, umber skin, and eyes like the coffee swirling in my cup. Frills brush her neck, a bloody brooch resting at the hollow of her throat. The rest of her outfit echoes the frilly sentiment, white and plaid with brogues on shoes bearing intermittent patches of dirt and white petals. Her fingers tighten around her bag strap as she extends a hand.

“I’m Amelia—you must be Wichita?” Closing the book, I shake her hand. Yes, that would be me,” I say, setting the book face down beside my coffee. The cup is growing cold—I don’t even like coffee. Instead, I slide over a plate of strawberry cheesecake, two forks glinting on either side of blush-coloured desert, a single heart shaped strawberry sitting on top. “Hopefully I didn’t make you wait too long?” Amelia laughs, taking a seat. She shakes her head, sunlight flying from her braids. There is a dip in the left side of her cheek, growing deeper as she eyes the cake like a bird does sparkling trinkets. “No.” Putting on my best smile, I pass her a fork. “You’re just in time.” nine. It’s hard for humans to conceptualize the fourth dimension as anything but a straight line, a river flowing from a point we cannot see to a point we cannot identify. We try, sometimes, to fold time into a box within a box, the shape endlessly consuming itself as we do with the memories that so often pass by. A smile, a touch, the press of a forehead to mine where cold plastic now rests—a link of chains, one memory connects me to another until I’m pressed back into my seat thinking of how I got here. The weight of the earth pushes me down, forcing me to tilt my head back. Aquamarine reflects across my eyes, light glinting off the visor. Fingers of warmth hold me close, a bracketed hand to keep the cold out as we climb. Everything is so fast, the images that flash by are but blurry steaks glowing with emotion. eight. “Wichita,” she says, gesturing me over. “Come see! It’s awake.” A sigh accompanies the smile I can’t keep away as I press a hand to Amelia’s shoulder. “I’m here, love. What is it?” Looking up, Amelia sends me a smile that rivals the sun. She’s radiant, the lines on her face indicative of her time spent on this world. Silver threads through golden locks, laying in a braid across the tattoo on her bared clavicle. The strap of her overalls falls aside forgotten, a spade peeking from the pocket at the centre with a sunflower painted on it. Squeezing my hand, she pulls me down to her garden of hopes and dreams. A laugh escapes, unbidden. “The succulent is peeking out! I wasn’t sure if it would take considering the landscape, but it’s succeeded my expectations.” Amelia waves a dirty hand across the plants. Three of them— Amoura, Constantine , and Big Tom —all large and green with ripened leaves, dirt spilling around the bottom of the pot. But there is a fourth pot, Ira , the colour of a burning sunset dotted with white childlike spots. A near translucent tendril peeks from the fresh dirt. Earth fills my nose as I coo at our new plant child. Wet lips press to my cheek, startling Big Tom’s leaves from my hand. “Amy!” “Witch,” she teases, nosing my jaw like a cub in need of affection. “We did good, didn’t we?” Waxy leaves between my fingers, the hair-like brush of Ira’s sprout—slow growths of life, new things that need tender hands and patient hearts. Everything I am not, but she is. “We did.” seven. When you spend your whole life watching a horizon that never moves, you never think of anything else. Not of what happens when the ground opens up beneath your feet, nor when the sky rests just inches from your fingertips. Trapped in a cylinder of steel, worked over by minds that know only numbers, is one of many meanings of discomfort. Another is a blanket of darkness across the sky, or where you think the sky is. Oppressive like a smothering hug, walls far too close to touch with no discernible division where the metal was sheared together by human hands. Sometimes we’re too smart to see the danger—that point where the animal brain takes over to send you scrabbling at walls for purchase as ambition climbs ever higher. A long breath and I blink to clear the fluid away. The strain makes pushes a hollow through my chest, abdomen heavy with the equipment vital to life. Luckily our fear as a civilization has made us paranoid, scared of the very slow lions that permeate everyday life. Still, there are those who stare into the abyss, the eyes of megafauna watching from corners yet unexplored. six. “I’m not sure about this—” The words are cut off as Amelia tugs me into a precarious spin. The ice is firm but my heart is not. A hummingbird in my chest, I grasp her forearms for balance, sending her a look . Eyes following the scuffed toes of her skates, I’m able to get some semblance of balance. The rink around us is full of others in similar states, tripping to the frigid floor and skating in groups with arms interlinked like a life vest. “Amelia… I hate this,” I say, unable to keep the whine at bay. She merely laughs, sliding back as a swan through water. Atop her head is a hat she knitted herself, matching the one hiding my hair. A single fishtail swims at her back, stark against the bloody coat that keeps her warm. Her gloved fingers twine through mine, long and thick to my patchwork mittens. “Relax Wichita, you’re getting the hang of it.” She whispers, tinged with laughter. “I won’t let you fall.” “That’s what you said before I fell—three times!” I can’t help but huff. Pushing my body forward, I try to match her footwork as she skates in reverse. A quill across a page, we trace shapes in the ice, marking it with the words of my efforts. I look up at smiling red lips, and that is my downfall. I’m not sure who falls first, but soon I find myself meeting gemstone eyes, crinkling at the corner from a pained chuckle. Apologies fall from my mouth. Our breaths come out as clouds, hiding the words I cannot say. The things too precious for even the air to hold. It’s silly—Amelia can’t help but make the joke. But that’s when I know—I know who I belong to, the flowers amid my tangle of thorns. A searing hand over her mouth, she throws her head back and giggles, “It seems I’ve fallen for you again.” five. Breaking through the clouds is like diving into the depths. Through a layer of unmoving ice and snow, humans punch into the beyond as they do the watery world below. We try to bend it to our will, light the darkness, map the caverns of our world to fill the spaces in our hearts and mind. We are caught in between, dragged along fourth dimensional rivers as we go to extremes to stake a place in the ceaseless marching. We stumble, we trip, we fall—and hand in hand, humanity goes on. My hands curl on my seat, fingers pressed to thermal fabric in search of what I know. The strain is nearly unbearable, and my eyes are forced to close. Like a marble in a tin can, I tremble. The cold takes me close, but part of my shivering comes from somewhere else. A dark fear, tendrils of longing with roots as far deep as unexplored trenches. four. “I have something for you, Witch!” She says in the tone of voice I know just screams trouble. Beneath a knit hat resembling a cat, Amelia wears a smile just as crafty. She stands in the hall, with something behind her back. A grey strand of hair hangs in her eye, distinct from the yellow field tumbling down her back. Despite the autumn chill, her skirt reaches just above her knees above a pair of tights that look they had scissors taken to them—a fact I can imagine with startling clarity. “Can I come in?” Softly breathing, I guide her inside. There was no other answer—I am a willing satellite in the orbit of a woman like the sun. She knows the way like the back of her hand, making a beeline to the couch. In her lap rests a box hastily wrapped in rosy paper bearing her signature scrawl. “That for me?” I pick it from her eager hands and turn around. Hair falls into her eyes, and she pushes it back to hook her chin over my shoulder. A warm huff of breath prickles the skin there, the sensation new but familiar. Once the string is pulled, the rest comes away easily. A blossom unfurling, the box falls apart to reveal a small plant with strange tendrils, green fingers twisting among each other. “It’s a Capitata Peach!” Amelia cheers, forgetting to regulate her volume. I pat her cheek and she quiets, but energy thrums from her form as she kneels before me, a worshipper. Raising the standard green pot, I eye the plant. There is a ladybug perched on a leaf. “A… peach plant?” “No, it’ll turn peach in the future,” she says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What’re you naming it? You have to give it a name, it’s the law.” If she says it is, it must be. In the space formed by the curve of her nose and the dip in my shoulder rests a certain trust. Nurtured by months and tended to by effort. Like the effort it takes to grow a plant—this silly plant I now have to care for. But I know I will—there was never anything else. “So the name?” Amelia pushes. “… Amoura.” three. We are pulled to the earth—by gravity, by human nature, or some other force. There is a part of us that long to delve into the natural, immerse ourselves in the waters of a world growing smaller by the day. And every day as we are pulled to the earth, so too are other celestial bodies to us. Feet to the dirt and hands to the stars, reaching for things beyond the little blue dot, an eye in the cosmic expanse. To think humanity the centre of the universe—it’s the way it’s always been. We’ve tried—we’re there—and at least we can be sure what awaits when we return. The floor presses up into me, a sound like water rushing through my ears. Explosions, a thousand times a minute, are occurring just below. As I am pushed away from all I know, the stars envelop me. Darkness fills my visor only for a moment before—the sun. The sun, a smile, burning light I can touch if only I reach out. Tears blur the sight, but emotions fill in the rest. two. “So you’re going there?” Amelia’s voice is barely a whisper. A shower of meteors blurs across my vision, the image burned to the back of my eyes. Glancing to the side, I’m met with earthen eyes, the stars reflected in them. The moon highlights her face, shadowing filling the valleys and contours. A braided crown of spun gold sits on her head, held in place by hidden pins. She pulls up her turtleneck and meets my eye. It’s chilly yet her hands are bare. There is dirt beneath the chipped nail polish. “Hopefully,” I say, shrugging her heated gaze from my face. “Haven’t heard back from the company yet.” Pinpricks of warmth seem to follow me as I lean back, grass tickling my sides. Like a green shag rug, the field stretches in every direction, and we are but splotches of colour. In the sky above, the silent show continues. The stars that fall are ones we cannot touch, but still, my gaze tries to follow each white streak in the heavens. “Space is so far away, don’t you think?” Amelia falls back beside me, hand clasped over her stomach. “I like it here where I can smell the dirt, drown in green rivers of moss, brush the dust from waxy leaves.” I wonder what they call homesickness of the earth—whatever it is, she embodies it in every facet, covered in vital greenery and the stains of life. “There are gardens in space—for air.” “But here, air is free.” She turns her head, grass kissing her cheek. The cold is barely an inconvenience among the dirt and weeds. “And here is where I am.” A digit tugs at my pinkie, slender and calloused. A stranger in the night, tension flees my form. Our fingers interlock, a single connection stronger than gravity. Meteors continue to fall, white rain on a cosmic backdrop I can’t comprehend. “Here is where we are.” one. Eons and eras, centuries and years, humanity has tried to put meaning into bodies so far away they’re dying as we see them. Impossible shapes and sacred patterns. It’s what we are wont to do. Time and time again we are caught endlessly staring at the stars, tracing the paths we dream to take somewhere along the river. A smile the devil would long for, a laugh like water rushing down the slope of a leaf. When time runs out, we’ll always have the memories, consumed by minds caught by the unstoppable currents of that dimension. Eyes wide I watch the world fall away until there is nothing for darkness under my feet. Like kisses across a dark field of skin, the stars fill my vision as I trace Amelia’s name in the stars. Though we are not together, you are here with me. I hoped to find you out there—out in the endless where there are dreams and love and promises.


( WARNING Themes of substance abuse, mental health, and death) A few feet from my chair he’s laying down, my sweet baby boy tucked in with the sheet to his chin. He was always a deep sleeper even as a baby. now the noise outside the the room is bustling but he doesn’t sway from his dreams. Jacob always seemed to have the best ones, he was a born dreamer. I gave birth in the early hours of the 15th, it was a difficult time, but he’d come out healthy. We told ourselves that there’d never be a Valentines Day gift to top this, and it was the truth. He seemed to us like angel come down to grace the house of Tom and Lena Walsh. There were a few things that convinced us. His love for the sky was one, he was always looking up, on camp outs you could always catch him stargazing. His ceiling was full of posters of constellations and diagrams of the solar system. There were days at the table where he’d orate to whoever would listen about the newest advancements in the field. We called him the professor for the longest time, we always thought he’d become one. His empathy and social heart convinced us of his angel hood too. There was never a day when Jacob wouldn’t volunteer to help another kid back up or drive a person home when he got his license. There were many times where I’d hear secondhand that he’s always been willing to loan his time in money to anyone in town. We’d never been evil people but the Love we had for Jacob far exceeded the rest, his being felt otherworldly, we rarely saw ourselves in him. School was a breeze for him, Elementary School, Middle, and High. It all seemed so easy for him. When college came he was set on astronomy, determined to teach it one day like we had always joked. And even though college ran tight on the wallet, we knew he’d do it , he was a dreamer bound for the stars there wasn’t a doubt he’d catch the flight. But then things changed, there was a party and then parties, he started drinking and rather hard. We never found out from him it only came about when he got into a fight at the school. He’d gotten into an argument with his best friend Troy, the two of them had applied together and they were thick as thieves. But one night at a party an argument broke out and after a few hits were shared he pushed him down the outside steps of their dorm. They gave him a strict warning, Jacob called ashamed. He plead and he sobbed, and he yelled. We sat and listened to him, believing it to just be growing pains, it felt like it would be the only one. And for a while it was. His grades came back, and his calls home were more regular, but then his roommate brought in a couple drinks one night for a fun night alone, Jacob decided to have a few too. And then he became lost completely. The descent was fast and chaotic. The school notified us he was going to be kicked out due to horrible academic performance. We called and screamed at him, but he turned his phone off and stayed silent. In most cases we acted more childlike than he ever did. He spent a few years in and out of rehab still living away from home. We offered to bring him back home but ceased asking after a few harsh rejections. It didn’t help our case when the handcuffs clamped down harder and harder on him at the mildest slip ups. It didn’t matter to us that he had been getting better it was all masked by our fears, and what became more and more clear was our lackluster ability as parents. We had gotten this far on luck and laziness; he was a golden child who did no wrong. But that wasn’t the truth we just hadn’t hit the wall like so many others did and usually so much earlier than us. There was never a challenge put up against our skills, there was never any time for us to struggle we were too busy raising a perfect child. But no child is perfect, no child is an angel. They’re humans, a lovingly imperfect one but we tossed our love to the side for restrictions and control. We betrayed his trust we lied to him, when he was getting better, we were always the doubtful ones. For those years we had a tumultuous relationship of offhanded comments and avoidance of one another. He was kicked out more times than were understandable whenever he visited, and he spent much of his twenties couch surfing. He would tell us of new jobs some real and some fake, but the same reactions were always given.

So, what does a boy with such problems do, how could he even hope to get over them without any support system. Well, he couldn’t, and he didn’t.

The messages went dead one day, the calls stopped coming in. Then we got nervous, we started acting like real parents again. Calls went out to everyone we knew that he knew, but no answers came up as to his location. Nobody seemed to know he just up and disappeared. The cops in his city and a missing persons bulletin was put out. Tom booked a flight while I was talking to the officer. We were at the airport when we finally got a call that they found him. Flying made me sick, it always had. I wasn’t built for the sky like Jacob was. Tom massaged my back and gave me tender support, but I had that feeling we were in for a earthquake. They didn’t give us much information besides the fact that he’d been to the hospital but was alive and well at a Rehab and Mental health Clinic. When the plane touched down the sickness didn’t leave, the driver couldn’t have gone fast enough if he was driving a rocket ship. We hit the front counter running from the Car. Leaning against the wall our message came through shallow breaths to the confused but understanding receptionist. She did a search and found Jacob, but he wasn’t in the rehab clinic, the woman directed us down to the psychiatric ward. It didn’t take us long to find him, he was laying on his bed, reading a book on astronomy of course. But when he turned and looked, he didn’t smile, or not genuinely at least. He just seemed to give a look of acknowledgment. He’d been sober for a long time it turned out. The doctor couldn't confirm how long from the blood work, but she trusted Jacob's statement that he had reached a year. At least for the time it wasn’t alcohol it was something else.

From the nurses account he had been dropped off after an ER trip. A grounds keeper found him lying in the grass of a local park, peering at the sky. When he got closer, he saw Jacob’s wrists cut across and bleeding, Jacob didn’t resist he had lost most of his strength. He’d been missing for two weeks before he went through with it. His psychiatrist was a kind woman with a sweet drawl who put it calmly too us. She said he’d been planning it for weeks but only got up the courage a few days ago. She answered our questions for a while before it became too much. Tom and I walked outside and grabbed a seat out in the large courtyard. At the far edge of the courtyard spread out far and wide was a beautiful lake of striking blue. The color reminded me of Jacob’s eyes, their was an absence of waves just quiet movements of nature. Our hands were separated at the start, my eyes darted around the lake avoiding what I knew needed to happen. With the calm water swaying my nerves seemed to loosen and our hands crept to each other as we morphed into an embrace. My breaths came out ragged and he began to cry into my shoulder, we cried together husband and wife, Father and Mother, two pieces of a now fractured trinity. The hug turned into a talk, the whole thing a revelation to our failure. He was not a perfect child; he was our angel and a perfect miracle. But nothing perfect could come from such imperfect parents. It was unrealistic and we lived on a lie, he had been an easy kid. Many children are, but when the good times left and the stressed days started, we ceased being parents. We ignored, we doubted, and more often than not we were aggressive. Jacob went from total support to abandonment and doubt overnight. The Narcissism we had, his failures looked like a reflection on us, because they were. And in other cases, his normal teenage behavior was looked down upon senselessly. It took us longer than one bench conversation to figure everything out, but we gathered together are broken selves enough to face our son. Jacob still sat with that glassy look as we walked in. And that look stayed for most of the conversation, he was now in need of more help than just a simple “We’re sorry”, but it started with that. He came home with us reluctantly; he got a job at a machine shop apprenticing. We tried to step back as much as we could with our control, we slipped up here and there, but he was never afraid to correct us. We supported him as much as we could emotionally, and as the handcuffs loosened, our relationship started getting better. A few years back home he was able to get a new car, and pretty soon he was in college commuting, studying for a major in aeronautical engineering. Things were going great he was talking to a girl Rebecca who he’d known from school, and she seemed right for him, we thought it might be a fly by night relationship, but they had tons of fun together. not long-ago Tom started to have some mild complaints and regular checkups and appointments which raised some alarm. His doctor though assured it would just be tedious, he was a healthy man with a regular exercise routine and a steady diet, he would be fine they just needed to finish up the testing. So, Jacob drove him to most of the appointments when I was working, which grew their bond as they made their weekly outings. Things were going great. Then on a Friday two weeks ago Jacob called me a 10 ten to say he was going to a party with Troy. I wished him a good night and said “I love you” Tom called from the other side of the bed to say it too. Jacob laughed and said “I love you guys too” and hung up. Troy made me nervous, in college Jacob had been the loose cannon but Troy’s slide into addiction was ongoing. I tried to mention it to him that he was a dangerous man to hang around, but Jacob was ever the empathetic ear, and so when Troy texted him about a night out he said sure. That night Troy hid two single serving fireball bottles in his pocket on the drive in Jacob's car. He snuck off from the crowd when they said their greetings and procceded drink them in the guest bathroom, Looking around the first floor of the house he couldn’t find anybody, they’d all gone into the basement. It gave him time to raid the liquor cabinet, he took a bottle of wine and sat out on the porch in a hoody drinking on a cold April night. Jacob noticed that Troy wasn’t with the rest of them and after a brief search found him. He pushed back the sliding door and Troy turned Jacob grabbed the bottle out of his hand and began to restrain him. Troy fought back, he kicked and cursed drawing the crowd from down stairs. Jacob told the party he was taking Troy home. The party goers helped him get Troy into the passenger seat, and with a wave Jacob gave his final send off. They were coming to our house since Jacob figured it was the safest place for him in this state. Troy was belligerent the whole car ride, he cursed at Jacob and swore, all of it was ignored. But then as they were driving down a straightaway Troy began hitting Jacob lightly and then harder and harder eventually distracted Jacob turned his eyes off the road hiding from his sight a man pulling into his lane from across the road. Unaware the truck swung into the car flipping it off the road and into a ditch. The phone rang at 12, the cop knew us, it’s a small town. They told me about Jacob, he was unresponsive and in critical condition and Troy was left with a severe concussion and minor scrapes and bruises. I woke up Tom and we went to the hospital, on the drive his chest started to get tight we chalked it up to anxiety. We rushed up flights of stairs after directions from nurses and staff, we made our way to the room, the doctor greeted us with the news. Our son had died 2 minutes ago, right as we entered the front door. I turned to Tom and saw his face he started to collapse; his breathing started to delay I tried to call out to him through the fog but there wasn’t any use. I lay there on the tile floor the smell of antiseptic hanging in the air, as they took him and my son away. Life slams you down like dirty laundry when it wants too, healthy men aren’t supposed to have heart attacks. Young brilliant boys aren’t supposed to be crushed and compacted because of a kind gesture. I cursed them both for the past few days for leaving me, Jacob didn’t need to be so damn good, he didn’t need to give his life up to a selfish friend who threw his life to the pavement. “Why Jacob!” I wanted to scream at him now laying on a cold steel table.

And then Tom fell, if you had only gone to the doctors sooner, and gotten that testing done months ago maybe we’d be together in the sorrow. There weren’t any signs!?, you didn’t have a feeling!?. But of course there hadn’t been, because death brings it’s presents without notification, sometimes there never is a sign it just swings down. But it left me, left me to deal with the many more years I have. There was a gun in the closet from Tom’s pheasant days, I came so close last night, but I just can’t. It’s not some image of god or any of the religious feelings they say inspire you, it’s them. I still hear their laughs and see their eyes within me they play on repeat, and right now I’m still looking at my son. Our plots are already picked out, and Tom as already been cremated. We’d never discussed what’d we do when we died, but I decided that when I saw them side by side. Nobody gets to see them like this except me, it’s too vulnerable and if I had gone before I know they’d wish the same. This will be my last moments with them. I get up from my chair and walk towards my baby boy. I see him now as I did then an angel. I see him in my mind on a pillowy field in a child’s run keeping step with his father. They walk along a soft path of light, father hoists son onto his shoulders as they walk out of view. I bend my head towards his forehead and plant a warm final kiss, his skin is cold but for a moment it felt warmer. I walk out of the room and out of the building, there will be a small funeral in a couple days, I have to reach out to Rebecca for somebody to hold, it’d be nice to keep in touch with her. There isn’t much immediate family left so I think it’s time I do some traveling. There are many places I’ve never seen, I’ll be excited to see them in the shapes of the clouds and the color of the sky. And I know that when the time is fit, they’ll be waiting for me, and we’ll start walking together.


MY INTUITION IS A LIAR! A true satirical story We have all heard the phrase, “go with your gut, or what does your gut tell you?” I believe this phrase to be accurate in the case of men and women, but in women, I think it’s more intuition, that women are more intuitive than men, I know I am more so than my husband but then again, maybe not. Besides having faith and relying on faith and prayer, I have always trusted my gut or intuition, which brings me to tell this story. For at least twenty years, I had wanted to go to Maine! I wasn’t sure why, but when I would talk about it, I summed it up as a reincarnation experience of having lived there in a previous life. I remember when I first started having the feeling of needing to go, but I never shared the story until I was asked. Back in 2002, after I had moved back to Arizona in 2000, I had a realtor friend. I don’t remember how we met, but she told me about a house for sale that I should go see. I don’t remember if I was looking to buy it, however it was around the same time I bought my townhouse. I took her suggestion and when I went to see the house the owner was there. I don’t remember anything in particular about the house, except that when I asked him why they were selling, he said, “My wife wants to move to Maine.” I remember thinking, what a drastic change from Arizona to Maine. I will never forget that! It was like him saying that burned into my soul and despite everything else going on in my life, from then on, I knew I had to go to Maine. Fast forward to 2020, now having lived in Texas since 2009, and married to Steven since 2011, we were finally going to soothe my wandering soul and take the trip to Maine together, but then, after the trip to the travel agency and paying the deposit, COVID caused the world to shut down. Everyone knows COVID was, and still is, real, but at that time, it wasn’t my intuition telling me, don’t go there? After a few months, we finally got our money back and again, my hope of taking the New England trip was put away in the back of my mind. So now it’s 2024 and we are thinking about planning our summer vacation. We knew we couldn’t go to Key West, FL., we had tried twice and had to cancel both times, same with Alaska, so maybe, now, this time we would be able to go to Maine. We waited until two weeks before our planned departure date to make our plane reservations and when the day came and we were on the plane from San Antonio, I said,” We’re finally going to Maine.” July 22 nd , 4:00 p.m., we were wheels on the ground in Portland, Maine, “I can’t believe we’re here,” I told Steven as we walked, with our luggage in tow, across the parking lot to the rental car office. It seemed as if half the world’s population had traveled there that day. All the rental car desks had a long line of people, the room was standing room only with people, their luggage, children, and babies with strollers, who are all these people and what are they all doing here? I sat on the only vacant spot on the bench and watched and waited as Steven stood in the long line waiting to get our car. When it was finally his turn, he motioned for me to join him at the desk, “They’re out of cars,” he told me. My mind was reeling with visions of us spending the night on the benches in the rental car office so whatever conversation occurred between Steven and the agent, I was unaware of, and fortunately, the next thing I knew we were walking out to the garage and putting our luggage and ourselves in the gray Nissan Sentra with Massachusetts license plates, still wet from the car wash, to be on our way to our hotel in Trenton. The drive from the airport in Portland, ME. to Trenton, ME. is about 163 miles. It is a freeway some of the way, but, otherwise, it is a 2-lane road through small towns and communities lined with pine trees on one side and water on the other. The drive seemed long, like it was taking forever. We stopped to eat around 6:00, where I ate my first Maine lobster dish, after which we drove some more and finally arrived at our hotel after dark around 9:00. It had been a very long day. We had left home at 5:00 that morning, but still, I couldn’t believe we were there! My intuition had not deceived me, yet. We had planned our trip accordingly to be close to Acadia National Park. Our first full day there, we toured the park and hiked down to the water, where we met a fisherman who said he had some luck catching some fish whose names I didn’t recognize. Returning to the parking lot, we encountered a sea gull who, unthreatened by us or anyone else, made a perch on the roof of a red car parked next to ours. We spent the remainder of the day touring around, enjoying the scenery of the water, boats, and the New England style homes built of 2 and 3 stories with anywhere from 2 to 4 chimneys. Although most of them looked lived in and well maintained they gave the sense of having been there for centuries, reminiscent of generations of families living and making a living there off the rich, greenery of the forest and abundance of the water. If this is a dream, please don’t wake me! Our third day was Wednesday, although my day started with me sneezing and blowing my nose, and we were excited for our lobster boat trip. We took our time on the 12-mile drive to Bar Harbor since our trip was not scheduled until later that day. After eating a Maine style brunch that included their locally grown fresh blueberries, we walked along the harbor, through the shops and finally taking a seat on a bench facing the water where we could see the boats coming, going and docked. The weather was warm, but not hot, not humid like in Texas, the sun barely shone through the haze over the water. Steven, on a whim, decided to ask if we could take an earlier boat trip rather than wait till our scheduled 4:30, luckily, we were able to get on the 11:30 trip. During the 2-hour trip, we saw 2 fully operational light houses, a lot of seals, sunbathing on the rocks and experienced the full extent of lobster fishing. It gave me a new appreciation of how expensive they are, it’s a hard job and a lot of work. Hiking in the park, going on a lobster boat, seeing the light houses, even though, once we were there, we realized, there were other things we wanted to do, I felt fulfilled, I should have known better than to think that, once we arrived back at our parked car, we found a parking ticket and then on the 76 mile, hour and a half drive from Bar Harbor to Camden, we had to stop at a convenience store to buy Kleenex, due to my continuous sneezing and blowing my nose, I had gone through all the napkins and Kleenex I had. Why wouldn’t my nose stop running, was this my intuition mocking me for being here? By the time we reached the hotel in Camden, I just wanted to go to bed. Tired, achy but hungry, we walked 2 blocks to the closest, tiny restaurant, seating capacity of 40, waited until someone left, to sit and eat. I don’t know if the food was good, I just wanted to sleep. Back at the hotel, I showered and was in bed by 8:00. I couldn’t sleep, I hurt all over, tossing and turning but sometime in the early morning hours, when I finally managed to doze off, I heard her, laughing, my intuition, that lying, sneaky, witch, “ Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, I tried to tell you not to come here, you have no business being here, you don’t live here, this is not your home.” Trying not to disturb Steven lying next to me, I thought, this is it, I’m going to die here, this is why my soul has led me here, it’s here it wants to rest. Well, I didn’t die, but the morning didn’t bring me any relief, I was exhausted, my whole body was fatigued, and I was still having to constantly blow my nose. Our original plan was to only stay one night in Camden and even though I only felt like staying in bed, we checked out of the hotel and got back on the road. Our reservations were to stay our last 2 days in Oxford, ME. to be closer to the airport when we left on Saturday. During the 105-mile drive, there were things we would’ve liked to have done but because I felt so ill, we drove straight to the hotel. After we checked in at 3:00 p.m., I went to bed, which is where I stayed until Friday morning when Steven took me to Urgent Care. COVID! “You have COVID.” The provider told me when he came back into the exam room with the swab results. I wasn’t surprised and, I knew I heard her mocking me , I thought to myself, you demon creature, are you happy now, you were right, I know we couldn’t come here before because of COVID, but why now, again, what is it about us, COVID and Maine? She wasn’t giving me any answers and I was too tired to care. With the provider’s suggestion, we decided instead of going home the next day, which was Saturday, we would go home on Sunday. Since I started getting sick on Wednesday, that would be 5 days. By Sunday I was feeling better and ready to get out of that hotel room but by then of course, Steven was feeling sick. “I’ll be o.k.,” he told me as we packed up to head to the airport, “I’m not coughing, I just have a headache, sore throat and feel tired, let’s go.” As much as I had wanted and waited to go to Maine, I wanted even more to get back home to Texas. Our return itinerary was the same, in reverse as when we went, Portland, ME to Charlotte, NC, Charlotte to San Antonio. We arrived at the airport with plenty of time, returned the car and were more than ready for our 4:00 p.m. departure, but then, delayed, delayed, delayed, delayed, until finally at 9:00 p.m., a long wait, a long time to question her evil motives, What the Hell is your problem? You punished me for coming here, you even made it abundantly clear that we need to go home but now, you’re stopping us! American airlines did their best to accommodate us, there was a full plane and when we finally arrived in Charlotte that night at 11:30 p.m., they arranged for hotel rooms and shuttles to them for everyone. It was 1:30 a.m. Monday when we arrived at the hotel in Charlotte, which was o.k. except, our luggage had gone ahead to San Antonio, and we had to be out of the room and back to the airport by 11:00 a.m. I felt like a homeless person, wearing the same clothes as the day before, with no luggage and only a wannabe toothbrush the hotel had provided at check-in. Finally, when we were boarding the plane to come home, I said to that wicked witch of my intuition, we’re leaving now and going home, and you can’t come with us! You have caused enough trouble now go away and bother someone else!

So…. In conclusion, I must say, my birthday twin/ bff, suggested I write this story with a sense of humor, I tried to do that by giving my intuition a mind of its own and taking the blame, however, nothing about having COVID is funny, that shit is NOT for sissy’s! As far as the state of Maine, it’s beautiful, and the things that we did and saw were wonderful, I loved it and am not sorry we went, and I would go again to see and do all the things we missed. I got to go to someplace I had never been, meet some people I had never met, the waiters and waitresses in all the restaurants, the shop clerks and especially the captain and first mate of the lobster boat.  So, regardless of what my intuition says, I’m not listening to her, she’s not the boss of me!

◆◆◆


James parked the minivan in front of the open cemetery and turned the wheezing engine off. He checked his Apple watch- half-past eleven at night. His shift as the Confession Counselor for Departed Souls kicked off in fifteen minutes. Lifting the briefcase resting on the passenger seat, he shoved open the driver-side door and stepped out. The intimate breeze petted his neck, tickling the spine. Shivering, James scribbled on his mental pad to pack a scarf for the next visit. Waddling up the pebbled pathway, he continued in the familiar direction of the mausoleum on the burial grounds. At its entrance, James crouched, placing the leather case on its back. He clicked it open, hoisting the rosary above his head, sliding it thru the neck. Placing the jar of holy water next to his feet, he grabbed the can of meat, coil notepad, and ink pen last. The nameless, dead clients he counselled travelled through their coffin, flying out the muddy pathway at midnight on the dot. James directed only the ones who walked past him, as agreed in his signed contract. He snapped them out of denial by questioning: stirring them onwards to live in Afterlife Care. The rest, emotional strugglers, refusing to accept their death, meandered about the graveyard, confused and lost James knew little about Afterlife's living conditions- like the doors only opened for souls who willed to dwell as per the rulers’ ideals. If someone disagreed with their orders, they were allowed to return and roam alone in the cemetery. In time, restorable souls permitted to re-enter after counseling. A pitiful cry for help sounded at a distance. He waited for his client to approach. “Hello, I am James.” The sweaty, trembling man in front of him halted. “Who you?” The man scratched the open cut on the side of his bald head. His brain, missing. “I’m your counselor.” “Who you?” James bent to pick up the jar. A few clients developed hearing loss following landing. He twisted open the lid and dipped his hand into the chilled holy water. Then, stepping up, James rubbed the dripping liquid over the man’s left and right ears. “Can you hear me now?” “Yes, Who…?” “The counselor who will help you start a new existence at Afterlife Care.” “I am dead?” The client glanced behind James, chewing on his chapped lips. “Yes, on earth. But in the other world, you will never die. You can do anything you want there- roam free, dance, sing, smile all day, play Bingo… Do fun things without experiencing feelings of regret, doubts, anger. They erase all negative emotions there," James lied. “Are you dead?” “No, I am alive, for now. One day I’ll join you.” Silence flooded the gap between them. James counted to twenty. “You like to confess anything?” “I kill seventy people.” The man’s mouth curved into a smile. James nodded, unshaken, doodling in his notepad. His senses hardened by ghastly admissions. After tonight, he intended to ask his boss, the mortuary manager, to transfer him to the day shift, where he’d be interacting with corroding souls yet living humans for a change. “Do you remember where you buried them?” “I work the night shift at the factory. I used machine there to slice bodies.” James’s belly groaned, and he snuck a look at the canned corned beef. “Why do you kill people?” The man rotated his head, tilting it on both sides. “No idea. Maybe I do it because I cannot smell anything.” “Oh,” James quit sketching and stared without blinking. “You have no sense of smell at all?” “I smell everything but not blood or dead bodies.” “When did you become aware of this issue?” James quizzed. “My job they want me to kill chickens and pack them. I kill two first. No smell. Then I try smelling dead chickens for a week. Nothing.” “Did you inhale any bleach or chemical before slaughtering?” “No.” The man’s fingers explored the hollow space in the back of his head. “You butcher them because you can’t inhale their aroma?” “Maybe. I like to see and hear them crying before dying. My sister and brothers cry. I don’t.” “Never?” He foresaw the client blaming his family members, like every murderer who confessed to James does. “I cried one time when my young sister knife a woman first time before me. I am jealous of her.” Drawing a circle around ‘The Scentless Killer': the nickname James christened the man, he branched out arrows readying to list the members on his client's family tree of serial killers. “Your sister, a murderer like you. And brothers?” “Everyone: Pappa, Mamma, Sis, Three Brothers. We sometimes hunt for people together on holidays.” James's gut growled, signalling he'd heard enough of the client's confession. “You recall how you died?” “I ask my manager to work in the morning shift so I can go out with my girlfriend in the evening. He said, No. I try to stab him, but he stabs me back.” “That is unfortunate.” James signed at the bottom of the client's summary sheet of paper. “Are you ready to move into Afterlife Care? It is a good place to live ever after, and you will meet many individuals sharing the same passion.” “Honest?” “Oh yes. Imagine all-nighters with like-minded people, discussing your past acts.” “Ok. I will go then.” “Sign here. Somebody will pick you up in minutes.” James fished out his cell phone from his black suit pocket and a spoon. He sent a message to his boss. Then calculated the commission reeled in for the week selling Afterlife Care benefits. “Do you have any more confessions to share?” James pushed his index finger into the ring-pull on top of the canned beef and rolled the lid off. Dipping the spoon, he savoured his early hour snack. “You like that meat inside?” The man pointed. “It’s easy to eat out here while working. Your ride has arrived.” A black car jetted from the sky, zig-zagging towards them. It stationed itself on the sloped lawn. The left rear door blew open, and a hand gestured the client to step in. “I worked in same can packing company. I minced the bodies and mixed them with chicken and meat inside the factory. You like the taste, huh?" The client cackled, bouncing his pecs seating himself inside the car. James spat out in disgust. He hated the night shifts.


Taiga circles the room slowly, lighting candles with a single touch. “I told you your friends wouldn’t come back for you.” “They will.” A fire blazes behind the hero’s eyes. Taiga chuckles, “It’s been four days.” He smiles, “Then we'd better quit wasting time.” He reaches for her hand and pulls her down on top of him. “Fintan,” she giggles, landing against his bare chest. “Let me go. Fin!” Her protests are silenced by his lips on hers. He cups her face, rubbing a thumb across her cheek. A shiver runs through her as the heat of her body meets the ice in his veins. She slides to the side and settles next to him on the couch. She snatches the remote from his hand. “I won this time. My pick.” He groans, dropping his head back, “You’ve picked every night.” “It’s not my fault you pulled your punches.” She winks at him and turns on a hospital drama. “When you win, you pick.” “When I win, you go to jail.” Fin wraps his arm around Taiga and pulls her against his chest. “I get out,” she smirks. “With some help from a mysterious partner.” He snorts. “Yeah. Mysterious.” “The public would lose it if anyone ever found out about this.” She motions between the two of them. “You’re not as bad as everyone thinks.” He rolls his eyes. She narrows her eyes. “I kidnapped a senator's daughter.” He shrugs and takes a drink of beer. “That guy was an abusive scumbag.” “Still, there are systems in place for those kinds of things.” Taiga leans forward to pick her glass of wine up from the coffee table. “The system isn’t always effective.” He grins. She moves to the other end of the couch, crossing her arms. “I am not a hero. Just drop it.” “No, you’re definitely not,” he scoffs. “But you could be." "You could be a villain." "Nah, I don't have the traumatic childhood." He slides across the couch and snakes an arm around her shoulder. She immediately relaxes into him. “I’ve killed people.” “I wouldn’t call them good people," He chuckles. "And don't think I can't tell it bothers you." "It doesn't." Her voice is cold, but just an octave too high. "You've always gotten the job done." He brushes his thumb over her knuckles. "You may fool the rest of the world, but I can tell it gets to you." “What do I have to do to be a villain to you?” she cries. “Listen, Ty, you’re just not a bad guy.” He kisses the top of her head. Her hand trails down his chest. “But I can be a bad girl.” “You are so gorgeous,” he pants, pressing his lips against hers. His breath blows frost across her skin, though it melts instantly. He combs his fingers through her hair leaving small crystals of ice in their wake.  *** Fin wakes to a muffled beeping. He rubs a hand down his face and trudges down the hall. He opens a door, and the beeping cuts through the house. He scans the monitors and shakes his head. He rubs his eyes and takes a step closer to the monitors. Making his way back down the hallway, he leans over the bed and kisses Taiga's cheek. “Hey, baby.” Fin brushes the hair from Taiga’s face. “I think your security system’s broken.”  “What?” She squints her eyes open. “What do you mean?” “The motion sensor was triggered, but there’s nothing on the cameras.” “It was probably just a rabbit or something. Lay back down.” She tugs at his wrist. He takes a deep breath, chewing on his bottom lip. “I’m going to go check.” “No,” she whines, tightening her grip, “my bed is too warm.” He laughs and climbs into the bed, wrapping his arms around her. Leaning over, he kisses behind her ear and down her neck. The light in the hall turns off, leaving them in pitch darkness. Fin springs to his feet. “Believe me now?” Taiga sits up carefully, and a faint glow radiates from the flame in her hand. Concern covers her face as she steps out of bed, lighting a fire in her other palm. She moves down the hall slowly, Fin on her heels. Every footfall is calculated and sure. She will not be caught off guard in her own home. “Ty, what-” She silences him with a glare over her shoulder. When they make it to the living room, she begins lighting candles around the room while Fin flips every light switch he can find. The sparse light from the handful of candles is hardly enough to fill the room. Fin and Taiga stand back to back in the center of the rug, scanning the edges of the room for movement. The furniture is the only thing visible in the amber light. Taiga lets flames flick up her forearms, scrutinizing every inch of the walls in front of her. Fin wiggles his fingers, letting flurries of snow weave between them. The shadows dancing around the room only add to the tension in their muscles. “What happened?” Fin glances over his shoulder. “I don’t know,” Taiga bites. Lights flash and alarms blare in the hall. Talk stalks quietly toward the sound, ignoring Fin's protest. When she enters the doorway, the alarms go silent, but the monitors continue to illuminate the room. Taiga studies each monitor and sees nothing out of the ordinary. She turns to leave and stops in her tracks. “Fin!” She takes a step back when she hears Fin approaching. “What’s wr-" He slides through the doorway and his eyes go wide. The word “TRAITOR" stands two feet tall, carved into the wall. “Taiga,” Fin whispers, breathless, “who…” “I have more than a few enemies.” She shakes her head. “Why do you think I live alone in the woods?” The monitors go black, throwing them back into darkness. Taiga grabs Fin’s hand and ignites a small flame in her other palm. She leads him back to the living room by the glow from her skin. She stops at the end of the hall, pressing her back to the wall. The candles have been extinguished. Fin pulls on her arm, tucking her behind him, before taking another step forward. She grabs his elbow, whispering, “Fin, you can’t see.” “Let’s hope they can’t either.” He kisses her hand and dashes into the living room. After a long, silent minute, he calls back, “Baby, I think it’s safe.” Taiga steps out of the hallway and lets a faint glow spread over her body. She begins relighting the candles with a sigh of relief. “Whoever it was, they must be gone now.” Fin tries lamp again, huffing when it doesn’t work. She turns around the room, inspecting every corner. “I don’t know.” “Come on, it was just some prank.” He pats the cushion next to him. “Now, turn that off so I can cuddle with you.” She lets the embers on her skin fizzle out and drops on the couch next to him. “I don’t like it.” “It’s fine.” He chuckles wrapping an arm around her. She shakes her head, her hair brushing against his shoulder. “That’s easy for you to say. Hero. ” He gives her shoulder a light squeeze. “It’s fine.” The TV in Taiga’s bedroom flashes to life, sending light and sound streaming out the door. Taiga sits up and swats Fin’s chest, as if to say, ‘I told you so.’ He eases to his feet and stalks to the bedroom. As he makes his way to the TV, it flashes off. He hears skittering behind him and turns to see the light from Taiga’s body drifting through the doorway. He could swear he saw a shadow run through. He feels his way back across the room. “Fin?” Taiga gasps from the living room. Her light blacks out. Fin sprints through the door, stumbling over shoes on the floor. “Taiga!” He breaks into the living room and drops to the ground. The light in the kitchen flickers and the microwave turns on. He gropes along the floor, whispering for Taiga. His fingertips skim across her hot skin, and the kitchen goes dark. “Ty?” He wraps his hand around her ankle. “Get up. We have to go.” Fin crouches on his toes, and a hand on his shoulder drags him back. He lashes out at the attacker and finds no one. A foot in his chest knocks him into the wall. He unleashes a hailstorm from his fist, blasting back anything in its path. He crawls back to Taiga, barely touching her toes before he hears rustling on the rug in front of him. A heavy object crashes against his skull, toppling him to the side. He reaches a shaky hand out, resting it on her thigh, and sends a frost up her leg. “Baby, please wake up.” “Don’t. Touch. Her.” A hand crushes Fin’s wrist, pinning his hand to the carpet. He recognizes the woman’s voice, but his head is spinning too fast to place it. A knee smashes into his nose before small hands drag him to his feet. He stumbles back, cradling his nose. The blood warms his chilled skin at falls down his face. “Who are you?” he asks, scanning for movement. He backs himself against the wall and mumbles, “Where are you?” A cackle comes from the corner as the lights in the hall flash. “ You should know, Fin.” “I-” He rubs the back of his head, still pinching his nose. “I don’t.” A faint glow emanates from Taiga’s hands. “Why are you here?” The mystery voice nags at the back of Fin’s mind. He shakes his head. “What? Why do you care?” “Her?” The hall goes dark, and the TV in the bedroom comes to life. “I mean, real-” Taiga rolls onto her side and her hand toward the voice. A wall of flames erupts in front of her. “Get out of my house.” She wipes blood from her brow. She staggers to Fin’s side. Holding a flame up in one hand, she examines Fin’s face. “Oh, babe.” She runs her fingers along his jaw. A knife thuds into the wall by Fin’s head. Taiga throws her arm out behind her and the fire disappears. The room falls back into shadow. The glow slowly spreads up Taiga’s arm, spreading light out from the couple. “Let’s see who you are.” Taiga turns toward the intruder. Every light in the room flashes on, lamps included. The sudden change blinds Taiga and Fin, forcing them to snap their eyes shut. Glass sprays around the room as light bulbs shatter. Fin pulls Taiga against his chest and buries her face in his shoulder. The room falls back into pitch black. Fin’s hand remains tangled in Taiga’s hair while they catch their breath. She loosens her arms around Fin’s waist and slowly opens her eyes. The alarms in the control room blare, and Taiga breaks away. “Ty!” “How could you pick her, Fin?” the voice teases from across the room. Her body glows red, as runs across the living room and turns toward the hall. A clatter in the kitchen draws her attention, and she turns on her heel, lunging into the kitchen. Fin picks his way through the living room to the rhythm of their punches. Taiga’s fireballs light up the room as she launches them erratically, unable to locate the attacker. “I said,” she stalks past the sink, “get out.” She emerges on the other side of the island and screams. She drops to the ground and her light flickers out. “Taiga!” Fin races into the kitchen, building a hailstorm in front of him. He sneaks through the kitchen on hands and knees until he finds Taiga’s trembling form. He runs his hand up her hip and across her stomach, following the damp trail of what must be blood. When he finds the source, he presses both hands against her torso. “Do not leave me again.” She whimpers an agreement and nods, knowing he can’t see her. She eases herself into a seated position next to Fin and leans into his shoulder. The house breaks into chaos. Every working light flashes like a nightclub. The kitchen appliances buzz to life. The radio on the mantle blasts music through the house. The ceiling fan turns on full speed. “Fin, I don’t want to burn you.” She pushes away gently and stands on shaky legs. Her flames only add to the pandemonium. The heat sears Fin’s skin and scorches the ceiling. The strobing lights make it impossible to focus on anything. With every slip into darkness, the intruder’s silhouette seems to teleport across the living room. Taiga throws balls of fire at each appearance, missing by seconds. Fin pulls her back to the floor, his skin sizzling when he makes contact with her. “Ty, shut it down. It’s not doing any good,” he has to roar over the madness. As the flame fades, Taiga’s skin cools dramatically. Fin wraps an arm around her and raises the other arm chest level. A blizzard explodes around them. He presses a kiss to her temple and returns pressure to her abdomen. Her breath steams over his neck, short and ragged. “Fin,” she coughs. “Hush, baby.” He combs through her hair. “I can hold her off.” Her body heat fades too quickly. She shivers and coughs again. Her breathing slows and goes cool. Her hand falls limp onto Fin’s lap, and she lets out a quiet whine. “Taiga?” he whispers into her ear. “Hm?” Her head rolls to the side. “I’ll fix you up, baby.” She smiles up at him. “I love you.” “I love you,” he chuckles. “Give me just a minute.” He clenches his fists and sets his jaw. The storm intensifies until it’s impossible to see to the other side. Fin stands, glancing down at Taiga. The storm doesn’t touch her. Her hair doesn’t even flip from the wind. He takes a deep breath and throws his hands up. Icicles shoot up from the ground in every direction. The storm falls still, leaving puddles on the floor. The TV cuts off. The radio goes silent. The hum of appliances dies out, and the lights slowly flicker back to normal. Fin turns around slowly, surveying the house. When he sees the assailant impaled by ice, he nearly collapses under the realization. “Tora,” he gasps, swaying as he makes his way to her. Without Fin’s control, the ice melts away, and Tora drops to her knees. She clutches her stomach where the blood warms her frozen wound. “Tora,” he crouches beside her, gently lifting her chin to look in her eyes, “I don’t understand.”  “I came back.” Her voice is fragile. “I saw everything, Fin. Why her?” “You don’t-” He squeezes his eyes shut, still reeling. “You don’t know her.” "She does whatever she wants, no matter who it hurts," she pleads. "She does whatever it takes, no matter what it costs her." Fin corrects, voice hinting at envy. “She’s our enemy.” Tora coughs. “A villain.” He shakes his head. “She’s not, though.” “But Fin,” her cough spatters blood across the tile, “the hero always falls for the sidekick.” *** The muted sound of conversation slowly morphs into a hospital drama, Taiga’s favorite. She reaches slowly to her side, scratching at the bandage wrapped around her stomach. Her face twitches as she tries to make her eyes open. “Fin?” Her throat is raw, and her voice comes out rough and scratchy. She feels weight on the bed and pressure on her thigh in seconds. “Hey, baby.” Finally, her eyes flutter open. Her bedroom comes into view, the lamp on her nightstand the only source of light. She raises a hand slowly and rubs her head. “Fin,” she repeats, “what happened?” He studies her face with eyes full of concern. “You’ve been out for a few days.” She nods, as if that explains everything. Truthfully, it’s not entirely uncommon for one of them to wake up bruised and bandaged in the other’s bed. It’s less common to wake up with amnesia in their own room. He strokes her gently and brushes the back of his hand down her face. “I think we’re on the same team now.”


I was sitting in my living room with my voluptuous burgundy cat; Leonardo/Leo. He was purring so much today. Sometimes, I wish that he didn’t lose all his hair when the groomers bathed him, but what can you really do when he has to take pills for his leukemia. I remember the day that he was diagnosed. He was just a little kitten, waiting to be adopted. No one took him because he was a sick kitty. His brothers and sisters were healthy cats, except him. So I decided to take him home with me when I was walking in central park. As I was walking, people would constantly stop me to just give him so much love. I knew he was loving all the attention that he was getting from the public. I was so glad that I took him home. When I finally arrived at my house, I contemplated what I should name him. I wondered if I should put up a poll on Instagram for some name suggestions for my new little guy. Although, I did have some names in my mind already. I thought that Harry or Owen would be cute, but I didn’t think that those names really justified how amazing my cat was. So I tried thinking of some names that were way more prestigious than Harry or Owen. I came up with Jack, Rowland, and Ken. Those names still didn’t seem like they would fit for him. So I went back to my last resort, which was whatever the public thought to name him. Surprisingly, a lot of people answered my poll, I knew he was a crowd pleaser. There it was, after 3 scrolls I saw the perfect name for him; Leonardo. I could even have an even cuter nickname for him; Leo. I was finally gonna have a little partner in crime, for my new apartment that I got in New York City. It was my time to find myself, and explore the new highlights of living in the best city in the world. It's definitely a change from living in a small suburban state back in Pennsylvania.

It’s been a couple of years and Leo is almost as mature as I am. We eat breakfast and watch reality TV on Thursdays together. I think I have become one of those crazy cat ladies. I even went to the store to purchase kitty ice cream and more fun toys for him. I think that by the time Leo is an adult, I will have a whole collection of toys from over all the years. I think Leonardo is my best friend. I still have other human best friends, but what can I say, he is a hard one to replace. Even though he can’t understand me or talk to me, I can just tell what he needs or wants by his actions. One of the cutest things that he does when he needs a treat, is when he lays on his back and puts his tiny arm on his stomach. You should really see it some time, it is so cute! He is just the most adorable cat in the world! There was this one day, I think it was a weekday, maybe it was a Wednesday. We were about to eat dinner, and then Leo left me to go to the bathroom. To me, that was strange because his litter was in the basement like it has always been. So I went to go get Leo from the bathroom. He was being a naughty boy today, because for some reason he refused to eat any food or even play with his new toys that I bought for him last week. For some reason, he was up on the counter right near our gray marbled sink. He was shaking, it seemed like he was frightened by something. Maybe he was startled from the mirror, he probably saw his reflection. In that moment I saw a smudge on the mirror. I thought that Leo must have licked it because there was some toothpaste on it. So I grabbed some wipes to wipe it. As I began to wipe the mirror, something weird happened to me, so I stopped. It was almost like I was not in my bathroom, but a different dimension. Startled, I began to wipe my mirror once again. I kept saying to myself that I was just imagining things, I can’t be in another dimension! I finished cleaning my mirror, and I was ready to go back to my kitchen. I took Leo and we went to finish eating our nicely cooked dinner together.

Once I opened the door, my kitchen had no food on the counter. Our dinner could not be found. It was almost like it vanished. Though, everything else was in place so I just went to go make more food. When I did that, there was no food. I knew I just went to the grocery store on Monday….. It was like I was in a movie, I think I am in an alternate reality. It was like the upside down of my own home. A second version of my home, and my life. I wandered my own house, and saw pictures of strangers that I was with. I think that one of them was my professor from physiology. I definitely wasn’t very fond of him, he was a bit of a creep. He even asked me out once, that situation was awkward. As these thoughts started to settle in, my heart rate started to pulse. It kept getting faster by the minute. Luckily, Leo was with me. He could tell that I was frantic, so he rubbed up on me and gave me some kisses. It made me feel a little better, but all I wanted to do was go back home. So I went back to the bathroom, brushed my teeth and made sure to get some on the mirror. Then I re-cleaned the “new” mirror and put Leonardo back where he was before on the counter. Hesitantly, I opened up the door. I could smell the chicken that I made for me and the sardines that I got for Leo. I took a glance around to make sure that this was actually my home and not another dimension of my life or house. It wasn’t. We sat down and both ate our dinner together while the local news was going on in the background. I was so thankful that I was back home, in my actual home. That day I vowed never to get toothpaste on the mirror in my bathroom ever again, and to always keep the bathroom door closed. I didn’t want to teleport to another dimension ever again. Plus, I think the dimension that I live in now, is pretty darn amazing if you asked Leo and I.


COVID came to their town, as it did all the others.

At first the citizens believed that their distance from the cities would protect them, as in olden days when the miasma was expected to hover above a populace and not spread through individuals, but modern realization soon proved that humans, as always, were the biggest threat to humans.

People left the town, of course, going in their cars to visit relatives or in planes to visit beaches, and then they returned to the safety of home and the normalcy of work and school and church and daycare and gym and clubs with just the people they knew. The first people to get sick did “just have colds”, and indeed most of them after that were only mildly affected.

Few people knew anyone who was very ill, so it was easy to believe that there was nothing in the news reports and health advisories that had to be taken seriously.

For people who relied on the down-to-earth practice of responding primarily to things that immediately affected their lives and livelihoods, the lack of concrete evidence of disaster flummoxed many.

There was no clear action to be taken.

People did not know what to do, or indeed if they should do anything. The real problem for many townspeople was that there was so much information pouring in through radio interviews, social media, podcasts... it was more than the average small-town citizen with a lifetime of forming thoughts according to local opinion, the local paper, and the nightly news could handle in a sensible manner.

Once the coffee shop was closed, as well as recreational clubs and even church, there were few places where people could come together to examine the facts, the speculation, the fears and the realities of this strange, inconvenient era. There were, of course, some avenues for the airing of grievances that were not taken away.

Government services, for example, would always be available to anyone with legitimate business, and, in a small town, this necessarily included a customer’s choice recitation of The Latest News and Views.

The school, home of special, child-oriented concerns, cycled between opening and closing as outbreaks waxed and waned, and places like the Home for Older Folks were used to running on the old-fashioned telephone system of News and Revelation.

These avenues remained accessible to most as outlets for daily dumps of information. It so happened in this town that it was five friends who experienced the brunt of the community’s conflicting ways of thinking.

Sarah, a teller at the bank on main, was often presented with the full spectrum, from left to right, within the morning hours, followed by a recap in the afternoon.

Sandra, the librarian, was at the receiving end of friendlier, but longer rambles as people pretended to look for reading material when what they really wanted was confirmation that the outside world had gone mad.

Post Mistress Pam, who had spent her career culturing an atmosphere of free and open speech so long as it contained flourishing gossip, was wishing she hadn’t been quite so encouraging.

Audrey managed the Home for Older Folks where the telephone grapevine was matched by the “socials” online.

Fran, the school principal, could at least screen her messages, and the mood with which she answered them, but each required a timely, level-headed response. The five friends were hesitant to unload their daily struggles on one another, knowing they had all experienced similarly frustrating, overwhelming days at work.

Yet, with little else to talk about other than their own need to clear the information overload and reset their intellectual compasses, they soon found that talking led to laughing and then to feeling lighter and more capable of handling another day.

They told each other how they felt responsible, in a way, for providing this talk therapy service to the weary, frightened people who came to them.

That made the five feel better, for a moment, but they went back to work and were dragged down once again, and they told themselves that something had to give.

They told each other this, and then they made a plan. Audrey came from a farm family with the heavy equipment they might need.

She suggested they use land that was set aside for a new Senior’s Housing Facility.

It was central, yet discrete, and certainly large enough.

Construction plans had been put aside for the duration of the pandemic, so there sat the unused space.

Sandra set about researching.

She studied pandemic history, psychology, health and wellness, and any projects or services remotely similar to what the five had in mind.

Sarah was in charge of the budget, as well as presenting the idea to the Town Council.

She was careful to look into insurance and liability as well as any bylaws that might apply.

She worked with Fran to create a simple supply list, and Fran received approval to purchase materials and organize the high school students.

The School Board agreed it was as good a project as any for kids who were supposed to be outside as much as possible, and who could certainly benefit by doing something useful in the community while their curriculum was interrupted.

Pam began a publicity campaign artfully tailored to appeal to the people she knew so well. All of the friends used their unique positions within the town to get the word out.

They had found themselves a natural hub for the stress of their community, and they were going to use that to their advantage.

They congratulated themselves - and one another - on the secret power they could wield.

It took several months, but construction was finished by the time school let out in June.

A rough structure now stood on the land.

It looked like a modern reconstruction of an ancient fort.

Open to the air and elevated on a low mound for drainage purposes, it consisted of nine cubicle-sized spaces in a grid, each with a swinging, outhouse-style door.

Between them ran open passages leading to the outside of the structure.

Really, it was a set of nine free-standing boxes with no tops.

It was temporary, but reinforced in multiple ways to withstand whatever might come.

The five friends were satisfied with the physical realization of their vision.

Together, they posted a sign next to the structure with the simple instructions: “Come on In and Shout it Out”. They were less satisfied with the response from the community.

The five had done all they could to inform the townspeople of the project, which they had begun to call “The Airing”.

Most responded politely, simply raising their eyebrows, nodding with exaggerated slowness, and, as an unexpected bonus, wrapping up their business more quickly than usual.

They would surely scurry to pass on the news, or at least an interpretation of what they had heard.

Some responded with the quick and, to them, certain and final judgment that the idea was utter nonsense - or words to that effect.

Still, they would pass the information to their peers.

The five had learned there was no telling what people might say, or do, in public now, but they hoped that some at least would go home and think it through. Summer brought a loosening of provincial rules as well as of individual reserve.

People were outside mingling, travelling and revelling in their freedom, carefree or careless depending on the situation.

The radio, TV and even the internet news did not have the grip it had gained during the dismal winter.

There was sun, there was fun.

There was no need for The Airing.

It stood empty except when curious children, who had no fear that people would see them, met to romp in the rooms and passages. Summer came to an end, however, and the Covid did not.

It may have been latent, but it lurked, and now it reared once more just as it came time to decide whether children should go to school, whether the arena and curling rink should open for the season, and whether Thanksgiving plans should be considered.

People had assumed things would be normal again, and then the news, Tweets, posts, reports, studies and announcements were all back in action at full force.

Again the people sought public forums to voice their fear and indecision, irritation, and general outlines of how the world ought to work.

The townspeople were no different.

They wanted to be heard.

They wanted to make a scene.

They wanted to air their grievances. When this occurred in the presence of one of the five friends, as it often did, the speaker was directed to The Airing.

It was such a simple thing, and yet no one wanted to be the first to try it.

Most knew it would be good for them, so their human nature kicked in and told them to wait until someone else made it an acceptable thing - preferably, everyone else.

The Airing stood empty as frost covered the ground. One day small footprints appeared in one of the passages, although there was no one but their maker to witness them.

A child, in the midst of the strains and stresses that only a child can know, had sought a quiet place to make some noise.

There were truths to be told, such as “I hate carrots and peas!”.

There were sorrows to express, like “I miss my friends!”.

Thankfully, there was nothing more serious or concerning in this miniature mind than the fundamental admissions: “I’m scared we’ll run out of money!” “I’m scared someone I know will die!” and

“I don’t get ‘greater than’ and ‘less than’!”

The child was exhausted, but mustered the strength for a parting shot: “It doesn’t make sense!!!”.

It was a fine rendition of the common refrain that echoed around the globe, and most suitable to be the first one uttered in The Airing.

The five would have been proud of this tiny pioneer’s monumental discovery.

They would have been pleased to know that there was one delivery of grievances that none of them were forced to receive.

Their plan had been successful at least once. Winter’s chill proved to be a surprising ally.

Cooped up, short of sunshine, and heading toward the most stressful months of the year as well as suffering the usual doldrums of the season, people were desperate for an outlet.

Going to the bank was extra stressful and a little embarrassing for some.

The Post Office was too busy for lingerers. The library and schools had closed due to the second wave.

The Home for Older Folks ticked along as usual, but their news was as worn out and stale as news anywhere else was by then.

Outdoor activity was the only safe and approved form of activity.

During the longer nights of November and December, multiple sets of footprints began to appear in the snow that settled in The Airing.

Someone even shovelled it, and whether the motive was to try it out or simply to provide some exercise, the act was beneficial to a growing number of townspeople. At first, there were tentative explorations of the freedom and privacy of The Airing.

It was something new and undemonstrated.

There was no one to follow, no chance to see how others went about the business.

But the instructions were simple enough, and after a short battle within the brain wherein the part trained by society was pounced upon, subdued, and rolled into a corner by the primal part, there was immediate progress. People let loose in a way that warmed their bodies, hearts, and souls.

It was a release that went down in history, immortalized in rhyme by an obscure local poet and given a special page on the Town website: We shouted, hollered, bayed, and keened!

We argued, cried, wailed and screamed!

We bargained, questioned, confessed, revealed!

We moaned and groaned and made our appeals!

We roared, howled, bellowed and bawled, yelled, clamoured, and caterwauled until, nearly spent, we sat back, sprawled, and gasped, astonished, but not appalled. Long after Covid had lost its capital letter and become “the covie”, just another flu with a yearly vaccination, the people of the town made use of The Airing.

For a little while, when the joy of going back to normal surged, it was empty, but then people realized that normal never was without fear or stress.

When everything was in place for the new Home for Older Folks, a new Airing was also built, this time at the top of the hill on the outskirts of town, where there was parking, a trail through nature, and an overlook where one’s voice could be freed into miles of open space and beautiful vistas of sky and land.

It was no longer reminiscent of an ancient fort.

It was an open forum with columnar trees, fields, and stars to listen to all who came to Shout it Out. The five friends, of course, were key players in the making of the park.

Their interactions with the public became much more pleasant once everyone took up the practice of unburdening themselves at The Airing, and, because their idea was seen to be a good one, they enjoyed the approval of the townspeople.

At about the same time, all five realized that none of them had used The Airing for a good shout, and they told themselves that it wasn’t because they were waiting to see what everyone thought of their idea, it was because they were fortunate enough to have such good friends to talk with that they had not needed an Airing themselves. The five had other things on their minds.

Predicting that the world would not end with Covid times, nor stress and frustration either, they had put in place a business venture.

Sandra’s research had extended as far as patents; Sarah was informative about loans; Pam pursued shipping options; Fran had a pool of prospective summer students, and one of Audrey’s charges was keen to rent his shop and equipment.

Everything came together as if the universe was rewarding the five for their patience and long-suffering. Soon there were Airings all over America, and copycat structures cropped up in plenty of places where the trendiness of paying for mental well-being was unheard of, but do-it-yourself acuity was still prevalent. The five had plenty to congratulate themselves about, and one another too.

Despite their success and all their experience, they never ceased to be amazed by two things.

First, that every human being on the planet now or ever in the history of time has had the same primal fears, frustrations, and stresses.

Second, the incredible cathartic power that is unleashed by hollering “I am afraid of what I don’t know!

It doesn’t make sense!”