I have never believed in time travel or traveling into the future or the past, but I do believe it is possible. I have read so many fiction books on the subject, HG Wells’ classic, ’ The time machine’ is my favourite. But I could never imagine that such a thing could happen in real life; well, here is a tale, my friends and I wonder if you’d like to believe it or not but all I will say is that it is true. I will concede it could have been a hallucination but that is something induced by ancient Hindu tomes. the Puranas. I remember driving to the city of Mumbai through the Western Ghats, a mountain range. It was the monsoon season, and it was likely to rain anytime, and I was expecting it. My expectations were confirmed when the dark clouds in the sky darkened further, and raindrops began to beat on the earth, as rain fell it created a dull pattern, and very soon the visibility was reduced to zero.  I wanted to stop but decided to drive a little more distance to a small temple of Lord Krishna by the side of the hill which I had visited so many times in my earlier drives. I have now entered the Ghats Mountain range and I’m slowly making my way forward with my fog lights on. By instinct, I knew that the temple was close by, but I could not immediately see it as it was shrouded in mist and fog but very soon it became visible.  I will witness the beautiful small temple of Lord Krishna. it was normally looked after by an old priest who I have got to know and would spend time talking to him over a cup of tea that he would prepare. As the temple loomed before me, I hoped he would prepare a hot cup of tea for me. I stopped before the temple and looked inside but due to the thick fog, I could not make out anything. The rain continues falling and the distant mountains are not visible as the thick fog has enveloped the entire area. I decide to make a dash for the temple instead of sitting in my SUV. I get out of my car and head towards the temple which is a few feet away. I made it to the temple in about 10 seconds, remove my shoes, and go inside. I am now relatively safe from the rain and outside I can hear the thunder crashing as it reverberates in the mountains. I looked around but could not see the priest and I called out his name. There was no response and I wondered where the priest had gone. I pay my obeisance to the deity and simultaneously close my eyes. I do not know how long I kept my eyes closed but it must be at least a minute or maybe even more when a slight cough caught my attention and I open my eyes. In the semi-darkness, I was taken aback to see a lovely young woman emerge from behind the statue of the Lord. She smiled at me and said,” I know you are looking for Ramprasad the priest, but he has gone for some job, and I will prepare you a cup of tea. I have a feeling you desperately need one.” I did not reply but I just sat down cross-legged on the stone floor signalling my assent. She returned from the small room behind the deity with a cup of tea and give it to me the weather has now turned cold, and the rain continued to fall outside. I looked out of the temple and could not see anything as the entire area was shrouded in fog. She held the cup in her hand, and I gratefully took the cup from her. As I took the car from her my hand touched her finger. I like felt a strange sensation and I could now see the girl more clearly. I was taken aback by her ethereal beauty but what struck me was that she was not wearing a blouse and her bust was covered only by the Pallu (wrap of her sari). She almost looked like an enchantress who has come from heaven and my mind could imagine the beauty of her body. She was fair; I will say ultra-fair with a slim waist and firm bust which I could see in the low light. The girl was a thrilling sight and as I took the cup from her, I took it to my lips. I close my eyes and take a sip of the tea which was a little sweet. Now, something unique happened and I heard a crash Thunder I open my eyes instantly and see outside the temple a chariot with four horses and in the chariot, I could see the girl who had given me the cup of tea. As the horses neighed, I realized that I was wearing armour with a sword strapped to my belt. The girl was beckoning me to come to the chariot and I was wondering what to do. I come out of the temple and walk to the chariot and mount it. The girl stood by my side and now I could see her clearly; she was almost like a princess bedecked with jewelry. She was beautiful and radiant, and her beauty glowed. If I were to use modern terminology, I would say she would be extremely sexy. The girl, whom I will call a princess whispered to me, “climb in, my warrior and just save me from the evil Bhagel who is following with his troops.” I climb into the chariot and put my arm around her and find that she’s soft and pliable. I involuntarily say, “yes I will save you.”  I hold the reins of the horses in my hand and the beasts neigh with froth emanating from their mouths and they surge forward. The chariot now begins to move, and I can hear horses' hooves some distance behind. I hold the waist of the girl with my left arm, encircle her and hold the reins of the horses. She is close to me, her body joined to me as with my right hand I lash the horses, and the chariot speeds forward. As my Chariot moves forward, I can hear a bunch of riders coming behind me and I lash the horses and they pick up speed, and soon the chariot thunders across the hills and dales’. The chariot is now moving at full speed and I’m getting away from the riders and the sound of the hooves recedes. I look at the princess and say, “we are pulling away from the evil Bhagel, and now princess where do you want me to take you?” She looks at me quizzically and says,” you know where to take me, my warrior, take me to your abode and make me your woman. this is the vision of the Lord.” “But princess I do not know you.” “When the Lord gives a gift, it has to be accepted and he has told me that I am your gift, but you have to win me”. “Win you?” “There is a rider coming head-on, you will have to fight him because he is Bhagel, the evil one.” I look ahead and I can see that a rider is coming, and he holds a lance in his hand. The princess says, “do something, this man is a master with a lance, and can shoot it from 150 paces.” I also lift my lance which is attached to the chariot, and I let it go. I remember the time when I was in the Academy and practiced throwing the javelin.   I lift and throw, the aim is unnerving and strikes the rider in the chest. He falls from the horse, his leg stuck in the stirrup, and the horse panics, and he’s pulled away to the mountains. The princess turns to me and says, “you have saved me from the man now you can have me if you want.” “If I want?” “Yes” “But I am bewildered”. “You should never be bewildered by god’s gift”. I pull the horses back and bring the chariot to a halt and ask the princess, “What next?” “There is a beautiful lake with a small hut by the side, take me there”. “Where is the lake?” “Just behind the clump of trees.” I get down from the chariot and cradle the princess in my arms and walk towards the clump. I cross it and low and behold is a beautiful lake and a lovely hut by the side. I wonder, ‘is all this real? and I’m telling myself what the hell is going on man.’ I walk into the hut with the princess and what follows is something that cannot be described. It is ecstatic and hedonistic, more like a sophomoric delight. Outside the horses are neighing as I accept God’s gift. I close my eyes and I am conscious that I am sitting cross-legged on the bare floor of the temple now I can see the priest coming slowly towards me and he says, “I have been watching you for quite some time. You have been meditating in the Lotus pose to the Lord doubtless you have received a great gift.” I look at the priest and say, “I don’t know what you are talking about because there was a beautiful girl here who came from behind the deity, and she gave me a cup of tea.” The priest only smiled, “it is not possible there is no girl here and I had just gone to the market to bring some ingredients which I have brought and now I shall prepare you my customary cup of tea.” “But I already had a cup of tea which was given to me by the girl”. The priest looked at me and he had a radiant smile on his face,” I think sir, you have been transported to another world when you were meditating to the Lord. I don’t think anybody gave you a cup of tea, it was just the Lord decided to reward you with what you desire the most.” “But the cup of tea” “There is no cup of tea”. I looked around and could not see any cup of tea and I scratched my head and looked at the priest and said priest,” I have had a strange experience.” The priest just smiled at me and said,” the Lord gives fulfilment. All that happened is real for you. but it shows that you are in the eye of the Lord, and you have accepted his gift.” He soon returned with a cup of tea which I drank. As I sipped the tea, I was wondering about what had happened, or maybe I just dreamed it, but it was very real. I left the cup of tea after I drank it and came out. The rain had stopped. The weather was clear, and I sit in my SUV and start the ignition and move forward. I desire to come again to the temple wondering if I could have that delicious dream again. The story does not end here. Two years later I had entered the polo ground at Bhopal for a polo match.   I was moving towards my horse when I saw the maharaja of Dewas. He saw me and without pretence walks to me with a lovely girl by his side. The maharaja smiled and said, “Colonel, this is my daughter, and she also is adept at horses and was keen to meet you as you are a well-known polo player.” I looked at the girl. I was wondering what to say as I was tongue-tied for the simple reason that the girl standing before me was a carbon copy of the princess on the chariot. it’s something like Ripley’s believe it or not. I stood tongue tied as my heart beats quickened. The princess held out her hand and I kissed it. I didn’t know what to say and heard the princess say,” I will enjoy the game of polo with you.” It was a robust game, and after it ends, we move over to the Shamiana where we had a sumptuous lunch spread with unlimited beer. The Princess remains mostly with me, and after the luncheon suggests an afternoon ride in the hills. I readily agree and, in my heart, I know that what is happening is something which is not ordinary. We rode the horses across the hills and dales, crossing a small wood shrouded in greenery. We crossed the wood with me following her on my horse. As the wood cleared, I was surprised when before my eyes opened a view of a small pond with a hut. The adrenal rushed to my brain, and I realized that I had seen this beautiful scene earlier. I could not correlate how this had become reality. I dismount from my horse and in a moment step towards the adjacent horse with the princess astride and lift her from the saddle and cradle her in my arms as I carry her to the hut. She makes a small protest, but I am overwhelmed with the dream which I had experienced and press forward. At the same time, I realized that what I’ve seen was a reality, as I was transported into the past. As I push open the door of the hut and softly lay the princess on the mat and kiss her, it dawns on me that time travel is a possibility. I open her blouse and suckle her nipples whispering, “princess, you are god’s gift, this was inevitable…” What happened next is another story for another day but I know the incident did take place in another world in another life but it is all linked.


I remember since the age of four I would often think about wanting to live a different life. I was in quite emotional pain and longed nothing more for happiness. This is when I developed depression although at the time I did not know that. At this time in my life, my family was living together but had already grown apart. There was domestic violence and abuse in the household. I went into foster care two years later. In the second grade, at recess I would stare at the house across the street from the school. It was a blue little house and there were young children who often played outside in the front yard. The parents would be outside with the kids. I would wish to myself to have a family like that. All I saw was the perfect family. This family was so happy and "put together". When I lived with my former foster family, we attended church regularly. I would go to Sunday school so I learned about God. So whenever I was at recess I would pray to God and ask for a happy family like this one someday. Church seemed to be the only thing that connected me to my foster family. On other days of the week, we were not close at all. At the age of ten, I started to develop deeper thinking thoughts and processes. I would often ask myself if life was really a thing. "Is life real?" I became emotionally numb. I would have dreams about trading souls with people I admired. In my dreams, I would do anything to live another person's life. These dreams stuck with me for a long time and I became fixated on them. A year later, I started to feel very disassociated. I felt like life was an illusion. This was when I developed suicidal ideations. If I could go back to this time in my life before these emotions and thoughts had begun, I would tell myself to put myself in other people's shoes. It would be quite weird if I were to literally swap places with a person in a Freaky Friday type style. If I were to swap bodies with a person for a day, I do wonder what life would be like, but I also don't want to know. As I've grown older, I've learned that everybody has their own battles and pain; there is no justification. In case you are wondering, "if you had to swap places with a person for a day, who would it be?" I would say one of my favorite music artists. I have a burning passion for music, it touches me in ways that words cannot. Music is motivating and definitely helps me cope with emotions and life. So here I am going to swap places with Hayley Williams. Living a day as Hayley Williams, the first thing I would do is wake up at eight in the morning and take a shower. I would sing in the shower and listen to my beautiful voice, as sweet as an angel. I would then get out, dry off and get dressed, then look in the mirror as I'm doing my makeup. I'd brush my beautiful long hair and think to myself, "I wonder how I got this far? I wonder what kind of family I was raised in?" After finishing getting ready for the day, I would set mission to gather all the information about my family that I could. I'd find out that I have two half-sisters and my parents divorced years after I was born. I would come to the conclusion that I was broken inside because I came from a broken family; often I'd feel emotions of depression and anger. Later that day, I would skimmer through my journal and realize that music is what keeps me going, it's a way of expressing myself so I am heard. At the same time I hope others can relate to me and get the help that they need too. After reading the journal, I would ponder all the ways to create my own happiness. I'd go to bed that night and wake up the next day with the impression that I'd have a changed mindset. The next day I wake up and feel like a new person although I'm back in my own body. Hayley Williams does the same. She doesn't know me and I don't know her, but we both learn something knew. We both have gone through similar experiences and neither of us are alone. I look up counseling offices to set up an appointment so I can talk about my trauma and to deal with my emotional problems more easily. Hayley Williams continues to write and play her music, as well as feeling stronger emotionally. She realizes that she can battle depression but it will be a challenge. Sometimes friends are all you need, family isn't necessarily blood but it can be just as real as loyalty. Family is what you make of it. It can be hard seeing families not having marriage problems and they seem happy with their kids. It can be hard for some people like us because we have not experienced that with our own parents. That bond is something we all desire. However, we have to remember that every family does have problems. There is no such thing as the perfect family. We don't always see it because people don't like sharing their pain with the world, but people do have their own stories to tell. We need to give them a moment to gather their thoughts and to let them know that they are in a safe space. We all need to work together to make this world a better and happier place. One day I plan to have a family of my own. I like to write and create art so I hope to bring foster care awareness to the public. I hope to educate them on the effects of coming from a broken family and to help them find ways to stay together. I would also like to become a counselor for youth who come from broken families and the foster care system.


She slumped down in the little Sigma, which was parked on the main road right out the front of the venue. The car had seen better days. It was a sun-worn red, it stank of cigarettes long smoked, and it was always only about half-filled with fuel. But it still had spoilers and mags and went red. Red goes faster.

But not when you're trying to get changed and the line for the show is just outside the car window. She gave up being discreet and took off her work shirt, bra out for the world to see. It was soon covered by a band shirt. Not the shirt of the band playing tonight. Some other band. It's not like she was here in the guise of a fan. 'This is so freaking difficult,' she grated to the long-haired blonde who was calmly munching his way through a yiros and gazing out the window. 'Always such a rush.' 'Calm down,' he said. 'We've got heaps of time.'

'Easy for you to say,' she retorted, tossing her clothes onto the back seat and rummaging around in her bag for makeup. Finally finding what she was after, she took a moment to take a breath before touching up her face appropriately. The last thing she needed was eyeliner smooshed across her face, and nowhere to wash it off and start again. Getting out of work on time had been difficult. It was a long day. It began before dawn. It ended just on sunset. And it wasn't over yet; the second part of the day was just beginning. The show would go until midnight. Then there were notes to decipher, comments to recall, a vibe to convey. It was just as well that she lived with a photographer whose gig was going to be to sit up for the entire night, selecting, running post, sequencing and submitting. It sounded like such a glorious life: *Music journalist*. If only people knew how fucking hard the work was. Rushed, tiring, underpaid or never paid. Trolls online. Death threats from bands' girlfriends when a review didn't go well. Makeup finished, she slumped back in her seat and sighed. Ate a soggy chip. Looked at her watch.

'Ok, let's do it.' They bailed out of the car, locked it. Walked up the steps to the venue's entrance, printed authorisation in hand.

'Good evening!' the middle-aged door lady greeted them. 'You on tonight are you?' 'Should be!' our girl laughed. 'If Rod's done his job right.' She handed over the verification. 'Jasmine plus one,' the door lady murmured. Scanned the list. Pointed. 'Yep, here y'are.' She put a line through a name on her list, stamped both wrists, added an age-verification paper bracelet so they could buy drinks, and waved them in. The venue was already full. Squwarks of guitar strings, random notes, and isolated drum beats issued from the stage. The support act was warming up. Tonight there'd be three support acts before the main event. 'Fucking hell, *three* supports?' Jasmine sighed to her partner. 'Who decided that was a good idea on a school night?'. Plus One shrugged. 'No time for a drink it looks like.' He nodded towards the stage; the band was assembling itself and the vocalist was about to say something inane. 'Better go grab a spot.' They ambled into the room, greeting people they knew along the way. One of them was a fellow journalist, someone who never had a notebook or a pen and who was perpetually drunk. For the next half-hour, and then the next three half-hours, and then the main event itself, Jasmine stood in a central rear location, near the mixing desk. It was always the spot with the best sound. Too close to the front and you lose the high-end. Too far to the side, all you hear is one half of what's broadcasting, gets bassy, fuzzy. It made sense that the best sound was almost right where the sound engineer sat. Jasmine scribbed notes. Random comments from stage. Mostly song names. In between times, she drank beer, talked to people she knew. Excused herself to go to the loo to write impressions in the stinky peace. Plus One shot three songs, no flash, of each band. His night was easy in comparison: Totally at liberty to socialise, smoke, drink, have fun. In between the start of each set, anyway. The rigours of the day melted off Jasmine as she worked. By the end of the night, a bit drunk, filled with the rhythm of live music and the energy of a crowd, she was exhiliarated. As security shuffled them out at the end of the night, Jasmine began mentally sequencing the show in her head. Thought of angles for her review. Began categorising what was good, what was not so good, and why the second support ought to give up. They were terrible. An elbow in the side interrupted her. She looked up. It was the guitarist from the second support act. 'Saw ya making notes,' he grinned. 'Journo are ya?' He leered down at her. He was off his tits. If he were any more drunk his eyes would be located on different sides of his head. Jasmine raised an eyebrow, smiled. 'Something like that.' 'It'ssshhh only coss you carn play anythink,' he said. 'Wishhhh you could be an art, art, artissshht and all ya got is tha'.' He waved his hand, lurched through the door as they reached it. 'Write whatever you want, darl, we dohnnn give a fhark. At leasssht we're playin'. Plus One caught Jasmine's eye as the guitarist lurched away. He could see that it had hit her. Hard.

'Ignore him,' he said, throwing an arm over her shoulders. 'It takes real talent to write a good critique. Why are you bothered?' Jasmine shrugged off Plus One's arm, fished her car keys out of her pocket. 'Because on some level he's right,' she stated pedantically. 'If I was any good as an artist myself, I wouldn't be spending my nights writing *this* for free.'


I. From the Journal of Ambrose Sykes, Aspiring Writer & Poet The Curious Case of Storms in Graveyards – 1849 The graveyard blazes to life in a brief flash of white light, and all at once, the lightning seems to inhabit every space–each imperfection on the silent sentinels keeping watch over the dead. Angelic faces weep. Crosses burn in the heat of it. It is chaos in an instant and no more. When it dies, darkness returns. Layers of the blackest ink spilled–spread across the dotted cemetery, fleeing the long, annoyed groan of thunder as it mutters and curses to have been so inconvenienced by such brightness. Those who inhabit the graveyard, of course, are immune to all–such is their lot in death. Bones have no care for the rattle of thunder. Skulls with their hollowed out sockets are blind to the startling transformation of night to day and back to night again. What care does the dead have for storms? Seasons change, skin and organs decompose, and the burdens of those beloved lives lost grow lighter as the years gnaw away a life once lived. All regrets, joys, sorrows, fears, wants, and needs soak into the ground like rain during a storm.

But for the living, a storm in a graveyard has all the right makings for disaster. Not only does one find themselves out in the elements–dangerous to the lowliest pauper as to the richest king–but to be alone in such sacred, solemn space. To find oneself surrounded by so many and yet no one at all. In the daylight, even if during a storm, it would be no issue. The darkness, however–and a curious darkness, one black as pitch if pardon can be given for such a common phrase–creates illusions in the mind. Shadows of a resting oak turn to reaching, skeletal fingers. The hoot of an owl can be confused for the wailing of spirit. Oh!--the cliché of it all! When we find ourselves caught in cliches–is that not the most unfortunate disaster of them all?

And yet, here I am. Caught in a cliché. Faced with a storm, a graveyard, and the horrifying thought that one day, I will join the rotting corpses beneath my feet. I am crouched in the archway of an ancient mausoleum with only my journal and pen as protection. The rain beats down as if punishing the earth for some wrongdoing while lightning and thunder trade insults above me (lightning the more violent, obviously, and thunder, quite wordy). I am keenly aware that it is high time I take my leave but find all rational thoughts being ignored. My feet are incapable of movement. I am as the statues here in this cemetery. What can I do but write about it? My pen (and, daresay, my mind) is the only thing I have leave to use.

I shall wait it out. The storm will pass. For what is time to the dead or I, their reluctant guest? II. New Harbor Police Department Detective Bureau Time: 6:03 P.M. Date: AUGUST 8, 1849 Nature of Incident: BRAWL DURING FUNERAL Arrests: THREE MALES, TWO FEMALES

Injuries: ONE FEMALE SUSTAINED A BLACK EYE. THE OTHER HAD FINGERNAILS DUG INTO HER ARM. MALES ALL HAD BRUISING ON ARMS AND LEGS. During a funeral, a fight broke out between Mister Mark Dickson, male, 46 years of age, and Mrs. Sarah Nelson, female, 52 years of age. Mrs. Nelson assaulted Mr. Dickson by kicking him in the shin. Another female, Mrs. Janet Dickson, 38 years of age, hit Mrs. Nelson in the eye. Mister Amos Dickson and Mister Cecil Nelson attempted to break up the fight and received hits to their arms and legs as a result. All five persons were arrested and taken in for questioning. The three major offenders (S. Nelson, M. Dickson, and J. Dickson) claimed to be “possessed by something unknown” during the incident with very little memory of what started the brawl. Mr. Amos Dickson and Mr. Cecil Nelson provided positive character statements about the assailants. All made amends and were released shortly thereafter.

During the arrest, Miss Paula Sampson approached Officer Daniels with a journal. Journal was wet from last night’s storm, but still legible. Blood stains were found on the pages. Several pages have been removed. The journal appears to belong to a Mister Ambrose Sykes. Further investigation is required.

III. POLICE SEEK HELP New Harbor , August 9 –Local resident Ambrose Sykes was reported missing by his sister three days prior. A journal of his was recently discovered by mourners in Holy Family Cemetery and handed to the police. Foul play is suspected. Any information the public may have on the whereabouts of Mister Sykes, please contact the police or the Sykes family. Time is of the essence. New Harbor Times, 1849 IV. BODY OF MISSING LOCAL MAN DISCOVERED Tragic Accident Takes a Life New Harbor, September 2– Twenty-seven year old Ambrose Sykes, son of prominent business owner Bram Sykes and his wife Beatrice as well as elder brother to Miss Rachel Sykes, is believed to have passed away on August 7, 1849, during one of the worst storms in New Harbor’s history. The time of death is not known, though he is believed to have passed during the pre-dawn hours of the morning. Mister Sykes was announced as missing on August 9, 1849, and his body was later discovered in Holy Family Cemetery on August 30. Mister Sykes’s decomposed body was found by Mrs. Margaret O’Donnell at approximately 11:15 A.M., near the rear plots of the cemetery. Police do not suspect foul play, but rather believe Mister Sykes passed after slipping on the wet ground and making contact with a headstone. An accidental blow to the back of the head was determined as the cause of death. The victim’s blood was found on both a nearby headstone and the journal police discovered weeks earlier. Arrangements for the funeral have not yet been made. New Harbor Times, 1849 V. August 7, 1850 Dear Anonymous,

Please allow me to convey my sincerest gratitude for the statue of my brother you placed in Holy Family Cemetery. As you knew my brother well, you know that he did not have many friends and preferred the company of his journal to that of people. He wrote many fantastical stories and poems and enjoyed visiting the very cemetery where he now rests to gather inspiration.

I do not know if my note will ever reach you. I will place it on this statue in hopes that you, like I, visit here to remember my brother. You must have known him very well to create such a likeness. When I touch the cheek of your statue, it is as if I am touching the skin of my brother’s cheek, though the coldness of the stone is nothing like the warmness of his laugh. A year without it has made me very cold indeed.

Perhaps you and I will one day meet, but I fear you, like Ambrose, prefer to make your way in the world without the comfort of others. I pray Ambrose has comfort now amongst the dead in this cemetery. I pray that these eternal friends of his give him rest and peace and show him the way to Heaven. I pray that though, even now as I scribble this message to you, I feel eyes upon my back, wishing me ill. Perhaps my brother's likeness will ease the malevolence of this place. Yours in gratitude, Rachel Sykes


Every year people make resolutions for the New Year that they plan to carry out but never do. Things that may just be out of their reach or things that get sidelined by other obligations. They say to themselves that next year will be the year that they finally follow through and that tends to be pushed back as time goes on. Whether it be something like losing weight or saving money instead of spending it all. New Year’s resolutions are hard to accomplish.

For several years Greta had put off applying for college thinking she was not good enough or that she never pulled down good enough grades in high school to be admitted. On her way to work, every day at the small bookstore named Carol’s books after the owner’s late grandmother, she saw the campus that she one day wanted to attend. Two days after New Year’s Day in 2005, she once again passed by that campus. Knowing that this was the year that she would get up the nerves to actually apply.

The University of York was a charming school, one that she had grown up by all of her life. York itself was also charming, so much so that she couldn’t conceive of living anywhere else. Although there were other universities she could apply to, she had her heart set on the University of York. A place where many of her friends had attended just after secondary school. Finally, she felt like she couldn’t put it off any longer.

As she walked dutifully two miles from her small family home cottage, she told herself that she would apply for the fall term. Knowing that she could save money by living with her parents and two older sisters. During her four years of working at the bookstore, she saved up some of her earnings to help her follow her dream of becoming a teacher. So that she could use her love of literature to teach. This was a dream that she had had for years.

After her shift that day, she rushed home to tell her mother that she decided that this year was the year. At first, her mother rolled her eyes and told her that this is what she always said. Greta took the time to convince her of her drive to apply. Her father, Henry was a professor at the university and had been trying to encourage her to go through with applying ever since she got her diploma five years prior. He knew she was scared of rejection but he still believed in her.

After dinner that evening and after Greta had expressed that she was motivated to apply this time. Her father told her that he would do whatever he could to prepare her for the entrance exam. Although Greta was a smart woman, her grades could have been better. Never the less, she knew she could test in if she studied hard. The next day at the bookstore, she gathered up a few books that would help her on the entrance exam.

Once she got home and cracked open a book about mathematics, her worst subject in school. She came to realize how hard it truly was going to be for her. Her father offered to help her with it. Every night she studied the grueling subjects, the English ones being the easiest. She had read every book back in secondary school that was required and spent time reading for pleasure. Her knowledge of historical writing was astounding and contemporary works were her strong point. It was the other subjects that she struggled with and she needed all the help she could get.

After studying for months the day of the exam came. She showed up almost shaking with nervousness and proceeded to sit down to be handed the entrance exam. The first section was mathematics and although it took her the longest, she felt that she had done well. Next was the section on history, one that she knew very well and completed faster than the math section. After that was the science section and although this was something that she had struggled with before, the studying she did had prepared her well. Lastly, she came to the literature section and went through that quickly, leaving her five minutes before the end of the allotted time.

Greta waited impatiently for a few weeks hoping that she did well enough to get into the university. Her parents and the bookstore owner encouraged her, reminding her that she had taken the first step towards her dream. That nothing would stand in her way. Greta felt good about the fact that she had carried out her resolution of applying for university so far and hoped that she would be able to make it all the way. Teaching is all she ever wanted to do and as the release of the tests, results grew near she was ripe with anticipation.

Finally, Greta was sent the results of her entrance exam and her scores were even greater than she expected. All of her studying paid off and her parents were so proud of her. Next came the application process, something that her father assisted her with. She had to gather all of the information needed for the application and was able to fill it out in a matter of days. She sent it off hoping that she would be admitted. If she were to be denied entrance, she didn’t know what she would do.

After careful consideration, Greta got an acceptance letter and was given instructions on how to sign up for classes. She was also given an overview of the entire pathway to fulfilling the requirements for her degree. However, Greta knew that graduation from York University would not be the end of the road. For she would have to go on to get her master’s degree as well and she vowed that nothing would stand in her way.

As soon as she got the news her friends and family planned a surprise party to celebrate her achievement. After work one day, she came home to find that the lights were off in the house. As soon as she walked through the door, she heard the words, “surprise.” She was so happily surprised that she was given so much praise after waiting years to apply to the university. Greta really felt that she could do this and knew after celebrating with her family and friends that she had the love and support she needed to see through her dream. The road to earning her degrees was going to be a long journey but she was not discouraged. She had finally made one of her New Year’s resolutions come true.


Millie sat at the rim of the darkened cottage, the scent of peat fire churning in dense ringlets around her. In the center of the chamber, circling the cooking fire were the elders. They called a gathering to confer over what should be done to save the season's yield of grain.

“It has already been months of no rain, the harvests will not endure much longer.” A female said, anxiety lacing each word. “We can have the youths collect water from the creek.” Said a male.

“That may work, albeit challenging. Others would need to contribute.” Said a more youthful voice. Millie couldn't help as her chest puffed out in pride of her mother's contribution. The first female spoke again. “It will not be enough.”

They spoke for hours, spinning around the same ideas: Children hauling pails of water from the creek and clipping the harvest prematurely in hopes they spare some of the grain.

But there was an itch in the back of Millie's mind telling her there was something more they could do.

She couldn’t think of what. What could she, a girl of nine accomplish that the entirety of the village elders could not?

The group dispersed, leaving Millie walking home clasping onto her mother's hand as the heat of the night made her linen shirt cling to her skin.

“Can I do anything to help?” She asked her mother.

Gently squeezing her hand her mother said, “We will all gather the water and hope it will hold us until the rains show up again.”

But Millie could hear the unspoken words. It will not be enough.

Her shoulders sagged and her eyes watched her feet for the rest of the walk home.

At twilight, Millie sat up in her cot. Squeezing her flimsy blanket in her hands she strolled over and threw open the shutters to the small window. Immediately the hot air struck her face, enveloping the room with the dry earthy scent of the fields, causing her to step back and glance at the form of her sleeping mother. When her mother didn't move Millie returned her attention to the window.

The sky was dark, streaked with shimmering stars. Millie always thought of the stars as little fairies that overlooked the simple folk of the Earth. She observed each star, gauging to see which one was watching her. A fairy who has noticed their struggles and would offer her the help she needed, if only she would ask.

To the right between a large glimmering star and farthest away from the moon, it was a fairy that began to twinkle. It was calling to Millie.

Her heart jumped in her chest. Hope started to blossom as her hands idly twisted the blanket. She dared to linger her eyes on the fairy reaching to her.

It blinked some more and Millie knew for sure she had the right fairy, and she made her plea. Whispering the words and blowing them out to the sky, “Save my village, spare rain for our harvests.”

Locking her eyes shut until her cheeks grew tired, she repeated her words over and over, blowing each one to the sky. She dared to open her eyes only once she thought a suitable amount of time had passed. Her heart plunged within her chest as the fairy started to flicker out and fade. They must have drifted farther away – rejecting her call for aid.

Closing the shutters, her eyes stung as she returned to bed. That night Mille fell asleep with her tears soaking into her blanket.

The next morning, she jolted up in bed. She had a dream – a vision. A message in a dream!

Her smile radiated with the brightness of the sun as she ate her portage with zeal. Her mother observed her every movement, her eyes brimming with questions she dared not ask in case it spoiled the magic.

Waving goodbye to her mother, Millie merrily joined the others as they began the work of hauling pails of water from the creek.

The others all clustered together, followed in a line walking with steady purposeful steps, but none of their steps were as light as Millie's. She soared across the distance until she was at the creek well before the others.

Without looking to see if someone was watching, she ran. She flew as fast as her little legs could carry her. In the trees, the heat turned to warmth and the buzzing of bugs surrounded her. When her lungs were burning and each breath was a chore she halted.

She had followed the creek until she reached a clearing. Her vision had shown her where to go, so she was not frightened. Her fairy had told her to find the answer here, in the woods.

Looking around and drinking in the warm air she noticed the trees lining this space with purpose. She had never been here before. It was the circle from her dream, where she would encounter the lady who would help her. But, she was alone.

Slowly Millie walked to the center of the space. It was greener than the rest of the forest and it even smelled green. The pine needles and moss covered the edges of the grass. With the chirping of birds in the trees, she almost felt like she was still living her dream.

“What are you doing here, child?”

Millie whipped around to face the woman who spoke. It was her. Her hair was a grey bunch on top of her crown and her gown was patched and mended in too many spots to count.

In her vision, the woman wore a smile, but here she did not. She glowered at Millie, making her want to plunge back into the shelter of the trees.

Her mouth was open, so she closed it. The woman was waiting for an explanation so she opened it again. But, she didn’t know what to say.

Her palms started to feel damp, and her senses darted in every direction landing nowhere useful. She clamoured, “The fairy …” but broke off. The woman's brow furrowed. “You believe in the faeries?”

Rubbing her palms down her dress, Millie nodded. Maybe she made a mistake coming here. No one knew where she had gone. Who would find her if this woman decided to carry her off? The woman watched as her hands fidgeted in her skirts, unsure what to do next. She strained to choose words that wouldn't sound crazy. “The star, I asked them for help.”

“Your fairy was in the stars?” The woman's brow rose in question. To Millie's relief, the woman's tone softened and feeling encouraged she offered a smile. “I watched them – the stars. For a fairy whose gaze was drawn to my village. I asked them for help, and … they sent me to you.”

Holding her breath, Millie waited for the woman's reply. She would either shoo her away for being crazy, or the fairy had sent her to the right place. The woman took so long to answer Millie's heart started to beat faster. She was just a crazy child, lost in daydreams and wishes. She should not have come.

The woman twisted around, her face turned to the sky and her hands firm on her hips.

Deflated, Millie’s eyes began to burn with embarrassment and shame. She flung around, turning away from the woman. She will run back to the creek. Go back to helping her village the same way everyone else was. She should be bringing water to the fields, not venturing into forests looking for magic and fairies.

“Wait.” The woman spoke, her voice calming and full of warmth. “If you desire my help, I will give it.”

Millie didn’t turn around right away. Her eyes were wet and her heart was thrashing about in her chest. The woman was going to help her? She hadn’t made it up, she didn’t dream of fairies just to wander into the woods alone without reason.

She brought the edge of her skirt to her face and rubbed away the drying tears. Then she slowly turned to the woman. “You will help me?”

Her voice sounded small and timid but the woman nodded and beckoned her closer. “I can guess your plea to the fairies. I would have done it myself, but my gardens did not wither.” Millie's eyes widened, she knew what she had come here for. “Now, I will tell you a list, and you must remember each item, collect them and return to this clearing. This area carries the fairies' magic.”

“How do you know this clearing is for the fairies?” She asked.

“Dear child, do you think I cleared this circle of trees?” The woman swung her arms wide. “The fairies live here. You can smell their work in the wind. The moss they tend, the beetles they care for; this is their home.” She gave a warm smile as Millie took in the clearing with new eyes.

Yes, this place did hold magic. It was vibrant green and lush with the smells of fresh earth and all the wild-growing things. It was thriving when Millie's fields, tended to by mortal hands were withering away to nothing. The trees lined the clearing almost perfectly, opening a flawless view of the sky. It was too perfect to be human-made. It was incredible.

The woman gave Millie a list of objects to collect and made her vow not to forget one. She was to return in the night, under the watchful gaze of the fairy who had given her aid.

Rushing back through the forest, Millie splashed her bucket into the creek and threw herself back toward the village.

She rushed through her day’s work with the same smile plastered to her face as she recited her list over in her mind.

A blue flower: To call to the sky for aid . A handful of seed: For the harvests, I desire to save.

A lock of her hair: For my sacrifice and gratitude. Moonlit dewdrops: To invoke the spirit of the rain. She found the flower in a bush that had yet to wilt and she gathered the seeds from the dying wheat stalks themselves. When her mother was asleep, she snuck into the kitchen and used a knife to cut her hair. She tucked each item into the rolled-up sleeve of her night dress and she left for the forest once again.

It was dark and there might have been the cry of a wolf in the distance, but she steadied her pace and marched through the forest knowing the fairies wished for rain just as much as her. They desired the items that would call forth the rain, they would guide her safely.

There was an instant when she grew tense with the fear of a wrong turn taken, but it was just a blimp of a moment, easily forgotten, and before she knew it she was back in the fairy clearing.

Here, shaded within the trees, the night air was calm with the smell of promises and magic. The woman was not there, but Millie already knew what to do.

With the moon bathing the clearing in its light she lay each of the items out in the center of the clearing reciting as she did so.

She placed the blue flower foremost. “To call to the sky for aid.”

Next, she placed the seeds in a miniature pile. “For the harvests, I desire to save.” Twisting her lock of hair, she gently placed it on the grass. “For my sacrifice and gratitude.”

Sitting back on her heels she watched as each item slowly soaked in the dew that shimmered in the moonlight. She smiled and faced the sky searching for the fairy who watched over her. Only after spotting the flickering fairy, she said, “To invoke the spirit of the rain.” She waited. Her smile slowly sank as the darkness of the woods began to expand and take form. Nothing was happening. The items lay on the grass, limp and wet.

The back of her neck tingled. Standing she looked to the trees that surrounded her. Something was watching. Was it the woman, or the fairy? A wolf howled in the distance. The low sound reverberated through her bones.

She was alone, in the woods, in the dead of night.

She ran.

Her feet and lungs ached by the time she scrambled back into her cot. Clinging to her blanket and thoroughly exhausted, she tumbled to sleep. Her dreams flooded with the comforting memory of magic. Tap.

Tap.

Tap. There was insistent tapping like tiny hands knocking all about her head. Squeezing her eyes to shut the noise out, she tried to hold on to her dream. A dream of wonder, sparkling green moss and guardian wolves.

Someone gasped and Millie's eyes shot open.

Her mother was sitting in her cot, her face upturned to the roof. Her mouth opened as a smile grew on her lips.

She looked toward Millie with a voice full of awe and wonder. “It’s raining!”

Millie shot out of bed and threw open the shutters. Warm humid air streamed into the room. Rain was pouring from the sky. Sheets of water dropping from dark heavy clouds. Their air was rich with moisture and fulfilled promises.

Releasing a shriek of delight Millie ran and embraced her mother. They spent the entire day listening to the music of the rain.


The smell of everything bagels fills my nostrils. I can taste the seeds on my tongue. Cream cheese would make a wonderful blanket—hot chocolate seems appropriate to be holding. What it would be like to hold hands with serenity, feeling her silky calmness between each finger. I’m ready to sink into linen and velvet upholstery, pull out a good book, and let any daily stressors melt away. Except I can’t do that because an eccentric woman wearing a pink plaid apron shoves a 3-wick candle mere centimeters under my nose. “Our Everything bagel candle is a fan favorite this season!” Her boisterous voice snaps me out of my daydream and invites me back to retail hell. Customers run rampant through the store, leaving various candles where they don’t belong. Shattered glass startles me six feet away, and one of the employees swiftly works through the crowd with a broom and dustpan. In big letters, the name “CHRISTIE” runs across the left side of her chest in bold, pink-and-white letters. “I don’t think my mom would like it,” I exert my voice over countless conversations going on simultaneously around Christie and me. My mother’s birthday is this weekend—her fifth year in a row turning twenty-seven.

Does she burn candles?

I convince myself that it’s the thought that counts.

Typically, employees aren’t as eager as Christie is to help. “What does your mother like?” She asks me, aquamarine pupils concentrating on me.

My mind goes blank as a plethora of scents cause olfactory sensory overload. I don’t think my mom likes anything, or maybe she’s never told me. My mom probably wouldn’t like Christie that much: She’s peppy, loud, and too eager to please. I suddenly grasp onto a thought. “Oh, she likes apple pies!” Whenever my mother isn’t working, you can find her baking some of the most delicious apple pies in front of the oven. The taste of fresh apples and a hint of cinnamon is overwhelming as I imagine savoring a bite.

Christie beams, “Let me grab you the perfect candle!” Her ponytail bounces behind her as she races towards what looks like a seasonal table of candles. She returns as quickly as a dog with its favorite stick. Christie lifts the red candle to my face, “This one is called ‘Warm Apple Slice.’ It has Macintosh apples, cinnamon, brown sugar, and sweet vanilla. Smell!” I half-voluntarily inhale and am immediately transported back to my mom’s kitchen. She’s laughing, producing one of the heartiest laughs I’ve ever heard. I witness a beautiful, whimsical dance to no music in front of the stove. She takes both of my hands—at first, I’m embarrassed. But then, I drop my shoulders, let go of judgment, and dance. Our hips move side-to-side in an unsynchronized fashion. The smell of fresh apples with a hint of cinnamon is overwhelming.

I jerk my head away from the candle and wipe a tear from my eye. “Maybe we could go with a different candle,” I noted.

A slight frown forms on Christie’s face, but it quickly transforms into perseverance. “Tell me something else she likes.” This time, her hand is on the back of my right shoulder.

“Watermelon lemonade!” I shouted. I don’t even know if she drinks that anymore. I also don’t know why that specific drink came to mind. But before I can debate what slipped out of my mouth, Christie appears in front of me with a new candle. It’s pink, and the candle’s aroma is a kiss from summer.

“We specifically have a watermelon lemonade candle,” she assures me, “a perfect mix of juicy watermelon, freshly squeezed lemons, pure cane sugar, and love.”

I’m a tad too eager as I pull the candle up to my nose and am taken to another dimension. My mother is again in the kitchen, messing with the blender. I feel younger and curious, and my mother can sense it. She doesn’t have to turn around to invite me into her culinary workspace. I’ve never heard of watermelon lemonade, as she’s showing me how to make it.

“All you need is seedless watermelon, cold water, lemon juice, sugar, some ice cubes, and love.” I hear her voice; It’s velvety and warmer than any fireplace.

My mother walks behind me and helps me remove the seeds from each watermelon piece. After the watermelon is pureed in the blender, we pour it into a bowl. She’s guiding my hand as we whisk the water, lemon juice, and sugar. I feel a wet kiss on my right cheek. I realize my mom snuck a couple pieces of watermelon for herself. I stare back at her, and our laughs merge. To get her back for my face being wet and sticky, I grab the kitchen sink sprayer, and a mist of water captures some of the cotton fibers of her shirt. My mom holds a strainer to shield herself. I instantly regret my choice to chase her when I feel a puddle of water soak the bottom of my foot, causing me to fall on my butt. My mother runs over and checks to see if I’m okay. I shove the candle away from me and back into Christie’s hands. What were these candles doing to me? Christie’s ocean eyes reflect that of mine, her blonde ponytail a slightly lighter shade than the shaggy mop on my head. “Who are you?” I stutter. The woman doesn’t answer my question and reveals a candle behind her. “Please let me show you one more candle, Zachary.”

She knows my name—Every hair on my body stands up. This candle is gray and somehow overpowers any other scent in the store.

“It’s called ‘Forgiveness.’ This candle isn’t one that you smell but that you feel.” I remain silent. “Maybe this is the candle my daughter would like.” “Grandma?” Tears form in my eyes, clouding my vision slightly. “Is that really you?” “You don’t have a lot of time.” She grabs both of my hands, and the warmth feels undeniably comforting. “Go see her, Zachy.” “But what if she doesn’t forgive me?” I ask faintly.

My grandmother responds, “A mother’s love is patient and forgiving when all others are forsaking; it never fails or falters, even though the heart is breaking.” “Helen Rice,” I whisper between us.

“One of your mother’s favorite writers.” She ushers the candles into my arms. “It might not be her forgiving you that needs accepting, but you to forgive yourself. Go. Be with her.” As I head to the register, I look back and say, “Thank you, and I love you.” No one is standing there, but my grandmother’s love for me encompasses my heart. *** The car ride was silent the entire 30-minute drive. I stand in front of my mother’s house, the same one where all my childhood memories soaked into the wallpaper and floorboards. Leaves cover the walkway; I kicked a few out of my way, trying not to fall and shatter any of the candles. I knocked three times on the door—no answer. Maybe this was a mistake. Before I can decide to leave or knock again, the door opens. My mother’s blonde curls travel down both sides of her face. Her eyes well up, and her mouth makes an O-shape.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I innocently say, tears streaming down my face. She notices the candles buried underneath my arm. “Your grandmother loved making candles—never really liked them.” There’s a pause between us as I feel more regret.

“But I love you,” she utters, unsuccessfully holding tears back.

I place the candles on the porch and hug my mother tightly. “Happy twenty-seventh birthday.”


Diners and critics hailed "La Tavola Appassionata" as the premier Italian restaurant on the west coast, and its Chef, Arturo Pacioretti, emerged as the newest culinary star in the industry. He was short, with a round, plump face, beady black eyes set beneath a Cro-Magnon protruding forehead, and even though he kept his hair trimmed close to the scalp, it was still as thick and unmoveable as fresh asphalt. For a man whose entire life revolved around found, it was ironic that he had such a small mouth, with lips pursed in a perpetual pout. He was not an ugly man, nor was he memorably handsome; in fact, when asked what people remembered most about meeting the chef was his apparent absence of a neck—he seemed to go straight from chest to shoulders, to chin.

In contrast, the restaurant Maître d', Garret Quill, was hardly recognizable as a man at all. He was waif-like, tall, and stiff, a man who could disappear in the shadow of a door or from one's side quieter than a whisper. The partners equally responsible for the restaurant's success had just gone nose to nose in a heated argument over who controlled the number of diners in an evening. Chef was adamant that maintaining the quality and timing of his food demanded a cap of 60, while Garret reasoned that 100 was an achievable feat. When the argument concluded, battle lines were drawn, with the front of the house declaring themselves enemies against the kitchen.

Chef returned to the kitchen, scowled at his sous chef, Guy, then went into his office and slammed the door.

Guy strode down the line in his usual murderous gait, nudging the two young cooks, Sally, the cold apps, salads, and dessert girl, and Drew, the eager and overly serious chef de parties.

"Double your mise en place," Guy barked, "We're all getting fucked tonight. So go and have your smoke break, bitch, and cry about, then get back to your stations and work like hell. You have four hours." Sally, her eyes wide and glossy as the crème caramels she was setting inside her fridge, asked, "Double? You want me to double my desserts? In four hours?" Guy looked impassive. "Did I stutter?" Panic hit Sally, and she visibly rocked on her heels. Guy thought she might faint. If she went down, then at least he and Chef would know she couldn't handle it. "Better now than in the middle of the fray." he thought.

"Do you have any advice on how I'm supposed to do that?" Sally asked with terror in her throat.

"Improvise," Guy answered, then, before turning on his heel, he added, "And pray." He turned, anticipating seeing Drew bent over and cleaning slabs of fish; instead, the station was empty. If he had fled, it would be very bad; Drew's station was the kitchen's anchor. Guy walked past Chef's office and aimed for the back door, hoping to find Drew at the end of a cigarette.

 The sunlight hit his face, blinding him for a moment. When his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he looked upon the ferociously ambitious young cook rubbing out a cigarette with the toe of his shoe.

"You said we could have a smoke," Drew said anxiously.

Guy smiled, pulled a pack from his pocket, and handed the kid a fresh stick.

"Have another," he said, "It'll be your last until the moon comes out." "Have you ever done a hundred covers in one night?" Drew asked, taking the cigarette and running beneath his nostrils. Guy was notorious for being a prankster and was not to be trusted.

"Sure," Guy answered. "A hundred is a piece of piss. Try 240 every night. That'll chaff your balls." "Yeah," Drew answered as if he'd known. "But I mean here, in this place." "Nope. Pumping out a hundred a night here is too much, and if we're lucky enough to get a critic in tonight, it'll cost the place a star. Tonight will be 'pump and dump,' not dancing over each plate for three minutes." Guy glanced at Drew. He looked sick. "You're gonna love it, kid," he told him. "It'll be hell, but if we survive, you'll feel like a fucking warrior." "What if we don't survive?" "Then we don't, and that's that. Any other questions before we head in?" Drew pulled a long draw on the cigarette and looked thoughtful. Finally, he looked up and nodded. "Yeah. How do we know if we're losing?" He laid a hand on the kid's shoulder and said, " If he ignores the line and the machine and lets the chits fall to the floor because he's arguing with Quill—then we're done. Remember," Guy said as they walked along the hallway, "We're a machine. Chef drives, I'm the engine, and you're the anchor. If any of us break down—game over." "Can't we take over if Chef is having a meltdown?" Drew asked.

Guy stopped and yanked Drew back to face him.

"If you never want to work in a kitchen again, sure, go ahead, step in front of Chef, and take his station. We don't do that. We go down with the ship." When they returned to the kitchen, Chef was rapidly cleaning lamb racks for the popular

Aringa d'Agnello al Forno,

and on the tray next to him lay beef tenderloins, waiting to be prepped for his

Filetto di Bue alla Griglia.

Chef set his brigade to work in order of importance. "Guy, we'll need more blood orange sauce for the duck. Check that we have enough caviar for the

grigliata.

Then count what we have for quail and duck." "Yes, Chef!" Guy snapped in reply.

"Drew!" Chef called.

The young cook sprang to his leader's side, "Yes, Chef!" he answered in kind.

"Lots of fish prep." "Yes, Chef." "Start with char, at least a dozen scallopini, yes?" "Yes, Chef." "Stack the station. We have enough of everything, salmon, pike, perch, seabass, scallops, octopus, lobster." "Yes, Chef." "If I see you cleaning fish during service, I'll cut your hands off. Understood?" "Yes, Chef." "But before you start the fish, make double the fagottini—it will sell, and I don't want to run out early." A rock fell into Drew's stomach. The

Fagottini Ripieni di Ragout ai Funghi e Gorgonzola,

an intricate filo pastry purse filled with mushroom ragout and gorgonzola, was the most time-consuming prep. It was delicate work requiring precise attention. With the amount of prep work ( mise en place)

on his list, he would be doubling the number of purses in half the time.

His eyes flashed to the clock on the wall, and the black slashes looked as ominous as death's swords, cutting relentlessly toward his execution time.

"Yes, Chef!" he answered, pausing a moment to wait for further commands, then with Chef paying him no more attention, Drew spun on his heels a double-timed it to the walk-in fridge.

Around the corner from the hotline, in the coolest corner of the kitchen, Sally worked feverishly at her desserts. They exchanged only a look, and without a word, both cried out their panic and doomed immediate future.

At a quarter to six, a mere fifteen minutes before the brigade faced the five-hour-long assault, Guy appeared on the line with a tray of espresso and set a cup before each. "Drink," he ordered.

Drew raised his coffee to his lips and tilted it back, taking the caffeine injection down in one gulp.

"Good, huh?" Guy asked. Then he took his serving and slugged it back.

"Shit, was that a double?" Drew asked, shaking his head, trying to get his brain to focus his eyes.

"A triple," Guy answered.

Sally, who'd remained anxious all afternoon, grabbed her mug with both hands and drank the concoction in two gulps. "If you bitches slow me down tonight, I'll cut you," she said, brandishing her razor-sharp paring knife.

"Okay," Guy replied, "I think we're ready." By 8 p.m., pots, saucepans, ladles, spoons, cutting boards, knives, plates, platters, and trays were heaped in sinks and filled the dishwasher's table. The floor was a disaster of discarded foodstuffs.

"Everyone," he called out. "Reset. We clean, restock, and get ready for round two. Fifteen minutes. I want your stations spotless, floors too. Smoke break, then change. Fresh jackets and new aprons. You all look like pigs. Make the food, don't wear it." The answer was a unified bark, "Yes, Chef!" It was a little past 9 p.m. when Drew looked at Sally, who understood his silent question, shrugged, and smiled in response. Then he turned to Guy, his square jaw set firm, his lips drawn tight as he and Chef focused intently on plating. For a brief moment, Drew believed they would make it through relatively unscathed. Then the doors to the dining room swung open, and a very somber-looking Quill stepped through them with death on a platter—he was returning an entrée.

 Chef saw Quill standing there, plate in hand, waiting to interrupt, but wouldn't dignify the Maître d' with his gaze.

He barked from below. "What? What's the fucking problem?" Quill cleared his throat and apologetically explained. "He says the filet is overcooked. He asked for rare." The line stopped. Chef and the brigade converged on the returned plate. Chef stabbed the meat with a carving fork, raised it off the plate, and slapped it on the cutting board. Blood pooled beneath the steak. The sear was perfect; the center cherry-red—the epitome of "rare." "You brought this back to me?" Chef asked a terrified-looking Quill.

 "Yes, Chef."   "Then you're both morons."   "Fire another," Chef barked. "Mise en place. One filleto," he commanded icily.

  "Yes, Chef!" Guy and Drew answered in unison.

  "Rare?" Chef asked for clarification.

  "The gentleman said, 'black and blue,' Chef." Chef nodded. "Get out of my sight," he snarled at Quill, who gave a half-bow, turned on his heel, and nearly sprinted back through the doors.

New orders came in, and the second plating of the

Filetto di Bue alla Griglia – Grilled filet on a coulis of black olives— went out.

 Two minutes later, Quill returned to the kitchen with the plate in his hand once more.

  "You're fucking kidding me," Chef said.

  "I'm sorry, Chef," Quill apologized, then painfully relayed that the customer still found the steak overcooked.

  The machine kept spitting orders, which Chef ignored. No one touched the chits but Chef. Again, the kitchen ground to a halt. Nothing was being called for "ordering," "firing," or "picking up." Chef stood staring, with murder in his eyes, at Quill, whose hand was trembling, holding the plate in front of Chef.

 "What did the sonofabitch say?" Chef asked.

  A nervous smile flashed across Quill's face. "Does it matter, Chef?" he asked. "He would like another." Chef eyed Quill carefully and asked again, "What. The. Fuck. Did. He. Say."  Quill set the plate on the pass, slipped a finger behind his starched white collar, and cleared his throat. "Chef, I don't think--,"   "—Tell me exactly what he said," Chef commanded.   Quill stiffened, found his resolve, and repeated the diner's words. "He asked if you knew how to cook a 'fucking slab of meat, or if you thought serving a hockey puck was acceptable.'"  "Is that all?" Chef asked.

  A fragile exhale of lungs filled the silence. Guy, Drew, and Sally hadn't moved, and with Chef's calm response, they thought that perhaps they weren't sunk yet.

"No, Chef," Quill replied. "He asked if you knew what 'black and blue' meant."  That was it. The breaking point. The snap.

Guy turned, removed his apron, threw it in the garbage can, stepped over the roll of chits hanging from the machine on the pass and onto the floor, and left the kitchen. The orders for a dozen tables or more, starters, mains, and desserts, continued to spit from the machine. Ignored. Untouched. Abandoned.

While Chef launched into his tirade against Quill, the futility of trying to educate heathens in the culinary arts, the greed of the wait staff seeing only a fattening of their pockets from extra tips, to the imbecilic brains of his useless Maître d', to the moron who'd returned his meal, not once, but twice, the rest of the wait slinked into the kitchen desperate to pick up orders for their tables, of which, there were none.

Drew looked at the faces of the panic-stricken wait staff. No sign of Guy, and over his shoulder, Sally wiped tears from her eyes as she quietly plated a few desserts. He inched closer to Chef, then reached out and pulled the trail of orders off the machine. Then, Drew gave the nod to Sally, who tried to smile and nodded back.

Drew turned and set pans on the range and began to cook.

With Quill engaged with Chef, the wait staff, who stood stacked up six deep, recognized the change of kitchen control and shifted down the line to face Drew. In turn, each asked for the orders required for their tables.

Things were moving again, but now Drew needed to get beside Chef to access the sauces in the steam table. Chef was in full fury now, shouting at Quill with his hands gesticulating; one held a paring knife that arced, jutted, and sliced through the air around him.

He had no choice. Drew had to move into the danger zone. Chef seemed not to notice Drew encroaching on his domain. He made no move to give the young cook easier access to what he needed, but he didn't impede his work either. He remained planted at the end of the line, screaming and gesturing wildly.

As Drew bent over and plated his favorite dish on the menu, the

Francio di Luccio- a parcel of pike wrapped in rice paper filled with spinach and set on gold caviar lemon butter sauce— he felt a sting at his temple. It was like a mosquito bite, except a sting didn't wobble—this sensation did.

 Drew ignored the mild annoyance, but when he set the plate on the pass, the waiter on the other side looked back at him with eyes as wide as saucers. Puzzled by the expression, Drew shrugged. The waiter took the plate, turned, and exited the kitchen.

 Quill, who seemed about ready to collapse from Chef's assault, flashed his eyes at Drew with a look of shock. Drew felt terrible for Quill but ignored him and moved on to the following order. He turned and handed Sally the next chit, one calling for pick-up on desserts, and Sally snapped straight, then raised a finger and pointed to her head.

Drew looked at her, then raised his hand to his head. His fingers touched the wooden handle of the paring knife, which sat firmly lodged just above his temple. He strained his eyes to the left and, in his peripheral, saw the shiny steel embedded in his skull. A slow, warm trickle of dampness pooled in his ear. Unsure of what to do, Drew returned to face the hotline, took the next chit, and began assembling the orders.

 At that moment, Guy returned to the kitchen wearing a fresh apron but stopped dead at the end of the line, staring at the cook with the knife lodged in the side of his head, slowly putting plates on the pass, and Chef still hollering at Quill. As Guy walked onto the line and stood beside Chef, moving chits across the board, Chef concluded his tirade and pushed past Guy to Drew. Angrily he shouted at the young cook, "Quit fucking around!" Then he reached up, pulled the knife out, and turned and faced Guy.   "Help him. Finish this shit. Obviously, this isn't my kitchen anymore." Then Chef marched off the line and disappeared down the hall.

  Guy sidled up to Drew, "Where are we?"  "Plating 15, firing 8, 2, and 11," Drew answered.

 Guy shot a glance at the young cook. "He fucking stabbed you in the head?" Guy asked incredulously.

 "I think it was an accident," Drew replied, "I think I walked into his knife. He was talking. You know how he can get." Guy laughed. "And you kept cooking with a knife stuck in your skull? Are you okay? Does it hurt?" "Not much. It was like a needle. I'm fine."   Guy slapped Drew's shoulder and dug in for a manly rub.

"No," he said, "You're good but not fine. It's too bad. I told you, 'We go down with the ship.'"  A slightly intoxicated Chef returned to the kitchen at the end of the night. The place was spotless. Guy, Sally, and Drew stood with Quill on the waiter's side of the pass, laughing and joking as the grateful Maître d' refilled their wine glasses with a vintage Bordeaux.

 Chef pushed into them, shoved Drew out of the pack, and, stabbing a finger into his chest, said, "You think you've got the balls to steal my kitchen from under my nose? You want to take that shot? You're not the first to try, but I'm still standing. You'll have to put me into the dirt before you return to this kitchen."  The laughter was gone. The kitchen was silent. Then Chef gave his last command to Drew. "Roll your knives and get out of my kitchen, and if I see you again, it'll be you that gets carved up and served, black and blue." A week later, a review came out in the Food & Culture section of the newspaper. A critic had found herself at

La Tavola Appassionata  on the busiest night of the year. She raved about the food, and Chef Arturo Pacioretti's restaurant gained its fifth star.


It all started with a match, one thing lead to another and I met the love of my life or so I thought. I was only 17, I always thought I was to young to be burnt alive, how could someone tell me they love me then set the place I live on fire. You think you know someone until something like this happens, lets actually start from the very beginning, I'm Delilah Grace, as you know I am 17, now this boy I'm talking about his name is Jackson, he is 18, when I first met him he was the kindest guy I have ever met. I met Jack when I was 15. We hit it of

immediately, he asked me out the day after we met and of course I said yes because every girl wanted him and he wanted me, it was magical for the first year but after that he became very controlling, he even started physically abusing me, I was 16 I was scared to even tell anyone, I thought I loved him, I didn't find out I didn't love him until I met Dustin, I met Dustin the day I turned 17 he was the new boy next door, we started hanging out often! When Jack found out, that night I thought I was going to die, he beat me so bad that I couldn't walk for an entire week! I still stayed quiet because I was terrified of that man! I would hide the bruises with makeup so my parents couldn't tell because if my dad found out he would probably have put him in the hospital or worse six feet down. The day that dustin found out that jack was hitting on me I'll never forget, I seen a hurt but pissed look in Dustin's eyes. I was a bit confused because dustin was my best friend. "I'm going to beat the living heck out of him!" Dustin Yelled clumping up his fist "Dustin, stop he can't know that I told you or things might get even worse." I told him putting my hand over his shoulder "You deserve so much better, he shouldn't be laying his hands on you, if I see him hitting you I'm saying something and you can't stop me Delilah." He told me shaking his head I sighed and shaked my head, I looked over my shoulder and seen jack and my eyes widen. "U-Uh dustin, maybe you should leave." I said pushing him towards the window He looks back and sees Jack his eyes darken and his jaw tightens. He walks over to Jack and grabs his collar. "Woah, man let's not do this!" Jack laughed Dustin just hits him in the mouth multiple times "dustin stop!" I yelled Dustin gets up wipes his hands off and walks to his house before walking into his house he looks back and yells. "Touch her one more time I dare you!" Jack laughs and walks back into my room, dustin goes in his house "So you told him!" Jack yells balling his fist up "He's my best friend." I answered flinching He hits me in the mouth knocking me down, he starts to kick me in the stomach until I pass out, last thing I remember was him laughing. When I finally woke up, I was no longer in the floor, I wasn't even in my house. I look over and tried to move but I couldn't. I look over to my arms and legs, I was tied up. "Jack! What are you doing, where am I?" I cried "You had to be punished, for telling that fag about me." He laughed climbing near me "please I'm sorry! Please let me go jack." I cried He just laughed and started kissing me, I cried as I felt his body on mine. You can just guess on what happened next. He untied me, and threw a new pair of clothes at me "Come on, let's get you home now. Hopefully that taught you a lesson." He told me driving me back to my house. He drops me off and I limp inside with tears in myself. "Honey, are you okay?" My mom said walking up to me I nod as I walk upstairs and lock my door I walk over to my bed and lay down and just let it all out. See my story hasn't always been the best but it didn't get any better the day that jack decided he didn't want me anymore, lets actually go on from that day! I woke up just another day, it was Saturday which meant no school, I just laid back and relaxed. Jack knocks on my door. "What do you want?" I asked "I don't want you anymore." He told me holding up the match. "What are you doing?!" I screamed "I told you I don't want you, and I can't leave you alive or you will tell everyone what I did to me and get me arrested." He told me pulling out a lighter "Please, jack I won't tell anyone I promise! Don't do this please" I cried out He pulls out his phone and starts recording "Say bye to everyone you want to I'll give you five minutes." He said "I-if your watching this, it means I'm gone, it means the guy who record this decided to do something stupid. Mama remember I love you, daddy know that you have always been my first best friend! Dustin, oh where do I start? You have made me smile so bright, I love you more than words will ever know, I mean I love you more than a friend, please don't blame yourself because it won't be your fault, and lastly I wanna say something to the guy who ruined my life, jack you thought you will get away with this but know that will not be the case, I will haunt you everyday all day until the day you die!" I cried out screaming and flipping him off. He turns off the camera and lights a match and drops it on the floor, he then takes a gas jug and pours it all over the floor and lighting the rest of matches and dropping them in the gasoline, the fire starts and goes a big boom, I feel it get hot and I lay on my bed with tears in my eyes, I feel it touch my skin and I guess it got into my lungs because I just close my eyes and I can't open them back up. I feel someone pick me up and run. ~6 months later~ Hey guys! Didn't I tell you that it doesn't get better, well that's a lie! It gets better but give it time, because if you don't give it time then it won't. So I do have scars from that day, but if it wasn't for Dustin then I wouldn't be alive today, he ran into the fire and saved me I am so grateful for this boy, he asked me out last month, of course I told him yes because I loved him! We are starting our own family, I am currently 6 weeks pregnant with our child! So please be careful and get to know the guy you date so you don't turn out like me!


Poetic . As I set up my campsite in the verdant heart of El Yunque, Puerto Rico's stunning rainforest, I murmured to myself, "Alex, you've finally made it." Nestled near the captivating Río La Coca, a waterfall's ceaseless cascade echoed the rhythm of this untouched wilderness, hypnotizing me with its majesty. This journey was my self-prescribed sabbatical—an endeavor to escape the mundane and lose myself in the arms of nature's raw beauty. When dusk arrived, the rainforest filled with the soft symphony of its nocturnal residents. It was then I ventured deeper into the woods, lured by the prospect of foraging for berries. Unbeknownst to me, this simple act was about to propel me into an extraordinary encounter that would irrevocably shape the trajectory of my existence. In the midst of this tranquil realm, as the orchestra of life played on around me, my footsteps carried me to a secluded oasis, yet my senses were abruptly seized by a sight so bewildering, it defied every realm of possibility. Before me stood a figure that seemed to have materialized from the fringes of imagination—an entity of diminutive stature, its skin a hue of verdant green that harmonized seamlessly with the emerald foliage. Yet, it was not the creature's otherworldly appearance that ensnared my attention, but the focus of its fascination that stirred curiosity and wonder within me. Standing solitary, a single sunflower bathed in the moon's ethereal glow was the spectacle in this enchanted realm. The creature's gaze, fixated on the sunflower, was a sight so remarkable that it cast a spell upon the very air itself. Perplexed, I stepped forward, inadvertently snapping a twig beneath my feet. The alien's gaze, once captivated by the sunflower's radiance, pivoted toward me, our eyes locking in a moment of electrifying astonishment. A pulsating silence enveloped us, as if the universe itself held its breath, bearing witness to this extraordinary encounter. An unspoken understanding emerged, transcending language and the limitations of mere existence. Neither of us recoiled from the other's presence; instead, an unquenchable curiosity united us in a shared exploration of the inexplicable. In the heart of El Yunque, a silent conversation began—one that would weave the fabric of reality and fiction into an intricate tapestry of revelations. With a beckoning gesture from the alien's hand, the stillness shattered, drawing me into an intimate embrace of the arcane encounter. My initial shock yielded to cautious intrigue as I approached the green-skinned being. There was a palpable aura of friendliness enveloping its form. Accepting the alien's invitation, I sat beside it, both of us facing the resplendent sunflower that had ignited this marvelous rendezvous. The alien extended its small, verdant hand in a movement both fluid and surreal, seeming like a symbol of universal goodwill. An instinctive impulse propelled my hand to meet the alien's in a gesture that surpassed language's boundaries. This fleeting touch fostered an exchange that transcended the confines of words. Our minds intertwined in a fusion of consciousness, bridging worlds and cultures. Through this unprecedented communion, the alien swiftly absorbed my language, erasing the veil of separation that had initially stood between us. Thus a gateway to understanding had been unlocked, paving the way so the true conversation could finally commence—a dialogue that spanned galaxies, dimensions, and the enigmas of existence. As the alien's gaze returned to the sunflower, a scroll of secrets started to unfurl. Its words flowed like a symphony, each note unveiling a profound revelation. "The golden ratio," the alien's voice resonated, resembling a melody whispered through the eons, "is the cipher of creation, a language inscribed in the very foundations of reality." In the embrace of the rainforest, the alien spun a tale of the golden ratio—an intricate pattern embedded within existence itself. With every word, the sunflower's spiral seemed to morph into a portal, a window peering into the structure of space-time. "Observe the sunflower's petals," the alien continued, "a glimpse of the divine proportion, a whisper of the cosmos' intricate gyration." The rainforest bore witness as the alien unveiled the golden ratio's manifestations, from the spirals of galaxies to the delicate curvature of seashells. Each revelation was a note in the cosmic symphony, a testament to the unfathomable intelligence that permeated the universe. As the final echoes of the alien's words resonated within me, the sunflower before us began to radiate with an otherworldly brilliance, as if echoing the cosmic truths that had been revealed. Even the rainforest around us seemed to hum in harmony, a symphony of life bearing witness to the wisdom that had been shared. With a sense of reverence, the alien's gaze lifted towards the star-lit sky above us, its slender finger reaching out to trace the path of a distant constellation—Orion's Belt. Among the glittering jewels of the night, one star on the belt's periphery seemed to pulsate with a unique light, a pharos marking the origin and home of my mysterious companion. In a moment suspended beyond the constraints of time, I became privy to the alien's narrative—a story of an aquatic world, a planet predominantly cloaked in boundless oceans. A tale of evolution, where it's species had risen from the depths to traverse land, a leap that spanned mere cosmic moments. With bated breath, I listened as the alien wove its saga, revealing a kinship that transcended the chasm between our worlds. An evolution mirroring our own insatiable thirst for exploration, a quest to transcend limitations and redefine existence. Beneath the canopy of El Yunque rainforest, a profound connection was woven—a pact binding humanity and an interstellar voyager. With a gift bestowed upon me, the alien bid its farewell, each step it took leaving a lingering mist in its wake, a reminder of its ethereal presence. In my return to my everyday reality, a relentless obsession consumed me. The cryptic artifact held my gaze, its mysterious equation acting like a siren's call, beckoning me into the depths of cosmic understanding. Symbols and letters converged in a complex pattern, revealing a mosaic of surreal riddles that seemed to cradle the very essence of the universe itself." Every night, the artifact rested on my desk, bathed in the soft glow of lamplight, casting a mesmerizing pattern on the walls. I had become consumed, driven by an insatiable hunger to unravel its meaning. I pored over scientific texts, delved into ancient philosophies, and explored realms of knowledge I had never ventured into before. My determination was unrelenting, my thirst for understanding unquenchable. As the weeks rolled on, my mind transformed into a crucible of contemplation, where the universe's secrets melded with my thoughts. My apartment had become a sanctuary of intellectual exploration, its walls adorned with intricate notes, equations, and diagrams. I had become a modern alchemist, seeking to transmute the enigma before me into the pure gold of comprehension. Each day, as I deciphered more of the equation's layers, I felt myself drawn deeper into the riddle. The symbols began to resonate, their harmony echoing through my thoughts. It was as if the universe itself whispered its truths to me, guiding me through a labyrinth of interconnected revelations. And then, one fateful night, as the moon cast its silvery gaze upon my realm of exploration, it happened. A connection sparked in my mind, a thread of insight that wove through the equation's complexity. The symbols aligned, the letters coalesced, and the meaning bloomed like a celestial flower in full bloom. With trembling hands, I traced the lines of the equation, my heart pounding in anticipation. The riddles that had tormented me for weeks now coalesced into a symphony of understanding—a melody that intertwined with the very fabric of existence. The message unfolded, revealing a truth that transcended the boundaries of science and philosophy. It was a revelation that echoed the cosmic beauty of the stars, a dance governed not by an external hand but by the intricate choreography of natural forces. The message whispered of a universe born not from a predetermined blueprint, but from the crucible of experimentation—a universe where elements collided, conditions intertwined, and time sculpted the ever-evolving tableau of reality. It spoke of the elegance of trial and error, the interplay of creation and destruction that gave birth to galaxies and the tiniest particles alike. with a continued trial and success. My heart raced as I beheld the equation's unveiled meaning, a truth that shattered conventional perceptions. The universe, it seemed, was not a masterpiece orchestrated by a divine conductor, but a grand improvisation—a cosmic dance that defied preconceived notions and embraced the fluidity of existence. U=f(E,C,P,T,I) U—The universe and its phenomena, the ultimate reality. E—The elemental building blocks, the very alphabet of creation. C—Conditions, the stage upon which the cosmic drama unfolds. P—The heartbeat of trial and error, the rhythm of exploration. T—Time, the master sculptor shaping the universe's ever-evolving form. I—Interactions, the cosmic conversations that weave existence. This equation, once an enigma, now spoke a profound truth. The universe was not a mere product of calculation, but an intricate blend of elements, conditions, and interactions—a tunefulness of cosmic forces harmonizing through the eons. As dawn bathed my room in gentle light, I sat in admiration, a witness to a revelation that transcended the boundaries of human understanding. The cryptic artifact had granted me a glimpse into the tapestry of existence, a tapestry woven by the universe itself—a universe that embraced the beauty of imperfection, the majesty of experimentation, and the exquisite allure of the unknown. And as the final pieces of the puzzle fell into place, I knew that this journey was not just mine alone. It was a revelation meant to be shared, a message that would echo through the corridors of time, resonating with those who dared to question, to explore, and to merge with the cosmos itself. In the heart of my apartment, amidst the remnants of countless calculations and sleepless nights, I felt a profound sense of fulfillment. I had deciphered the equation, unraveled the code, and in doing so, become a part of the universe's eternal symphony—a symphony that would forever serenade the stars and inspire the hearts of those who dared to listen. Essay . In the heart of El Yunque rainforest, where the verdant foliage meets the ceaseless cascade of Río La Coca, a self-prescribed sabbatical led Alex to an otherworldly encounter. As the nocturnal residents serenaded the rainforest's dusk, curiosity lured him deeper into the woods. What followed was an extraordinary rendezvous with an entity of verdant green, an interstellar voyager, and a shared exploration of the inexplicable. This diminutive figure, cloaked in an emerald hue, fixated its gaze on a solitary sunflower. It was not its appearance that captivated Alex, but the focus of its fascination. This alien being, from a distant aquatic world, held a kinship with humanity's thirst for exploration—an evolution mirroring our journey from ocean depths to land traversal. An unspoken understanding transcended language as their minds intertwined in an exchange that spanned galaxies and dimensions. United by curiosity, Alex and the alien embarked on a silent conversation that wove reality and fiction into intricate revelations. In the embrace of the rainforest, the alien unveiled the cosmic significance of the golden ratio—a divine proportion embedded within existence. From galaxies to seashells, this pattern, symbolized by the sunflower's petals, resonated through the fabric of reality—a language inscribed in the foundations of creation. The alien's narrative, a tale of evolution on its aquatic planet, mirrored humanity's quest for exploration. As it traced Orion's Belt in the starlit sky, Alex became privy to a story that transcended the chasm between their worlds, revealing a profound connection. The encounter's aftermath saw Alex grappling with a cryptic artifact—a mesmerizing equation that encapsulated the universe's secrets. Driven by an unquenchable thirst for understanding, he delved into scientific texts, ancient philosophies, and uncharted realms of knowledge. Weeks of tireless contemplation led to an electrifying moment—a connection sparked, threads of insight weaving through the equation's complexity. Symbols aligned, letters coalesced, and the meaning bloomed, whispering cosmic truths. The revelation: the universe was an improvisation, a dance of elements, conditions, interactions, and time—a symphony of creation and destruction. This revelation shattered conventional perceptions, leading Alex to an equation that defied the notion of a predetermined universe. With trembling hands, he traced the equation, discovering a harmony that embraced the fluidity of existence—an equation that spoke of the universe's complexity and beauty. In the glow of dawn, a sense of fulfillment washed over Alex. He had unraveled the code, becoming part of the universe's eternal symphony—an exploration meant to be shared, a message resonating with those who dared to listen.