Beep! Beep! Beep! Symone turned and slapped at the alarm clock, stretching and staring at the ceiling in the grey morning light, shaking off sleep. The dream plagued her again: being trapped in her old office, stuck in the musty, dingy brown walls. Nothing like a dream job turned into a nightmare to smash the visions of your youth. Then again, it was just a nightmare. She left that job fifteen years ago. She sat up and gently pulled the covers over Galen’s shoulders, mussing his short, dark blonde hair. He was still on medical leave, recovering from emergency surgery for a burst appendix. She flipped on the bathroom light and studied her sleepy face in the mirror. It was just a nightmare. She wasn’t an uncertain twenty-something trying to make her mark in the world. She was a middle-aged woman making the best of life. She scoffed at the few grey strands in her dark hair and splashed water on her face as a prick of memory rose in her mind. Stupid nightmare. Those days were over. She might not be classified as “successful,” but she was older, wiser, and calmer than she had been as a hot-headed youth. Sure, things were tough with Galen recovering from surgery. That sudden illness was a shock that shook up their world, but he was recovering. It would pass, like all other things. She moved through the rest of her morning routine, shoving the remnants of her former life nightmare into the background of routine. It wasn’t until she glanced at the date at the bottom of her computer two hours later that she realized it was exactly twenty-five years since she started working. She sighed.

Some career, she thought as the clacking of her colleague’s computer keys rode over the drab cubicle walls . At least she knew where that nightmare came from. It must have been some subconscious memory of her dreams of being a psychiatrist dying to this mundane reality, combined with the stress of Galen’s surgery and recovery. If only she had been better and made it into graduate school. Or reapplied after a few years of working and retaking the Graduate Record Exam exam. But this was her reality, and twenty-five years meant she was vested in the company retirement system. It might have been two and a half decades of dull grind, but at least she was guaranteed to get something back for it eventually. It wasn’t what she wanted career-wise, but it was a goal achieved. Now to make it to retirement – ~*~ Beep! Beep! Beep! Symone turned and tapped off the alarm clock as strong arms wrapped around her. “Why do you set that thing so early?” Killian asked. She turned and smiled, running her hand through his curly hair. “To spend more time with you before work.” “Tell your clients to wait. You have a life, too.” She smiled. “They rely on me to keep them straight.” He smiled back, pulling her against his strong body. “They need all the help they can get. The pandemic messed everybody up.” He kissed her. “How did you sleep?” She turned on her back. “I had the nightmare again.” He sat up and looked down at her. “Again?” She nodded, remembering the drab grey walls. “It was like being in a rat maze.” “Did you ever work in an office?” “Never. It’s always been labs or colleges until I switched to helping you with the AI neural interface after the pandemic.” He laid back down, practically on top of her. “We’re lucky they have you.” She wrapped her arms around him. “You’re lucky I said ‘no’ to medical school to marry you, Galen.” His face fell. “Who’s Galen?” She stared at him, confused. “What do you mean?” He pulled back. “You called me Galen.” She paused, spots floating across her eyes. The nightmare returned, sitting in that cramped square paralyzed with a dull despair of life floating away. Symone forced a smile. “I’m sorry, that nightmare is still in my head. It’s a character in the book I’m writing.” Killian relaxed. “No wonder you have nightmares. You always get stuck in your worlds when you’re writing.” Symone pulled Killian against her. “How about bringing me back to this one?” ~*~ Beep! Beep! Beep! Symone sighed and ran her hands over her face, leaning back in the creaky chair as far as it would allow. The fluorescent lights almost aggravated her headache like that stupid, jamming printer did. “Symone, shut that thing up!” her supervisor’s voice shouted from the office next to her desk. “I’m on a conference call.” “Sorry,” she mumbled, standing and stomping toward the dot matrix printer. Sure enough, the cheap paper was shredded on the invoices she sent to the printer. She sighed, opening the disagreeable machine and tugging at the stuck paper. “Why do you have to be so loud?” her supervisor snapped as she stood and slammed her door. So much for that “dream job opportunity” after graduation. This was a nightmare. The light glinted on her diamond ring and she stopped, sinking back into her chair. She missed college and the dreams she laid aside when she didn’t get into graduate school. Maybe she could get back on track another way. She and Galen were too broke for graduate school after their huge wedding, but she had wanted to be a writer, too. Maybe she could do that instead. She could help people through her stories until she could get back to school to help them in real life. One thing was for sure, she thought as she yanked at the paper in the ancient printer: this wasn’t helping anybody. ~*~ Beep! Beep! Beep! Symone bolted upright in bed, gasping. The nightmare again. She gasped, breathing out the lingering musty scent of office machinery and printer dust.

“I’ll be glad when we get the AI interfaced through our neural chips so we don’t need that noise to wake up anymore,” Killian mumbled from his pillow. Symone turned and smacked off the alarm clock. A hand rubbed her back. “Are you ok?” She trembled. “No.” “Nightmare again?” “It’s so real.” She leaned back against him. “The printer jammed.” “Printer?” he said. “Nobody’s used printers in over a decade. I thought you said this was a nightmare about your first job?” “It was. The dot matrix printer jammed –” “Dot matrix printer?” Killian laughed. “Whose first job was this, yours or your grandmother’s?” Symone froze. “What day is it?” “Friday, which means fun day,” he teased, wrapping his arms around her. She twisted and looked at the date on her phone. July 29, 2124. “What is this?” she whispered. “I’m supposed to tell you to let these nightmares go, but I enjoy helping you get over them,” Killian said as he wrapped himself around her. ~*~ Beep! Beep! Beep! “She’s shifting again,” the voice said in the darkness. “Already? It’s getting more frequent.” “This subject has been the most active in the neural interface,” the voice said. “Most of the others phase in and out of activity, like circadian rhythms. She never fully drops. She shifts in different patterns.” “I wonder what she’s seeing,” the other voice said. “The neural stimulation seems to last longer on her. She doesn’t need to be stimulated as often to power the AI.” “It appreciates that, but her neural imagery isn’t consistent. It jumps from one reality to another.” “It looks like she was a mid-level administrative worker in the late twentieth and early twenty-first century. Wait, she was also a writer. She published a series of science fiction books.” “Maybe shifting between her own life and the stories she wrote.” Laughter. “Most people see the life they had before being integrated with the AI, but these artists have a unique way of coping with the system. I guess the creative mind powers the interface differently.” “She has a higher energy output, which feeds the AI more information. Good for it, but is it safe for her? Her stress hormones spike when the realities shift.” “Most people believe they’re waking from dreams when they shift. Perhaps it’s the same for her, just more often since she’s phasing between the world she had and the world she created.” A pause. “I don’t know if it’s safe, but she’s the best biological power source the AI has.” ~*~ Beep! Beep! Beep! Symone squeezed her eyes tight against the bright light pressing against her lids. “Symone, can you hear me?” She shivered as a chill ran over her naked body. Her eyes opened a slit to see two male figures standing over her. Galen reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. “Welcome back.” “What happened?” she asked, sitting up. “We had to put you in cryo stasis,” Killian said, his long, curly hair brushing against her other arm as he handed her a robe. “The AI malfunctioned when the EMP bomb went off. We all passed out, but you had neurological damage. We had to put you under so the nanotech could heal you on the journey.” “EMP? Journey?” she turned to Galen, reaching for him. “What happened?” Galen looked away. “A dissident group launched EMP bombs around the country to put out the AI,” Killian said. “They claimed that the AI in our neural chips caused the pandemic. At any rate, people were dying again. We had to leave. We just made it on the last flight.” “How can AI cause COVID?” Killian’s brow furrowed. “COVID? That was over 100 years ago.” She looked at Galen. “What is he talking about?” “I did everything I could to fix things, Symone, but I couldn’t,” Galen said. “You didn’t hear me, so I couldn’t bring you back.” He pulled back. “I can’t reach you anymore.” She shivered. “Where are we?” Killian took her hand and pulled her toward the red glow in the window. “The moon would have been ideal, but the dissidents can still reach us there. The scientists at the settlement are willing to help us with the AI integration with our neural chips, and they think we’ll be far enough away from Earth to stay safe until our work is complete.” He pulled her close. “Welcome to Mars.” “Galen doesn’t have a neural chip,” she said, turning. The room was empty. Killian took her shoulders and turned her back toward him, staring deep into her eyes. “Galen isn’t real. The nightmares aren’t real. Nothing is real.” He kissed her. “The only thing real is you. What do you want, Symone?” Symone stared at the red planet, shivering. Life is what you make it and reality is how you create it. She knew what she was now. Not an office drone, or a scientist. She was a writer, a creator, a builder of realities. She smiled as her body warmed, awake to the limitless possibilities. Most people only have one story. She had millions, and they were all waiting for her to bring them to life. And when one reality broke, she’d build another one. She could have it all. All she had to do was accept it. She smiled in the red glow. “Let’s get started.”


“I’ll never leave you” is the funniest statement to me in any love story. It doesn’t always happen as you have always known. Never once did I imagine he could do this to me, no, us. Not just the two of us, but another two of our own kind. He could have waited for our silver wedding but… He left me. Too much in a hurry to leave. Not stopping once to think what and who he’ll be leaving behind. He just left. Before that, he was the best thing that ever happened to me. This is not me writing a tribute of some sort. He indeed was the best thing that happened to me – not a platitude either. Our love story was like any other. A few twists and turns disguises it. We were neighbors all through our childhood until grade 6. We attended the same preschool. But I found him to be awkward. He never smiled, not even in my direction. I never found him talking to anyone either. He was a recluse, I always thought. After school, I watched him walk quietly to his mum’s car. Every single day until we graduated. As if following the predictions of a fortune teller,… We lost contact. But there still existed that familiarity - the situation where you know you know someone but you are not too sure if they knew you too. Our parents knew each other too. I don’t remember ever visiting him, but I recall seeing him once or twice at my end and a vivid memory of him at my birthday party when I was ten. Then. We lost contact. Again. I met his dad once afterwards and he told he too had gained admission into one of the best high schools in the country. I was so enraptured; the proximity of his school to mine was bewildering. More of fate than coincidence, I presumed. At least I’ll get to see him again before we are separated again. I was only building castles in the air then. He never came looking for me. Dejected I was, consoling myself that it probably was never meant to be. So. We lost contact. Yet again. Then it was time to go to the university. This time I was not informed he will be there. But there he was, and there I was too. In the same classes, offering the same course. This time, I saw him for myself and told a friend, “I know him”. Charming as always, tall- very tall- and light-skinned with thick heavy eyebrows and a mesmerizing smile that could leave you dazed for days. And this time, fate played its role. That friend happened to know him too, and she arranged for us to meet. He didn’t know me. And while I did all the talking, he didn’t even seem to remember anything. I doubted he even believed me until I mentioned his dad’s name. I brushed it off and moved on, without a single hope of maintaining any form of relationship with him. I was over him. Ironically, we didn’t lose contact again. We exchanged contacts through my friend and started to talk over phone. First, about random things. Then, things became intense. We went from talking on phone to meeting at odd places, on stairways and pathways. In the serenity of some gardens. Amidst the hustle and bustle of some parks. In cars and buses. Then, he spoke to his friends about us, and I introduced him to my friends, both of us, very uncertain on mentioning each other to our parents, which made sense that our best moments were in school. Never at home. It happened once, and nearly happened the second time, when our passions overrode us and we consummated our love – against my Christian virtues. I forgave myself and asked the LORD for pardon. It didn’t end there. Packs of kisses. Tons of touches. Some very intimate hugs. And a dozen cuddles each night we get to spend together, until we were done with school. Turning twenty-two that year, some guts we got. We spoke to our parents and the deal was done. But we had to wait until we had secured some jobs, and two years into working, his missus I became. After the well-paid careers, came the seeds of our love, two in number. A pigeon pair. First, came the chip of the old block with very obvious cute dimples, unlike his dad. Then, daddy’s little princess, better still, mummy’s. Four years apart from each, the lad coming just a year after his dad’s promotion to an excellent position with awesome incentives for his perfect family. An ideal one, as I often heard people say at church whenever we stepped out of the car on Sundays. We were all that everyone around us wanted. Our bond was evident, a literal see-through relationship. As we were in closet, so were we in public. He had nothing to hide, so didn’t I. All the feedback from all the marriages seemed like myths; none was real to me in mine. We never went a day without communicating in our primary love languages. Physical touch and quality time; the sound of laughter always present in our home. We played like toddlers even with our kids and sad moments were usually only when we saw sad movies. Until when he had to be traveling to and fro. For days. For weeks. And for months. I was never drawn into any form of suspicion. Not ever. He always came back “drained out” – the way he often put it. I was never mad. I understood. His journeys were always miles and miles away from home. Never close by to allow me stop the next train to drop in to say hi. Then it was over. He went away. We just lost contact, and this time for good. It happened way too quickly and even now, I still struggle to comprehend how it did. I still can’t figure it out what I did wrong. Where I went wrong. No, he didn’t go away into the arms of the other woman as most stories have it. He was on one of his trips when I got a call. It was expected – he seldom does not call when he is away from home, and so I knew he would. He indeed was calling, but he wasn’t the one speaking. My excitement ceased when a noticed the difference in voice. It was a male’s voice all right. Just not his. All that time, all I had said was the formal hello you say when you answer a call. I anticipated to hear the speaker mention a huge sum to be paid as ransom and then he’d be liberated. But he didn’t. He instead asked where the kids were, throwing me into a state of confusion. “How is that your concern?” I replied in my thoughts. “They are not with me,” was what came out into the receiver. The man on the other end then blurted out something. I didn’t hear initially. He reiterated. This time, I refused to hear. I suddenly drowned into hysterics. I put myself together and asked that he repeat himself for a last: “He is dead.” I heard. How it happened; how his health failed him, I do not have the slightest idea. Why it happened, only God knows. To be honest, I cared less about these unanswered questions. I just couldn’t forgive him for deserting us. For breaking ties with us, unannounced. The next few days and weeks, prior to his burial, were tough. Trying so hard to bottle up my tears whenever my little girl lachrymosely asked when her dad was due to return, oblivious of what had really befallen him, and barely smiling in agreement to my son- the miniature him- whenever he spoke of his dad’s epic return. These two were the source of my sorrow. While I was thinking of how they’d be growing without him, all they could capture in their teeny-weeny innocent minds was what presents he’ll be bringing them. On the day he was put into the ground, I cursed the day that I met him. And in my silence, breathed a word of prayer for him. It flashed my mind, our pastor’s sermon that said, “You know you have forgiven them when you’re able to pray for them,” and I realized that I didn’t hate him after all. That I still loved him. In health and in sickness. In joy and in grief. Till death has done us apart. A year gone. Memory unwashed. A lousy past. Yet my greatest gain: To love and be loved. “Cut,” came my director’s voice right through, what I’d like to call, my super fantastic acting. I responded with a “phew”, a sigh of relief. I honestly didn’t know how long I was going to go before I broke down – I’ve been on my feet all day long. Plus; I was getting emotional from my repetitive acting (it felt like it was my story). Well, I’m a 20-year old upcoming actress, trying to build my career and make a name. And yet to find love. "Action," ...and I'm back to work. For the umpteenth time.


Nick, Amber and I decided to hang out by the lake today, just like in old times. We used to spend hours there, swimming, throwing rocks and jumping into the lake from a swing that was attached to a nearby tree. I guess that might have been the most fun I've had in my whole life. Especially now, since we see each other so rarely. After high school ended, everyone kind of went their own way. Nick is studying aeromechanics, Amber is studying biology and I... well, let's just say I took a year off. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do in life, and I wasn't going to waste that year on something I'm not interested in. Even though my parents still don't agree with my idea. They think that I'm wasting a year of my life either way. But it is MY life in the end, so I couldn't care less. Anyway, to get back to the topic. We're going to go swimming and maybe even sleep by the lake tonight. I guess we'll see where the adventure takes us. I grabbed a six-pack of beer and hopped into my truck. We agreed that I'd pick everyone up. So I did. After a five-minute drive, I arrived at Amber's place and honked four times. Amber glimpsed through the window and yelled: - I'm coming! - She ran out of the house, and I got out of my truck to have a proper greeting. She jumped on me, and I spun her around. Long time no see, sis. -

I know, right? So, what have you been up to? -

We make our way towards the truck. Nothing much. You know, the usual. -

Oh, come on. We haven't seen each other for almost a year, and the best I can get out of you is "nothing much"? -

Well, I really haven't been doing anything worth mentioning. - Did you decide what you were gonna study? -

Nah. Not yet. I guess I'm leaning towards something techy. - Then you're definitely leaning in the wrong direction. - We both chuckle. Yeah, but technology stuff brings in the money. -

It does, but will it make you happy? Besides, you couldn't stand doing something you aren't fully interested in. You'd get bored of it after two classes. - True that. - Nick is already waiting for us in front of the house. I don't even get to stop the vehicle, and Amber is already outside, saying hi to Nick. I love both of them, but I always felt like a third wheel. Not that I really mind. I love hanging out with the two of them. Hey, hey, hey, who's my favourite driver. - What's up, future Steve Irwin? - I'll take that as a compliment. - Nick and I have a very complicated handshake. I can't believe we both still remember it. You should. Are you guys ready for this? It's about time we had some fun together. - It's gonna be a great day. I'm as ready as one could be! I've been looking forward to this since we parted ways. -

I know, right! - Amber says as she leans back in her seat. Having arrived at the lake, we set up camp and crack a beer. After that, we go swimming and do the usual: jump from the swing. It was so much easier when I was a kid. Growing up isn't fun. Depends on the viewpoint, to be honest. If I wasn't a grown-up, I wouldn't be able to spend the night here. In the open. Without my parents. Drinking beer. But here we are. We went to sleep in a tent that Amber brought. I guess they had a few spares at the college. Or at least that's what she said. I woke up in the middle of the night to use the "toilet". Which was a large tree. As I made my way back to the tent, I realised there was something wrong with the lake. Very wrong. It wasn't there anymore. Or at least it looked like it wasn't. I tried to get closer to where the edge of the water was during the day. To my surprise, there was no water. I ran to the tent to wake up my sleeping pals. We did drink, but I definitely wasn't that drunk. I removed the side of the tent which was used as a door and at that moment I got even more scared. Amber and Nick were gone. Their stuff was there, but they were nowhere to be found. I looked around the tent too, and there was nothing. No footprints. And my truck was still there. I turned around to face the lake once more. Somewhere around what should be the middle of the lake and the deepest point, a light turned on. That unknown light revealed a wooden house covered in moss. The door of the house opened, and a beautiful voice started calling my name. James... James... I need you. I need you to help me. -

The first thing that came to my mind was a mermaid song. The way these words rolled off the person's tongue... it sounded like a mermaid song. It made me remember a story my mom always told me as she put me to sleep. It was some stupid myth about a goddess living beneath our lake. She showed herself only to worthy people. You know the classic, those who were honourable, pure of heart and similar shenanigans. And she always started everything with: "I need you to help me." Her most prominent moment was when she called upon a knight and gifted him a sword. The sword was made of moss and blessed by her divine might to be unbreakable. The one who yielded it had the power to command waves. The knight used that sword to defend the town from a savage army set to destroy it. He died during the battle, but he accomplished what he was destined to. The sword was never found. It's an interesting little story for a kid who loves knights and dragons. Especially since it was set in our town. But I thought it was just a story. As I was thinking about this, my legs literally walked me to the house. I found myself standing in front of the open door. Although the house looked ruinous from the outside, the inside shone with a golden shine. I stepped inside. Looking around, I realised that everything was actually golden. Directly across from where the doors were, there was a throne. On that throne sat the most gorgeous woman I had ever seen. Golden hair, an armour of beautiful moss, even though I have no idea how moss could be beautiful. She stood up and walked towards me. James. I am so glad you answered my call. I'm sure you have heard stories of me and all this seems very unreal. I assure you that it is, in fact, quite real. Everything you see around you is as tangible as you are. But we do not have time to dwell on such unimportant things. There is a task that you must perform. A task that will shape the future of this town, but also your own. Once more, a great danger has befallen this town. You must be the one who rids the town of this danger. - She points her hand towards the wall, and a golden sword flies towards her immediately. As it touches her hand, it turns into a sword made of moss. The sword of legend. I grant you the power to use this sword in times of need. In the name of Vadhillde, I knight thee. - I put my hands in front of myself, and the sword flies towards me, stopping directly in front of me. I grasp it and immediately fly out of the house and into the tent. Opening my eyes, I realise that it's daytime. I look around and Amber and Nick are there. Nudging both of them at the same time, I'm still trying to process the events which happened just a few moments ago. At least it felt that way in my mind. Slow down, James! Where's the rush? - Nick wakes up first. You won't believe what just happened to me. Or at least, what I think happened. -

I retold everything that happened during this mysterious night, only to be greeted by bursts of laughter. You really want us to believe that Vadhillde manifested herself?! And that she chose you for some mythical quest? Dude, you're out of your mind! - Wise words from a guy studying aeromechanics just so he could create a spacecraft capable of transitioning through dimensions in mere seconds. I'm telling you what I had seen! And I held the sword with my bare hands! -

Well, where is it, James? Where's the sword? -

I look around and it's nowhere to be found. Maybe, it was all just a very elaborate dream, buddy. - Amber says as she pats me on the back. Maybe she's right. We get out of the tent and start packing our bags, but something is odd. The water level seems to be much higher than last night. I think nothing of it since I am still shaken by my visions. Or dream. Whatever. As we're about to leave, a service van with the emblem of Amber's college stops right next to my truck. Amber recognizes one of the people in the vehicle as her professor, Mr Hendricks. Hi professor, it's me, Amber Ardens. -

Oh, hello Ms Ardens. I didn't know you were from this part of the country. You were pretty lucky, might I say. The water level had suddenly risen exponentially in just one night. It's unseen of. We were immediately contacted so we rushed here as fast as we could. - I'm in awe. And so is everyone else. This has to have something to do with my dream. Oh, my! But what could cause something like this? -

That is what we are here for. We'll try to uncover the reason for this occurrence. Until then, I'll have to ask you not to go swimming anymore. -

Of course professor. If you need anything, I'll be on standby. - Thank you, colleague Ardens. - We pack our stuff and I drop everyone off at their homes. It was quite a silent ride. But something keeps bothering me. I feel drawn to the lake, to its depths. Hopefully, it will fade soon. During the following night, the urge to go back to the lake overcomes me. I have to see what's drawing me there. I hop into the truck, and I'll be damned, what's sitting on the seat next to me: the freaking sword. I grab it and it feels much lighter than it looks. I arrive at the lake and immediately jump into the water without even taking my clothes off. I swim as deep as I can and for some reason, I feel like I could hold my breath forever. A the bottom of the lake, I find the wooden house. But the doors are closed. Still, I can hear a voice calling me, begging me to come in and help. But it's not the same voice. This one is raspy and gloomy. As I place my hand on the door handle, shivers run down my spine. Something's off. I open the door and the same view as yesterday appears in front of me. A golden interior. And Vadhillde is sitting on the throne. Thank you for coming, James. I truly need you. - Need me for what? Where is the danger? And why do I feel so uneasy? -

You feel the danger in here. That is why you arrived. You fool. - The raspy voice exclaims.

Vadhillde stands up and turns around to reveal a creature so hideous, which seems to be a part of her. It's as if she has two sides, two beings in one body. This creature is made of aquatic moss. Its insides are visible through the holes in the moss. But the most hideous thing about it is the face, a mix between a witch and a frog, such an awful abomination. She starts approaching me, and I grip the sword tighter. I point it towards her and she starts laughing as the house goes from golden and shiny to dark and gloomy. The walls become covered in mud, and the only thing that is still golden is the place on the wall where the sword once stood. Did you really believe that I would hand you the only weapon capable of destroying me? I am a goddess, not a foolish human! - She grabs me by the neck and lifts me up. I try to stab her multiple times, but the sword just goes through her. Remember how it once was and return it to that state. - I can hear the mermaidish voice once again.

But what could it mean? I look around while I still can, but my vision is getting blurry. What can I do? I notice the golden spot where the sword used to be and throw it as hard as I can. The sword seems drawn to that place as if it was a magnet, and as soon as it touches the wall, the monster releases me and fades from Vadhillde's body. I fall to the floor, and everything starts to turn gold once again. Thank you, my boy! You've saved me and this town. As a reward may luck be on your side for all of eternity. - What was that... thing? - I ask as I stroke my neck. Nadhillde. My demon side. She slowly grows on my back through the millennia. Every now and then, she grows ever so powerful to overthrow me inside of our mind. In those moments, I require heroes such as yourself. Now go and use your reward well. - She touches my forehead and teleports me to my house. I open my eyes, and once again, it's daytime. My phone starts ringing as soon as I stand up. It's Amber. Hey, the professor called me. The water level magically receded. Want to go for a swim? -

Sure, but you won't believe what happened to me last night. Also, I think I know what I want to study. -

Can't wait for the story. Really? And what's that? - Cryptozoology. You know, researching mythical beasts and stuff. - That's not even a real science, James... - Try and say that to Vadhillde and Nadhillde. They seemed pretty realistic to me.


This was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives. ‘Congratulations!’ said the nurse, as she was holding an eight and a half pound baby girl wrapped in a linen cloth, extending a warm smile to the mom, Prerna. ‘You have given birth to a beautiful baby girl!’ Prerna who was still lying on the maternity bed, and was struggling to somehow sit up, couldn’t believe the nurse’s words, but managed to extend her arms toward the baby and her eyes fixed on the baby’s face as that was the only part she could see. Taking the baby within her arms, Prerna struggled to lower her head so that she could greet her princess with a kiss. She could barely move her eyes from the baby’s face which looked so pure and fresh like the morning sunrise. Or was it like her neighborhood pond bathed by a full moon? Perhaps, the most recently bloomed rose matched her princess’ face. Prerna was at her wits’ end to decide on what exactly would match her baby girl’s beauty. ‘Oh!’ Prerna remembered about her husband, Amar. ‘Has someone called my husband?’ Prerna quickly asked the nurse. ‘Off course!’ said the nurse, ‘In fact, he was waiting here all night yesterday. Unfortunately, owing to the pandemic we’re trying to minimize visitors, including our maternity ward. So he had to leave. But we have informed him, and we’re expecting him shortly.’ Taking a deep breath, Prerna looked at the clock and then at her newborn baby. ‘It is 12 o’ clock.’ The nurse went on, adding, ‘So I assume you must be hungry and super ready for lunch.’ Prerna smiled as she nodded her head. ‘Hello!’ a deep masculine voice pervaded the silence that seemed to fill the serene atmosphere so long. ‘Hello, Princess!’ Amar just made his entrance as he put on his gloves and booties, and all the protection equipments prior to entering the room. ‘Congratulations, Daddy!’ The nurse remembered to congratulate Amar, as she turned to the couple, adding, ‘I’ll be bringing your lunch once you guys are done chatting, and then selecting from the menu options on the tablet.’ ‘I totally understand that this is a very special day in your life. However, please let’s keep the meeting to no more 30 minutes for now as we’re trying to minimize visitors so as to fight the pandemic.’ The nurse reminded of the regulations, as she gave a tablet to Prerna along with a congratulatory message card, and exited. ‘Are you happy now?’ Prerna asked Amar, as she reminded him, ‘So now can our princess inaugurate our new palace?’ Amar was busy explaining Abhay, their son and first child, who accompanied him to the hospital, the responsibilities of being an elder brother. ‘She has a new pillow, mummy!’ an excited big brother, Abhay shared as he grabbed the phone from his dad’s pockets, and quickly pulled up a few pictures of what the new touch up to the baby’s room looks like. ‘Wow!’ Prerna’s eyes glittered, as she scrolled through all the pictures. ‘I remember we were talking about the house on the lakeside.’ Amar said, fixing the linen cloth around his daughter and loosened the wrap a little bit. ‘Yes!’ Prerna could hardly wait to hear more about the house, ‘What about that? Please don’t…’ Amar looked at Prerna, assuring, ‘It’s still there. Your husband hasn’t forgotten about how much the house means to you. I also remember my promise about bringing our princess to her well deserved palace and not this house that we have been staying in for the last five years.’ A satisfying smile lit Prerna’s face, as she put her right hand on Amar’s upper arm and her eyes were fixed on the newborn, as Abhay asked, ‘Do I still get to have my stuff, mummy? My toys, my study table and books?’ ‘How can I forget my helper?’ Prerna responded to her son, reminding, ‘You are the King of the house. Everything is yours darling!’ ‘I am not the King.’ Abhay clarified, as he corrected, ‘I am the Super Man. Remember!’ The family of four even including the newly arrived filled the room with their laughter, as Amar checked his watch, saying, ‘Oh! It’s 12:30! I have a meeting in ten minutes.’ Amar gave a tap on his son’s back as he was about to leave, while also doing his duty as a responsible husband by reminding Prerna to eat on time and take care. ‘Both are doctor and the nurse is happy about the healthy delivery of our baby.’ Prerna smiled as she reminded Amar, ‘Hope we bring our princess to the home we both have been eyeing on.’ ‘Yes…ah! Thanks for reminding.’ Amar replied pursing his lips, as he made a note on his phone notepad to call the realtor soon after reaching home that very night. The son and dad duo made their way out as Prerna kept looking at the door even after they had left. Soon she remembered that she was yet to place her order for lunch. As she was holding the baby, she struggled to gradually move her other hand very slowly and grabbed the tablet from the bedside table, and picked from the options. Food arrived an hour later. The nurse offered to get her baby so that she could eat. Soon the baby was taken to her crib, and laid down gently on her bed. ‘I’m so full!’ Prerna said to herself as she put the food tray on the table. A minute later she put her head back on the bed cushion, took a deep breath and closed her eyes praying that everything gets back to normal soon. Everything has been nothing but death since April, 2020. Being an expectant mom, she had been scared about herself and her baby. A tired mom, Prerna decided to doze off early that night after dinner, as she picked up a book from the table, and continued reading from where she left a couple days before. In a few minutes, she could barely keep her eyes open and gradually slithered inside the comforter and fell asleep. Next morning, Prerna was prioritizing her to-dos. Grabbing her phone, she scrolled through her contacts as she happened to have some well versed interior designers in her acquaintance circle. ‘Should I call Shreya and ask for an appointment at her office?’ Prerna asked herself, as she reflected, ‘She is a legend for designing kitchens! How can I think of someone else?’ A few minutes later, the doctor and nurse arrived announcing that Prerna and her baby are ready to go home that evening. ‘Awesome!’ Prerna could hardly hold her excitement as she called Amar to share the news. Finally, the moment arrived. Prerna was done packing her bag, as she was holding her girl, and remembered to do a final check before the mirror, fixed her hair, adding a fresh touch of lipstick to her lips and pursed her lips. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’ said an exhausted Amar, who arrived straight from work. ‘How was work?’ asked Prerna, as she boarded the car while fastening the seat belt, announcing, ‘I am appointing Shreya for doing our new kitchen.’ A sudden loud noise approaching from behind made Amar who had just started driving, check the rearview mirror. Soon he moved to a side as it was an emergency vehicle coming from behind. ‘Let us first get the house.’ responded Amar as he resumed driving, while he checked the kids sitting in the backseat. Prerna preferred to remain silent and looked outside the window moving her fingers up and down her seat belt as if she was playing the sitar . Even after reaching home, the couple barely spoke except for checking with food and water. Next morning, Prerna wanted to call all her interior designer friends as she wanted to leave no stone unturned to ‘build’ her dream home. ‘I really don’t understand Amar sometimes.’ expressed an anxious Prerna, as she called her childhood friend Sheryl, the owner of Dream Palace Decors, a huge brand in interior designing. ‘Let me share my latest catalogue for patio and outdoor design.’ Sheryl responded as she adviced, ‘Share these with your guy tonight while enjoying a glass of wine. I bet he can’t say no.’ Sheryl’s words seemed to help Prerna as she shared, ‘But, Sheryl, we are yet to buy the house.’ ‘I totally understand, Prerna. There’s no harm in sharing some good pictures. What else can you do these lockdown days?’ ‘Amar Calling.’ Prerna saw the call waiting message on her phone, and concluded her conversation with Sheryl by promising to call back later. ‘Yes, tell me.’ Prerna responded to Amar’s call, as she heard her baby crying from another room. After checking with the kids and Prerna, Amar shared, ‘I have some good news and bad news for us.’ ‘Share the bad news first.’ ‘Are you ready?’ ‘Do I have a choice?’ ‘The promotion I was expecting, which could have let us purchase our dream home, has been put on hold. So that means, we have to wait a little more to buy the home.’ ‘So you mean we can’t take our princess to her palace? Oh my! She won’t get to celebrate her first birthday beside the lake?’ ‘It’s not that. It’s just a mat…’ ‘I need no explanation. You could have told me this before.’ Prerna could not hold her emotions any more, and burst into tears shouting, ‘How will I ever show my face to my friends, now?’ ‘Honey,’ Amar was trying his best to calm things down over the phone as he has to go for a safety measures training in the next few minutes. As moving to a bigger home was a priority for him, he went on, ‘We’re still getting the house. I just checked with our realtor, and he said it’s going to stay in the market, and he’ll make sure it does. It’s all yours, sweetie.’ Having received no response from the other end, Amar said, ‘Hello! You there! Prerna, you’re listening?’ Soon he realized that Prerna had hung up on him. Covering his head and face in his two hands, Amar was struggling to decide on his next steps, tried to imagine what has been going on in Prerna’s minds, and wished he could leave that very second. Somehow he managed to get up from his chair, and poured a glass of water to drink. ‘Hopefully things calm down in the evening.’ Amar said to himself as he noticed a text that flashed on the screen, ‘I’m going to my eternal home. No worries about buying any home any more. I’m relieving you of all liabilities. Be happy! J’ The text was from Prerna who rushed to open the backyard door, soon after typing the text. Even the loud cry of her newborn baby from the other room or the repeated pleading for peanut butter sandwich from her son didn’t bother her in any way. ‘There it is’ Prerna said to herself as she found the oil jar that seemed to be waiting just for her. Being health conscious, a one gallon jar of oil could last for months. She would be calculative about how much of oil to use for cooking, which was something that Amar could never really agree with as he loved fried chicken and fish. It took less than five minutes to empty the one gallon jar which was a few ounces less than a gallon. She seemed to have a bath, as she poured the entire jar on herself ensuring not even a drop falls on the ground. Soon she grabbed the lighter which was lying on the patio table. In a few minutes, she was standing on the patio ablaze. Black smoke engulfed the surrounding, which again informed Abhay about something terrible. ‘Mummy!’ Abhay was screaming as he rushed to call his dad. ‘Dada, mummy is burning!’ Abhay was crying over the phone as he was trying to inform dad over the phone, which actually went on voicemail. Amar received the voicemail at lunch, and unable to believe his eyes, called back at the number. He couldn’t get any response. He was trying to think what actually had happened. Soon he saw his boss walking in the lounge, and immediately approached to see if he could leave on emergency grounds. ‘Do we have a meeting scheduled today?’ his boss checked with him. ‘I don’t think so.’ ‘Ok then. Not a problem. Hope everything is ok.’ Amar immediately rushed to leave thanking his boss. Grabbing his backpack from his work desk, he ran to his car, struggling to start and disappeared from the parking lot within a few seconds. Taking his usual right turn, he seemed to have been ‘trapped’ in the traffic signal at the intersection. Looking at the red signal like a captive, he was tapping his fingers on his lap. ‘Why is it taking so long to be green today?’ Amar was unable to hold on his patience. ‘Ah!’Amar breathed some relief, as the light turned green. He was trying to drive at the speed limit but at times ended up in going above, and then succeeded in bringing it down and monitoring every minute. After driving for about a mile, he found that the road was closed owing to roadwork. Taking a U-turn, he followed another route which finally helped him reach his destination, his home. By then it was too late.


I came to the house A few days before I died. That’s how it works. Most people-- Should I be explaining this to you? I don't think I should But I'm dead So the consequences Of doing something I shouldn't seem...negligible? Then again I'm not dead At the moment Although I'm headed that way. With most people The soul leaves the body A few days Before the body Is no longer... ...Accessible to it. Transition periods Are important Even when you’re talking About life and death. So… You get a few days To get your bearings in order And find the place Where you’re going To spend the rest of eternity. Provided you’re not interested In being a roaming ghost Which, some are, But your sense of direction As a tetherless spirit Is something akin To being blind and free of limbs So most ghosts prefer To just find one place And stick to it. That’s what I did anyway. Found a house Near where my old house was. Nice attic. Dark, musty, But a good amount of moonlight Coming in from one of those Porthole windows You see attics having In the movies. You’re not allowed To stay and haunt your own house Unless you have some unfinished business there. But even then You need to state your case Before the Body of Possession And despite the anecdotal evidence I can assure you They’re not likely to let you haunt Unless you’ve really been wronged. I'm going to die of a heart attack With absolutely no grievances whatsoever And that means I need to move to another location. Never a good idea To spend your afterlife Where you spent your life. Just blurs the line Between the living and the dead, And it benefits us all To have that line Be nice and clear . I always wanted To live in an attic anyway. I used to spend all my time as a kid In the one we had at my childhood home And my mother would get mad And say ‘ You have a perfectly nice bedroom ’ And I did. But I liked being Away from everyone And everything Surrounded by boxes Full of old clothes And the dressmaker’s dummy My mother got At the flea market. There’s no dressmaker’s dummy In this attic But there are boxes. Lots of them And one of them… Can I tell you about this? Should I? I'm not even sure I should be telling you About my death Until I'm dead But I've been accused Of getting ahead of myself And when I went in front of The Body of Departure That was a criticism That they had of me. That I always went To the next thing And the next And didn't live in the moment Which is a heartbreaking thing To say to a soul Once it's done living. But the boxes... One of them Has a shirt at the bottom With blood all over it. Not sure where the blood came from. Could be something innocent. As a ghost, you don’t… You don’t know anymore Than what the living know But… I have a feeling... My soul swirls around The attic And goes downstairs And finds the owner of the house Eating cereal And reading the newspaper And he doesn't seem like The kind of man Who would bloody up a shirt Like that But the shirt is also Much too small for him In other words It's unlikely that it's his bloody shirt. Later on that night He cooks shrimp And invites a woman over And she eats the shrimp And she seems to enjoy it And the two of them make love And as they do I feel a fly land on the bloody shirt In the attic Because it was hanging over the side Of the box Which is not a good way to hide it Unless you're not worried About hiding it Because you don't think Anyone will find it. The fly distracts me And by the time I get back downstairs The man is already Helping the woman Into her coat And telling her how sorry he is That she can't spend the night, But he does that thing tomorrow, And she says Of course she understands. I'm not accustomed To watching men Interact with women Because all I had growing up Was my mother In a house my father left us When he left for people who weren't us And a series of boyfriends Who I did not care for Or like. I am accustomed To mysteries. Mysteries, but not men But mysteries about men? Well... You see, when I was a child I found a knife At the back of our hall closet While I was looking for My old soccer cleats. The knife was wrapped up In an old handkerchief And it was rusty But it was a particular kind of rust And when I brought it to my mother She told me to put it back where I found it And never ask about it again. My mother would sit At the kitchen table Not eating cereal Or prepping shrimp But she would hug me tight And tell me That I was the heart Of her hearts And the only time She ever looked at me With the glint of chill That so many parents Find themselves using On their children Was when I showed her That knife. This time I'm not going to have Anyone to ask. How many people do you think Have bloody shirts or bloody knives Stored in places Nobody can see? Maybe more than we think. But I look at the shirt And I put what used to be my hand through it And when what used to be my hand Comes back It’s bright red in the moonlight That comes through The porthole window And I feel myself split apart And come back together But I don’t move And I don’t focus on it too much Because I’m still A day away from dying At that point. And I don’t want To mess That up. I don't want to Get Ahead of Myself.


At just eleven years old, Dennis always dreamt of living in an enormous house, so massive and magnificent that it would earn the right to have its very own name: Lakeview Manor. Or perhaps Driftwood Estate, named after his favorite forest and hiding place in Northeastern America. Either way, In every respect, it would contrast the tiny cabin he grew up in. Gone would be the wooden panel walls, the grungy near-yellow carpet, the brown ceilings, and the clutter. God, the clutter, it was awful. Just to eat at the table, things like papers and figurines and books had to be moved, only to have to be moved later again to reach the telephone. His parents were the definition of hoarders, and they found solace in all of the things they owned. Maybe they saw that the more they had signified wealth and prosperity. They grew up with even less, so perhaps they did see it that way. Dennis hated it. He hated his parents for the house they grew up in. He hated them for the way they treated him. The beatings. Was that why he was the way he was? Perhaps that’s why he was drawn to the darkness of things. He found somewhat a beauty in them. Friends would ask to come over, mainly to play in the creek several hundred yards behind the cabin, but every time, he had an excuse. His mom was sick, his dad was in a bad mood, they had company … sometimes they grew as outlandish as a tree falling onto the cabin and damaging it so they were rebuilding and remodeling. Eventually people stopped asking.   He preferred to visit his friends’ homes. His buddy, Timothy, lived in a nice subdivision just up the road from the cabin, and while their house was no manor, it was the closest thing in Dennis’ eyes. Timothy’s parents would make them the most refreshing iced-cold blackberry tea for when they came in after running around, playing in the dirt, playing on the slip-n-slide, and riding their bicycles. There were always plenty of snacks. And the place was clean. Everything was updated, the sofa didn’t have tears in it, the floors didn’t creak, the dining table wasn’t wobbly, it was just all so perfect. But then after an argument, Timothy disappeared. Dennis wanted to be a realtor. Instead, he found himself doing grunt work as a plumber. He wasn’t a very good one either, and the constant drinking meant missing appointments and becoming unreliable. But somehow, as if by destiny, a recently widowed Gennifer had run into him at the grocery store and learned of his trade. She was having sink issues. And her house? It was on a cul-de-sac in the prestigious wooded neighborhood of Auburn Terrace, a golfing paradise.

This house was a manor.

As soon as you walked through the doors, the foyer’s shiny white marble floors made you nearly squint. The wide staircase ahead led to a landing where a huge replica of the Mona Lisa - much larger than the original - hung. Chandeliers were scattered throughout the house, the kitchen was practically the same size as the cabin he grew up in, there was just as big of a wine cellar, and the windows were so large the entire house just brightened up. The furniture was so uniquely designed Dennis wondered if everything had been made specifically for Gennifer and the house.

He tried to hide his amazement, but she saw right through him. “Would you like a tour?” she asked. He didn’t answer, and she proceeded to give him one anyway.

He saw not one but two dining rooms - one informal and one much more formal, holding a table that could seat twelve and a cabinet with the most exquisite china he had ever seen. He found delight in the white grand piano room. Dennis wasn’t a reader, but he was mesmerized by the two story library where mahogany bookcases lined every single wall except for where the brick grand fireplace stood. Two comfy chairs over an oriental rug faced them. He could get into reading if he lived here. And then there were the numerous guest rooms and even a movie theater with leather reclining chairs. Some rooms just looked like more sitting rooms. How many living rooms did a single home need? But what about the master bedroom - the most intimate place in a home - a place where people found safety and peace? Of course she would never take him there.

Minutes later, he was working on the sink, fighting his hangover. It was a simple clog. Most people seemed to dump anything and everything down a kitchen drain not realizing that grease and fats did build up overtime. It was just a few minute fix, but he dragged on to enjoy the house for as long as he could. But he had another appointment, so it was time to collect payment. Gennifer was nowhere to be seen. He made his way through the house, searching for her. Nothing.

And then he found it. The master bedroom. This was the definition of luxury. An oasis. Centered on the back wall was the dark wooden bed with four large posts towering high into the air. The white bedding fluffed up, covered in a multitude of pillows one would never use. He admired the large burgundy round rug that covered almost the entire room. Recessed lighting dimmed the room. A seating area with two chesterfield chairs was snuggled in the corner, a thick quilt thrown over one of the chairs haphazardly. A modern abstract light fixture brought the focus to the middle of the room, even though turned off.

A closed door on the far end of the room caught his attention. What would a manor’s master bathroom and closet look like? He went to take a step. “What are you doing in here?” He froze in his tracks. After a few seconds, he turned around slowly. And that’s when he realized that Gennifer was absolutely gorgeous, covered in adorned jewelry, skin without a wrinkle, blue, captivating eyes, lavished clothing, everything he wanted in a woman. *** It only took ten minutes.

Still, he wouldn’t be making his next appointment. He moved the quilt and sat in the chair, his legs crossed. He took out a cigarette, lit it, and gazed at Gennifer’s pristine naked body lying in bed.

Had his parents made him this way? Had his childhood been so traumatizing that he had no control over his actions? But why defy pleasure? Why go against the instincts he was born with? He took a long drag and smiled at her narrow legs. Then her ample breasts. “I wish we could stay here forever,” he whispered as he contemplated her opened eyes followed by the blood draining down her cheek, soaking the expensive duvet cover. It would be another trip to Driftwood Forest. “We have a long car ride ahead of us. Just you and I. I hope you like country music.”


“Snowy. It’s snowy. The ground is covered with snow.

A cabin. A cabin in the middle of that distant place is decorated.

There are Christmas lights-- Blue, green, red, yellow. A Christmas song can be heard from far away. A tree with red decorations inside the house. Steps. Hard steps due to the snow. Someone walks towards the little cozy cabin. Now, I see a car. A blue car covered with snow. It’s parked next to a garbage can. The door is opening. Someone is going outside. A woman. Middle-aged woman. Black hair, purple shirt, a leather jacket. She gets a cigarette. Smoking now. Into the cabin, a family. A small family. An old lady completes a puzzle. A very young boy plays with his smartphone. A couple kisses under the mistletoe. Happy. Everyone is happy... Now, they eat. Eat the food and smile and laugh.” I lose the old woman’s hand and clean my throat. In my front, Cynthia smiles. Her white hair contrasts with the light. The woman looked satisfied, she was bursting with joy. It’s so easy to make her happy, it’s just to say something good and let her imagine those things. “That’s it, Cynthia,” I say. “70 dollars” “Thank you, young lady. Thank you!” The woman gives me the paycheck and very, very, very, extremely slowly gets up. “Do you need help?”

“No. I’m not as young as you but I can still handle it.” I fake a sympathy smile. Doesn’t she know that I have more clients? That more people want to know their “future”? I couldn’t believe it yet. I finally had a great job. It’s a scam but, who cares? People that are muggles to believe, I just enjoy it and get the money. “Are you sure?” I ask the old lady once again when I see Felicity coming. Felicity was a very loyal and good friend. She’s kind of crazy but...you know, nothing besides the common. With her redhead and short hair, I’ve met her a long time ago. She helped me to start this business. “Hi, girl!” She says. “Am I the last?” She asks. “Nope,” I say staring at the blue ring in my middle finger. “So, after you finish here, go to the bar in the corner of the street. I’ll be there celebrating my friend’s birthday. You’re very welcome.” “Yeah. Sure.” I “see” the future since I remind me as a person. I started with this “I’m a fortune-teller” bullshit when I was in high school. It was my biggest accomplishment. For sure. ... I woke up. Head is aching, I’m in a bed with a thin blanket over my legs. I feel a body next to me. I don’t remember anything from last night. I realize I’m naked. I scream. The man wakes up. “Who... are you?” “Can you stop screaming?” I scream more. “Please, you’re breaking my ears.” Quickly, I get dressed. I’m dizzy. I stumble and almost fall. The man says something, but I don’t listen to it.

Pictures. Pictures of me were around the room. I felt like I was having a heart attack. Where was I? Where he had taken me? Who was he? “Where...where...?” I can’t say. It’s like there is a frog in my throat. “In...your place...?” I look around.

The place was filled with pictures of me and animals, but it wasn’t my house. It isn’t my home. I don’t live here. My bed is not this one--it’s smaller. My walls are blue, not red like those in this room. I have a lampshade next to my bed and this room doesn’t.

It isn’t my home. It isn’t my room.

“I...I...it’s not- “Are you fine?” He asks “ You’re a little pale.” Everything is spinning. I listen to bells, see lights, snow, blood.

Bells. Lights. Snow. Blood…..Bells. Lights. Snow. Blood…

An image passes through my head. I know the images even though it is a little blurry. Scared. I feel scared. Something was wrong. I feel it. “Linda?!” the man says worryingly. I try to put those images away from my mind, but I can’t. They keep coming back. With a gasp, I fall. Hitting my head against a headboard. I feel pain. A lot of pain in my head. ... Bells were chiming. Lights were low. The room was filled with life. Christmas lights. Christmas songs and choirs.

Presents surrounded the place, the tree was decorated.

No one was inside the cabin. It was just me. What had happened to the others?

The song was getting more intense and louder. Twinkle. The lights started to twinkle. The song was getting darker and rougher.

A leak. There was a leak somewhere. I heard the sound of the water falling against the wood. I followed the sound in those flashes of colors and horrible sounds. I was getting closer. I could feel it. The bathroom’s door was closed but I just knew that the leak was there. It needed to be there. I saw a drop. One, two, three… I had found the leak. It was in front of the bathroom. I just needed to get a bucket an- A drop fell on my arm. Another drop fell. They kept falling. But there was something strange about them. The drops were different--they were dense and weren’t transparent nor colorless. They were red. An extremely bright red and it was warm.

I looked at the ceiling and noticed that the drops were getting bigger and bigger. My body was filled with blood. My heart? I couldn’t feel it. Seemed that it had stopped. I entered the bathroom to clean my body.

I washed it so fast that I barely could think about what was happening.

Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out. My mind kept telling me, insisting that I breathe. Numbers. Murmurings. Sighs.

Numbers. Murmurings. Sighs. Numbers. Murmurings. Sighs. I started to listen to numbers, murmurings, and sighs. Someone was there. Slowly, I started to get out of the bathroom. Scream. A painful scream. The shatter of glass. The end of the song. The lights were off. They weren’t blinking now. It was dark; very dark. But a weak light was coming from behind the sofa. There was a low light next to it. Destabilized, I walked towards the light. The white light in the middle of the room. Stop. The time stopped; I stopped.

Blood. There was blood all around the cabin. I was walking on a lake of blood. Dark and light red blood. Brand new blood.

I found the fountain; the matrix. It was coming from the body. It was so vivid, so scary. Someone had died there. Someone died while I was there and I didn’t know that there were people in the cabin. There was blood all around the place. I was covered with blood and I had just cleaned myself. The body of a girl was drowned in the blood. A dark-haired girl with a mutilated face. She was frozen, frozen in time. Her hands were tied and she was without one of her feet. It had been a recent amputation and most likely, against her will. And then, I realized. The dark-haired girl was familiar.

I tried to untie her hands and, on her neck, I saw a tattoo. A butterfly with a glasses tattoo.

That tattoo wasn’t common and I knew who had it.

I had it.

It was me. My body. My death. I was dead. Dead. Without breathing. Heard a noise. It was time. Time to die. Heart jumping. Body shaking.

Someone was coming, chasing me. Steps. Loud steps. A touch on my head. Dark. Dead body. Blood. I was drowning in the blood. … The blood was gone, the body was gone and the dark was gone. I was waking up, an awakening of death. Whispers. People are whispering around me.

The glimpse of light doesn’t let me open my eyes completely because of vertigo. I raise my hand. “Linda?!” A familiar male voice says. The same voice from earlier. I see the shadow of the man. “Are you fine?” I don’t answer. Who was he? What he was doing here? Why did he have pictures of me? How did he know my name? The doctor approaches. Abruptly, he opens my eyes and throws a yellow light into my eyes. Hurts. It hurts. “What’s your name?” He asks. “Linda,” I say. “How old are you?” “32…,” I wasn’t sure. How old am I? I noticed the doctor and that man exchanged a look. “When were you born?” “19 of November of 1993.” “So, how are you 32 if we are in 2021?” I think, “You’re 28.” “No.” I was getting sick again. My head was aching again, my heart was jumping again. I was going to my death again, I was being thrown to it. Those images were stuck in my mind. I couldn’t forget it. It was so realistic and truthful. Everything in that dark and lonely hole.

The lights, the sound, the body. My death. That was my death. I didn’t remember that man and barely knew what was happening in my life. But I was sure that it wasn’t 2021, right?! I couldn’t stay there. I passed out. Once again. … Christmas carols were singing, snow was falling. The winter had arrived. Everything was different. I was in an unknown place, an unknown world. Who was I over there? Why was I in the middle of a street? What I was doing with a lamplighter? Nothing. No idea. I couldn’t remember the reason. I couldn’t remember. Though I remembered my name and my roots, I had lost my essences, I didn’t remember what moved me, what made me be me. I was simply following rules. Rules of a game. A game that I didn’t understand, that I didn’t know and that I didn’t wanna play. A car honked as it passed to me. The lights of the headlight made me uncomfortable. But there was something with the image of my death. That terrible vision of how I might die. Was it true? Was that my future? … Someone was calling my name. I know the voice. A sweet voice with a gummy and pleasant sound. A calm voice. “Hey, darling. You’re opening your eyes again,” my mom said. She puts her hand in my head. "It’s okay. It’s just a scare.” My mom was there, I'd get better and go home. My real one. Everything would be just fine. I’d get out of the hospital and- Images. Images came through my head.

A red Corolla in the middle of the highway. Three people inside the car. The rush to get to the game. The voice of a little boy saying “you’re too fast.” The red light of the traffic light. The crash. Violently, I escape from her touch. Her warming and comforting touch. She shouldn’t be there...she shouldn’t. And, before I had noticed, words escaped from my mouth. “You're dead,” I move further away from her, she stares at me with that worried maternal look. “No, hone- “You’re dead.” I interrupted her, “The accident… The accident. You died there. You and the boy….” I was mumbling and sliding to the side. I needed to get out of there. “Relax,” I fell out of bed and crawled to the window, “Sam, calls the doctor.” I just noticed that the man (apparently called Sam) was still there. I thought that he had left. Why he didn’t? What he was? A boyfriend? One nightstand? An ex? A friend? The world was spinning again. Everything was spinning. More images reached my mind. The pain was coming back. But this time is stronger.

I yell. A lake; a frozen lake. A park. I walk in the park. Someone walks with me; a redhead woman. She talks. “Sometimes you need to jump; to go away,” I don’t say anything, I just pay attention. The park was strange. Just the two of us were there and it was the holiday period. Blinding sunlight passed through my eyes.

“Sometimes people disappear,” she takes something shiny out of her pocket. Something sharp. “And, sometimes, karma happens.” The knife pierced my belly in a region just below the heart. I couldn’t talk. I saw the blood leaving my body. The woman wasn’t there anymore; she had gone. There were loads of blood coming out of my body. I couldn’t feel my legs nor my arms. A piercing pain hurt my belly. I was getting dizzy again. My legs give out and I fall. Fall into the frozen lake and into the darkness. The last thing I heard before jumping is a scream. A grievous scream.

I was flying now. Floating in the magnificent sky. No more pain nor confusion. It was a dream and I was escaping from it. I’d wake. I’d wake at some point. I kept falling. Never hitting the ground. Never awakening. I fell into eternity and into the loneliness. I fell into a trap that I couldn't escape.


Good morning Marc.

A familiar robotic voice gently awoke me from my peaceful sleep as I tried to pry my eyelids open.

It is time to shoot your advertisement for Taurodyne. The product is in the bathroom cabinet. Taurodyne was a toothpaste company that had purchased ads for intergalactic voyages. If life was ever discovered on one of the “Taur” missions, it would be a huge marketing boost for the company, but after the 20th mission failed, people just stopped caring. It was unlikely for anyone but hardcore viewers to recognize the name Marc Silva, much less buy toothpaste because of its ethos. I unclipped the harness holding me vertically against my padded bedroom wall and ran a quick scan with the vitals monitor set up to my left, the faint green light blinking in time with the thumping of my heart.

“Andromeda, how long have I been asleep?” I asked. Measurements indicate it has been seven hours.

“Ship assessment?” I queried as I rubbed my eyes wearily, now floating in the zero-g atmosphere.

Oxygen levels are stable, velocity remains constant, no anomalies are detected. Everything was normal.

I opened the hatch that gave way to the narrow hallway of my Edison-4. I floated down the hallway toward my bathroom. In the cabinet next to the rinseless soap and water pouches was my toothbrush, and next to it, a tube of Taurodyne toothpaste. I couldn’t even use the viscous liquid to brush my teeth in its current packaging; the liquid would just float away. Taurodyne marketers, however, maintained that the brand recognition that came with a tube was necessary. I located the camera on the left wall just above my prompter, oriented myself to face it, and displayed the red and blue logo labeled, “Taurodyne: the high-tech toothpaste.” “Roll it, Andromeda.”

Cameras are recording in three, two, one. “As an astronaut, I need long-lasting freshness to keep my helmet smelling great, even for long spacewalks. That’s why I choose Taurodyne.” I flashed a smile before dropping the facade.

Your recording is compressing and will be flashed to the nearest base. Orienting communication lasers… I took out one of my more space-friendly toothpaste packs. I hated these ads. I thought everyone on Earth could see through my ingenuine smile and yellowing teeth, even after they were whitened in post-production. I felt so exposed, so alone. Andromeda eased my yearning for interaction, but the blasted ads were a constant reminder that there was an Earth I had left behind. Message sending… Nonetheless, they were necessary. Ever since President Flint had cut funding for the space program, the budget had been strained. The program subsisted on nothing but our own ad revenue and philanthropic donations by eccentric trillionaires. Second-class, loaned rockets plagued the ASA - formerly NASA - while private and Chinese missions used their new, top-of-the-line ships. The message will take one month to travel and will be received at base PACS-867 on April 3, 2130.

“Thanks, Andromeda,” I responded absentmindedly.

Today was the culmination of my mission to find humans a new home. It was the final leg of the journey before I would be assigned to another lifeless sphere, devoid of interest and isolated in the perennial vastness; venturing in hope that there, somehow, humanity could continue its endless crusade of existence, a reckoning never resolved, only delayed. The population was growing by nearly two billion people a year, mandating the rapid colonization of the unknown; however, no suitable planet had been found yet. The “balloon problem,” as scientists referred to it, was explained to me by the man who popularized it: Mario Perez. Mario was well-dressed and -spoken for a man who spoke English as his fourth language. I met with him at his home nearly two years ago. Contrary to his gloomy work, Mario was a jovial man. Perhaps he felt safe in the knowledge that he would never survive to see his prediction come to fruition - he had stage four cancer at the time. I arrived at his warmly lit house filled with tchotchkes and knickknacks where he cracked jokes and told me about a painting that hung in his living room where we talked. It was Dali’s “The Persistence of Memory.”

“Is that real?” I asked, floored. “No, not at all,” he chuckled. “They offered it to me, but I figured, why hang it here where a couple of people can enjoy it when it can be at MoMA where it is seen by thousands?” He delivered the rhetorical question in such a way that I couldn’t help but laugh, though I wasn't quite sure what I was meant to be laughing at. It was the kind of joke to be enjoyed at barbecues, perhaps said by a paternal grill master during small talk. Our conversation topic was anything but small talk. After we settled in, him in a reclining chair and me on an itchy sofa, Mario began a routine that had, by then, reached billions of listeners.

“Assume you put a single piece of bacteria in a cup, and that organism doubles every minute. The process begins at midnight on Monday and will end when the glass is full in exactly twenty four hours. When will the glass be half full?”

I had seen his work, but him, sitting across from me in his La-Z-Boy (but not relaxed) staring unflinchingly at me gave it a whole new gravitas.

”11:59 pm on Tuesday night,” he said with finality. “The pocketwatch of humanity is ticking. Our time is running out, and we have just one precious minute left. What’s the solution? Say we colonize a hundred planets. Let’s represent the space they provide by expanding our limit to the entire room. That buys us only ten short minutes. It is only a matter of time, even if we colonize those hundred planets, until our timepiece once again reads 11:59.” That warning was the thing that drove everyone in the spacefaring business to work harder, go faster, and travel further than ever before. I assumed Mario was dead by now. His doctor’s prediction was far eclipsed by my mission length. As for Mario’s prediction, he prognosticated that barring an alternative to Earth, population control would have to be utilized by 2150, twenty years from now. Population control. That had been the question of the last few years. Whether it was righteous to struggle against an ever-increasing flood of humanity by accommodating the endless new bodies, or whether it was nobler to sterilize a portion of the population in the hopes of helping a section of the yet unborn to thrive in an Earth of plentiful resources. The UN and other international bodies were paralyzed by debate and the lack of a right answer to a confounding moral problem. It seemed that inaction would rule doomsday. I shook off my existential crisis, moving toward my modest living area, and more importantly, the breakfast pouches inside my plastic cabinet labeled food.

“What exciting alien species will I be encountering today?” I queried with no small hint of sarcasm.

You must repair atmospheric sensor 3b before I take low-atmospheric photos and data of planet Confutatis Spes. Once the data is collected and you are safely aboard, I will perform a boomerang maneuver to shoot you back toward PACS-867 where you will return the Edison-4 to the Chinese.

Everything as expected. “Sounds good, A. When am I disembarking?” T minus ten minutes until your EVA.

Everything seemed to be on schedule. I quickly slurped down my blueberry oatmeal and went to put on my suit in preparation for the spacewalk. I was done sitting around doing nothing but filming promos for shitty toothpaste. Today was a day of action, where I would become master of my own life.

“Andromeda, put on Space Oddity” I mused with a smirk slowly working its way to my lips. Space Oddity by David Bowie now playing. By this time, I had made my way to the suit staging area. I went through the checklist drilled into me at training. When I pulled the tether taut to test its strength, the lyrics began to rise high above the sci-fi sounds that played in the background of my favorite song as the song’s ship countdown began. The unique voice of David Bowie became ubiquitous. I looked out of the airlock toward the planet I would soon visit, both my ears and now eyes filling with beauty. I started mouthing the lyrics, slowly working up the confidence to sing in earnest, broken high notes joining the forlorn verse.

“Ground control to Major Tom: The time is near, there's not too long. Can you hear me, Major Tom?” The red-tinted sun at my back combined with the deep purple clouds that I could only assume were toxic iodine made the planet reminiscent of a sunset. As pretty as it was, a lot of work would be required to make this planet into a home. I stepped into the main body of the suit.

“Can you hear me, Major Tom? Can you hear me, Major Tom? Can you hear?” I donned my heavy helmet equipped with a life-support system and boasting a sun-protectant visor. The song shifted to the sound system contained within the helmet, but I kept belting. “Here am I sitting in a tin can Far above the moon Planet Earth is blue And there's nothing I can do” I slipped on my gloves, cleared my throat, and asked, “You there, Andromeda?”

Here as always. We have entered the upper atmosphere and are in a stable orbit. Your mission is a go.

“Then let’s do this thing.” The airlock opened and I pushed off toward sensor 3b. It was impossible to see through the purple clouds all around me so I navigated with the help of Andromeda as she activated different thrusters attached to the suit to correct my movements.

You will have to perform a jump out to the right engine module. Two o’clock.

“Copy that.” I jumped without hesitation, feeling a slight correction from the right side of my suit, and latched onto the metallic surface.

You must adjust the collection unit to 37 degrees to accommodate our low-orbit angle when collection is happening. I reached out, trying to feel the porous, cylindrical device. My clumsily controlled hand made contact and slowly started pushing it into position. “Just tell me when to stop.” Stop. Well done. Time to return to the main body. Eight o’clock. I pushed off once again and felt the familiar correction. “I thought I had that one,” I complained sarcastically. Andromeda didn’t respond. She was used to my humor. We had grown close over the past two years. Any interaction, even with a machine, was welcome in the void. Her competence and real-seeming empathy for my predicament gave me complete trust in her. Deprivation of human contact over the years had made me boring and socially inept. I thought Andromeda was the only one who understood me.

I reached the airlock and reentered the ship. The pressure equalized, and I took off my helmet.

We will be entering the lower atmosphere in thirty minutes where data collection will begin.

“Great. I’m gonna get a nap. Let me know when we’re boomeranging” I doffed the remainder of my suit and drifted back to my cramped quarters. I strapped myself into my sleeping bag and fell into a deep sleep. ******************* Marc. Marc, there is a slight problem. Marc, you must wake up. “What is it, Andromeda?” I asked crankily.

An anomaly has been detected in the oxygen levels of the ship.

“Are we leaking? How bad is it?”

I did a scan for leaks and found nothing. We are losing 3.4 times ten to the negative eight atmospheres of partial pressure per minute.

“Log the deficit. It’s probably a reading error. If the problem persists, wake me up in twenty minutes.” ******************* Marc.

The problem is persisting. “How so?” We are losing 1.4 times ten to the negative six atmospheres of partial pressure per minute.

That was anomalous. That the oxygen was leaking 100 times worse was flustering. “Show me the data on oxygen levels,” I implored. I looked left at my monitor and zoomed in.

“A, assign a line of exponential regression and give me an R squared value.” I looked intently at the exponential model, where terror awaited me. Oxygen would run out in fifty minutes at the current rate. The confidence metric read an even 100%.

“Oh, no.” My panicked voice began to crack as I recognized the severity of my situation.

I ripped off my bed straps and careened toward the airlock. What could be causing the leak? “Andromeda, I’m going to check the oxygen tank for leakage from outside of the ship.” I frantically jumped into the suit I had so joyously put on less than an hour ago. I reached down and strapped myself into place, but I was still missing something. I cried, “My gloves! Where are my gloves?”

On the table to your right next to the purple smudge. I hadn’t done a good job cleaning up, but there wasn’t time for that now. I snatched the gloves, pulled them on, and hooked the tether onto my waist loop. Finally, I opened the airlock.

Wasting no time, I made a beeline for the oxygen tanks. When I reached the panel, I unscrewed it with shaking hands and practically ripped it off. “Andromeda, scan the device for external oxygen.”

Scanning through suit sensors… no leak has been detected, although there is oxygen in the air outside the ship at high concentrations.

“We have no way to collect it,” I assessed militarily. “Besides, the iodine would make it unsafe for consumption.” The iodine content in the atmosphere is negligible. “Well then what is this purple stuff?” I asked. “What the fuck is this?” I yelled in shock and desperation. “If it’s not iodine what the hell is it?” It appears the substance is a rudimentary life form. I was silent for a few seconds as I processed the information. “No kidding.” This was humanity’s first contact with an alien species. I went limp for a second, my hands slipping from their holds, but I forced my clammy palms to latch on tight. Then I went as white as a sheet. “That’s the problem with the oxygen.” I realized. “There are aliens on my ship, and they’re multiplying.” I raced back to the airlock, took my suit off as fast as possible, and rushed to grab the disinfectant in the living area. I sped back to where I had seen the purple smudge before. It had noticeably grown in size. Panicked, I applied the antibacterial substance and began to scour the ship for more of the colored organism. Horrified, I found the purple film on counters, hallway walls, and a large amount in my bedroom. I must have tracked it in. I tried scraping some of it off with my fingernail, but it clung to my harness with incredible veracity. I hastily checked my first clumping to see if the disinfectant was capable of saving my life. To my dismay, if anything, the stain had gotten larger; reality set in. I crumpled and wept forlornly, “Andromeda? Am I doomed to die?” With current supplies, There is no way to stem the organism’s growth. “I need to send word of first contact to ASA.” If anything, my sense of duty propelled me upright. “How long do I have?” 10 minutes before mild asphyxiation begins, 15 before death.

“How long before we’re out of the clouds and I can send the message?” 13 minutes.

The air was already getting thin. What loyalty did I have to ASA? I could buy humanity time, but was it worth it? Did anything outweigh the agony I would feel? Maybe they’d name the planet after me, I mused. But what would I care? I’d be dead. Did it matter what I left behind? What about the obligation to my species? I resolved to send the message, my allegiance, not to ASA, but to humanity prevailing.

The damn bacteria. I laughed in the face of my quandary. Isn’t this what I wanted? To find alien life? But why must it compete with me for oxygen? I supposed existence itself gave any being the prerogative to fight for its survival, big or small. Existence is a competition and we’re just gladiators in the arena, battling trillions and trillions of others.

My breaths became ragged. I located a camera and faced it.

“Andromeda? Are you ready?” Ready as always. “Thanks, A. For everything.” It has been an honor, Marc. You’re live. “Hello ASA” I wheezed. “I have discovered life on the oxygen-rich planet Confutatis Spes.” Each word was preceded by a gasp now. “The organism has contaminated my ship and used up my oxygen.” I struggled to make a sound as I rasped a final “Good luck.” Sending… sent.

“A, put on … second half of … space oddity.” I didn’t have time to listen to the complete song.

With pleasure.

I floated down my now-colorful hallway to my living area where I found my kitchen knife. I ventured to the airlock where I looked out at the maroon planet below me, my insides slowly being consumed by suffocating fire. I had prolonged humanity’s survival, even if it was just for a precious minute or two on the grandfather clock of human existence. As for my own life, the clock had struck 12:00. I serenely drew my blade, feeling like a conquistador of old on a new frontier, Space Oddity serenading my final moments. Here am I floating in my tin can, Last glimpse of the world, Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing left to do. As the final line played, I plunged the knife into my stomach, my beautiful vista giving way to the blackness of the void I knew so well.


Glancing at the book in her hand Maisie sighed and considered the merits of reading the section ‘Letter to his Father’ from Franz Kafka’s 'Dearest Father, and other stories'.  She opened a random page: “Sometimes I imagine the map of the world spread out and you stretched diagonally across it.” What did that even mean? Through the tiny window above her head Maisie could see the darkening sky where shimmering raindrops fragmented the glow from the streetlamps. Settling back against the bookcase she wondered if anyone in the library had noticed she was missing. How long before they sent out a search party? Would anyone remember the errand she’d been sent on? As the newest recruit, not really beyond probation, she had found herself sent all over the building, often on a wild goose chase. Just a joke, they said, when she’d been sent to find ‘Dehydrated Water’ by Davy Jones. This errand hadn’t been a joke. The young man who’d come into the library, hair plastered to his head, dripping all over the wooden floor, had looked flustered, anxiety oozing from every pore. His eyes, small black marbles, seemed to jerk around the room looking desperately for help. “I need this book, I really need this book. It’s essential for my research. I’ve got a deadline.” The words tumbled out in a disorderly flurry of disjointed phrases. “Maisie will help you,” Mrs Grant had waved the man towards Maisie at the information desk and returned to cataloging the new additions to the detective fiction section. Maisie had been covertly watching. She’d seen the latest Dennis Fisher had arrived and had hoped to disappear off into a corner and skim read it. Dennis Fisher was an unlikely detective, but had won Maisie’s heart with his slightly bulging tummy and home knitted jumpers. At the end of ‘Dennis Fisher and the Mystery of the Rubber Truncheon’ he was in hospital and there was the suggestion of a love interest from a nurse. Maisie was hoping that that story line went nowhere, it was difficult to fantasise about a character if the author had married him off. Outside the rain bounced from the roof of the building next door, its temporary sheeting vibrating as the water pulsed against the plastic. She wondered idly if it would hold and what was stored in the loft of the artisan bakery that the building accommodated. “What I would have needed was a little encouragement, a little friendliness, a little keeping open of my road, instead of which you blocked it for me.” Maisie certainly agreed with Kafka on that point, wondering whether the book was still available to buy, these were things that her father needed to understand. Certainly if it was then the flustered man could have just downloaded it and saved himself the bother of coming to the library in the pouring rain. Which in turn would mean that Maisie wouldn’t have been sent on an errand to find the book and wouldn’t have accidentally locked herself in the basement storage section for authors K – O. Kafka clearly had a father who thought along the same lines as hers did – categorically announcing that a life on the stage was no way for a girl to make anything of herself and an internship in the library was by far and away the best thing for a girl like Maisie, who spent most of her time with her head in a book living in a fantasy world of someone else’s making. Maisie had relished her drama classes – the build up to a production; the rehearsal camaraderie; the costumes and make up. She’d loved all of those things and wanted her chance to give it a go. Drama was one road that her father had definitely blocked for her. “In a way, I was safe writing” just like Maisie, sneaking round the library reading books, safe from her father’s watchful gaze. She wondered what the man dripping water around the library needed the book for, was he writing about Kafka or maybe fathers. Perhaps he too had a really irritating parent like her. The hot water pipe that ran alongside the wall was warm and the storeroom had heated up to a level that was causing Maisie to find it difficult to keep her eyes open. Suddenly there was the sound of the door opening and Mrs Grant’s voice annoyed asking her what she thought she was doing sitting on the floor – the man was waiting for the book. Taking it from her hand she swept upstairs leaving Maisie to gather herself together and follow her. She arrived back at the information desk to hear Mrs Grant announce in no uncertain terms that the book was not to be loaned out. “You have thirty five minutes before closing time and then you’ll have to leave,” and then as if remembering that this was a member of the public coming in to use the library service she added slightly more kindly, “if you give me your coat I’ll hang it on the staff coat rack – it’s by a radiator and should dry out before you need to leave. The study desks are through that door on the left.” She held her hand out. Maisie wished she had that level of confidence. It was so much easier, she thought, when she could stand on a stage and pretend to be someone else rather than mousey Maisie Grey.  Thirty five minutes later Maisie was standing outside the library under an umbrella with her hood pulled up - waiting. She wondered if she was going slightly crazy, what would Dennis Fisher have done in her situation? She needed to know who the man was and why he was studying the Kafka book. She’d slipped away from the desk and hidden in the staff toilets Googling  Kafka to discover that his work fused reality and fantasy, something that Maisie’s father had said she did in her own life. You need to grow up, he’d told her, take some responsibility. You can’t live in a fantasy world forever. Maisie had skimmed through Wikipedia: “Y outh is happy because it has the ability to see beauty. Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old. By believing passionately in something that still does not exist, we create it.” Which means, Maisie thought, that logically if you repeated the mantra “I do believe in fairies, I do, I do, I do” then it stands to reason that Fairies would come into existence. Maisie had taken out two books by Kafka and tucked them deep into the side pocket of bag. ‘Metamorphosis’ and ‘The Trial’ which Google informed her were essential reading for the Kafka scholar.

She spotted her prey exiting the building and leaving an appropriate two person gap between them she scuttled along the street, past the artisan bakery and round the corner into Robertson Street. There were fewer people heading this way and Maisie tried to pull her umbrella further forward so that her face was less visible, although her quarry did not seem in the slightest bit interested in anything around him.

The time was 5.45pm and he was clearly heading for the park, marching purposefully on towards the gates, which were locked at 6.00pm on the dot. Maisie watched him go through. If she followed him she’d have to eventually turn around and come back as her own home was in the opposite direction, if the park gates were locked it would mean a twenty minute detour and her mother would have tea on the table at 6.30, with the expectation that the whole family would be washed up and ready to eat. Reluctantly Maisie turned around and headed back down Robertson Street. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, he hadn’t finished with ‘Letter to his Father’, maybe he might come back in to the library and Maisie allowed her imagination to wander through scenario after scenario, each one ending with Maisie and the Kafka scholar sharing tea and comparing notes on tyrannical parents!