“Ouch!” screamed Lisa while feeling this heated knob on her forehead that she got from hitting the frame of her bed. She got this weird feeling. This premonition feeling.

“You alright? Oh lord, there is a whole red bump on your forehead” exclaimed Matt, Lisa’s twin brother. “Ya I think so, but I am having this weird tingly feeling” Lisa said with concern on her face. “Oh please, that’s cap, you're lying, why did you have to get that feeling before our big trip to the Devil’s cave? '' moaned Matt. “But it is that bad feeling, let's not go to the Devil’s cave today, let's postpone it, tell Emily and Jack so they know not to come” demanded Lisa. Ding dong “See even the bell wants you to go, come on,

get up lazy face,

Emily and Jack are here. Let us four 18 year old kids go to that cave” said Matt while rising up and throwing the blanket onto Emily’s Morning face. He went downstairs and opened the brown dutch door.

“Sup Matt, how do you do” Jack pounced on Matt. “Hey Matt, everything ready for today’s trip?” questioned Emily “Everything is ready, but your best friend Lisa is not, she is saying she is having tingly feelings” he mimicked Lisa's voice. They all walked up the fusty stairs. The house that Lisa and Matt lived in was a little quaint because both parents also spent their childhood in this house. Both maternal and paternal grandparents spent their childhood in this house. After the death of the twins’ parents, the twins both settled on staying in this quaint house because one, they did not want to leave this house because it had theirs and their forebears childhood spent in this home and two, they did not have enough money to buy a different house. “Can we come in Lisa?” questioned Jack. “Ya sure, guys I am having this very weird feeling, where something disastrous will happen or where we will get caught into something disastrous. Please, let's not go” requested Lisa with her hands joined together. “Here have this” said Emily with a glass of water in her hand, “ drink this and sit in the car, we don’t have time for your nonsense” Lisa could not do anything more to convince them to not go to that devil’s cave so the only thing she could do was go with them herself. Jack helped Matt get the blue suitcase to the car and Emily helped Lisa downstairs with packing the greens and the snacks for the trip.They all sat in the car and Jack insisted that he should drive. Jack and Emily were siblings but not twins.They both lived together in an apartment because their parents had also passed away, but in a plane crash. Matt and Jack were very close friends in high school so they decided to make Lisa and Emily amigos too. And that was pretty successful. Now all four of these kids go on trips and vacations together. The four hours that went awesome and pretty fast for Matt,Jack and Emily, did not go as well for Lisa. She tried sleeping but that thought of something horrendous about to happen kept eating her insides. The appalling feeling kept coming to her when she tried eating the prawns. She thought if the prawns were all poisoned and all four adults in the car would die in 3 seconds. She hoped that looking outside would make it better but it made it worse. When she looked outside, she thought of her friends getting all atrocious and throwing her dead body under the trees for no one to find. These four hours were the longest four hours for her. At last they ended. “Look we’re here and Lisa, see nothing happened to us!” exclaimed Emily “I don’t know yet, maybe the horror still awaits for us” Lisa said in a hushed voice. “ OH GOD, THIS GIRL!” Matt, Jack and Emily yelled. “ How do you deal with this girl, Matt?” Jack exclaimed with an irritation. “ I have no idea!” Matt said while dragging the word “No”. They all got off and cleaned the mini mess they had made in the car. Emily rolls down all the windows of the car. Lisa looked at her reflection on the blue Hyundai car. Her red bump was throbbing more than ever. But she did not want to drift away from the pack so she ignored her bump and ran to the other three. Matt pulled out the keys and locked the car. They all continued walking until they reached the visitor center. Matt pointed towards the visitor center and went into the center. Jack, Emily and Lisa stood outside and looked around. Matt came outside and said “ We have to walk down a mini trail and then we will see the cave. By the cave, there is another center where we can change into our swimsuits and where they give our oxygen cylinder and more” “Okay then, what are we waiting for!” screamed Emily. Lisa started to feel sick. Her bump was hurting like it was about to slice itself off of Lisa’s forehead. She kept on getting the premonition feeling. They all meandered like the river on the zig zag trail. At last, they could smell the fresh water. They just wanted to jump in and let the water do its concert. As Lisa walked by the water, her reflection was glowing like a star. She could see that she had gotten weak because of the stress and tension. But she also felt a sense of comfort. For the first time in a long time, she felt like she was in her mother’s arms. They walked to the center.

“Hi, how may we help you today?“ asked the person behind the front desk “Hi, me and my friends have a booking to go in the Devil’s cave” said Matt “We are truly sorry, the cave has been closed temporarily” said the person. “ What do you mean it is closed, then why did you even say what can we help you with, the main attraction here is that cave, and if that is closed then what are we supposed to do?” interrogated Jack “Ya this is pathetic!” yelled Emily “Guys chill down, don’t get mad it… Bob,” Lisa said while reading the person’s name tag. “Be quiet Lisa, you never even wanted to come to the cave” Matt scolded and then turned his head toward Bob “so what else can we do here sir?” “Well you can go snorkeling but just don’t go in the cave,” said Bob. “ Why is the cave closed though?” asked Jack. “ Well, there was an invasive creature in the cave. We even lost five people because of that creature. So we have put a very strong cage outside of the cave” stated Bob “ What creature is it?” questioned Emily. “Well…. It is a Godshark killer” mumbled Bob “ A god what?” Matt, Lisa and Jack asked at the same time. “ A Godshark killer was an ancient titan. It is a mix of a Godzilla, shark and a killer whale,” stated Emily, “ but it went extinct a long time ago. How did you guys find it in the cave?”

“ We are also not sure” said Bob “Okay then just give us the snorkeling gear and we will go snorkeling.” demanded Matt. Bob nods and goes inside this room to get our swim gear. He comes back with all this equipment. He hands them to his colleagues and they help the four kids wear everything. “Ok, remember not to take this band off, because this tells us if you are alive or not and it also helps us track you.” Bob said while tying the band onto Lisa’s hand. Jack,Lisa,Matt, and Emily secure their oxygen cylinders and dive into the water. The splash of water tingled the red bump on Lisa’s forehead. They all swam around and looked at the beautifully colored aquatic plants. Then they saw this circular rock. It had a hollow area but was closed with a very sturdy iron cage. Matt signaled and all the others followed. They reached the cage and Jack pulled out his phone that was in an air packed bag. They took a picture and turned around. Emily Jack and Matt nodded at each other and then Matt swam away to find a gap in the cage. Emily held onto Lisa because Lisa found out what they were doing. Jack took off Lisa’s band and threw it down with Emily’s band and his own band. Then Matt waved and they all swam to him. Lisa was dragged instead of swimming herself. They go into the cave and keep swimming. Lisa looked around and then the feeling came back. But this time, it was intense. She felt like something was jutting into her stomach but it was just that feeling. They all swam to the top of the cave where there was an air pocket. They took off their helmets and put their cylinders by the rocks.

“Look not so bad” Matt proudly stated. “ARE YOU NUTS! We will definitely die” cried Lisa “ Oh chillax,” said Jack. “You know I am also kinda scared, I did say yes to plan of coming, but now that I think of it, what if we die. I have read that the Godshark killer leaves no one” Emily said with concern. “ Oh please shut up, don’t go into what Lisa is saying, just enjoy” assured Jack. “ Guys……. the…..the….there….there” garbled Lisa. “ What is it Lisa?” asked Emily. “There….. is….. is” Lisa murmured. “Breathe and talk,” said Matt. Lisa took a big deep breath. “There is something behind you,” Lisa took another breath “ The Godshark killer” They all turned around and gasped. Its bladed teeth. Its wide grin. It knows that these four humans will not survive. The only things that were in that cave was the red velvet blood, the humans scream echoing through the cave, and the Godshark killer waiting for its next prey.


With a loud clunk, the last light was extinguished and the room blackened.  I waited for the clicking of the librarian’s heels to fade before I risked emerging from my hiding place in the rarely visited encyclopedia section of the library basement.  The dust bunnies under the shelves were as large as my hand and also my only companions for the last two hours I had spent waiting for the library to close. The dank, musty smell was clinging to my clothes. My excitement matched my anxiety as I was never one to break the rules, and staying here after closing time was regrettably one of the most rebellious things I had ever done in my twenty-six years.  My adventure was about to begin, and how challenging could it be? What, you might ask, would prompt me to be here in a cold, dark, dusty library instead of home in my own comfortable room full of my books, comfy pillows and my two orange tabbies, Watson and Holmes? As it turns out, I accepted a dare from a mischievous octogenarian named Abigail in a game of Truth or Dare. Scoring an apartment amidst the residents at the town’s senior living community had its ups and downs. Employed as the Activities Director, I spent many a night among the senior residents coordinating and participating in various games and projects, which could be equal parts entertaining and frustrating. Historically, I am much more of a Truth person in the Truth or Dare realm. I have very little to hide, being quite strait-laced all my life.  My elderly neighbors have had many laughs at my expense, as they seemed to all have led pretty scandalous lives based upon their “truths”! They each now generally chose “Dare” in the game, as they had few secrets left from each other. Some of the dares, such as who can fling his dentures the furthest, held little appeal.

Nonetheless, I had one wine cooler too many the night in question, and decided to throw caution to the wind.  Abigail, my favorite at the senior center, had long been wanting to shake up my life, so jumped at the chance to assign my fate- “You will spend the night in the Eastbrook library basement!” she declared.  Abigail, a retired guide for the Eastbrook ghost tour, always believed the library to be the most haunted site in the town. She maintained that her own decades-deceased Aunt Edna, the first librarian in Eastbrook, traveled its halls to this day looking for mis-shelved books and shushing loud patrons. Not being one to worry about ghosts, and having fantasized about being uninterrupted and surrounded with thousands of books at my disposal, I decided that this would be a good chance to prove to them that I wasn’t just a stick-in-the-mud. I also believed that I would enjoy a night when I didn’t have to wear headphones to drown out the Bingo caller. This felt like a win-win situation for me. Now however, being in the dark, quiet, and unnaturally chilly basement, I was rethinking my decision.  Ghosts aren’t real, I was sure, and how bad could one night be?  I had my handy flashlight and sleeping bag hidden in the back of the stacks, and I readied myself to hunker down for the night. As I spread out my quilt, I was startled by a noise that sliced through the silence.  A loud thud followed by a barrage of clops and bangs came from upstairs. It sounded like a horse was galloping through the fiction section! My knack for keeping calm in a crisis kicked in as my brain sought to imagine a reasonable explanation for this development.  After all, I had never been in the library at night. Maybe the furnace was really loud or maybe workers were cleaning (the absence of light did make this less likely).

 I was torn between cowering in my corner and investigating the unexpected sounds, when the noises ceased and a creepy silence once again overtook the building. A small shiver worried up my spine as I slowly crept up the creaky library stairs, the need to investigate winning out.  The building was inky black, and my small flashlight did little to illuminate the large space.  As I inched along the library wall, feeling cobwebs brushing against my cheek, my foot kicked something hard on the floor.  A small book,

Things that Go Bump in the Night  lay at my feet.

Admittedly a little nervous, and with my blood pounding in my ears, I shone my flashlight around me.  All I could see from the fine beam was an empty hall and imposing book-lined shelves.  I listened for sounds of life, but there were only stillness and my own rapid breaths. Did I imagine the noises? My senses were on high alert and I wanted to stay hidden until I could investigate further.  From behind me, though, another thud made me jump, and another book landed near my feet. The offending noises were starting again now as books were leaping from the shelves onto the floor in front of me.  I spun my flashlight, desperately trying to see what was causing this, but saw nothing but what appeared to be the books alone, launching themselves off the shelves. I was torn between the desire to run for my life and the overwhelming urge to reorganize the messy, unshelved titles strewn on the floor.

The Shining  grazing my forehead in its rapid descent hurried my decision and I spun around to escape the attack. In my haste, I dropped my flashlight and heard the battery fling across the floor as it crashed down. The room again was draped in black and now I was surrounded in the darkness by a cacophony of books sliding from the shelves and dive bombing the ground.  I felt the hard covers scratching my ankles as I ran from the section.

I dove under the nearest desk as more books launched themselves at my head. I heard screaming which I realized was coming from me and the thuds were joined by a loud whoosh as a strong breeze began to blow my hair.  It sounded like “Shoooooooooosssshhhh” as it rang past my ears.

I tried to make out where the door was so I could escape this nightmare but I was unsure of where I was in the darkness.  The books continued to hit the desk, leaving what I imagined to be brick sized divots in the ancient wood. The thought of Aunt Edna seemed like less of a joke now and I scrambled to figure out what I might have done to prompt a ghost’s wrath? I had kept to myself while I waited for closing time, and I had passed time by thumbing through some encyclopedias. Had I accidentally left one open, or, worse, put it back in the wrong place? Convinced that this must be it, I resolved to brave the book attacks to try to right my wrong.  I grabbed the desk blotter to use as a shield, and plunged myself back into the tornado of flying books. I made my way to the stairs again and threw myself down them, trying to get back to the encyclopedia section.  I did hesitate when I imagined those tomes coming at me, but all still seemed quiet in the basement.  It was harder to examine the area as I was without a light, but remembered my cellphone in my pocket.  I shone the phone light where I had been hiding and discovered that the S volume was left open to Supernatural Events and was set away from its shelf mates.

I quickly slammed the book closed and re shelved it properly, just as the surrounding volumes were beginning to tremble. I braced myself for the onslaught, but the hurricane stopped as quickly as it had started.  I was afraid to open my eyes for a time and remained crouched in the corner in the fetal position for what seemed like hours.  No more loud thuds were heard, and the whistling wind quieted.  I thought I heard some quiet scraping from above, but the air was calm in the basement. The hours passed as I sat frozen in place, not daring to open my eyes or move, for fear of angering Aunt Edna any further.  Had this been a bad dream?  Was I going crazy?  Did the ghost of Abigail’s aunt try to kill me for improperly reshelving an encyclopedia? I didn’t move until I was startled by the lights popping on. Not wanting to be found in this state, I unfolded myself from the floor and gathered my belongings. Inexplicably, my now intact flashlight was resting on my sleeping bag.  I waited until I heard more activity from upstairs, expecting there to be shouts of horror at what the main floor of the library likely looked like.  When these did not manifest, I crept upstairs, intending to mix in with the other patrons. I stopped dead in my tracks at the top of the stairs.  The library was in pristine condition. All books appeared to be in proper order on their respective shelves. The desk where I sheltered from the book attack appeared unscathed. Not wanting to tempt fate any further, I quickly exited the building and hurried home. Met at the door by a group of curious senior citizens, I knew I could not escape to my room without filling them in on my night at the library. “How was it?” Abigail asked.  “Did you see my aunt?”  “It was fine, Abigail.  I had a nice, quiet evening reading myself to sleep.  It is amazing how relaxing it was,” I lied.  Abigail and the others looked disappointed, but satisfied that I accomplished my dare.  They exchanged money among the 5 of them, apparently having bet on me reneging on my side of the deal.  Maybe now they would leave me alone when I chose Truth in the next game. As the hours ticked by at home, I started to believe that maybe it had all been a bad dream. I started to question my sanity and struggled to come up with a reasonable explanation for what I witnessed. Ghosts aren’t real, and books don’t dive bomb your head, I told myself. I got up and glanced at my reflection in the mirror.  Surely the blossoming bruise on my forehead was from me running into something and not from some book ambush? A bit reluctant to turn off my lights and go to sleep, I lay awake that night.  Just as I shut my eyes, my door shook in its frame as something struck it loudly.  With an inward groan and a rush of adrenaline, I tiptoed to the door and peeked out.  On the ground was a copy of

Casper the Friendly Ghost. As I leapt over the book and took off down the hall with a shriek, I could barely make out the snickers of the seniors from around the corner and could almost swear out of the corner of my eye that they each held a book in their hands.


Poor Man’s Game By Alpha Tooni “You either work this weekend, or you’re fired!!!” My boss pointed a stubby finger at me as fire burned in his eye. He breathed heavily after his violent outburst. As I weighed the consequences of my response, a heavy silence filled the space between us.

Where had I gone wrong? Every decision I made in life led to this fateful moment but truth was, I never wanted to go into finance. When I was young, I always wanted to become a writer. Every story I had, I would write down in my private notebook that I kept hidden from the world but when I was nine, Uncle Steve got his hands on a story I wrote about a puppy who had to save a family of butterflies. When he finished reading through it, he looked up at me with his iconic goofy smile. “You have a gift,” he said , “Most writers don’t know how to use their imagination like you do. This is good work.” It was the confidence boost I needed. From that moment on, I felt emboldened to blast my manuscripts out to everyone I knew but also made sure that Uncle Steve got first dibs. Every time I brought him one, he would eagerly read through it and tell me that he was proud of my work. Unfortunately, my father did not share the sentiment and made his opinion known. “Writing is a poor man’s game,” he would say. Luckily, Uncle Steve had my back, winking at me every time he had to push Dad off his high horse. I learned a lot from Uncle Steve, most notably to follow what I was passionate about in life. “Never forget what makes you happy,” were the last words I remember him saying before he passed away from cancer. Being in high school at the time, it was a devastating blow. I felt lost without him. Every story I wrote after he passed only received backlash from my father. “Why do you waste your time?” Dad preached, “If you want to be successful, learn about money.” I followed his advice and got accepted into a good university to learn about finance. I tried to get myself interested in the subject but I would constantly find myself staring out the window with visions of new stories playing out in my head. My pencil would hover over my notebook, itching to write out what I saw.

Halfway through college, I yearned to tell my parents how much I hated my major and how I desperately wanted to drop out to pursue something else. During one of our phone calls, I briefly mentioned my discontent, but Father simply responded, “Fake it until you make it, son.” So I kept my mouth shut, put my head down, and pushed through my remaining semesters with a zombified vigor. The further I progressed, the more I forced myself to study, and the less I found myself looking out the window during class. My vivid daydreams came less frequently.

During my final semester, while everyone else was focusing on trying to land a job after graduation, I was talking with my girlfriend about how we should travel the world when we finish college. “We can take a year or two off and just backpack through the mountains!” She beamed at me with eyes that shone like polished emeralds.

“Which mountains?” she asked as she played with her wavy blonde hair, something she did whenever our interests aligned. “Any mountains!” I laughed. These plans were dashed the moment Dad called after I aced my final exams. “I have some excellent news, son,” he said and sounded more upbeat that usual.

“What is it?” I asked. “I pulled some strings and got you an internship at Golden Sacks! You can start the week after you graduate. ” When I didn’t immediately respond, he grew concerned. “What’s wrong? I thought this is what you wanted.”

“Yeah, but…” my voice trailed off for a moment and then I said, “Cynthia and I made plans to travel.” “That’s a swell plan. Choose a place to go the weekend after you graduate and I’ll pay for everything. My gift to you for finishing top of your class.” I wanted to say that we planned to be gone for at least a year but I also knew securing a internship at Golden Sacks was no easy thing to do, even with my father’s clout. Cynthia cried when I told her we would only be able to travel for a weekend. “You said we would travel the world together. Just us,” she said. Tears streamed down her porcelain cheeks. I felt terrible doing this to her. “I know, baby, but father says this internship could really jump start my career.” She didn’t respond; she only sobbed into her hands. I leaned in and held her close. “Think about it. Dad says that once I get a full time job with these guys, I will make enough money for us to travel anywhere in the world.” Cynthia wiped her face with the back of her sleeve. “You really think that?”

I paused. Our relationship might not survive another false promise. “Yes,” I said not too convincingly, “Give me a year and I promise that we will be sipping bellinis in Santorini.” I took me five grueling years to secure a full time position at Golden Sacks and not once did I call in sick or take time off. Upon promotion, the boss shook my hand, smiled though his crooked teeth, and said, “Take this Friday off. My treat for all your hard work.” That night I took Cynthia our favorite high rise restaurant in the heart of downtown. “I’m happy for you,” she said and smiled unconvincingly. While we sat at the table, I would catch her staring out the restaurant window to the mountains beyond the city skyline. I grabbed her hand and leaned in close.

“Don’t worry, once I get settled and find my rhythm, I’ll put in a request so we can take off for a couple weeks. Father says that finding a rhythm is key to surviving in this industry.” Three years later, I still hadn’t found my rhythm and I made few friends along the way. The ones I made when I first started, I ended up turning my back on in order to secure my path forward. It unsettled me to act so callous toward them but my father reassured me that, “They would do the same to you. I’ve been around this industry long enough to know everyone is cut-throat.”

I tried to talk to Cynthia about it, but she was so preoccupied with her own work that she allotted me little time to vent. “Don’t worry, son,” Dad said, “She’ll appreciate all your hard work when you are older and living comfortably. Just look at your mother and I. She has the biggest smile whenever I give her the credit card and send her to the mall.” While he laughed, I thought about how I rarely remembered seeing my mother smile. One morning, Father woke up, went to do his morning stretches, and was hit with a massive heart attack. At the funeral, people said good things about him but no one really mourned his passing. Mother got most of the inheritance but ended up spending it all and had to move in with my brother. Cynthia called me after the funeral. “How are you holding up?” she asked. “Fine.”

There was a pause between us.

“I can’t remember the last time I dreamt.” I could hear her fingers busily clacking away at a keyboard. “Really? I’m sorry to hear that.” I felt lost again. Not knowing what to do, I devoted all of my time to work often going days without talking to Cynthia. Whenever my boss saw me at the office after everyone else had left, he smiled, patted me on the back and would say, “You’re going to go far kid.” I would smile back, but then glance at picture on my desk of Cynthia. Her smile was like a punch to my stomach. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw her that happy in person. Where had all the years gone? “Did you hear me!?” my boss screamed, “I said…” “Yes,” I shouted, “I heard you.” “And!? Are you going to work this weekend or not? We have a lot riding on this deal! Your plans to go hold hands with your girlfriend can wait…” As he ranted, my eyes instinctively went to the window behind him and I was suddenly watching a vision play out before me. Cynthia and I backpacking along a mountainous trail, deep in conversation. We both looked happy. Two small kids ran past us, laughing as one grabbed the walking stick from me and continued off down the trail. Cynthia and I laughed and ran after them. I picked up the nearest one, a little girl that couldn’t have been more than five or six. Her eyes sparkled as she looked up at me. Suddenly the vision faded and I was back at the office. My boss stared at me with an impatient glare but I didn’t say anything to him. I just smiled and left. I rushed down to the parking garage, hopped in my Mercedes, and drove as fast as I could to Cynthia’s apartment. When I got there, I stormed up three flights of stairs, and ran to her door.

“Cynthia?!” I cried as I flung it open.

The hollow echo of my voice was the only greeting I received in the empty apartment. All that was left were a few nail holes in the wall and outlines in the carpet where the furniture had been. My legs gave out and I dropped to my knees and wept. I was too late. “Excuse me?” a voice shouted, “What are you doing here?” I was on my feet in an instant and wheeled about to see a woman standing in the doorway. “Cynthia! The woman who used to live here! Do you know where she is?” The woman eyed me, nervously. “Leave before I call the police!” Defeated and disheartened, I returned to my apartment hoping that its homely vibe would bring me comfort, but I took one look around and felt nothing but disgust. I walked over to the mini bar, grabbed a bottle of Jameson, and stared out my high rise window. The mountains loomed in the distance but never had they looked so far away. Tears welled up in my eyes and I took a long swig from the bottle, plopped down on the couch, and stared at the wall. Hours later, I heard a faint knocking at the door. I ignored it, but when the door opened I knew it could only be one person. “Cynthia!” I cried and stumbled over to her with a half drunken swagger. I went to hug her but she pulled away before I got the chance.

“What happening to you?” she demanded, “I heard you came by my old apartment. I tried calling your phone but you didn’t pick up. I called your office and they told me you quit! Why would you do such a thing!? ” “Why did you move?” I asked in a somber tone. She gave me a blank stare and I knew she was about to give me an answer I didn’t want to hear. Immediately, I intervened. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a receipt for two plane tickets. I held it out in front of me as if they were a desperate plea. “Look! It’s the beginning of the journey we should have taken so long ago.” Cynthia stared at it for a moment and then started playing with her hair. I put the receipt back into my pocket and took her delicate hand in mine. “For all of my adult life I had followed my father’s instruction and it brought me nothing but emptiness. It’s time I focus on what’s really important in life.” Cynthia stared at me, not knowing how to respond but, before I could say anything else, she lunged forward and hugged me tight. “I’ve been so lost without this side of you,” she said. I wrapped my arms around her. “Me too.”


Special thank-you to my own computers teacher who is the kindest teacher I have ever known. *** For everything that I know, there is so much that I don’t. While I know how to keep a child engaged while learning even the most boring of coding languages, I don’t know how to explain the bruises. While I know how to make an amazing task bar with flashing rainbows and unicorns using CSS, I can’t explain the sudden weakness or how it suddenly hurts to breathe. I wish I could tell them. About this. *** “We’re sorry. We could have saved you if you had come six months ago. The cancer has progressed too much to be removed without hurting your body. It isn’t even normal cancer and I don’t blame you for not realizing it sooner. You have chronic lymphocytic leukemia, which develops very very slowly. You had a quarter chance of getting it.” “H-How much time do I have left?” “A year, give or take.” “Will I have to do chemotherapy?” “It would do more harm to your body, seeing as you are older than most cancer patients.” “Doctor, thank you… I’ll be leaving now.” *** One year. That’s all I have left. No, I shouldn’t think like that. I need to make the most of my time, and teach this new batch of children the best I can. Speaking of which, they are already being difficult. First I had to deal with the bubblegum kid, then someone hit their keyboard too hard, and by the time we actually started learning about JavaScript, we had already lost 20 minutes of class time.

What makes it worse is that the school wanted me to leave and rest and I insisted to stay, so they lessened my work load and made me teach just one class. Which would be this class. I told them to leave the first page of their notebook open. I wish I could yell at them for being naughty, but I don't have the heart. This will be the last class I will ever teach. *** My doctor is insisting I get a cane. In true family tradition, I only agreed if the cane is shaped like a flamingo. (It took him 4 days and more than 200 Amazon searches to find a flamingo cane that I liked. I made him pay for it too, claiming that I would tell God in heaven that he did something good for me. It works every time.) *** Like I imagined, my children were highly fascinated by my flamingo cane. I quote, “He’s ACTUALLY kind of cool!” We’re making fast headway in JavaScript. They’ve just learned prompt boxes and alert boxes and I am very proud. I keep on meaning to tell them that, but I don’t. It feels too much like a goodbye, so I avoid it.

*** My children are so much better behaved now. Every time they do something bad I just swing my cane a bit and they quiet down and submit very submissively.

My bones hurt and I’m starting to think that this must be how the Tin Woodman felt before Dorothy oiled his joints. I suspect something is afoot, however, that they are either giggling whenever they see me in the hallways or look straight ahead as though they are afraid to give something away. I’ve never dealt with anything like this in my forty years of teaching. But I like their laughter, so I give them less homework than usual today. *** It’s my birthday week! And today I coughed up blood. Well, what a sad way to start the last birthday week of my life. I bet the children are anxious, the mid-year parent teacher meeting is nearly here. I feel young again, giddily waiting for cake and presents. *** “So how has my child been so far?” “They are a wonderful student. I’m very happy to have them in my class.” That’s what every parent asked, and that’s what I answered to every parent. The parents told me all sorts of things too. Apparently I was a favorite teacher and all the kids loved me? How strange. *** THESE CHILDREN THREW ME A BIRTHDAY PARTY. ALL BY THEMSELVES. I legitimately started crying. In all my years of teaching, no class had gone out of their way to do something special for MY birthday. They deserve to know the truth. ** We’ve finally reached the last three months. We’ve also reached while loops and for loops and Boolean values. I made up a theory and shared it with my class. Everything is actually black or white. You’ll either do your homework or you won’t. (I will die, or I won’t.). Someone could win the election. Or they couldn’t.

Based on this theory, I taught them how to randomize Boolean values to create a sort of coin flip code. They had a lot of fun with it. *** I have four weeks to live. Today would be the day I told them about it. I walked up and down, willing myself to say it. My children were quiet already. I guess they knew me so well that they knew I was tense. “Children… I have chronic lymphocytic leukemia.” No reaction yet. Don’t think they know what that means. “It’s a type of cancer that… is very deadly to, um, people of my age.” Stunned silence. This is going worse that I thought. Anna bursts into tears. Other kids begin to tear up too. “No, no, it’s ok… I still have a few weeks. And I want to spend it with you guys.” The only boy who wasn’t tearing up had his hand up in the air. His name was Alex. “Yeah, Alex?” “W-why would you want to spend it with us?” “Because I love you guys and you guys are like my children. Speaking of that, remember how I told you to leave a page in your notebooks? I’ll need those now, please pass up your notebooks to the front.” My kids were still mostly crying but they listened to me and passed up their notebooks.

That day, they all gave me a hug when leaving, as though afraid that I would die over the weekend and they wouldn’t see me again. *** I spent the weekend writing a note to each and every child on the first page of their notebook. Although each was personalized, I ended each with, “The only thing I regret is that I only got to spend a year with you. I am very, very proud of how far you’ve come, and I’ll be watching you all the way. I love you all.” I was still alive by the end of the weekend and I gave them their notebooks back and they all became teary-eyed again. We spent my last class playing video games. *** I took them all to the beach, and ice cream, and to the dog park to play with dogs and to the animal shelter for cats and dogs and birds and then it was the last week and I felt very weak so I stayed home and rewatched old romance Hallmark movies. (The nostalgia is real.) Luckily, it came like sleep and it was actually kind of cool how fast it went by. —-^/\—-^/\-—^/\———————————————————————


Eric hated being left alone at the bar.

It didn’t matter that he worked as a live-in mech and tech expert for the most powerful crime boss in the city, automatically giving him the best drinks, women, and security one could pay for; Eric wanted nothing to do with it. Everyone seemed to love this place though, obsessed with the provocative shows that the “mature” club hosted. They knew their favorite dancers, favorite drinks, and openly gossiped about their favorite unspeakable things. All of it was extremely off-putting and confusing to Eric. Unfortunately, on his boss’s direct orders, he wasn’t allowed to leave. Fun. She insisted he’d loosen up once he found the right drink, the right girl, and so every week was an unending, agonizing cycle of dread. So Eric stayed put at the bar with no real friends, waiting the painfully long time for his boss to return from whatever foxy things she was currently enjoying. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the beating music and show of colorful lights and skin behind him, but the bartender had a message for him. Eric sighed as the bartender relayed the message, saying there was someone waiting for him in room blah blah blah. Eric nodded, feebly sipping his drink and mentally preparing himself to reject whatever scantily-clad pole dancer waited for him behind closed doors. This happened almost every time he set foot in the place, but not because of Eric’s incredible reputation.

Eric reluctantly got up and was escorted upstairs, getting more frustrated with each step. Why couldn’t he just stand up to his boss for one night? Why couldn’t he just tell her he couldn’t stand these people trying to-- “Careful hon, I’m expensive.” Eric flinched at the stranger’s reaction to his sweeping entrance. Eric quickly looked away, not wanting to look at whoever the stranger was. The stranger was sitting back on an extravagant couch, sipping something Eric couldn't name and probably wearing something he didn’t understand.

“I’m just going to make this quick,” Eric blurted before his burst of anger-fueled confidence left him. “I didn’t ask for you. I’m here to spare your job, before we start anything both of us will regret, before my boss has you beaten up for something I didn’t ask for, before I feel guilty--” “--Slow down sweetie, I wasn’t hired for you,” the stranger said, rolling his eyes and sipping something strong. He had a bit of a dramatic flare to his voice. “W-wait… what?” “Why aren’t you looking at me? Goodness, I’m not naked,” the stranger jabbed. Eric winced and felt himself grow smaller, still avoiding the stranger’s gaze. The stranger looked him up and down.

“As I was saying… while your boss is a “lovely” and monetarily-generous woman, she didn’t hire me. So there’s no need to feel--” he shifted and looked at Eric, confused. “Why would you feel guilty? Nothing here is supposed to be your fault.” Eric briefly stopped questioning who sent the stranger and processed this, frowning at his shoes and shoving his hands in his pockets. “W-what?”

The stranger sighed and waited a long time. The silence was killing Eric, but he was frozen, not sure what the stranger was going to do, or say, or suggest they “do”. “I think…” Oh no, here it comes, Eric thought. The suggestions, the games, eventually the force and the panic and the trouble. “...We should talk,” the stranger said, his voice suddenly losing its flirty tone. “I want to be genuine with you, Eric.” The dread was lifted and replaced with confusion again. Eric took in a shallow breath. Was this guy actually going to… listen? He slowly peeked at the stranger, taken aback at how beautiful he was. Eric opened his mouth, then closed it. His awe turned into disappointment. What was he supposed to feel? The stranger gave him a warm, inviting smile… but it quickly fell to conern. “I recognize that look, honey.” Pause. “You don’t think it’s normal.” Eric just stared in disbelief. “How… But, I didn’t… I wasn’t…” He huffed, getting frustrated. “She just wanted me to be like her, like all of them,” he vented, gesturing to the door and the scandalous people behind it. “I never liked it, any of it, but how was I supposed to tell her that? Tell them, the ones who kept me locked in here by her orders until I came out ‘a man’? I couldn’t even say anything to stop it…” Eric softened, everything he’d pushed down coming bubbling back up. He became very quiet, feeling exposed as he had countless times before in the same room. “They thought… they could fix me… that I was just nervous, inexperienced… and when I tried to say no, they didn’t back off…” The memories began flooding back. Don’t touch me, he'd say. Can we just talk? No, you don’t know what’s best for me. Stop, I said don’t do that...

Eric sighed, breath wavering. “After so many stubborn people, it’s like I just... ran out of the strength to defend myself. And then after a while, I just…I just let it happen." There was a long silence. Eric flinched when he suddenly felt the stranger take his hand and squeeze it. Eric looked up at the stranger, who stared straight back at him with an apologetically serious expression. He spoke slowly and carefully. “I’m telling you now that it is not your fault. No situation where you ever feel uncomfortable is your fault. And what happened to you is not okay.” Eric let those words sink in, thinking back on his boss’s little attempts to get him to “relax”. Every time, a new and stubborn person. Every time, the refusal to his pleas. Eric let the memories come and go. His hear still ached, but somehow he felt safe with this stranger. It was the first time in a long time. The stranger squeezed Eric's hand again. “Now I’m no therapist, but I promise I’m a good listener.” Eric gladly took the invitation, and they sat on the couch. The whole time he spoke, Eric was stumped by the stranger’s calm and collected demeanor, empathy, patience, and willingness to listen to him. And so Eric kept talking. He told the stranger about how he had never wanted what was offered to him. He was never a fan of kissing or romance, and certainly not anything past that, and he’d never felt anything more than a little crush before. He used to think it was just lack of experience that made him uneasy, and even scared, in physical situations. At least, that's what everyone kept telling him. But he knew deep down something wasn’t right when he started to panic whenever he was alone in this room with someone. The cycle seemed to repeat every time, with no one listening to him as they figured his comments were just “nerves”. Of all people, his boss brushed it off the most, which made him angry, but mostly worried. He had always believed there was something wrong with him, that he was …broken. “Hardly, dear,” the stranger answered. “You’re normal. There’s never just one kind. You’ve encountered so many rude and stubborn people; unfortunately, your boss is quite good at picking those out...but you seem to be an exception to that." He smiled, and Eric smiled back, feeling a little less alone.  “You’re far from the only person who feels this way. I guarantee it.” The stranger said. “Th-thanks… but I still don’t know what to do about my boss, well… 'sending' me people…”

The stranger smirked. “Easy. Just ask for me every time, then when she asks how I was, lie about the details.” “R-really? You’d do that for me? We don’t have to, like, do anything, do we?” Eric asked, a little scared. “Of course not!”

Eric sighed with relief. The stranger laughed. “She doesn’t even have to know it’s me. Just tell her, ‘I’m seeing my usual tonight!’ and when she asks who, just say ‘it’s confidential, darling!’ It’s brilliant, and very cheeky.” Eric was relieved, but a small part of him remained cautious. If his boss ever found out he was lying, both of them would be in serious danger.

Eric was so excited for their clever little plan, he almost forgot how this all started.

“Hey, I guess I forgot to ask, but… who sent you?” The stranger laughed. “I invited myself. Surprise!” Eric felt like an idiot for thinking he could never simply get a casual visitor, but then again, it had never happened before. I was likely because everyone was afraid of his boss, but this stranger wasn’t, which was just another reason to have him as a friend, Eric figured. “I won’t lie, I was a certainly curious to see why you were so popular with the hires, and I’m embarrassed to admit my intentions,” the stranger confessed, “but when I saw you in person…” He gave Eric a half-smile. “Well, I just good instincts for when someone needs a friend more than they need anything we can sell them.” Eric smiled at the sweet comment. “Oh, I never did ask you your name,” Eric piped up. “I know every performer has a stage name and whatnot, I just thought maybe you could tell me… who you are,” Eric asked shyly. “Anything for my new number one client.” The stranger winked, and Eric blushed. "The name's Adrien." *** It had been months since Eric started seeing the stranger called Adrien. He felt so much happier having a close friend, and while he may have had a little crush, it never developed into anything more, and he was okay with that. Eric felt normal in his own way, loving the deep conversations, dumb jokes, and kind hugs the pair would exchange behind closed doors. It was like their own private scandal, the opposite of the club’s dirty-minded crowds. It was fun, yet dangerous. “Well, someone looks radiant today,” Eric’s boss joked as she stopped by his workshop one day. Eric wheeled himself out from one of her several busted cars. “You didn’t even see my face,” he said, holding back a smile.

“Come on, I know you after a long night. These past few weeks you’ve been different. Did that new gal of yours finally get through to you?” Eric beamed, blushing. She still didn’t know about what he was doing -- or rather, what he wasn’t doing -- and it was exhilarating. He felt like he finally had the upper hand on her, finally feeling normal in his own way and not beat up by her or her 'employee's’ expectations.

The best part about all this is that his boss would never find out she was being lied to. The only way that would happen is if the three of them were in a room together. She could read faces like an open book, and she’d definitely spot the fear in the boys’ eyes as they saw each other outside of their meeting room. Eric would certainly give them away out of pure fear. But that would never-- “Oh, you’re here! Eric, meet my new recruit. Apparently he’s excellent at reading people too,” the boss said, gesturing to a man that swaggered in the room. Eric’s eyes met with his friend’s.

“Eric, meet Adrien.” A million thoughts raced through Eric’s mind. She knew, she had to, she had intel everywhere. He panicked, knowing he was about to blurt out the truth any second-- “Hey Eric, nice to meet you,” Adrien said with a wink. Eric stared up at the two daunting figures, the blood draining from his face. The next few seconds felt like years. He gulped and mustered up the courage to say something. She’s going to kill us, she knows! I’m going to tell her before she corners us and-- “It’s nice to meet you too, Adrien.”


Quarantine was supposed to be a good time to organize your house. I had spent most of my time with my books and siblings instead, and now quarantine was over, but the organizing still needed to be done.

In that moment I am telling you about, through, all I could think was that I should not have been organizing with such vigour.

My stack of books tipped forward. I leaned backwards, trying to level out, and suddenly they all decided to follow me. I landed on the floor with shower of paperbacks and hardcovers hailing down on me. I sat still for a moment. My rear was probably going to bruise, as was my shoulder, where the corner of my boxed collection of The Chronicles of Narnia had hammered me. My head must have gotten hit, too, because the wall I was facing looked hazy and wavering.

I tilted my head. The sun hadn’t risen yet, and I was feeling romantic, so the only light in my room was a candle: I figured that the wall was only playing with the flickering shadows it created. I started picking up the books: Jane Eyre and The Hunger Games off my lap, and A Novel Idea from my right knee. I stood straight and put them on the shelf, stretched and yawned, then reached down for A Flagon of Beauty . The instant that the poetry tome was in my hands, the wall stood flat and solid again.

I blinked. When it had been wavering, I could explain it away, but now that it was gone… Something had definitely changed. I carefully laid the book down again. Nothing happened. I touched it with my toe, just so that the one corner touched the trim the way it had before.

The wall rippled. I stared at it, but could see nothing through. I naturally reached my hand out. It disappeared into the wall, and I could feel no resistance. Naturally, I stepped closer till my whole arm was beyond the wall. And since I was following my natural impulses, I took a step and walked through entirely.

There was a lot of white. A chill wind nipped my face, and I put my arms around myself, only to feel that I was wearing a coat. My legs were cold, so I shuffled my legs closer together and nearly tripped on the ice. Why was I wearing kitten heels instead of sturdy boots, or rather why was I not in just my socks the way I had been? I looked down at my new apparel. The coat looked rather like a suit jacket, only it reached to my knees. A plaid skirt peeked beneath it, ending above my ankles, letting the wind in.

I looked up. Trees surrounded me, but up ahead was a cottage, and from its windows spilled a warm light. I made my way toward it, ignoring the drifts.

That her life’s art might not be lost, a lace-maker’s heart was turned to frost. The voice seemed to come from no definitive place; the wind, perhaps, had created those syllables. It sounded rich and a little old, rather like if a tree had spoken. I remembered this poem.

I reached the cottage but did not knock on the door. Instead, I went to the window. There was an old woman, sitting in a rocking chair near the fire, her lap full of lace and her fingers twined with thread. Her hands shook. I watched, fascinated, as an intricate snowflake was created by her touch.

The voice had gone on, whistling around the trees, but now it came clearer, catching my attention again.

Her fingers seemed slow, when in flesh she dwelt, and would strive to show what her spirit felt. The old woman dropped her work and flexed her fingers, stretching them, and gazed into the fire. Then she took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. The rocking motion slowly came to a stop. Her chest was still. But she has no hands to hamper her now: what her souls commands will her art allow. And so it seems that she weaves in frost all the earthly dreams that she loved and lost. The cottage dissolved as the sky darkened around me. My surroundings faded gently into an empty grey. One spot of white light shone, about the size and shape of the door, where I had come from. I walked toward it, and ended up back in my room. I looked around. Everything seemed perfectly normal, even the books scattered on the floor.

One of my first thoughts was to check how much time had passed. I had read about portals before, and time always got messed up when people stepped through them. The clock read 6:52, with the AM light on, which sounded about right. The sky was brightening outside my window, and when I glanced down at my candle, it was not fully melted across the top. I heaved a sigh of relief. It didn’t appear that I had been gone too long at all.

A door creaked open at the end of the hall. “Dad!” I ran for him, grabbed his arm, and tugged him back to my room. “What, Keri?” he asked, disgruntled, probably surprised at my vivacity this early.

“You’ve got to see this!” I motioned to the wall.

He looked confused, and I wondered if maybe he couldn’t see it. Then he stuck his hand out, just as I had done, and his jaw dropped when it went through.

I picked up the book and the portal— I guess that’s what it was— disappeared, then replaced the book and it started up again. “Come in!” I said, pulling him.

“Keri—“ He stopped, slack jawed as he looked around. I laughed at him, then pointed at his clothes. His beard was rather at odds with the dark grey over coat and wide tan pants. “Oh, Cr—eepers.” “Dad.” “Well… what is going on?”

“Come, look.”

He jumped when the voice spoke. I explained that it was poetry from the book on the floor, then showed him the old woman. When she leaned back and closed her eyes, then stopped breathing, Dad made for the door and burst through. Just as he reached her, everything faded again.

“What the—“ “Dad.” “What? What happened?” “It’s the end of the poem.” We stepped back out, and he shook his head, flabbergasted, then set to frowning at the wall. “This is weird.” “Isn’t it awesome?” “Does it work with any book?” “I don’t know.” I picked up A Flagon of Beauty . Let’s try another one.” “We have leadership meeting this morning, remember? Ask their girls if they want to go with you; I don’t want you in there by yourself. Be careful.” He continued to frown at the wall as he left.

I put the book back on the shelf, then followed him down the stairs to go get breakfast. Neither one of us said anything about it; I think we were trying to decide if it had been real or not. By nine, the families started showing up, and me and my siblings greeted our friends. Rayaan, an adorable, sweet little girl with red curls, came running to give me a hug.

“Are we going to play Kingdoms today?” she asked. “Maybe later,” I said. “I want to talk with Hallie and Audrey for a bit first, so you can go play with Savana and Megan.” She conceded and ran off. I turned to the girls. “I have to show you something.” I showed them the poem first, because I knew what was going to happen. They both got super excited, and when we returned to my room, we took turns all talking at once and sitting in perfect, rapturous silence. It was nice to have someone to freak out with. During one of the silent pauses, I lifted the book and realized that there was a bookmark in page fifteen. “I wonder if that’s why it keeps showing us the same poem.” I stood up and selected Prince Caspian , then slid a bookmark into the page with the illustration of the Telmarine soldier walking through the door. “If there’s already a portal there, they won’t be too alarmed when we show up.”

The portal appeared again when I placed Prince Caspian on what must have been the sensor. We stepped in, and what a sight was there to greet us! There was a large crowd of what must have been the Telmarines, as they kept eying the large, intelligent looking animals with distrust. The animals were marvellous, but the one that caught my eye was the huge lion facing away from us. He turned just as we were all the way through and looked at us with his deep golden eyes.

“Aslan,” Audrey whispered. Hallie and I were both silent.

Aslan nodded his great head, once, and turned away. Four figures stood out from the crowd, wearing stiffer clothing, embracing different creatures, then heading towards us. I recognized them; they did not look quite like the illustrations, nor like the movies, though there were hints of both. They looked exactly the way the book had described them. They said goodbye to Caspian, then to Aslan, and it made tears start to my eyes. Then they approached the door. I wondered for a moment if they could see us, but Peter stopped.

“Hullo. Where did you come from?” I glanced at my friends. We were dressed the same way we had been at “Home. That’s where this portal leads.”

He shared a relieved half-smile with Susan, then looked back at Edmund and Lucy. They all looked back at him. I could see the resolution in their faces. Hallie, Audrey, and I preceded them through the door. Of course, they were going back to their own home, so I was not surprised when it was only us three ended up back in my room. “Well, it’s nice to know that we can get back even during the story,” Hallie said.

“Yeah, as long as we are near the portal.” I scan my bookshelves, the excitement over all the possibilities overloading my brain. I grab The Hunger Games and put it in place.

“Are you sure you want to go there?” Audrey asks.

For answer, I step through the portal. There was no bookmark in this one. I couldn’t wait to see what happened.

I coughed. The air was dry and dusty. I looked around. I was in the square that was filling with children. All of them were in reaping clothes. I heard Prim’s name get called. Tired, dull, renewed horror rippled though the crowd in murmurs. Then Katniss comes forward, desperate, volunteering. The emotion of the scene leaves me rooted to the ground. Haymitch makes his appearance. Peeta’s name is called, and they stand together, trying to not show the fear that is trying to claw up their throats. They are led away.

I wonder what happened next. The story followed Katniss inside. Would they let me? I throw a glance over my shoulder, but neither of my friends is to be seen. I decided that I would look for them later. I march up the stairs, but a peacekeeper stationed there refused to let me pass.

“Hallie! Audrey!” I holler their names, but they don’t seem to be anywhere in the crowds. Then the big screen lighted up. The reaping from the other districts played, then it went black again. Everyone went back to their own homes. There was a curfew here, I knew, so I hid in an alley, curled up into as tight a ball as I could. Then the real problem hit me: how exactly was I supposed to get home from here? In A Flagon of Beauty, the poem had come to an end. With Prince Caspian , we had been standing next to the portal. I would either have to find the portal or wait till the story ended— and I couldn’t leave my friends, so that didn’t leave very many options.

When the interviews were broadcasted, I watched intently as each tribute made their appearance. But then District 11 came up. The girl— but there was no way! That was Hallie! She must have volunteered to take Rue’s place. Then the cameras flipped to someone in the crowd. I was surprised again. There, wearing a fantastic blue and orange jumpsuit with her curly hair in a crazy half-updo, was Audrey. She had frozen too, catching the attention of the broadcasters. Then she turned towards the others near her, said something, and gave a dramatic hair toss, covering for her lack of composure.

Suddenly I felt light-headed, and my mind felt like it was turning over in my skull. I gripped my head, alarmed, but no one around me seemed to notice. Eventually a scream worked its way out of my throat. I shut my eyes.

Then it stopped. I opened my eyes, but it was black. I could feel a body on either side of me, and we were crammed like sardines.

“I’m pretty sure this isn’t in the book,” Hallie said.

“Ya think?” That was Audrey. I twisted my head towards one of the voices. "Hallie, what did you think you were doing? Volunteering for Rue? You can't change the story!" She turned on Audrey. "What were you doing in the capitol? Collecting bets?" "I was going to steal the money and gift it to you!" she protested. "I figured I could at least keep you alive until Keri got us out." "Why me?" "Cause you know how this works, right?" "Well..." I gave up talking. I tried knocking on the walls around us, but they were all solid.

A muffled voice came from the other side of one of the walls. “What is that?” “Alex!” I yelled. It sounded like my brother.

“What— where are you?” I took in as deep a breath as I could, considering the sardine factor. “Put the book back! Exactly the way it was!”

He must have, because in an instant, we tumbled through the wall his voice had come from. He managed to catch me, but both Audrey and Hallie fell to the ground. Zachary was in my room too. He helped them up.

“What was that?” Zach asked. Alex picked up the book, knocked on the wall, then put the book back and stuck his hand through.

I grinned. “Boy, do I have something to show you.”


As the earth embraces my flesh, I can’t help but recall the moment of your birth.

( I’m writing this letter as I lie dead. Of course, this cannot be a physical letter, but rather a metaphysical one. You’ve always had a penchant for the abstract. I only hope you can read my handwriting. Please understand— it is rather difficult to maintain good penmanship when one no longer has a sentient body. )

I’ve always derived a certain sense of satisfaction from living my life in multiples of three. You were born at exactly three past seven— but seven is such an ugly number. Brazen and obtrusive, unfitting for my perfect girl. Six hours and sixty-three minutes; much neater, rolling delectably off the tongue. When you were three years old and would still cry over things like spilled milk, I’d tell you that if you wanted to cry, you could do it outside. You must have thought I lacked compassion, if toddlers have any awareness for such things.

This perception that you may or may not have had was wholly inaccurate. Your wails did not exasperate me. My heart was not hardened to your laments. If I told you to go conduct your crying in private, it was so you could understand that the majority of those you encounter will have no sympathy. The world does not wait for you to dry your tears.

( My narcissism compels me to wonder if you’ve shed a tear for me. If you have, I truly hope someone will gently sweep it from your cheek. I do.)

At nine you were running wild, and I’d have to leash your hair into neatly woven braids. I’d begun to be afraid. I was frightened that you’d become me at your age, that you becoming me would mean that I’d become the same hand that had been wielded against me.

I was right to be apprehensive. It’s an inevitability, this cycle. Tears were spilled over arithmetic homework. I warned you away from children I disapproved of. Weekends were spent indoors. My heart had hardened into an iron fist.

By the time you were eighteen, you’d lost your softness and had learned how to argue. We’d clash over everything: the holes in your jeans; the boy down the street whom you’d started seeing with the messy hair and tattoo on his collarbone; the major you’d decided upon— philosophy, of all things, which I saw as the waste of a mind that had the potential to do more than dwell on ambiguous nonsense.

But I lost my grip the moment I taught you not to fight with tears. You’d learned to channel your anger instead, and you’d push and you’d push, until overflowing with frustration, I’d blurt, “Is this the hill you want to die on?”

( It was. It always was. You would never back down once your heart was set. Now that I am buried in a hill, and dead, I wish I would have told you this instead: Tell me which hill you want to die on, and I’ll meet you there.

I’ll lay down beside you in the grass. We’ll bask in our own hubris and gulp down the stars, and the gods will laugh down at us with envious scorn.) Milestones came and went. Graduation. Wedding. First child of your own. In each block of time lay nestled a single moment, when I looked at you, and you looked at me, and you waited. I opened my mouth. I closed it. I smoothed your hair away from your face silently. Your eyes shuttered.

Here was my fatal flaw, the thing you must have despised me for: In my eyes, I had always sacrificed everything for you. Each fight made you stronger, each bitter disagreement a hard earned lesson. There was no need for words beyond that. It happened gradually. The fire had always been there, I had just chosen not to see it. My eyes slowly began to clear, to cut through the smoke, but I was aging, and you were living, and it was too late. Burning anger, burning sadness, burning silence.

( Things that burn:

- Pancakes hastily cooked on the morning of your twelfth birthday, flipped a minute too late. You eat them anyway. - The handle of the car door on a sweltering day. I tell you to wait, but you’re always so eager to act, and you singe your palm on blistering metal.

- Eyes, holding back tears. - Bridges.

- My mouth, holding back three words; an ember smolders beneath my tongue, and pain renders me mute.) And then I was dying. Slowly, not all at once. I almost wish it had been sudden, if only so I could have an excuse. You were there throughout it all. I can’t imagine why.

The end came. My heart was a skipping stone losing its momentum. Each beat felt like a plunging weight in my chest.

You took my hand in yours. I counted every last second, all sixty-three of them. A full minute and some change to spare. Three extra seconds: a blip in time, a space where only the two of us were allowed to exist. In that shredded moment, the universe convulsed and compressed itself into only you: your face looking down, your body hovering over my bed. As your sheer magnitude suddenly struck me, I wondered if you had always been so much larger of a person than I.

It is now, in this lonely sleep, that I wish I’d used those three extra seconds more wisely. Within them were unsaid lifetimes.

If someone offered me the chance to do over my entire life, I’d say, “No need.” I have no regrets over the things I did or the things I said; only what I didn’t. Mistakes are made to prove we are human, a necessary evil. My only true sin was what I did not allow myself to give. No, I don’t want my life. All I need are those three seconds with you. (I love you. I love you. I love you.)


The mood on the busy street of Escondido felt cruel and harsh with the sun beating down, making the concrete feel like it was the base of an oven, meant to cook all of California. As soon as Amelia walked through the bakery door, the world felt comforting and kind. She took in the warm scents of cinnamon and nutmeg that seemed distinct to Dylan's pastries. In a dream world, those smells would have indicated that she was home. Now, standing in a small crowd, swooning over their choices of treats, Amelia stood in the background needing to make this moment last. This sweet moment when there was still hope, she closed her eyes, stayed very still, and tried to... "You're still trying to make time stop," a familiar voice caused her to snap her eyes wide open. "Dylan," Amelia's voice shook with guilt and embarrassment, "I...I..." She took in his features, trying to tell if he was annoyed at her intrusion? "You picked a hell of a time to stop by, during the lunch rush," he pointed out. "Lunch rush? You serve desserts," she commented. Dylan gave an unexpected chuckle, "I thought you took psychology at that fancy university. Don't you understand how precious a person's sweets are to them? This is sometimes the only time people have to get their fix." Amelia sighed and smiled with understanding. "So, as you can see, I'm a bit busy right now," he gestured to the door and Amelia's expression sank in defeat. "Oh, of course," she was torn between her tendency to be accommodating and her need to say what she had been working herself up to say for the last week. She couldn't live like this anymore. She had to speak up, "I just had to...I had to." Dylan's face softened a bit and Amelia thought maybe it was possible to get through this. She was about to try again when a crash came from behind the counter, "Dylan, we can't keep up and Sally is beginning to crumble." "I'm not," a timid voice spoke up with a nervous waiver. "Sally's new," Dylan explained, "Um, why don't you sit in our breakroom and enjoy a cinnamon bun. You still like those?" "I, I do," Amelia stumbled over the words, just relieved to not be thrown out. "Good. It might take a while but as soon as the crowd dwindles, I'll come back and we can talk," Dylan said with the kindness Amelia remembered from three years ago. "That sounds great," Amelia wondered if her voice sounded too excited but stopped caring when she remembered how badly she needed to finally get everything out. She started to walk to the back and Dylan called out, "Also, when you get to the breakroom and you notice that it looks like it might be a closet, don't think I'm trying to get back at you by making you sit in a closet. We just have a really sad, tiny breakroom." Amelia responded with nervous laughter and noticed a tightening in her chest at the thought of how much she missed his sense of humor. She watched him go back to work and saw him put his hand on the back of a beautiful woman packing cupcakes into a box. Was that Sally and he was reassuring her from earlier? Or was it something more and Amelia was too late? Maybe she should go but leaving would not take away this ache. It didn't change a thing. She needed to be strong for once.  For two hours, Amelia listened to the sounds of a busy bakery with the added bonus of listening to Dylan interact with his customers, whom he seemed to know well. There was Jenny, who had a weakness for red velvet cupcakes, a man in a hard hat who apparently always got his treats wrapped with extra paper to avoid the stickiness on his fingers, and an elderly lady named Mrs. Perez who got the special treatment of her own chair and table so she could "relax her old bones" while she enjoyed a coffee with some strudel. Dylan's questions were more about their days instead of what they wanted. Amelia knew that he was talented with an oven, but this was a whole new talent she was witnessing. It made her miss him even more. Amelia had a couple of issues of Taste of Home magazine from five years ago to keep her company. She savored her cinnamon bun to the point that there were still a few bites left. The last half hour though, all she could do was look at the letter her father gave her before he died, three years ago. She ached over this letter for years and a month ago, she read it with new eyes and realized she had messed everything up. The letter was practically falling apart now with the number of times she read it. She closed her eyes and took another bite of the cinnamon bun, trying to make this moment last forever too.  Dylan finally came to the breakroom which was more the size of the tiny kitchen in her apartment rather than a closet, not horrible at all. He took a deep breath as he took a moment to watch her with his eyes closed. He remembered trying to join her in these moments, trying to feel what she felt. He broke the silence, "So, my cinnamon buns are worth stopping time for too?" Amelia opened her eyes slowly, trying to finish making the mental notes. "I was certain that your baked goods were the key to stopping time. This cinnamon bun confirms it." Dylan laughed at the compliment, "You know, when I first saw you sitting with your eyes closed, I thought you were praying. It fascinated me and concerned me at the same time." "And now?" Amelia asked. "Now," Dylan searched for the right words, "It makes me a little sad. Knowing that you started this when you found out that your dad was dying. Watching you try to not take any good moment for granted is beautiful, but it also seems exhausting too. To always be thinking about death seems exhausting." "Yeah, it is," Amelia agreed. Amelia was tempted to stall but Dylan knew her too well and kept her on track, "Why are you here?" Amelia waved the letter in her hand, fumbling when it almost fell apart.  Dylan peered over and noticed the top which read, "My Dearest Daughter," and then looked away to honor her privacy. He sat down, "The letter your dad left you? You look like you're still in a lot of pain. I thought you had healed, was healing from his death." "I was. I am. This pain is new," Amelia confessed. "New? Did someone hurt you? Are you okay?" Dylan immediately sounded protective and it warmed Amelia's heart. "I think I hurt myself. I was trying to follow my dad's advice and I messed it up," she confessed. "Your dad was a kind, smart man. I can't imagine him giving you bad advice," Dylan commented. Amelia took a deep breath and asked, "Do you remember...do you know...why do you think we broke up?" Dylan's face turned stern again. He scoffed, "This is what you want to talk about? You just came by to open up old wounds? You know, I was having a good day until this moment." "I know and I'm sorry. It's wrong for me to ask for any more help but please, tell me. I tried to reach out to you a month ago and you ignored my texts. The only reason I can think of is the way we ended things. So please, I'm begging you, tell me what I'm missing," Amelia pleaded. "It was pretty clear to me," Dylan began, "You were hurting from your father's death and about to go away to that fancy university. So, instead of letting me help by being the person you could lean on, the person who would love you through all of it, you decided to make a clean break. No one to hold you back and a bunch of new, smart people to meet. And that's the reason why you broke up with me." Amelia could not fight the tears that crashed through like waves with each cutting word. Not only because she realized that he loved her just like she loved him, but because she realized that her attempt to do the right thing had hurt them both. Dylan's expression sank. He spoke with anger and frustration, but he didn't want to hurt her, not to the point of tears. "Look, I'm sorry. That was all a bit harsh." "No, I'm sorry,” Amelia hated that Dylan carried this cruel story with him for so long. She wished he understood how amazing he was and how wonderful she thought he was.

“I've always seen you as smart and strong and talented. You are an artist at baking, and you are so wonderful with people. You are perfect, just like this. I messed up my goodbye so badly and hurt us both. This is all my fault," Amelia confided. She slid the note to Dylan, "This is the advice my dad gave me, and I agreed with him, but I should have done things differently. I should have at least shown you the note." My Dearest Daughter Amelia, I hope that you have the most amazing life, with no regrets. Dylan has become a wonderful man and I am confident that if you follow your heart, whoever you end up with will make you extremely happy. The saying is true, "If you love someone, set them free."

You have your whole life ahead of you.

Accomplish your goals and become the person you want to be. Look around and learn what makes you happy. Go towards the people and experiences that will give you a complete and fulfilling life. I am confident that if Dylan is your one true love, then you will find your way back to each other after you find out who you are deep down inside. You will always be in my heart, even when it stops beating. Dylan placed the letter back on the table with reverence. "You agreed and felt like you needed to know yourself before we could have a life together?" "Yes," Amelia timidly admitted. "You did a shitty job of telling me that before you left," Dylan pointed out. "Yes." "And why are you back?" Dylan asked hopefully. "To tell you, I know that I want to use my psychology degree to help children. I've discovered I love jazz music and I'm learning how to paint. And to tell you that every day I worked on getting to know myself, I thought of you and how much you make me smile.

I know it would be crazy for me to think that you haven't found someone else but…" "I haven't," Dylan interjected.

Amelia paused, “I thought the woman up front was…” “Sally’s having a rough day and dropping most of our profits. I was just trying to be supportive and convince her to take a break before she breaks something,” Dylan informed her. “So, you’re not with anyone?” Amelia asked as she got up and began to pace in the small area. When she realized she could hardly move around, she stopped, hugged herself and closed her eyes. She felt a broad chest lean into her back and two strong hands stroke her arms. She felt his breath before she heard him whisper, “This is not the moment you want to stop time for.” “I don’t,” she whispered back, “Then when.” “The moment when I tell you, ‘I love you and I have never stopped loving you,’ and then you let me kiss you. That’s when you want to stop time,” he confessed. Amelia turned around and looked into his warm dark eyes, “Yes, but not until I tell you, just in case you haven’t figured it out yet, that I love you too.” Dylan let out a sigh of relief as he pulled her close to him and gave her a kiss worth stopping time for.


I rang the doorbell next door (Mrs. Foster’s house) and waited patiently listening for the footsteps. But, the only thing I could hear was my heartbeat. After a few seconds, the door opened and Mrs. Foster’s always smiling face appeared. She had her dog, Charlie on a leash. I cleared my throat, but she spoke first. “Oh dear, I was so worried about Charlie. Neither I can take him to the yoga class along with me nor can leave him alone in the house.” (She treated Charlie more like a child. She even called it him.) Then she thrust the leash into my hand, took the coat and the bag that were hanging, gave me a lengthy instruction on likes and dislikes of the dog which I didn’t understand a word, locked the door, waved at me, and left. Everything happened so quickly that I didn’t have time even to understand what was happening and now I was left with a dog. I came here to say Mrs. Foster goodbye. Yesterday, I got a promotion as the chief creative designer (I was a senior creative designer before) to the new branch of our company in the neighboring town and I have to be present by tomorrow. So today was the only day I had got to say all the goodbyes. Now what? With the hope of saying goodbye to Mrs. Foster later, I left her house heading my way along with Charlie to Ava’s, my best friend. I had to make sure I was holding the leash tight because now and then Charlie would try to run after almost everything that moved. I wondered what might have been on that list of likes and dislikes Mrs. Foster told me because I wasn’t sure whether it was excited or angry. On my way to Ava’s, I had to go past Lucas’s coffee shop “Coffee Express” which is the best coffee shop in the whole city. Lucas is one of my classmates and was gifted in cooking. I had a habit of visiting this coffee shop at least once a day to taste one of Lucas’s special coffees. So, I stopped by the shop and went inside to say goodbye. As usual, Lucas was at the counter. “Hi, Lucas” “Hi, Hannah. Having usual?” “I came here to talk to you.” “Then what about enjoying a coffee while talking?” That didn’t sound half bad. (To be honest, that sounded great. Who knows when I will get to taste Lucas’s delicious coffees again?) So I went to my usual table, made Charlie sit beside me and waited till Lucas came back with a steaming coffee on a tray. He served me the coffee and sat in front of me. I was just about to open my mouth when Charlie started to bark at the postman who was leisurely enjoying a coffee only two tables next to ours. I held the leash with all my might, but the dog was stronger. It got the leash out of my grip and ran towards the postman making the table trip down. My cup of coffee fell with a crash. I got to my feet and ran after the dog trying to take hold of it. Charlie jumped onto the postman’s table, tripped his coffee onto his shirt and was about to bite off his head (at least that was what it looked like) when I finally got hold of it and dragged it out of the coffee shop before making any more trouble. We had passed “Coffee Express” and two other shops, but Charlie was still looking back and barking. Thanks to Charlie, I couldn’t tell Lucas goodbye. (Keep that aside, now I can’t even face him.) After passing some more shops and houses, Charlie became completely calm. Maybe it was tired after all the barking, running, and jumping. So, I bought Charlie and me two hotdogs from a hotdog cart which Charlie gulped in three bites. Then we headed off to Ava’s again. When we finally reached our destination, before ringing the doorbell, I looked sternly at Charlie and said, “Any more trouble from you, you’ll be sorry for that." I was about to ring the bell when my phone rang. It was Ava. “Good afternoon, Ava! I’m…” “Good afternoon, Hannah! You won’t believe what I just heard. Zoey is back in the town and wants to meet us.” “Really?” That was indeed great news. The three of us; Ava, Zoey and me, are friends since we were in grade one. But when the thought, I was about to leave the town struck me, my heart sank and I guess that was evident through my voice. “Aren’t you happy, Hannah?” “Of course I’m happy. When does Zoey want to meet us?” “Today.” “Today?” “Yes. At Lucas’s “Coffee Express”. Can you come around 4 o’clock?” At Lucas’s? That was the problem. How could I go back there after all the trouble I have caused? “Today I’m a bit busy, so I don’t think I would be able to come.” “Oh! If that’s the case, we’ll meet up on some other day. I’ll tell her. When is okay with you?” “Ah…I’m not exactly sure. I’ll let you know.” That was it and now I won’t be able to say goodbye to Ava and Zoey as well. I turned back. Today was the worst. Nothing went as planned. How can I leave without saying goodbye? I started to walk slowly towards my home. I could still say goodbye to Mrs. Foster. We; Charlie and me, walked past many shops and houses and were passing by the town’s mall when I saw the last person I wished to see; Emma, coming out of the mall with her grumpy cat. I had this idea of turning back and walk in the opposite direction, but I just kept moving forward. Emma and her cat were a matching duo: both were mean, grumpy, and annoying. I tried my best to act as if I didn’t see her, but Charlie dared; instead, he started to growl at them; especially at the cat which was making weird noises. I fastened my grip on the leash. The growls became louder and in a time of a blink, the cat had jumped out of Emma’s hand, hissed at Charlie, and ran away. Now, Charlie was struggling to run after the cat and I was struggling more to keep the grip. I felt the leash lighten, and Charlie was running after the cat. I too started to run after them, and Emma was running after me. I could hear her shouting, “Stop!” now and then and after some time her voice faded away, but the cat and the dog were still running and were about ten meters ahead of me. I saw them running into the park, so I followed. But, by the time I entered the park, they were nowhere to be seen. I searched every corner of the park; in the hedges, under the benches, up the trees; the only place I didn’t look was the sky above the park. Finally, exhausted and worried I sat down on a bench. What am I going to do now? How am I going to tell Mrs. Foster that I lost her beloved dog? I looked up at the sky and closed my eyes. Today was the worst. But I need not worry because I’m leaving tomorrow and I won’t meet them again (at least for some time). But how can I leave like this? I destroyed Lucas’s shop, lied to Ava, lost Charlie, and above all I couldn’t say goodbye. I felt as if I was about to cry when something heavy touched my knee. I looked down at my knee to find an innocent face with big eyes looking at me. “Oh, Charlie! Where have you been?” Charlie waged its tail and barked joyfully. Then we left the park heading to Mrs. Foster’s (she must be back at home by now). I rang the doorbell. Mrs. Foster opened the door and Charlie jumped into her. “Oh, Charlie, my boy! Did you miss me? Hello, Hannah dear! Did he trouble you?” “Ah…he is a bit of a trouble maker, but after all, he is a good boy.” “Come inside dear. We’ll have some tea. I just baked biscuits.” So, I went in and sat on a comfortable cushioned chair next to the fireplace. While I was waiting in Mrs. Foster’s living room, my phone rang. The call was from the company I worked in. The speaker asked me whether I can accept the position as the chief creative designer of the branch here because the present chief creative designer wants to take a transfer to the new branch due to a private reason. Why would I deny the offer when that was what I needed? So, I accepted it. Now I no longer need to leave the town or my family, friends and neighbors. I don’t have to worry about saying goodbye and can even make everything alright back again. After a few minutes, Mrs. Foster came back with a steaming cup of tea and a plate full of homemade delicious-looking biscuits with Charlie at her heels. “With all the rushing I couldn’t even ask why you came here.” “That’s okay Mrs. Foster. That was nothing important.” I said it more to myself and looked at Charlie who was now sitting beside Mrs. Foster, looking at me, its tongue hanging out of his mouth and wiggling its tail. I thought I saw Charlie winking at me, but I guess that was just my imagination.


The red Jeep Cherokee was flying on the I-90. She was curious about the future in the new town. She was so open to start a new life after her awful divorce. His voice is still in her ears: "You are nothing without me! We will see how fast you will be back on your knee, asking to be with me again!" -No, I will more likely die than back to the slavery life with no voice! Helen was a 40 years woman, but she looks so young that most people would say she is 25. She was born in a big city in Ukraine and raised by a free woman. It was even so hard to understand how she could be so submissive for more than 20 years.

Now it is over. The woman is free and starting a new life in the small University town. She was excited to get a new job and an opportunity to write. Her dream was always to write, but he still kept saying: "It is a stupid thing! It is not a talent neither a profession!" She got her place as a columnist-writer in the local newspapers. Most people would say it is not a big deal, but not for her. Helen was happy like in her childhood when she was living with her grandmother, and it was allowed to be herself. She missed those feelings so much. She was so tired of following other people's rules, society's rules.

-Fuck everybody! I am a free woman! I can do what I want! It is my life - her hands fisted the steering wheel.

Through the University building, she started to recognize the apartments. It was not as pretty as in the picture, but they seemed so cute for her. Helen stopped the car and went out. She saw a couple walking around with a little boy. She waved at them, but they did not answer. They were staring at her with fear in the eyes. Then a woman grabbed a boy's hand, and they hot-footed from her. Helen was confused, but maybe it is only because of this shitty new virus. People are afraid to be close to each other.

-At least you could smile and wave me back! Fucking idiots! It looks like the virus makes people sick not only physically, but mentally too.

She was unpacking her car when she felt cold eyes on her back. She turned back and saw an old lady; she was staring at her over her sunglasses. The woman has a small spitz on the lash, which was staring at Helen too. Helen smiled and waved at them. The old lady grabbed her dog under her armpit and ran to her car. -What is wrong with people here?! - Helen slapped her forehead - excellent start, man.

She came in and fell asleep after 5 hours of driving. The noise from outside woke up her. The air in the room was hot and dry. She could not breathe, trying to get some air like a fish thrown by the ocean to die.

-Gosh, no oxygen!

Helen moved to the window to open it with the hope of getting some freshness. She opened the window and saw two boys were playing outside basketball. She waved at them, but they looked at her like she was a witch from the fairy tale and wanted to cook and eat them.

-Nice town! At least people have the same opinion about newbies; she smiled ironically. Keep being positive, Helen! She took her dirty clothes and went to the public laundry. The laundry was no way special. It was an old building with little erased letters on the window about working hours and prices. -$2 per wash, are you kidding me? How I'm supposed to pay $2 per wash if I have $40 per article. Assholes!... Keep being positive An old wash machine started its annoying song. Helen could not keep listening to this awful noise; she went outside and saw a local newspaper box. She came to the box and tried to pull out one. It was a shitty quality paper with awful gray pages. The smell of the paper was like the smell of the rotten cabbage.

-O my gosh, I think it is the worst newspaper I have ever seen in my life. Awful paper, awful wash machine, horrible people…. Be positive, Helen, everythin will eventually be great.

Helen heard a car stopped near a laundry building, and an old lady got out of the vehicle. She was looking so lovely. Her hair was in order, looking perfect. Her dress was slightly blue, and a string of pearls on her neck was perfectly matched with the dress. Helen was staring at her like she was hypnotized. The lady was looking as the lady from the tv show advertisement. Helen imagined her with the cake in her hands saying: "The cake in our restaurant is like your grandmother's cake!" Suddenly the woman waived to Helen. Helen was so confused that she waived back only after a couple of minutes. -See, not all of the people here are bad. Such a nice lady! Helen paid for the newspapers and went back to the laundry. She opened the door and lost her speech. The lady has put all her clothes accurately in the box.

-Hi, Thank you so much! -Aw, do not worry, my darling! We help our guests here! -I am not exactly a guest! I will live and work here. -You decided to change your life, honey? -Kinda.., I am divorced, and I want to start over here in the friendly and small town. -Of course, I know… I am divorced too. I know it is a hard time, but it will become better every day. You will be free and young. I do feel free and young! -You look so great and young. I love your dress. Helen was so happy to talk to this nice lady. She was feeling like she was talking with her mom. This woman was looking in Helen's eyes with love and understanding. Helen relaxed and started telling the lady her story. Suddenly, the face of the woman changed completely. Her face became dark and some fear pictured on it.

-Tell me honestly, my dear, are you a Russian spy?- asked the old lady. Helen stopped talking and got confused for a moment. She tried to understand the joke part, but the lady's face was serious and compressed.

-Is it a joke because of my Russian accent? - starting Helen with a smile. -No sweety pie! It is because we know you are a Russian spy and want to know all of our secrets! -Your secrets? What types of secrets? What kind of secrets can you keep in this small town? - Helen started laughing, still thinking it was a joke.

-Holy- Moly, miss Brenda was utterly right about you! She said, you are a spy! -Who is miss Brenda? I have never met her in my life, how can she know anything about me?! - Helen's face becomes serious too.

-She was right! You have already asked me tons of questions! After those words, an old lady ran out of the laundry, and Helen only heard the car's sound.

-Charming place! - said Helen and walked to her car.