Ralph first laid eyes on the two boys when he was refilling the team’s Gatorade jug. They emerged from the jungle of pines with their chiseled walking sticks and nothing more except the clothes that hung off their bony bodies. Ralph, who was known as Ralphie to every organism in town, didn’t know the boys, which was strange since he had been playing at Morley Riggs Field for seven years. The village of Ocqueoc was small. Everyone knew everyone. Maybe they were greenhorns or had just reemerged to civilization after years of living feral. Hey, Junior, do you know those boys out there? They were now far beyond the yellow pole that marked the foul zone. Junior chomped his Big League Chew and squinted into the treeline. He wiped off the lenses of his thick-black specs for a second look. They don’t go to Ocqueoc.

Positive?                                                       Certain.

Even with that 80-20 vision of yours?                                                                                Shuttup, Ralphie! A playful push sent Ralphie back into his post at mid-right bench. It was a seat that he knew well and one that he frequently warmed. Even though Ralphie was a decent catcher, the Roosters had #13- JJ Spock. JJ was a star athlete but worked his magic best behind the plate. The opposing teams’ players knew the boy’s name and so did their coaches. They limited lead offs to six feet. If a player dared go beyond that threshold, JJ, called “the Rocket” by his comrades, would sense it. He would throw them out before the runner had even realized the ball had left the pitcher’s glove. The Rocket was something else. Ralphie and the other bench riders theorized their teammate’s talent. Did he have some sort of echolocation? A robotic right arm wrapped in skin? They adored JJ. He hosted the team’s monthly pizza parties and paid each boy’s share at the Mio Lanes Batting Cages. Despite The Rocket’s dominance, he never once showed a shred of an ego. Ralphie threw the ball around with the star catcher during each practice. JJ gave him pointers- teaching Ralphie how to frame and dance his fingers around in coded signs. He improved, exponentially, when JJ was around. But no matter how fast he could flicker his fingers between his quadriceps, Ralphie knew that he could never hold down the field like The Rocket. He watched from the dugout as JJ shot the shrimpy boy at first a death glare. The kid stood his ground- was that a smirk? Big mistake. WOOSH! The baseball flew like a can of nitro. Gus, the first baseman for the Roosters, put a hard tag on the cocky runner. He was out by a long shot. The Rocket removed his catcher helmet and brushed back a near mullet. He flashed the banished opponent a smile that Ralphie knew would have the Colgate salesmen rushing to Oqueqoc with a sponsorship deal. CRACK! A tree branch broke. Ralphie turned away from the field to see where the noise had come from. He peered past the parents who were glue-eyed to the game and into the Pepper Woods. There they were again. Those kids. They were holding mulberries. That made the benchwarmer’s tummy rumble. The boys should have gotten popcorn from the concession stand- it was only a dollar on Fridays. Ralphie bet it was better than whatever woody-mumbo-jumbo they were noshing on anyway. Even the Rocket’s ESPN-worthy performance behind the plate could not save the Ocqueoc Roosters. The other team had a few infielders that Ralphie swore had some sort of telekinesis or something. It didn’t help that the ump was just a 16-year-old chump from the local high school, either. They funneled out of the dugout and into the line of mandatory post-game high fives that always included a few “see you next game” threats sprinkled in. The Roosters organized themselves in a pouty pow-wow just past shortstop region, prepared to get chewed. By the time Coach Maz started to run through his list of critiques, Ralphie didn’t bother to listen. He got to 112 daffodils before they were released off the patchy grass of left field. Coach did make one thing clear: No win. No postgame celebration. That was fine. He didn’t feel like biking to the Dairy Queen anyway. Back home was far enough after an exhausting day at mid-right bench. The other boys peeled off in their ice box cars and mom vans, but Ralphie stayed and blasted that week’s playlist from his Walkman, enjoying a Dilly Bar in peace. Ralphie felt enrobed in the sea of life, savoring the light, crunchy layer of chocolate laced with creamy vanilla. In fact, he was so euphoric that he lost track of time itself. And soon, thanks to the incoming of daylight savings, it began to get dark. He finished the Dilly’s final piece of chocolate coating and licked the wooden popsicle stick for any stray atoms of ice cream. Ralphie left his roost from the see-saw, leaving the lever to justify itself back to equilibrium, and trudged through the grits of asphalt to his green Huffy. Ralphie could have unlocked that thing with his hands zip-tied behind his back. But, before he could pop off the cord, it was those boys again. They were feet away, staring at him as if he was the person who was peculiar. Ralphie felt like he was at a zoo but remained unsure if he was the one looking in or out. The tall boy had something; it didn’t look like a stick. Hey, I see y’all! As the boys emerged from the cloak of evergreen, Ralphie saw what they were carrying. The moonlight reflected off of it, a silver sheen in a canvas of beryl, maroon, and beige. His bat. There was no way he was going to let them get away with that. It was a Wrigleyville Slugger, mint condition- the premium model. It took two years of his caddie paychecks to buy that thing. Even JJ’s parents, who had enough dough to open their own pizza factory, refused to indulge in such a luxury. And here they were, the forest freaks, clutching it as if they had just been gifted it from Ty Cobb himself. The small one spoke- in English, not woodland jargon. We have an offer. This made Ralphie scratch his helmet. He was pretty sure the next episode of Antiques Roadshow was scheduled to take place somewhere other than a spit-in-the-sand town in Michigan’s thumb. He was also pretty sure that his 5’7’’ self could easily pound the two string beans- who were probably still shorter than him when combined. But they had a reinforced metal bat, and he had a freshly-licked wooden popsicle stick. So, Ralphie decided to play it safe. For the bat? Go ahead, I worked two summers to pay for that thing. The tall boy swirled the bat in his hands, fixated on the metal club. Finally, the small one reached into the pocket of his corduroys and removed a small vial. He walked closer to Ralphie and held out his palm. If you want to play, take this. We will return your bat, but only once we know you are worthy. Ralphie really wanted that bat, but he also really wanted to play. In his years of little league, he had only ever used the thing in practice. In fact, the bat was still mint condition because it had touched nothing but air. He knew that his mother would go nuts if she learned of this trade. But what was the use anymore? If this potion was the only cure, so be it. He snatched the vial from the small one’s dusty hand. You can keep that bat. But this stuff better work. The forest kids could have it. For now. A small smile appeared on each of the boys’ lips before they flitted back into the woods, dodging gangly branches and rocky outcroppings in the moonlight. Ralphie biked home fast, at an RPM that could identify his legs as eggbeaters. He barreled through dinner and skipped the apple cobbler his mother had spent all day preparing. A spray of water with a swath of suds qualified as that day’s shower. Ralphie could barely contain his excitement, as he unwrapped the potion from his makeshift cushion of Tacky Towels. The vial was small and blue- a glass blown tear drop. It smelled like frankincense and had a tinge of citrus, almost identical to the air freshener Ralphie’s mother kept tucked underneath the toilet bowl. He took a deep breath. 3. 2. 1.                              Down the hatch it went. The taste was sweet, not like syrup, but like the boysenberry pie Ralphie’s grandmother baked every time they came for a visit. He could feel the potion slip down his esophagus and bathe in his bloodstream. It was more enjoyable than the chicken paprikash that Ralphie’s sister and blood-related personal chef, Juliet, had stewed for that evening’s supper. Ralphie slipped under the covers and enjoyed his longest sleep of the year, which was rudely interrupted by his involuntary commitment known as school. Classes were a blur. Junior told him a very long story that he nodded and wow’d and uh-huh’d to. Choir was another opportunity to practice his lip-sync skills. Lunch was chicken nuggets with tangy red sauce and mushy Gala apples. Then, gym class came. Ralphie assumed his position on the bench and waited as the innings ticked by. Finally, he took a stand against the kickball pitcher and did something that remains in the Ocqueoc Elementary history books to this day. Ralphie sent that thing flying. The rubber ball whizzed across the sky and into the cow pasture that outlined the end of the outfield and continued into the maize-hued horizon. He could have run a victory lap if he wanted, walked it even. Ms. Brown’s science lesson served as background noise to the schoolchildren’s resulting chatter. A chemical chain reaction was interesting, but that kid Ralphie’s kick during P.E.? Legendary. At the conclusion of classes, Ralphie, who had felt like a jumping jellybean for the whole school day, was first to run out the door. His arm begged for a baseball. He biked to the field and practiced throws against the concession stand’s asphalt roofing. Hours felt like minutes. Soon, the sun melted into the horizon and Coach Maz lit the floodlights. Game time. It was a perfect warmup, Ralphie felt. The cool, spring air was making its return and the leaves shook with quivers and crinkles at each stray wind gust. He threw ball after ball into Junior’s mitt. On the neighboring field, where the reserves conditioned their elbow grease, he was unbreakable. Grade A platinum steel behind the plate. And, in what seemed like a day, Ralphie was sure that he had shattered the glass ceiling where JJ had been hanging out. He had soared past it and beyond. Today was his day and Junior, wide-eyed and breathless, agreed. Ralphie dusted off his helmet, strapped on a chest protector, and marched towards the man with the power. Coach, can I get a few minutes in today? Coach Maz spit out a hunk of tobacco. He didn’t bother to look at Ralphie- his eyes were drawn to The Rocket, who was practicing his throwdowns. Finally, the old man’s eyes removed themselves from the gaps in the chain linked fence and looked down on the Roosters’ secondary relief catcher. Ralph, come over here. I want you to look at this kid. Do you see that cannon? That pinpoint accuracy? Raphie looked. He had been looking for the past seven years. Coach, I know it’s an important game, but I want to show you all the work I have put in. Can I just show you? His coach removed his cap, which was emblazoned with an emerald cockerel. He scratched the few hairs that remained on his silvery scalp and appeared to ponder the benchman’s request. It was at this time that the Wavertown Weasels began to warm up their starting pitcher. The boy, who had a mop of brown curls, was JJ in inverse. His catcher took ample pause to recover from his teammate’s stinging fastballs. He appeared to be wearing two layers of padding, fearful of #45’s sniper-esque accuracy and barreling speed. A confident Coach Maz dissolved into a weary, dreary hunch. Ralphie already knew what the old man was going to tell him. Ralph, I hate to say this, but today is not the day. The Weasels have Buzzelli, and you know we have to win this game to make playoffs. Ralphie, that kid… Coach Maz pointed his index finger at The Rocket, who was on the last round of his third base throwdown drills, for extra emphasis. We need him. But coach – Ralphie. Sit down. The coach redirected his eyes to the field and spit the remainder of his tobacco juice into an empty glass bottle of Cheerwine. Ralphie threw his glove into a hanger cubby and took a seat next to Junior. His friend continued to suck the seasoning from a handful of dill sunflower seeds. The other reserves were engaged in a heated UNO match. Ralph would have joined them if he hadn’t scanned the timberline first. A metallic gleam near the furthest oak caught his eye. It was the boys. They were wandering away from the park, towards the Bumblebrook Marsh. The tall one got in stance and gave his best swing at a lonesome crabapple. Ralphie watched the firm fruit explode into a miniscule fulmination of skin, pulp, and seeds. They disappeared into the Pepper Woods, probably off to one of their berry-picking, stick-sharpening escapades. Ralphie thought about chasing them. Getting that Louisville Slugger he had worked months just to feel. But, only for a second. He opened a new pack of Big League Chew and shoved a handful of the purple strips into his trap. After all, it was a windy spring evening and mid-right bench would be absolutely freezing without a player like him. The bench boy thought it would end there, but before he could witness The Rocket’s next clutch play, his fingertips nudged something on the underside of the bench. Paper. And it hadn’t been there the night before.


Susan’s mind obsessively repeated the opening phrases of her presentation.

She walked at a brisk clip through the corridor, her sensible pumps making light taps on the tiled floor.

She knew her work, she was prepared with a stellar presentation.

She knew she was going to impress the board with her findings.

Research was her thing.

She was good with numbers and graphs and correlating meaning into the results.

Her most recent work with the Biotech group had been intriguing and highly successful.

She was pleased with herself and anxiously excited to share her findings.

As she neared the elevator she noticed a well dressed man already patiently waiting.

He had carefully coordinated colors, perfectly trimmed facial hair and excellently manicured nails.

Just the hint of the most expensive cologne teased her nose.

“Marcus.” She said nodding in his direction. “Susan.

Lovely to see you this morning.” He replied equally assessing her attire from head to toe.

“Going up to the top as well?” He eyed her handbag, heavy with computer and files. “Yes.” She stated simply. “Well, well.

I see we’re riding up together.” He returned with a smug smile. Susan let her colleagues' insinuations roll off her back.

She knew she had something good this time.

She knew she had a presentation of a lifetime. She allowed herself to gaze back evenly with a pleasant smile pasted on her face.

He gracefully bowed and motioned for her to walk inside as the doors opened.

Irked by his overly polite attentions Susan hesitated long enough to be passed by a young woman wearing a white lab coat.

Her dark curls were held back with a colorful sash and her brown eyes framed by dark rimmed glasses.

She quickly pushed the button for the parking lot at the base of the building. “Honey, we’re going up.” Stated Marcus matter of factly as he stepped inside followed by Susan and pressed floor 10. “Sorry, it’s an emergency.” She replied politely, the doors already closing.

Susan glanced at the girls badge grinding her teeth.

Gemma.

She would remember that name.

The elevator slowly glided downwards. The number of the floors lit up on the top of the door: number 6 then 5.

Susan shifted her weight and braced herself as the elevator came to a sudden halt somewhere between floors 5 and 4.

The lights flickered and shut off. “You have got to be kidding me!” Shouted Marcus pulling out his cell phone.

The blue screen shining light on his irritated face. Susan followed suit fishing in her bag for her new iPhone 11.

She had just purchased it with her most recent raise.

Marcus was already yelling into his phone at some poor 911 dispatcher.

But Gemma had disappeared. Susan looked around and found her huddled into the recesses of the back corner of the elevator.

Her arms were wrapped tightly around her waist. “Hey, are you ok?” Asked Susan. “I need to get out of here.” she replied.

Susan observed the shallow breathing and heard the strain in her voice, hinting at panic. “It’s going to be ok.

Marcus already called for help.

They will be here soon and get us out of this.”

Susan’s attempt at soothing came out clipped and annoyed.

She wasn’t used to being warm and friendly.

She understood the signs and symptoms and certainly didn’t want someone having a panic attack in the middle of a small elevator, but her social skill set was not the greatest.

At least that’s what the last boyfriend had made very clear to her.

What was it he had said?

She was an ice princess?

A vast wasteland of desert?

An emotional vacuum?

Well, whatever, not all women are born lovey dovey and why should they be?

She was smart, successful, moving up the career ladder and quite attractive to boot.

He was just a loser that couldn’t handle the competition.

And with that she dismissed him from her mind.

Wiped him clean out, never to be thought of again.

At least for a little while. Marcus angrily hung up. “They can’t be here for at least another half an hour or more.

Can you believe that?”

He reached for the elevator phone, pulling it out from behind the metal door.

“Don’t do that.” Said Gemma from her corner. “Young lady, you can stay huddled in that corner, but I am going to get out of here.” he replied stiffly, lifting the receiver to his ear.

He listened for what seemed an eternity, then silently hung up the phone.

“No answer” he stated. “Ok, I’ll get you out.” stated Gemma determinedly lengthening her long legs to a standing position.

She turned and placed one foot on the hand rail, pressing firmly to lift herself into the air and catching her balance by placing the other foot along the other wall, her hands braced against the ceiling.

“What are you doing?!” Susan demanded, startled by the sudden change in demeanor. “There’s a door on the ceiling I just need to open it and we can climb through.” “Brilliant!” Marcus clapped practically dancing on his feet. “No Marcus, that’s not brilliant.

She could hurt herself.

We just need to wait until help arrives.” interjected Susan irritably. Gemma had already worked the latch open and was leaning on Marcus’s outstretched hand. “Ok, just give me a boost up.” She directed him. He made a hammock with his hands for her foot and pushed upwards as she used her upper body strength to lift herself through the opening.

Marcus turned to look at Susan indicating for her to place her foot in his hands as well. “No thanks.

I’m not the adventurous type.”

She stated, crossing her arms. “Alright, suit yourself.” He said with a shrug of his shoulders.

“I’m sure the board will understand if you’re late.” That did it. Susan swung her satchel firmly across her chest and placed her foot in his hand.

It wasn’t nearly as graceful as Gemma had made the process look, but she somehow pulled herself through to the top of the elevator.

Gemma was already clinging to the wall of the elevator shaft and digging her fingers into the elevator door to force it open from the inside.

Susan fished through her bag again for the long silver letter opener she knew she had.

Placing it in her teeth she grasped the metal rings of the inlaid ladder on the shaft wall to climb up to Gemma.

“Here” she said, extending out the letter opener with one hand.

Gemma looked down and managed to reach the offered tool.

“Thanks,” she replied.

Using the letter opener she was able to shimmy the thick doors open and push them out all the way with her hands.

Susan followed her through the doors with Marcus not far behind.

Strangely, the hallway on level five was dark as well.

“This way to the stairwell.” Stated Marcus heading off down the hall using the light of his cellphone to show the way.

Just as they were nearing the door marked ‘stairs’ a guard burst through breathing heavily like he had run up from the bottom floor.

“Well finally!” Exclaimed Marcus. “We were the ones stuck in the elevator, but we’re out now, no thanks to you.” Gemma had backed away and was looking frantically around.

As she turned to look down the hallway another guard was heading in their direction.

Susan saw the calculations behind her eyes.

She knew how quickly the mind could size up a situation.

It only took an instant before the decision was made.

Gemma turned to Susan lifting her hand out for a handshake.

Susan found herself lifting her own hand in response and clasping Gemma's smaller slender palm. “Thank you so much for helping me.” Said Gemma.

“You are a good researcher, I’ve read your work.

I think you’re also a good person and would do the right thing.” Susan felt something hard and small pressed into her hand as Gemma's other hand came up to hers in a double clasp encouraging Susan's hand to close over the item before she was released.

Susan saw something in Gemma's eyes that made her stay quiet when the guards identified Gemma and took her away.


It’s been over five years, since old Willie Odemann’s farm underwent development, but the crows keep coming—hoping the corn will come back, I think. When I was trying to take a shortcut a few weeks back, I saw some strawberries growing wild alongside that sixty-some apartment complex where mostly corn used to grow.

   But you can’t really take shortcuts no more. Everyone’s has to fence their little piece of land these days. Stingy folks really. Unless you can jump and climb like a kid, you can’t take shortcuts no more. At my age, you got to go around the fences. Truth be told, I know darn well that I could make better time going the way they want me to go. It’s the principle. Don’t like being told where I can go any more than I did when I was younger. Eight or eighty, it don’t matter. Once you are a rebel, you will always be a rebel. You just might look ridiculous sometimes, when you are my age and standing up for your principles.

 Like strawberries. Strawberries grow like weeds. They don’t care if apartment complexes try to get in their way. So, I’m thinking, that is why Willie Odemann’s strawberries keep on growing long after he is dead and buried. I learned about these rebel strawberries, taking my soda pop cans to the can-crusher. Yup; there isn’t a lot of money in pop cans anymore, and mechanic can-crushers are going extinct—but it’s the principle. I do my best to keep Mother Earth tidy and make an honest penny whenever possible.   Some of these crows were larger, uglier, and more aggressive than in previous years. I noted that they seemed at home in the flock but could turn on their smaller brethren in the blink of an eye, resorting to cannibalism.

  I had been studying the birds, since tulip time. At the end of June, I found a little brownish kid, his homely little dog and a gaggle of crows, including four giant red-faced ones, eating strawberries that were pushing cowlick-straight between the sidewalk cracks. Then, I saw berries growing everywhere. Next day, I set out to pick a pail for myself. Had my heart set on some strawberry-rhubarb pie. What a great deal, I thought, having rhubarb and now some strawberries too. But--dab burn it! —if there wasn’t a single scrap left. I never suspected the crows. Not right away.

 Crows just ain’t happy without corn. I wish I had a big backyard. I’d grow some corn. I wouldn’t take pot shots with Daddy’s old BB-gun neither, when the crow came calling. I’d say, “I know what it is like to get the short end of the stick; I know what it is like to have the rug pulled out from under you. Eat up, Crows!”

  I love all God’s creatures, but Odemann’s crows are cantankerous creatures—smart and mean too. Bigger than most. Mutants, I suspect. A striking difference from those outside the Valley.   Like any self-educated person, I get teased by people who think that I spend too much time on my subjects. That is where being a rebel helps. You get used to people thinking that you’re up to nonsense. Best thing is you don’t care very much. A self-taught mad scientist that is what I am!

 When I was a girl, I dabbled in everything from making ant poison soup to shaking a jar of bees to see how mad they could get. Like a lot of people back then, I didn’t think animals knew pain or had emotions—like revenge.

  I tried to catch a crow specimen to send down to Madison. That is what people do, when they find some freak of nature. I don’t care if it is an ugly caterpillar or a two-headed toad, people will advise you to send it down to the state lab for identification. Then I found out it costs money. Maybe this time I will charge them!   I do have some background with crows. I remember Willie Odemann’s grandson Manny took a baby crow under his people-wing one year. Taught it all kinds of tricks, but I knew they were more mannerisms. Natural tendencies. Blackbeard the Crow would steal things out of men’s pockets and ladies’ purses. It could bark like and a dog and say “hello” in Manny’s voice. Too bad Blackbeard’s dog bark didn’t scare the barn cat that struck ’im down in his prime.

  I know crows are omnivores, but I never saw them hunting rabbits and squirrels until now.  When I saw the migrant boy again, he was alone kicking a soccer ball around that place where the strawberries had grown.  Speaking slowly and implementing rudimentary sign language, I asked him if the apartment people ate up all the fruit.

  “Crows—they ate the berries! And,” he started to sob, “Charley, too! The big ones. The Kings took my dog,” young Luis wailed, strangling the air with clenched fists. “Oh, Charley! Nobody believes me.”

  “I believe you,” I tried to console him, but I could tell that if only one person in the world believed him, he wondered why did it have to be the strange old pop-can lady?  “Like a flock of bullies, those crows,” I told him. “Mad about their cornfield disappearing. Corn was kinda their God. The center of their world. When they saw that the land isn’t being planted, they got mighty ornery.   “Put yourself in a crow’s place. People can go to the store to get corn any ole time. Get it on the cob, in a can, in a freezer package. We take it for granted that we can eat corn 365-days a year. Three times a day, if we wanted to. Not crows. These mutant crows ain’t afraid to get even.”

 The boy, Luis, had stopped crying. I was throwing a lot of words at him, and it seemed like he understood. I imagined the puzzled look on his little dog, as the hunter became the hunted. I think Charley may have been just as surprised as Blackbeard the Crow was when his bark didn’t scare the barn cat many years ago.

  It isn’t right for crows to be eating little boys’ dogs. I promised Luis that I would do what I could to put an end to their carnage.

 I tried to warn folks. The five o’clock news had recently reported that a kid on garbage detail at the Burger Boy was badgered by a flock of crows.  Around July 4 th , the fireworks and commotion sent them into a lull of inactivity for nearly seven days. A welcomed reprieve for those of us who knew about them.

 I never finished high school. I married and started a family, when Earl got back from the War. But I have always read a lot and did my best to know about world affairs.  I, particularly, enjoy nature, and I have been keeping notes on these mutant crows—Odemann’s Urbana Corvus. That’s what I named ’em. Luis and I plotted to trap a live specimen, but we had to be selective. We needed to zero in on what we dubbed the King Crows. The ones that we knew had taken Charley.   Soon after our plans were drawn, a respectable man of science conveniently came to town. Ornithologist Dr. Jefferson Early from the state university was here to advise city government about a mysterious die-off of Canada geese on our part of Lake Winnebago.

  My nephew Russell drives me once a week to get groceries or sometimes more—if there is a funeral or a special research fieldtrip. Good thing for me that Russell still isn’t married, because I don’t know what his wife would say to this. Russell is a dentist. He just hasn’t found the right teeth-cleaning girl to settle down with. I told him there is no rush. I had two husbands. They’re both dead already.

  So, because he is so nice and because he has his own business, Russell agreed to make an extra trip to take me down to city hall to see the bird man. I had not told him about the bird man, but Russell snickered a little when he saw my knapsack overflowing with my field notebooks, camera and binoculars. I promised to take a taxicab home this time. He seemed to believe it, but I would never waste my money on a highway-robber. I would worry about getting home later.   Betty, the city government desk clerk, told me that the mayor was at the Senior Citizen Center for breakfast. “Helen,” she added, “have you tried the Center?” She knew the darn answer. “You should give it a try? They do lots of fun things there.”   I bit my tongue. I always thought that Russell and Betty might make a good couple. But line dancing, chatty luncheons and rummage sales weren’t my thing.

  “I’m here to see Dr. Jefferson Early,” I told her.   “I believe he’s at Grant Park,” she said, checking her desk calendar.

 “Dab burn it! Russell’s gone. He just dropped me off. Did you see, he has a convertible now?”   “Really?” Betty sighed.

  “Yeah, a topless car. Messed my hair. Don’t you just hate riding in topless cars?”   “I would love it,” said the thirty-something divorcee. “It would be fun.”   “If you really think so,” I winked, “I could ask Russell to take you for a ride.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he’d take a stranger.”   “You’re no stranger,” I said. “If I’m not talking to you about Russell, I am talking to Russell about you. “Betty blushed. “You know I think that you two would make a nice couple. You probably admire a man who takes care of his kin. But right now, I need to get to Grant Park because I don’t have a ride.”

  “One of the park-and-rec guys can take you,” she offered, flagging one down.   Pete was never happy about acting as my personal chauffeur. Truth be told, he isn’t my first choice, but beggars can’t be choosers. He asked me if I was still chasing crows. I didn’t appreciate his sarcasm. At the park, Pete barely came to a stop. He mumbled that he had more important things to do.

  “That’s Early over there,” he said, stabbing the air with his finger. “The tall, skinny man with the health department guys.”

  Pete cleared his throat, waiting for me to gather myself and my things but didn’t bother to help expedite the process. I thanked him and thought about making him some special laxative-laced brownies for his trouble.   “Doctor Early,” I called to him.   He was a skinny man with a boyish face.

  “With whom do I have the pleasure?”

  “Helen Leavens Hochholzer.” I could see that it was a lot for him to digest, so I added, “You may call me Helen.”   “Helen,” he nodded. “How can I help you?”   “Hi. Rick!  Hi, James! ”  I waved to the health department men. “Doctor Early, I know that you are here to study the Canadian geese—“   “Canada,” he corrected me. “Canada geese. Most people call them Canadian, but that is not correct,” he softened the blow.    “Canada geese,” I submitted, oddly in wonder that I was in the majority for once. “This kill happens every now and again,” I offered. “It’s the dandelion poison. Every now and again the summer help doesn’t read the directions right, and our city, accidentally, thins the flocks. I told the city hall folks about it. I wrote the editor. I even wrote you people in Madison. “

  “Really?” Jefferson Early raised his brow.

  “What’s even more interesting,” I advised, “is the crows here.”   “Crows?” exclaimed Early, the furrows in his brow suddenly aging his face.

  “We grow ‘em big here, sir. Big as turkeys—they could feed a family of four! Mutants. Maybe they’ve been eating fish by the nuclear plant. I don’t know for sure yet,” I said, retrieving my red stenography pad. ” I’ve been keeping a journal. I have some feathers comparisons.  These are the ones belonging to the largest of the Odemann Urbana Corvus—this new sub-species.”    I thrust forward the drawing that I had made in the field.

 “These birds have lips and a beak?” Somehow, I had missed this embarrassing drawing mistake. “Purplish crown, yellow eyes—lacking pupils? According to this measurement scale, they are nearly two feet tall?”   “That part is right. Forget the smile and the eyes with no pupils. Look I’m no artist, but the yellow eyes and the size is true to life.”  I fumbled through the pad.

  My gnarly left hand was in a hinderance, and the Walgreens photographs fluttered to the ground. The scholar quickly retrieved them, scanning them with his eyes as he stood. “These are ravens,” he uttered.

 “No, sir. I thought that at first too. Look at the beak, the neck, the tail! All of these are characteristics of the Common Corvus. Not a large Corvid or a giant Turdus Merula?” He seemed impressed, looking closely at the photographs.   He examined the plums inside a clear plastic freezer bag. “Some of these feathers interest me,” he acknowledged. “Perhaps if you give me your name and number...”

  “Please, Doctor!”   I directed to him to a picture of one of the King Crows. His jaw dropped. “Put the Canada Geese and the dandelion poison to bed, and I will share my find with you. We will march to Madison. We need to squelch their numbers while we can.” I could feel my hot-headed German ancestry coming to the forefront. “These crows are wicked, dog-eaters!   “Dr. Early,” I insisted, “these birds are killing family pets as we speak. Please, I can take you to them. You can see for yourself.”

  “Helen—you have found something extraordinary. These definitely are not ravens,” he nodded his head, and directed the health department people to drive us to what remained of the Odemann homestead just north of the city limits.

  This was extremely convenient, because my home was in one of the four units that comprised Willie Odemann’s farmhouse. Near remnants of an old apple orchard, we happened upon the scene of Luis with his new friends, from the apartment complex, throwing sticks and stones at the birds. Luis was sitting on a squawking cardboard box. “These aren’t ravens,” Dr. Early said in a soft, far-off voice. “Exactly!” I agreed. “They’re not common crows.” “Precisely!” “These are black Caracaras!” he shouted with glee. “Remarkable!”   It was a case of gross misidentification, and I was a little embarrassed. I had not considered comparing the King Crows to the Black Caracaras of northern South America. Turns out, Luis and I had found four of six glossy black falcon birds that had unceremoniously escaped from the Milwaukee Zoo. It was pandemonium and publicity, securing our birds. The other two were never reported found, and surely would not survive a Wisconsin winter.

  While I did not find a new mutant sub-species of crow, Luis and I made the front pages of many national newspapers. We even were flown to the Big Apple to guest star on early morning and late-night TV shows.   When the story had run its course, the thrill of the experience lived on in both Luis and me. The next spring, fewer crows came back to roost in what was left of an outbuilding that stood in ruins on the remaining  Odemann acreage marked for development. Like us, the Corvus diehards likely remembered the excitement of the King Crows.


All We Have Is Time ©2024 Ellen Bennett            Verdant pastures spread panoramically, dotted with scarred, red-wooded barns, squat doublewides or old homes in various stages of disrepair. Along the way, an invisible wall surrounds me, like I’ve entered a balloon filled with thick humid air. It stops me at once. I dismount the bicycle and straddle it between my knees, catching my breath. JOURNAL ENTRY: BICYCLE TRIP, JUNE 4, 2024 A pole barn with its open doors is strewn with equipment both inside and out. Flanking the open doors are two small windows, their frames of rotted wood barely holding shards of broken glass together.  An overwhelming loneliness sweeps over me, settling deep inside my gut. The edges of the defined glass look like they could cut through any excuse.            A rusted tractor sits outside of the barn, framed in the brilliant azure sky. It is surrounded by tall weeds and overgrown grasses, their rough thorny slivers poking through rotted floorboards and around the engine housing. The now-defunct lift bucket lays dormant, like a dinosaur who gave up the fight. It bakes in the midday sun while accumulated layers of pollen, road and mower dust, bird droppings, hay, old oil, and grease disguise the rich history buried beneath age-old fingerprints. Working hands once controlled the levers that carried soil, rocks, manure, hay, and bags of feed, like clockwork against nature’s shifting weather. It has been left to decay, like everything else we humans choose to ignore.             Several black cattle and two Paint horses graze lazily in the nearby fields, a gentle breeze whispers through the thickly leafed towering maples and elms. Such old trees, their secrets safely stowed within their massive branches, trunk, and sturdy roots. I think about putting my palms on the trunk to absorb their knowledge, but I don’t move because to move would disrupt the clarity of the moment.

           There is an undertow scent of recently spread fertilizer. Dark tractor lines crisscross the road coming from the field with the livestock and into another almost barren field which is in the process of being sowed. After a few days, the once pungent, eye-watering—almost nauseating—odor of freshly combined, composted fertilizer becomes not at all unpleasant, almost sweet with the clean air curling in from nearby Lake Michigan.

           Black Gold!            A flutter comes from the top of one of the trees, a twitter and a call. A red winged black bird shoots from the cave of the leaves with a rustle and a snap as he calls to the others, possibly to join him in something delectable, or to throw them off the scent so the bounty will be all his. Do birds have this sense of propriety like their human counterparts? Do birds leave things behind to rot? When their offspring fall from the nest, do they save them?            They don’t.            Other birds of varying breeds zip in from different directions and bury themselves in parts of the trees. Their chatter blends in with distant cow moans and constant traffic on the highway which is located behind a thick line of trees. A heavy-sounding vehicle runs along the rumble strip then rights itself, and one of the Paints blows air through its nose as it flips its hay mound around into strewn piles. I watch the strands settle like pick-up-sticks. The aroma of sweet feed from a nearby tub is heady, the horse version of fresh-baked apple pie on a windowsill!            The mailbox at the end of the hard-packed dirt and gravel driveway leans toward the road. The post is fading, it’s green paint flecked and hanging in slivers around a chipped and unbalanced base. The door to the box is jimmied with gate clips. It doesn’t close all the way. There is a stack of weathered flyer mail sticking out of the top. The house number is hand-painted on a piece of wood, which is crookedly fastened with nails sticking out of the back of it having missed the thickness of the post. I wonder how it stays on in the wind.            A loud rustling from my right demands my attention and I swivel my head. Whatever it is, it is big. It sounds tangled within the trees and scrub. Then the sound settles, and a doe rises to the street from a shallow ditch, her hooves clattering lightly on the hard-packed dirt and gravel of the edge of the road. We come face to face, her mandibles working slowly on something she must have just picked off a tree. She is most gentle-looking, non-confrontive. I whisper to her twitching ears, “Hello beautiful, I am not going to hurt you, sweet momma.” She snuffles quietly through her nose and continues to slowly move the food around in her mouth, assessing me. Her front legs are slightly bent to accommodate the thrust of her back legs in case she needs to flee. I wonder if she has her babies tucked safely in the woods. Her dark eyes are steady on me. Perhaps she can smell that I am not a threat. When she sighs and calmly turns to go I tell her, “This is your land. Not mine. Thank you for making this moment count.”            As I watch her white tail recede back into the safety of the woods, I wonder if I have somehow stopped time. But I know that time is involuntary, like the beating of the heart, or the push of the diaphragm and expansion of the lungs! What would life be without the gravity of time? Where would history go to be discovered, surely repeated? If we embrace it, time gives us room and breadth.                                                                          ***            I take a sip of water and remount the bicycle.            The road continues curvy and hilly as I click into gear.            This pause has refreshed and nourished my soul; the scene permanently imprinted on the part of my mind that collects precious moments.            With the sun on my back and my eyes focused forward, I say quietly, “All we have is this, right now. All we have is time.”


The branches of the trees creaked and whined as the wind swept across the moor. Twisters of leaves flung wildly about. Upon a hill stood a man gazing absently over the valley. The man’s clothing was ill fitting on his thinning frame. His face was gaunt and his hair fell unkempt. His body trembled with weakness and exhaustion. His once bright blue eyes were now clouded and bleary. It was his first time in the outside world from his manor in as any months. His home had fallen silent. The floor was littered with leaves, dust coated every surface and he had ordered for all the windows to be shuttered and the drapes closed. It was once a warm and welcoming place. Dances and other entertainment were frequently hosted there. The expansive hall was often ornamented with fine porcelain china and exotic vases. The banquet room was perfumed with oriental teas and rich fat from roasted meats. For some who had the taste for it, Opium was imported from the Silk Road. At these parties Edmond’s wife insisted on greeting the guests and escorted them into the designated room. Performers and musicians serenaded them as they indulged. Wine flowed in abundance into crystal glasses. As inebriation took hold, gentlemen shed their jackets. Their women flushed and giggled. Some were more blatant than others as their primal nature was revealed. Later they would take coffee and cigars in the parlor. Edmond would further entertain as his wife served delicacies. The haze of smoke lowered the inhibitions of their friends. Kissing and groping would take place on the couches. Make-up was smeared and hair was ruffled. Some sat awkwardly, witnessing these displays while maintaining decorum. On occasion a couple would sneak into one of the upstairs bedrooms. The sounds of their whooping coitus caused riotous laughter. When the night drew late the guests filed out of the home and into their carriages. The servants bustled here and there, clearing the tables. Edmond took his wife’s hand and escorted her up the stairs. He could hardly wait to bed her after the party. He had been starving for her all evening. As soon as the bedroom door closed, he reached to pull her to him. Her hunger matched his. With fumbling hands, she unbuttoned his trousers. Slowly her fingers traveled downward to tease him ever so gently. A mischievous smile graced her lips as her husband’s breath began to hitch. He disrobed himself unceremoniously and cast his clothing in a pile upon the floor. Angelique rushed to undo the laces of her bodice. Her face flushed red and her skin was exposed before him. He reached for the pin that held her hair up into a braided bun. Her golden locks slipped down to curtain her breasts that had so pleased him. He gripped a fistful of her hair and crashed his lips down upon hers. The days of virginal restraint and care had long since passed. Yes, still he made love to her, but now was not the time. No. Now they would devour each other in simple lust. Roughly he pressed her into the bed. He nipped at her collar bones and shoulders and she trembled beneath him. Desperately, she clung to him, raking her nails down his back breaking the last of Edmond’s resolve. He eagerly shifted Angelique’s skirts and placed his mouth upon her breast. Her body accepted him and she cried out from his touch. They plummeted from the edge of self-control and submitted to their carnal wants. In an act of boldness, Angelique crossed her legs around his waist, urging him on.  A low moan rose from the depths of his chest and he bared his weight upon her. Pinning her wrists, he seized control. They began to sweat and their breathing grew ragged. Their rutting became erratic and all sense of the world around them disappeared. Soon now. The last dredges of their intercourse came with a strangled grunt and his lower belly clenched. With his release the tight coil that had been building inside Angelique’s core finally broke. With a few more twitches and spasms, the couple lie still. In the afterglow of their love he took her hand in his and she began to weep. He smiled knowingly. She always cried with joy when he was with her like this. Sapped by exhaustion they began to fade from consciousness. With what little will she had left, Angelique rose onto shaky legs and managed to make it to her own room. Edmond’s slumber used to be so sweet knowing his love was not far away. Just a few doors down his wife lie peacefully. Now he tossed and turned…if he slept at all. When he did sleep, he dreamt of her. He would reach out for her and her hand would be icy cold. Her hair was wet and stringy, skin pale and blood drenched the bodice of her gown. Mud and leaves were matted in her hair. Angelique’s eyes were sharp and accusing. Edmond trembled and wept as he leaned in to kiss her. No sooner that his lips brushed hers a shriek ripped through the air. Her mouth curled in a sneer. A voice like venom roared. “Your fault! Your fault!” Edmonds throat tightened and a pathetic cry struggled from his mouth. “I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you. Please forgive me my love.” Again, she bellowed. “Your fault! Your fault!” The wind howled and she began to fade. Leaves appeared in a whirlwind where she once stood. A gale forced the leaves to engulf him. They were razor sharp, tattering his clothes and slashing his skin. He would wake in a cold sweat. After such dreams he would slip into fits of rage. His wailing dirge would echo all the way to the servant’s quarters. As the weeks drug on he dismissed them. He couldn’t bear the whisperings and the way they avoided looking him in the eye. Edmond despised the way they pitied him. A malignant resentment built in him from the falsity of their sorrow. As they left, he shut himself away. He wallowed in his solitude. His guilt riddled thoughts were all that kept him company.


Jacob sighed; he was struggling to find the perfect birthday gift for his wife. It wasn’t helping that his 8-year-old twin daughters were helping him shop. With his mother-in-law’s sudden illness he had to bring both the twin with him because his wife wanted to take care of her mother.               It had been a hard year for his wife. First her father past without warning and she lost her dream job as the top writer for the city’s newspaper. Now eight month later her mother was sick with little hope of getting better. He wanted to find the perfect gift to cheer up his wife.               “I know what mama wants.” Cleo said tugging on her father’s sleeve. “She would love a doll.”               “No, she would want chocolate.” Angela smiled as if she had known the answer. She picked up a chocolate heart.               “I am pretty sure your mom would rather not have a doll and I would like to get your mom something more creative that a chocolate heart.” Jacob told his daughters. The three of them had just looked at their sixth store and the twins were getting tired. Cleo was slowing down and had started naming off everything she saw as a possible gift idea. Angela on the other hand was trying to pick the best gift for her mother in order to one up her sister.

“What about this?” Cleo picked up a pastel floral tea set. “Mom doesn’t like tea.” Angela told her twin sister in a know-it-all tone. “She likes coffee.”               “You should have asked Aunt CeCe.” Cleo added tiredly to her father.               “I have known your mother for over 16 years, and not once have I had to ask Aunt CeCe for help finding your mother a gift.”               “What about a typewriter?” Angela said quietly looking up at a typewriter sitting in an antique store. “Mama loves writing, and she doesn’t have one.”               Jacob turned to look at the typewriter Angela was talking about. It was an old typewriter, but it looked almost new. The black paint on it shined, which is what caught Angela’s attention. The keys were a bit warn, but still looked to be in good condition.               “I’m not sure.” While Jacob knew his wife loved to write she had not been able to write since she lost her job. “It could be what your mom needs to write again.”               “Let’s go look at it.” Angela said as she grabbed her father’s arm.               They went into the antique shop and went straight to the typewriter.               “It’s a special typewriter.” An elderly lady walked over to Jacob. The lady had dark grey hair that went pass her shoulders. Her eyes were brown with golden specks. She was dressed in all black. “It’s magic.”               The twins giggled when the lady said the typewriter was magic. “How is it magic?” Both the twins asked at the same time.               “This typewriter brings good luck to whoever uses it.” The old lady smiled at the girls. “The last owner of this typewriter had their book published.”               “Well that has nothing to do with the typewriter. The last owner must have been a really good writer.” Jacob told the girls and the old lady.               “You won’t be disappointed with this typewriter. You can bring it back if you are unsatisfied with it, but I don’t think you will.”               “Please dad.” Angela and Cleo begged at the same time.               “Well if you girls both agree it’s a good gift then I guess I will have to get it.”               “Do you want me to box it up and wrap it for you?” The lady picked up the typewriter and took it to the counter.

              On his wife’s birthday Jacob and the twins made her breakfast in bed. The toast was burnt, the eggs were to runny, the bacon was barley cooked, but the coffee was just the way she loved it, creamer and sugar.               “Thank you.” Linda, Jacob’s wife, smiled. She kissed Jacob’s cheek and then hugged both the twins. She took a bite of the burnt toast and then took a sip of her coffee.               “We got you a gift.” Angela told her mother as Cleo ran out of the room to get the neatly wrapped present. “I picked it out all on my own.”               “Why don’t you girls help me unwrap it.” Linda said when Cleo brought the box in.               Cleo and Angela jumped at the chance to unwrap the box, which they did within seconds. They handed the now unwrapped box to their mother who was still sitting in bed next to her husband.

              “A typewriter.” Linda said surprised.               “A magic typewriter.” Cleo smiled.               “Magic typewriter?” Laughed Linda. “What is so magical about a typewriter?”               “The lady said it brings good luck.” Angela pipped in.               “What lady?” Linda whispered to her husband.               “The lady that sold us the typewriter told us that it brings good luck to whoever uses it.” Jacob whispered back. “She was probably just saying that to get us to buy it.”               “Why don’t you use the typewriter now.” The twins said at the same time.               Linda looked at the typewriter siting in her lap. “Sure, just let me think about what to write.”               The twins left the room to let their mother write. Linda went into her office and placed her new typewriter on her desk. Jacob picked up his wife’s half eaten breakfast and her empty mug that had held the coffee. Jacob stopped when he passed Linda’s office and he saw her looking longingly at the typewriter.               “What are you thinking Linda?” Jacob asked his wife, startling her.               “I can’t write honey. I have tried for months now, but no words are coming to mind.” Linda ran her fingers through her dark brown hair. “Maybe I can’t write anymore.”               “Just start typing and see what happens.” Jacob put down the plate and mug he was holding. “What about that novel you always said you wanted to write? Why not try writing that?”               Linda looked up at her husband. “I can try.”

              Once Linda started typing on the typewriter the words came to her. Within three weeks she had finished a rough draft of her novel. Within a few months she finished her novel and sent it to a publisher. By the end of the year she was working with the publisher on getting her story publish. By the next year she was finishing up her next book.               Linda, like her daughters, believed in the magic of the typewriter. The twins grow up, and never stopped believing in it’s magic. Even when they were adults with families of their own, they told them the story of the magic typewriter. Jacob on the other hand never truly believed in the magic, but he pretended because he didn’t want to take away the magic his family felt.               When Linda died at the ripe age of ninety-four, the typewriter went to Angela. Angela used the typewriter well and, in the time, it was in her possession she went on to write many stories that she never had published in her lifetime. It was Angela’s choice to never have her stories published while she was alive. The stories did get published after her death, when her daughter found them hidden with the typewriter.               The story along with the typewriter continues to be passed down passed from generation to generation in that family.


They will ask me where I was when this happened, thought Mira. Some day, if I am blessed with them, my grandchildren, and even my great grandchildren will ask me, and I will tell them I saw it all unfold on a television screen, and that I turned it on just for a bit of background, just for “wallpaper”, and wondered why they were showing a horror film on a news channel at that hour in the morning. She sat transfixed and terrified as those two great towers turned into pillars of flame, and a scar was cut through them that would never heal. She sat and trembled and wept as a glorious autumn day turned into a day that would be remembered for centuries. She was not sure if she could actually hear the sirens or if she only heard them on her TV screen. She didn’t think she was in any actual danger herself, but she knew that thousands were in the most terrible danger, and thousands would not survive that September morning, only just over a year into that new Millennium that had dawned with such brightness and promise, after old barriers had come down. Tina had phoned her first, as she was on her way to work. Mira wasn’t exactly a mother figure to her, as she was barely old enough and her own mother was still very much alive, but she sometimes turned to her for advice, or just, as she termed it, to vent . And Mira knew that she and Ralf had been having their issues. But when Tina spoke, she was not in a temper. “Mira, I was out of order,” she said, “I was just determined to pick a quarrel and find fault, I said things I shouldn’t have done and didn’t listen to what he had to say. I totally over-reacted to him leaving his laundry lying around rather than putting it in the basket. It’s true what he says. I’m even more of a neat freak than my mother, and that takes some doing!” Mira knew Tina’s mother, and liked her well enough, but couldn’t disagree with that. She was a tidy woman herself, but Joan took it to extremes. She sometimes thought her husband Hal had the patience of a saint. But she hurriedly reminded herself Joan was a good-hearted woman, and though she was Mira’s confidante, she wasn’t going to start running down her mother. “We’re all made differently,” she said, well aware that it came across as more of a platitude than a masterpiece of diplomacy. “And lots of people get annoyed by laundry lying around.” “But I said things I shouldn’t have done, Mira.” There were things Mira knew not to say. She would not say that when both halves of a couple had high-pressure jobs and they didn’t have any domestic help – she knew Hal had suggested a cleaning lady, but Mira had said she much preferred to do her own – then no matter how much you totally approved of women having just the same chances as men, there were going to be some problems and fraught mornings, and not just mornings. And she also knew this wasn’t just about the laundry. Though Tina had inherited her mother’s neat freak tendencies, she could also be very self-aware and realise her own quirks and not necessarily take herself seriously. Only a few months ago she would probably have playfully thrown one of the offending articles at him and it might have landed on his head, and they would both have laughed at how droll he looked and how unimportant it really was. Though at times it could undeniably be convenient, perhaps it was a shame they worked in the same building, even if it was one of massive proportions. But she said, “Get together for lunch, Tina. And try to make it a longer one, or at least longer than usual. No sandwiches at the desk!” “I don’t know if it’s that simple, Mira,” Tina sighed. “I’m sure it isn’t. But it’s no bad start.” “I guess not. And – I do love him, you know. So very, very much.” “Sweetheart, nobody would ever doubt that!” And Mira herself certainly didn’t, but she also knew that in the real world, that wasn’t always necessarily enough. Ralf phoned ten minutes later. Mira had always got on with him, liking his wry sense of humour and laidback ways, though she could also understand why the latter sometimes got on Tina’s nerves. “Oh, Mira, it was all just so stupid,” he said, “So stupid and trivial. And I shouldn’t have said what I did. I was just so sarcastic about her treating some laundry lying on the floor as if it was the end of the world or at any rate a major catastrophe. And it was meant as a joke when I said one day she might remember that I like my eggs hard and not runny, even though I do , but I could have fixed my own.” “Well, you do your fair share in the household,” Mira said, though she couldn’t help remembering that Tina had once said that she could never quite make out if he was willing but genuinely less than competent, or whether the shows of incompetence were a not so subtle attack to get out of doing his fair share. “And I don’t MEAN to be untidy,” he said, “Truly I don’t, but saying that makes me sound like a spoilt little kid, doesn’t it? Sorry, Mira, I’m putting you in an impossible position with that question.” “Some folk find it easier than others,” she said, well aware that it came across as a platitude rather than a masterpiece of diplomacy. She wondered whether to tell Ralf that she had already spoken to Tina, but thought better of it. It was for Tina to tell him if she wanted to. “Why don’t the two of you have lunch together?” she proposed, thinking that if advice were good (and she had no reason to believe it wasn’t) then it did no harm to offer it twice instead of struggling for originality for the sake of it. “Go to the restaurant. At any rate get outside – it’s a lovely day – and take things more at your leisure.” “Do you think that will help?” he asked, trying hard to sound casual and not succeeding. “I’m not saying it’s a miracle cure. But I think it will most definitely do no harm.” “I do love her, Mira. I love her so dearly and can’t bear to think about us splitting up.” “Anyone can see that, Ralf. Listen, the two of you have lunch together today, and if you like, come round to my place for supper tonight.” “Yes – yes, thanks, Mira.” Well, I suppose I should think about making something they both like, thought Mira, when she had put the phone down, reminding herself that Tina couldn’t stand olives and mushrooms, and Ralf couldn’t stand garlic and seafood. But that lunch would come first. She fervently hoped that both of them would be true to their word about making the time to have a proper lunch and a proper chat, and to laugh about the quarrel that morning, and give each other a hug. And now she sat there, staring at her television screen, and realising that this would a day that would change the world and reverberate down the decades, and she felt the weight and the awfulness of it like a burden that would never leave her shoulders and her soul. But she knew that if anyone asked her why, at that precise moment, she was weeping great heaving sobs, she would have had to reply that it was because two young people, their whole lives before them, who loved each other so very dearly, would not be having lunch together that day, and maybe never again.


A young man entered her room. He had such pretty eyes and a bright white smile. He must have been a new nurse at the nursing home or one of those volunteers who came in every once in a while to talk to the residents. Either way, she didn’t mind having him in her room. “Good afternoon,” Leda said to him sweetly. She hadn’t had that many visitors lately. It was nice to see a friendly face. “Hello. How are you feeling today?” He sat down in the chair beside her bed. “Good,” she admitted. “I had a bit of trouble sleeping last night, so I am a bit tired.” “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want to take a nap?” “No. There’s no time for naps. Not when I have a visitor.” Leda reached out and took the man’s hand. “Can you tell me your name?” “Levi,” Levi said.

“Levi,” Leda repeated. “That’s a nice name.” “Thank you,” Levi said. “My mother once said my grandmother picked it out.” “Your grandmother has nice taste.” “She does. She’s the most amazing person I know.” “How sweet. I’m sure she feels the same way about you. How could she not? You seem like a kind, sweet, and a very handsome young man.” Leda patted Levi’s hand. “Thank you.” Levi blushed. “It’s certainly a nice day outside.” Leda looked out the window. It was a sunny day. The sky was a brilliant hue of blue, birds chirped outside her window, and she saw grandchildren getting ready to spend time with their grandparents as the parents took them out for a day of fun. “It is. After all that gloomy spring weather, it’s nice to see the sun. Everything’s better in sunlight.” “That reminds me of my grandson’s wedding,” Leda said. “It was so beautiful. One of the most beautiful weddings I’ve ever been a part of.” “Your grandson’s wedding?” The young man’s eyes widened. “I’d like to hear about that.” “Well, my grandson and his lovely bride got married at this beachside resort.” “Sounds like the perfect venue for a wedding,” Levi said. “Tell me more about your grandson’s big day.” “I wore this sparkling, sequined number in a navy blue color,” Leda said. “I saw that dress and I knew I would be the belle of the ball! My grandson got the dress for me.” “That was generous of him to do so,” Levi said. “He must love you a whole lot.” “My grandson spoils me rotten,” Leda laughed. “I guess we’ve always been two of a kind. I raised him after his parents went through a nasty divorce. Poor child. But, he grew up to be a lovely man.” “With you as his grandmother, what other option was there?” Leda chuckled. “You give me too much credit! That boy was just born with a kind heart and a sweet personality to match. I was only there to gently guide him down the path we call life.” “What was he like on the big day?” “He was so nervous!” Leda laughed. “I went in to check in on him before the ceremony. You should have seen him! His tie was crooked, he was sweating up a storm, and his fly was down!” “Good thing he had a good grandma like you,” Levi said. “You sounded like you were his guardian angel that day.” “After I fixed up his tie and got him to zip up his pants, he was still nervous. He wasn’t second guessing his choice to marry, but he questioned the timing. Should they wait until after they have finished college? He also wasn’t sure how their marriage would turn out. He was afraid he and his bride would end up like his parents.” “What did you tell him?” Levi asked. “We had a good heart to heart,” Leda said. “I told him that he and his bride were not his parents. They would have to figure out this marriage for themselves. But, as long as they know that Love is the most important thing, they’ll never have to worry.” “Sounds like good advice,” Levi said thoughtfully. “It was. They’re still together today with three beautiful children. They’re the cutest lovebirds I’ve ever seen!” For the next couple of hours, Leda and Levi chatted about whatever it was that Leda wanted to chat about.

“Unfortunately, it’s time for me to go.” Levi stood up from his chair. “So soon?” Leda enjoyed having Levi around. She couldn’t explain it, but she knew that there was something about him that made her feel safe and loved. “I loved talking to you.” “I do too,” Levi said. “How about I come back in a couple of days?” “I’m already counting down the seconds.” Levi gave Leda a hug and then left, leaving Leda to finally take the nap she so desperately tried to put off. “How’s your grandmother?” Gail, one of the nurses at the nursing home, asked Levi as he exited Leda’s room. “She was cheery today,” Levi told her. “That’s wonderful! Did she remember who you were?” “No, it didn’t seem like it. But… but I know she still loves me.” “She does. She may not remember you, but that feeling that she has for you will always be there you know.” “She told me a funny story. One that I couldn’t believe she would know.” “Really? What was the story?” Gail shifted her clipboard to her other hip. “She told me about being at her grandson’s wedding.” “How sweet!” “The thing is, I’m her only grandson. She told me about the venue, how nervous I was, and that my wife and I are the cutest love birds she ever saw.” “Your wedding? Levi, I didn’t even know you were engaged! Congratulations!” “That’s the thing, Gail.” Levi looked at Gail and blushed. “I’m not married. I don’t even have a girlfriend.” “You mean… your grandmother…” Gail couldn’t finish her sentence. “I’m not sure what I mean. I’m not sure what my grandmother told me,” Levi said. “But it’s nice to think that she would be around when that day finally comes.” “Either way, you know your grandmother loved being at your wedding,” Gail said. “All she ever wanted for you was for you to be happy.” Levi smiled. “With my grandmother around, I will always be happy.”


"Mom I'm Home" Mariam called out when she got home. "Great, how was school" Mom replied. "Normal" Mariam responded. Mom just cocked her eyebrow. Mariam walked into the kitchen. god, I'm starving Mariam thought. She grabbed some leftovers from last night's dinner, then she walked over to the microwave which had her brother’s food in it. "Ibraheem get your food already” “Coming, bossy!” Ibraheem ran into the kitchen and grabbed his food from the microwave, Mariam made a face at him and put her food into the microwave. Right when she put her food into the microwave, She heard a weird growl-like noise come from it.  Probably nothing. Mariam thought then when she tried to click the buttons it wouldn’t work. Dang it she silently cursed. Mariam checked the wire but it was still plugged in. “Dad!” Mariam screamed, “is the power out!” “No” he yelled back. “Then why did the microwave stop working if the wire is still plugged in?” She asked. Her dad sighed and came down the stairs. He Checked if the wire was plugged in which it was.

“See Nothing’s wrong,” he said then heated her food. Mariam just stood there still trying to take in what happened. “It wasn’t working a minute ago” she complained to her dad. “Well Mariam, It’s not like the microwave can go against you or something,” he replied sarcastically. When he left back to his office, Mariam studied the microwave again. It just sat there looking completely normal. Then when she turned around she heard another weird noise. She turned around and the microwave lights were red then she took the wire out not wanting to risk anything but then it turned on 3 minutes. She jumped back not knowing what to do. She left the room in a hurry. That night when Mariam came into the kitchen for a glass of water, she had forgotten about the microwave incident a few hours before. So she grabbed for a glass and then, CRASH she heard the weird noise again she turned around slowly and dramatically to stare at the sinister piece of technology.

“Shut your door dummy,” she said to the microwave not knowing why she said it out loud. The microwave shut its door loudly and harshly then turned red and made a low growling noise. Mariam then went to pull the wire out again but then realized. That there was another microwave behind hers. And more beyond that one as well.

Great, she thought. “Well, I guess you all are going to try to get me now huh?” she said out loud to them. Then all the microwaves turned red and banged their doors open and close they jumped off the counter.  Where did we get 12 microwaves from she thought? Then they circled her and turned on 3 minutes. She was freaking out right now  So much for a glass of water, she thought as she put her empty glass back on the counter. Mariam turned back to the out-of-control microwaves. She attempted to step over them but they tied their wires around her ankles pulling her down. She grunted as her back hit the kitchen floor hard. She grabbed all the microwave wires and then tried to tie them together but then they tied her wrists too. She kicked 3 of the microwave doors shut. The timer was now on for 2 minutes and 30 seconds. She needed a plan to get out of these wires or else something bad could happen when the timer goes off. She struggled to get out of the wires but they wouldn’t come off. Then as if on cue her brother casually strolled into the kitchen. The microwaves instantly shut down and went back to normal.

“What are you doing?” Ibraheem questioned. Mariam rolled her eyes and shook free of the wires she kicked another door shut and walked out of the circle. Then one microwave accidentally turned red again and her brother saw. He screamed loud enough for the neighbors to hear. “Shush” Mariam told her younger brother. Then not caring anymore All the microwaves turned back on.  Mariam grabbed a hammer from the tool pantry, went back to the kitchen, and slammed it into a microwave facing away from her then all of a sudden again the microwaves turned back off. Mariam and Ibraheem put them away somewhere her parents wouldn’t find them. Thank goodness there on that business trip she thought optimistically.

The next day when they came back from school. The microwaves were gone from their spots. Mariam Searched the whole house but they were gone.

She forgot about them and continued like life was normal. That night again she searched the house once more before going to sleep. She heard a low growl again when she got into bed. Mariam opened the lights and studied the room she then slowly opened her closet then all of a sudden the creepy red light flickered on again. The microwave growled again the same creepy low noise. The timer went off again this time only ten seconds to spare. She opened her window and threw it out. The microwave exploded halfway down. She saw as it landed loudly waking a few on the street. There was a huge hole in the road where it landed with rubble surrounding the area. Mariam stared at the microwave for a few more seconds before realizing the others were still hiding in the house. She found them hiding on the shelf in the shoe closet. Mariam grabbed them and destroyed them quickly.

The next morning Mariam’s parents rushed back home noticing all the chaos surrounding their house worried them more.

When they reached their driveway they saw the cops at their door. “What happened here?” asked their mom

“Some weird explosion happened in front of your house leaving a hole in the street” the cop responded with a thick southern accent. Both parents looked at each other and ran into their house.

“Guys where are you?” dad asked worriedly. Mariam and Ibraheem ran to the door trying to get there before the others as usual. Their parents sighed in relief seeing they were ok. “What happened out there?” Mom asked. “Well the microwaves attacked me then I threw it out the window as it exploded I felt like James Bond, you have no idea!” Mariam blurted out excited. Her parents cocked their eyebrows in confusion. “Mhm, microwaves,” her mom said sarcastically “Believe it or not he’s actually telling the truth this time,” Ibraheem said while giving his older sister a look. Then they both started again chasing each other trying to get revenge like a normal day in their household.


Billy was sitting on the toilet doing his business while reading his favorite Spider Man comic book. It was difficult concentrating. The image of his dead sister, Mary, kept popping in his mind. He had looked at her face in her casket at the funeral last week but the face wasn’t right. It was too pale and white. Mary always had rosy cheeks and a wide bright smile. This corpse had small thin lips that would never smile. Mary had died of a very rare skin disease that caused her flesh to rot from the inside out. The doctors couldn’t stop it. All they were able to do was to prolong her suffering. The last time he saw Mary before she was taken to the hospital for the last time, her skin was scaling and falling off; a snake shedding its skin. A week later, his parents told him Mary had gone to heaven. And then came the funeral where he looked at that horrible empty casing that pretended to be his 6-year-old sister. Billy’s eyes felt heavy. He had been sitting on the toilet for too long and his butt was beginning to fall asleep and get the tingles. He dropped the Spider Man comic on the floor and started to unroll some toilet paper. A soft gurgling noise emanated from the water below his knees. He looked down. Bubbles were forming in the toilet bowl . More gurgling noises and then the bubbles intensified. The foul defecation diluted water was splashing up against his butt cheeks. Horrified, Billy stood up quickly and stared down at the water. The water had turned a fluorescent putrid green and his business had been sucked down beyond visibility. Billy bent his face to peer closer. Several more bubbles popped to the surface. Suddenly Billy felt his entire body sucked into the bowels of the toilet bowl and he was careening headfirst through the pipe like a waterslide. Down, down through the wet gunk and slime until he landed painfully onto a damp and mud-caked surface. Darkness all around. Slowly, as his eyes adjusted, just enough light emerged to convey he was in what appeared to be a sewer. Small slivers of light shimmered high above him from a cylindrical manhole. Dizzily, Billy propped himself up on his elbows and shook the infested fecal water off him like a wet dog. At the far corner of the room there was a small figure squatting in a little ball. The figure’s head rose and slitted red eyes stared directly at Billy. The figure was a little girl. Her hair was long and tangled with leaves and debris. She stood up and made a strangled noise somewhere between a belch and a hiss. Then she spoke his name, “… Billy…Biiiillllyy.” Billy couldn’t move. To his horror, his mind began to assemble the physical attributes of the girl who was now walking slowly toward him. The dimpled chin, high cheekbones, gangly arms. The same dress his sister wore on the day his parents drove her to the hospital. It couldn’t be her. But she knew his name. She was only paces away and her hand stretched out toward him. Her fingers, disjointed and stripped of their nails, grazed his neck. That was enough to break his paralysis. He kicked her in the shins knocking her backward while he turned and jumped to his feet. He ran five feet directly into a supporting beam, knocking him right back to the ground, seeing stars. The creature masquerading as his sister jumped on his back and grabbed a knot of his hair, flipping him around with unnatural strength. Spittle flew from her lips as her mouth tried to work out something. “Biiilllyyy… I am… so… looonely… Come plaaay with meeee.” Billy scooted backwards, breaking from her grasp. The adrenaline allowed him to see the creature even more clearly now. The creature had his sister Mary’s face, no doubt about it. But the skin was peeling off and there were wounds and scabs covering every inch of her exposed skin. She was a rotting corpse. He observed a slug-like form peeking its head out of an oozing lesion on her shoulder. She opened her mouth to speak again, and a rodent squirmed its way out, stifling whatever communication she intended. Billy scrambled to his feet again, and ran, this time avoiding the supporting beams. He turned a corner and ran down a long narrow passage, slightly more illuminated from a light source at the other side. He screamed soundlessly and felt his heartbeat slamming against his skull. He heard shrieking laughter behind him, weakening as he put more and more distance between himself and the monster. He ran and ran, but the light at the end of the passage never came any closer. He sobbed desperately until he collapsed to the ground in the shallow running water, tasting its filth, sealing his hopelessness. His head snapped up abruptly as if someone had rapped his chin with a ruler. He was still sitting on the toilet. Spider Man looked up at him nonchalantly from the comic book splayed open on the bathroom floor. He was drenched in cold sweat. A dream? It didn’t feel like a dream. He still smelled the pungent sewer odors all around him. It was seeped into his clothes, absorbed into his pores. He shivered helplessly and covered his eyes with his hands. The feeling of complete terror was very slowly abating, but he couldn’t shake the certainty that he had just looked into his dead sister’s eyes while she attempted to choke the life from him. Since his dead sister didn’t come after him from the toilet, Billy convinced himself he had had the worst nightmare of his life and proceeded to go about his day. After taking off his clothes (threw them in the garbage) and taking a long hot shower, he went out to play with his friends down the street. They rounded up some other kids from around the block and organized a kickball game. Before long, Billy wasn’t thinking about the nightmare anymore. Soon after he was devouring his mother’s delicious meatloaf with mashed potatoes and watching several episodes of the Flash with his Dad before bed-time. His mother and father both separately tucked him in and gave him a kiss good night. Since Mary had died, they had been particularly attentive about his bed-time routine. Billy had almost completely forgotten the nightmare. He closed his eyes and fell into a deep and restful sleep. It might have been the second REM cycle, somewhere around 3:30 in the early morning when Mary found Billy again. In his dream, Billy was playing baseball with his friends, and then driving a race car with his father in the passenger side seat. “What an incredible driver you are, Billy!” His father’s eyes were so bright and proud. Then he was swimming at his friend Alice’s pool and admiring how perfectly smooth Alice’s arms and legs were and how pretty her mouth was when she smiled, when something below him grabbed his ankles and pulled him to the bottom of the pool. Billy thrashed his arms and kicked his legs but whatever had a hold of him was extremely strong. He felt his foot being pulled into the drain at the bottom of the pool, followed by his leg, and then his torso was being squeezed to fit into the small drain hole. Billy felt his bones being squeezed to the shape of a tennis ball, and then he was flying through the water pipes at least a hundred miles an hour – much faster than the race car he had just driven with his father. Then his crumpled body was spit upon the same darkened sewer from his nightmare. The thing that resembled Mary was sitting in the same spot, as if she were waiting patiently for this visit. But this time, the creature jumped quickly towards Billy, as if he were a cricket that just twitched in front of a staring house cat. She was upon him at once. He could feel her cold, dead skin pressing against his own flesh; her stinking rotting breath upon his face made him nauseous. Her red eyes were now dancing in their sockets as she began to sing happily: “My brooother! My bro-o-other! He came to pla-ay with meee!” Billy punched her in the face as hard as he could. Her neck snapped back and her zombie corpse face turned nearly 180 degrees around. She slowly revolved her head and her eyes were angry. Her high-pitched sing-songy voice now deepened multiple octaves. “What did you just do to me, you mean, mean, big brother! You are supposed to be my FRIEND!” She slapped him hard and he found himself more repulsed by the feel of her rotting hands than by the force of the blow. She grabbed his ankles with both of her hands. “It hurt so bad. Hurt so bad for sooo long. But now I don’t hurt. Now I’m just… lonely. Come be my friend, brother. Forever. And ever!” Her eyes became slits of evil and she began that horrible shrieking laugh from before. “You will feel my pain. And then come be with me.” She laughed until she coughed, and blood shot out of her mouth and nose with the effort. “Be my friend, brother. Forever…” Billy awoke screaming. He screamed until his mother came running into the room, slamming his door open and putting her palms against his cheeks. “It’s okay Billy, it’s okay. It was just a dream.” She caressed his head and kissed him until the screaming turned to moans, then whimpers, and finally to raspy breaths. Billy’s mother read him his favorite stories she used to read to him when he was three years younger and still into baby books. For Billy, the stories felt just fine tonight. He didn’t fall back to sleep, but he did close his eyes and think about what needed to be done. The next morning after a large bowl of corn pops Billy went upstairs and confronted the doorknob of Mary’s bedroom. Since she was taken to the hospital weeks ago, the door had stayed firmly shut and only his mother would go in occasionally. Billy would overhear her weeping quietly. Billy sensed there might be something in his little sister’s room that could help him. He was terrified of the monster his sister had become in his dreams, but he was sure she wouldn’t have acted that way unless something was terribly wrong. He wasn’t the greatest big brother, but he didn’t think his little sister really wanted him to die just to join her in death. Billy summoned his courage and put his hand on the doorknob. He noticed the back of his hand was peeling off dead skin. He rubbed the dead skin away. Significantly more flaky skin came off than he was expecting. His hand was left with a large oval red welt. Moderately alarmed, but undeterred, Billy pushed the door open and walked inside. The room was immaculate. Freshly vacuumed with all of Mary’s toys perfectly arranged in an order that only a mother could be responsible for. Mary was a typical child; she threw her things everywhere. Their father often joked the two of them were his two little Tasmanian devils. Billy scanned the room, looking for anything that might be useful. Mary was obsessed with dolls. She had dozens of them, usually splattered around the room chaotically, but now they were serenely placed around the room, all evenly spaced from one another. All of them looked keenly at Billy with prying eyes. Billy was feeling thoroughly creeped out. He recalled Mary enjoyed one particular doll more than the rest, especially during her last days. It was a brown-haired girl with a green and white checkered dress. There it was, lying face down on Mary’s pillow. Billy picked the doll up and looked at the unblinking eyes, thinking. Billy walked over to Mary’s little school desk where she used to do all of her drawings with markers and watercolors. There were a few books standing upright between two horse shaped bookends. One of them had a little lock enclosing the pages. It was a diary. Billy remembered how excited Mary was when she received that little diary with the lock and key last Christmas. He tried to open the diary, but it wouldn’t open without the key. Billy looked at the doll he was holding to his side. Did she have any suggestions? Billy noted a little bulge on the side of the doll’s dress. Upon further examination, it was a small pocket with a tiny zipper. Sure enough, there was the key. The key fit perfectly into the journal’s lock. Billy felt guilty for looking at his dead sister’s journal. But he sensed this was something he had to do. Most of the pages were filled with colorful drawings of flowers and rainbows, other silly girly things. But a few of the pages contained his sister’s childish handwriting. Most of it was boring stuff, like, I luv my Daddy and Mummy. I wish Gramsy wud buy me the princez cassl I askd for. He flipped to the last few pages. The drawings were all in pencil, no more colors. Lots of faces with sad frowns. On one page she wrote, I hate herting. Its not fare. Mommy sez hevan is butiful but Im scarrd. If I do go to hevan I hope Molly can come with me. Molly. Of course. That was the brown-haired doll’s name. Billy’s arm was itching badly. He had been scratching it for the last few minutes while perusing the diary. He pulled up the sleeve and gasped. He had scratched almost all of the skin off his arm. It looked bruised and welty. He noticed something lesion-like growing near the elbow. Just like the marks his sister was getting before she died. Billy closed the diary, locked it with the key, and put it carefully back where he found it. He left the room and closed the door quietly. He brought Molly with him to his bedroom where he picked up his Spider Man comic book. Then he went to the bathroom to take care of business . Billy sat on the toilet longer than he ever had before. He was tired of reading the Spider Man comic and his neck was getting stiff. But he held the doll firmly with his left hand and pressed against his chest. He waited. His eyes began to get heavy. He heard soft bubbling below him. The bubbling grew louder and became a steady gurgling. Billy braced himself and tensed all of his muscles, getting ready for a terrible ride. He felt his body compress to the thinness of a pencil and then he was being sucked downward, this time he was a bullet flying through the drain. He imagined the Flash. The Flash would be brave. The Flash would know exactly what to do. He still held Molly tightly against his chest. He slammed down hard against the hard sewer floor. Rats scattered away from something dead and decaying they were greedily picking at. He shook the wetness from his clothes and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness. “Mary?” he called. She was not there. “I brought something for you. I have your Molly.” He shivered. This had to work. Then a high reedy voice drifted to his ears from somewhere in the cavernous sewers. “Youuu have my Mooolllyyy…?” And then the voice became low and growled. “GIVE IT TO ME. Give it to me NOW!” He felt a rush of wind fly by him, and the doll had been knocked to the ground. The creature pounced on the doll ferociously and began hugging it and kissing it. She looked up at Billy. Half of her face was torn off revealing her skull. Most of her flesh was completely gone. Clearly the rats were having their way with her, Billy thought. "I thought you would want to have her.” Billy croaked. “You said you were lonely. I… I can’t be with you, Mary. I’m still alive. I have to live my life. Grow up, get old and stuff… you know?” She sneered at him with worms crawling in her few remaining teeth. "Please Mary. I don’t want to die. Please let me live. When I do die -- a long time from now -- okay? We’ll be together in heaven. We can play then. Okay?”

Then Mary smiled and instead of the rotting corpse, Billy saw the face of his sister before she got sick. She was beautiful and he remembered that he loved her. “Tell Daddy and Mummy I love them.” A bright light glowed around her like a halo and Billy wasn’t scared any more. “I’m sorry I scared you. I’ll see you when it’s time. A long time from now. But time passes differently now so it won’t be so long for me.” She touched his shoulder and he felt the itchiness and pain go away. He was cured. “I love you, Billy.” Before Billy could say he loved her too, he woke up, back on the toilet seat. Molly was gone.


It is the first day of spring. Our favorite season. I had our dog, Yuno, beside me. I found myself walking towards the river today like we used to. It’s too early in the morning, I didn't think anyone in town is awake. I walked by the unpaved road and see the trees enveloping the winding river. I could hear the steady sound of the water and I stood there in awe. You loved to catch butterflies and other flying insects just to try to be friends with them. You would sing and dance all the songs to The Sound of Music and pretend we’re in a Disney film. I would go along with you and be happy watching you as you are. You loved going to the beach too, but it’s quite far from where we live, nevertheless, we would go once in a while. "So, this is what underwater sounds like!", you smiled as you held an enormous seashell by your ear and listened to the sound of the trifling matter. I stared at your eyes wandering into space trying to figure out what to feel about it. You put it on my ear, and I heard a breeze. It was calming. I had to close my eyes to feel every moment of it. I wasn't entirely sure if that's what underwater sounds like, or if it even has a definite sound, but you just assumed it had, and it was boundless. It was like you. If anyone comes close, would they know you belong to me? Just like how the seashells belonged to the sea. Would they hear your soul searching for my name? I wasn't entirely sure if I was the one in your heart then, or if it even identifies me as your lover, but we just assumed it has, and it was boundless. “How many sleepless nights do I have to spend to be together with you again?” I would say as I look at your photograph in my wallet. I looked at Yuno wagging his tail at the river and dipping himself a bit. You would stop him, but every time we come again, he gets more stubborn. I guess he also remembers you in the water. He never left your side, even at that time. I sit by the big tree we called Peter. I’m pretty sure Peter had also been hearing a lot about the times you would rant about your work. You never knew the concept of time, and deadlines are foreign to your nature. You always had your own perspective on things, and I admired that about you. You would often let out a screech, sometimes of victory and other times in devastation. All of it was valid. Every decision you make, emotions you feel, and thoughts you think. I would listen to you for eternity. Trust me, I would. Given the chance to listen to your voice once again, I definitely would. This river was our own world, a secret hiding place where time suddenly stops as we would enjoy every moment together. We would be like this every year and sometimes more when we needed it. And I miss it. I miss you. All of you. The sun began to get hotter, and Yuno seems to be tired from running around and chasing butterflies. He got that from you, obviously. I get up and we head back to our house. How long has it been? The first time you stepped onto our house. You were crying with joy and were utterly speechless, which was a sign of how thrilled you were, considering how much you talk about everything in such detail, the only thing you could do then was to kiss me. It was the best moment for both of us. And the last time you stepped onto our house. You were crying in pain, and you couldn’t say a word, which was a sign of how agonizing it must be to keep fighting an unbeatable illness. Still, you would smile, you would hold my face with your warm hands and look at me with those eyes. Those unchanging eyes. I remember when you were painting me, you were deeply in love with my blue eyes, and I would look at yours with soul and love. “I love your eyes so much! I’m painting it so I could keep it forever. So, stay still and look at me!” You would say. I smile and I felt tingles on my neck and onto your eyes I look, and I think of you. I would write about your eyes, but you would think it’s a waste of time and paper. But still, I would write because I too, would want to keep it forever. I remember writing about you. How your eyes are as beautiful as your kindred soul, and I would say I had fallen into a black hole of love just by looking at you, and we would laugh. I look into your eyes which revealed a golden halo at sunset, and suddenly I feel like I’m the luckiest person in the world. We have loved everything and anything the other couldn’t, and then we began to love ourselves as well. If only I had the ability to stop time. I would make every moment last forever. I wouldn’t want to remember. I want to know you again, to feel you again. I’m scared that I would forget the way it feels to be in love and be loved by you. I want to know how it feels like to be held by your hands again and keep me from shattering just like the day you left. Just one moment more. Winter nights were most difficult to handle. “Why did you leave me? I hope you stayed a little longer.” I would say under my breath. I would look at an empty bed and cry onto my knees. I miss you so much. The loneliness, the reoccurring thought of the one being left in the world on this cold numbing weather which I felt most of the pain. Still, I tried to breathe gently and then stand up at once. Just before the alarm rings, I finally woke up from this long and lonely dream. I feel relieved, I feel like a burden was lifted. A tear finds itself sliding onto my neck. I’m getting up slowly and I look at the window, it’s spring again . I feel my heart fleeting like it had been liberated from everything. What does this mean – to breathe calmly on this day. Is this what acceptance feel like? For a long time, I stopped writing, since you were all I ever wrote about. And today, so swiftly I feel like I could write again. The door knocks to the classic tune of da-di-di-da-da da-da! And our daughter enters our room to wake me up, but I had already woken. I saw a glimpse of you in her eyes, and she smiles as brightly and as beautiful as yours. It’s your death anniversary today, she had been waiting to visit you again. Though she doesn’t remember much about you, she was sure that you loved her, and she was happy. I would read to her the ones I’ve written about you, like a bedtime story she would smile and light up when she realizes she does the same things you do, she would tell me how much she loves us and aspires to be like you. They say time heals, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes, Time remembers the best moments, and other times it brings pain. If only Time could help and stop itself, but Time couldn’t. Time wouldn’t stop for the world, there is only one way to go, and that is forward. I take a glance at our daughter, a living memory of you. Your resemblance is quite uncanny, I was hoping she would look a little bit more like me, but I’m thankful she didn’t. I’m standing before you now, and I brought these flowers you liked, the snowdrops that you would sometimes imitate during winter in hopes you could see them in the spring. It was your own ritual, and I would do it with you wholeheartedly. I could only hope for peace as I look at your resting place, with the wind brushing my face. I stand here in silence; no words spoken. There are no words, or methods, or any means to get over you. People will somehow get there. It may take a long time, but then we realize that we did not suffer for nothing. It wasn't all meaningless, it was proof you were loved. People find ways to get over the things that are too painful, and most times we hurt ourselves even more. It is a process of how you try to accept the truth. Slowly and eventually, it will all be okay. Our daughter sits by your tombstone with Yuno by her side. She begins to tell you stories about her best friends, and how happy she was that she could see you again like she’d never been here a few months ago for her birthday. I know you would come back if you could, and now I understand that. You had to leave, and it’s okay. Though you only live in the memories of the people you loved, and those who loved you dearly, you were never forgotten. If you were to live again, in another time, another person, another life, I hope you both would meet. Oh, to be remembered. To take you as you are. To love and to be loved. What a wonderful thing. I know you. You are in the stars that watch over the earth. You are in the clouds that carry the burdens of the world. And you are in the wind that swiftly passes by on a spring day. And soon, I know I would be with you there. Beyond the clouds and the stars, beyond galaxies and the vast universe. I will meet you there, at the river when we first met. Sincerely Yours