It was a hot July afternoon, and Matthew hated the sun. The heat swelled around the village like a balloon, trapping unaware victims in a haze and turning skin a blistering red with the suns prickly touch. Plus, the sharp rays had cut through the gap in his curtains that morning and left him feeling particularly annoyed for since then. What he, however, hated even more than the sun, was the newspaper sitting at his door when he emerged to brave the beating heat. It crinkled in the faint warm breeze and had all the use of a beaten doormat. He snatched it up from the ground only because it sullied the appearance of his porch and scowled at the note stapled to the top. ‘Free copy, from us to you!’ How ironic, considering this weekend’s task. “I am not falling for your schemes to get me to subscribe.” He muttered, enjoying the satisfying dull thud of the paper hitting the bottom of his outdoor bin. His sense of self-appreciation at his disregard of useless money schemes was quickly put out by the squeeze of the heat around his body, and at the sight of an elderly figure tottering down the road. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He groaned, before picking up his pace to get around her before she could notice him. As he got closer, just as he guessed, he could tell the woman was his neighbour, Mrs Palmer, whom he avoided like the plague. The woman could speak for the whole country, though she was both half deaf and visually impaired, so his hopes were usually high of sneaking past her unnoticed. Matthew crossed to the other side of the street and found something very interesting to look at in the opposite direction. “Matthew?” Her slow waddle stopped as she squinted at him from across the street. “Matthew dear, is that you?” The sense of guilt from ignoring her was overpowering, so he reluctantly turned and gave her a forced smile. “Mrs Palmer, I didn’t see you there!” He said through gritted teeth, though continued desperately before she could start talking, “Terribly sorry, but I’m too busy to stop and talk today. You see, I have this assignment to write a…” He trailed off and sighed when he noticed she wasn’t listening, rather focusing on uselessly tugging her walking stick from where it was wedged in a grate. “What have I done wrong? ” He complained quietly, before conceding and walking back across the street. Wondering how she got about her day-to-day life and how on earth she’d managed to jam her walking stick in such a small grate, Matthew gave it one hard yank and freed it. “Oh, thank you!” She said, startled by the sudden movement that rocked her. “Did I tell you, Richard told me he might stop by on Sunday?” Mrs Palmer offered him a crooked smile, unaware of Matthew’s disdain for her money hungry son. “Hmm, right.” It took all his willpower not to roll his eyes and remind her of Richard’s behaviour; he did not feel like repeating the same long conversation again. “Come on Mrs Palmer, let’s get you to the village.” He took her arm gently and guided her down the street, though she only tottered slightly faster than before. He knew, however, that nobody else would come to help her because she had nothing to give in return. Arriving at the small coffee shop an hour later than he intended, Matthew ordered a black coffee and went to sit in his usual booth. The employees knew him as a regular, and now knew to recognise the air of frustration in his manner and to leave him in peace when he came with a tricky assignment. Opening his laptop, he typed the title of his task onto an empty document. Gratitude Journal. Matthew sat back and forced himself not to dwell on the stupidity of the weekend assignment he’d been given at the last minute. He frowned, almost certain the task came from his colleague Emma who was an insufferable optimist and often fell out with Matthew over trivial matters, such as his hatred for motivational speakers. What did he have to be thankful about? He had begrudgingly stopped off at a market stall with Mrs Palmer on the way, at which he had bought an apple that he now held in his hand. I suppose I am thankful I have this apple. He thought to himself, then hovered his hands over the keyboard before sighing in frustration. Writing about an apple seemed beyond useless, especially as he scowled to think of how the vendor would probably have laughed at him for the mere idea of it, while at the same time pocketing Matthew’s money with glee. The man had had some pitiful story about how his apples were a product of hard work and resilience, nudging his Tupperware container full of pennies towards them with an eager gleam in his eyes. Matthew shook his head with a frown, and put the apple down, suddenly overcome by a disappointment in himself for giving out his change to the man. After an entire afternoon spent with the sun in his eyes from a broken blind, and a frustratingly slow pace of typing a sentence only to delete it, he was left with a blank document by the end of the day. Shutting his laptop, he dabbed his brow with a tissue and wished his assignment was of the opposite nature, so he could find inspiration from his dislike of sticky heat. The walk home was slow and tiring, the sinking sun still managing to make his clothes uncomfortably damp with sweat. He would try again tomorrow. It was Saturday, and the heat had only worsened. By the time Matthew stepped out of his house just after lunch time, it had gotten so bad that the strap on his laptop case immediately became hot and chafed against his hand. The grass was yellowing, and the sun glared down in disapproval at the village blurred in the distance from thick rolls of heat. He made his way down the street all the same, though almost turned back when he saw Mrs Palmer almost in the exact same place she was stood yesterday. In fact, it looked as though her walking stick was again wedged in the same grate on the path. Needing a moment to compose himself from the growing exasperation he felt, Matthew headed over to her, reminding himself how nobody would ever help her because it did not benefit them. “Mrs Palmer.” He sighed, “How have you managed this again?” She blinked at him, confused, before the recognition lit up her face. “Oh, Matthew!” She gasped, “I-I don’t know…” Furrowing her brows, she gave the stick a weak pull before looking at him helplessly. He took it from her and again yanked it out of the grate. “Now, I have that same assignment to complete, so I really don’t have time to-” “What?” She interrupted, “Assignment? Where?” “My assignment. About… gratitude.” He almost spat the word out, still apprehensive of his task. “Ahh, that shouldn’t be hard!” She smiled, “There are lots of things to be thankful about!” Matthew stared at her, giving her old, faded clothes and chipped walking stick a tight smile, and resisted from asking what those things could possibly be for her, though she seemed to read the question on his face. “Don’t give me that look! I’m not completely blind you know; I can still tell what you’re thinking.” She looked beyond him thoughtfully, “Richard! He said he might pop by tomorrow, that’s something to be thankful about.” “Oh, Mrs Pearson.” Matthew sighed, avoiding her eyes. “You never learn.” “He’s coming, you’ll see.” She gave him an odd slow wink and began to totter back down the street with a hesitant Matthew in tow. The coffee shop was much busier than yesterday, though Matthew was almost pleased to find his usual booth unoccupied, until he registered the spill of what he hoped was apple juice over one of the seats. Mumbling about how his assignment could not possibly be made any more difficult, he sat in the clean side of the booth and got back to his work. About an hour into his failing attempts of forming a first paragraph, a large family seeped in through the doors, which appeared to almost burst at the seams with the sheer volume of people. At the head of the group stood a middle-aged woman in a yellow summer dress, whose face was rosy from the heat outside. She spoke loudly, so Matthew caught the end of her conversation. “…so I said well, I think it’s great! Might be uncomfortable but gets the kids outside!” She laughed a hearty laugh, and Matthew assumed she was speaking about the weather. He watched as she sauntered over to a barista, who blushed deeply at the revealing neckline of her dress as she spoke to him sweetly. Matthew scoffed and shook his head. More like the weather is great for you to show some skin and get a free coffee voucher . Sure enough, the barista passed her one over the counter, grinning ridiculously wide and looking slightly disappointed when she walked away. She had such a smug expression on her face, the kind that Matthew detested, especially as he sat with less and less to write from the people around him. Feeling particularly hot and bothered, Matthew spent another unsuccessful afternoon staring at a blank page and struggling to muster something positive to say about anything around him. He stayed until the sun bobbed down in its orange sea and hid behind the clouds. On his walk home, the heat remained like a musty smell in an old room. Sunday. And the assignment was due in the next day. Matthew had struggled to sleep, racking his brain to no avail for a single idea to write about gratitude. The heat was still almost unbearable, which he was hit with as he trudged outside with much less hope than the previous two days. Matthew had never been unable to complete an assignment, and the thought was weighing down on him just as much as the heat. Turning the corner, he was anticipating Mrs Palmer’s presence, and there she was. The only difference today was that she was looking straight at him and gave a little wave when she saw him looking back. Beginning to accept this as part of his routine, Matthew dragged himself over to her and braced himself to tear her walking stick out of a grate again. It was, however, surprisingly not stuck today, and he gave her a puzzled look, wondering why she had waved him over. “Richard couldn’t make it.” She smiled sadly. “What a surprise.” He muttered sarcastically. “No, no, he said he could try next weekend instead!” She said with a sense of triumph that pushed Matthew’s tired brain over the edge. “Mrs Palmer, your son hasn’t come to see you in years.” He said, frustrated. “Because he’s not interested in taking money from you anymore since you barely have any to give.” “He still calls me occasionally.” She protested. “He calls you to keep his conscience clean Mrs Palmer. People only care when they get something in return.” She was silent for a long time, looking at the ground. Just as Matthew began to feel he’d been a little harsh, she spoke again. “I think I’m going to head home.” “Mrs Palmer-” “No, I don’t fancy the village today.” She attempted a smile, before leaving in the opposite direction and leaving Matthew with a heavy feeling of guilt. Walking through the village alone felt much different, and Matthew decided if he saw Mrs Pearson again on his way to work tomorrow, he would apologise for being so blunt. A young child busking on the street distracted his thoughts, as he paused to watch her play the violin slowly, as the crowds gave affectionate ‘aww’s. She wore dirty clothes that were several sizes too big for her, and a sign on cardboard was propped up beside her claiming she would appreciate any donations. A small tin can was already half full of pennies and notes. Matthew looked over the scene sceptically, not failing to notice the pristine condition of the violin and what looked like a branded purse wedged behind the sign. He knew exactly what he was looking at, especially as he spotted two people who were obviously the girls parents hovering at the edge of the crowd, eyeing anyone holding a purse or rummaging in their bag with a gleam in their eyes. It’s like I’m being teased for this stupid assignment, he thought. Not sparing the parents a disapproving stare, Matthew headed back on course towards the coffee shop, for what was likely to be another very unproductive day. Monday had come by extraordinarily fast, and Matthew dressed slowly, feeling very apprehensive of his day ahead. Stepping out the door with the burdening knowledge that he carried a laptop with nothing to show but his empty document, he dreaded the smug look on Emma’s face when she found out her assignment had defeated him. “Cue Mrs Palmer…” He murmured as he walked onto the next street. But today, she was not there. Matthew could not help but feel to blame and felt a crushing regret from stamping on her hopes of seeing her son, even if he had known all along that the guy wouldn’t show up. Deciding to go the long way to work though the village, Matthew hoped he’d bump into her on the way. The streets were much quieter without the hustle and bustle of the weekend, and by the time Matthew was walking past his usual coffee shop he’d lost hope of catching up to Mrs Palmer. Feeling even more defeated, he glanced inside and was met with a surprise. Mrs Palmer was sat inside, surrounded by people. Matthew’s curiosity took the wheel as he opened the door to the light jangle of the bell and stepped inside. The group looked over at the sound, and he was shocked by what he saw. Richard raised his eyes to meet Matthew’s, and the regret in them was almost overpowering as he held his mother’s hand that crinkled like old leather in his own. But what was more surprising still was the three people stood around their table. The vendor held a small crate of apples wrapped in a rich purple ribbon tied in a bow, and his eyes were soft as he placed it on the table with a smile. The woman in the yellow dress had her hand on Mrs Palmer’s shoulder, and a wobbly smile hung on her face; her free coffee voucher lay reflecting the sun on the table. And the little girl with the violin, who had a bright smile on her face as she raised her arms to place a full tin can of money beside the apples. “Thank you.” Mrs Palmer said, as she looked at each of them in turn with a grateful smile on her face and tears lining her eyes. All of a sudden, it was as though Matthew had been struck hard in the chest with realisation. He glanced down at the laptop still clutched in his hand and drifted over to his usual booth. Sitting down, he cast a gaze outside the window. The sun was no longer angry but seemed to smile at him from in the sky, casting a gentle cloak of golden warmth across the town. It was the same sun, in the same town, at the same time, but everything had changed. For beauty can be found in any place, he thought, if you just know how to look. Matthew opened his laptop. And began to write.


SEEING THE SUNSHINE THROUGH THE STORM On a warm summer’s morning I was pleasantly woken up by the refreshing sprinkle of water from the ocean and a light kiss on my forehead from the sun that was just starting to rise. It was my 18 th birthday week so when asked what I wanted for my birthday I naturally asked my parents to take me to my favourite place, the beach. The night before   was beautiful, spent with my family, who brought in my birthday with a delicious tiramisu  cake and barbeque. The night turned to morning and everyone retired around 3am. I don’t know if it was the extreme heat, or the excitement but I was unable to sleep and decided to go for a walk on the beach. My sister also could not fall off to sleep so she decided to join me. We enjoyed walking bare-feet in the sand, as it was now cool enough to walk on compared to earlier that day. We walked as far as we could, lamenting about our childhood memories of years gone by and family holidays that would never return. I don’t know what time it was but I remember my sister still talking to me when I dozed off only to wake the next morning. I woke up to a postcard like image with the ocean glistening like diamonds from the sun’s reflection. The ocean and sun seemed to be one, separating as the sun rose higher and higher.  I watched in awe as the sun changed from red to orange to yellow and then a brilliant white, I watched till I could no longer look at it directly. My sister was still asleep, but I did not want to wake her up for selfish reasons of course, (my sister is one of those people that only keeps quite when she sleeps). I knew that if I woke her up, I would probably miss this, the most picturesque sunrise that I had ever seen. The morning was pleasant and all I wanted to do was lie there on the sand and take it all in. Being from the inland, it was rare for us to have moments like this, hence the love for the sea.

I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday present than this. I felt like I was being blessed by the Sun God who gave me my first kiss, the God of the Ocean who blessed me with the gift of fresh water and the life giving God who allowed me to breathe in fresh air. I threw back my head, arms wide open and ran towards the ocean as if trying to grab as much of the sun between my hands as possible. I fell face front into the water, then rolled onto my back and lay there waiting for the waves to go back and wash over me again and again. I felt like I was five years old, holding my breath everytime the water washed over me and giggling as it went back into the ocean. I must have lay there for hours, enjoying every moment of that day. By now my sister and parents were frolicking in the water too, the happiness I felt surpassed any number of Louis Vitton or Gucci gift that I could have received. Gifts disintegrate or are forgotten in some cupboard, but memories last forever. I am overwhelmed with emotion whenever I think of my 18 th birthday by the sea. The next few days were followed by evening walks on the beach, meals on the loft and hours in the water. My heart was heavy when I left but vowed to come back soon. On our way back home, we were involved in a gruesome accident that left me in a wheelchair. Life was never the same. Everyone else had minor injuries and my dad was swimming in guilt, apologising everyday for my condition. I learnt to live with my disability. In the beginning I was depressed and bitter as I was about to leave for University when we got home after my birthday, but that didn’t happen. I was hospitalised for 3 months after the accident with the doctors attempting surgery on my spine and legs to get me walk. After the 7 th surgery I refused to have any more operations. I accepted the fact that I would be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life. Although I could not go to the University of my choice, I was able to attend a local University and qualify with a Bachelor of Laws Degree ( cum laude ) in record time, I may add and have a very successful career as a Human Rights lawyer. I threw myself into my career and studies and obtained a Doctorate in Law by the time I was 28, just 10 years after that horrific accident. My parents were so proud of me that they wanted to do something special for me. They were in the middle of planning a graduation party, when I crashed their planning and asked if we could go to the beach instead. In the ten years since the accident nobody in my family had been back to the beach. I was in the next room, when I overheard my parents arguing about whether we should go considering all the bad memories connected with our last trip. I interrupted them saying it was all I wanted, I was not ready to face a bunch of people who would be dancing at my party, when I wasn’t able to. That settled it. The following week we were road tripping to the beach once again. Everyone was quiet throughout the 4 hour trip, not knowing what memories would be evoked. I looked out of the window most of the time, sometimes excited, sometimes sad, unable to understand  how I was feeling. We arrived at our luxurious bungalow around lunch time, we ate and retired to our rooms. I obviously had the biggest room to manoeuvre my wheelchair in, but it also had the biggest balcony with the best view of the ocean. When I woke from my afternoon siesta, the sun was beginning to set. I skilfully moved my wheelchair from my room onto the balcony where I sat watching the sunset. The sun went from a brilliant yellow to bright red and eventually disappeared behind the hills. I must have fallen off to sleep while watching the sun go down. When I woke I found someone had covered me with a light blanket, too light to keep the morning breeze at bay, nevertheless it helped. Sitting on the balcony I could see the sun rise up from behind the ocean like it had on my 18 th birthday, only this time, instead of running into the ocean I was sitting in a wheelchair on the balcony. How much had changed in 10 years I thought. How I wish I could turn back the hands of time and have things the way they were. I believe that God had heard my wish that day and sent an angel to my rescue. The man in the bungalow next to us happened to be a neurosurgeon and we got to chatting about how I ended up in the wheelchair. It so happened that he specialised in cases like mine and asked if I would be willing to give him a chance. After 10 years I was willing to try one more operation, but I wasn’t expecting too much, after all everything else had failed.  Fast forward a month, my operation was successful and I was on the road to recovery. In those ten years I faced heartache, depression, anger and sometimes emotions that I could not explain. Physically and emotionally I was drained. While I was going through those difficult years, I hadn’t realised how much I had grown. Sometimes we need to experience the storms to appreciate the sunshine.


It was dark. The wind blew through the house like a low menacing growl. The walls crawled with the dark strings of grief and sorrow. The cold air weighed heavily in the house reminding its occupants of its emptiness. His cute giggles still resonated through the house yet he was not here. The sun seemed to have taken its leave. The sky a jagged slate. It had been months yet it felt like yesterday. The sobs did not stop but they only got quieter. Tears engraved their trail so deep into their faces yet the outside couldn’t see them. The strident screams echo through the walls every night as memories of the little boy accompany her. Each day was worse. Her sanity slowly slipped from her grasp with every passing minute. Face as pale as the first morning snow. We no longer had our heartfelt conversations. Grousing about taking care of children. There was nothing left to say. I couldn’t relate. I didn’t know how it felt for a billionaire to lose their only child. I couldn’t even imagine. At least that’s what Mary told me. The only sentence she spoke to me after I told her I knew how it felt to lose a child . “It’s the constant reminder with us always in the spotlight” . Even after years, paparazzi still probe and prod on the matter just to write a juicy story. Maybe it is different for the rest of us behind the scenes. After a few months everybody has forgotten and you’re the only clinging to the tenebrous days. And nobody is willing to pull you out of the darkness. Nobody is willing to help but everybody is wishing you would just move on already. I had been their maid for seven years and had watched the young boy, Felix, grow out of his diapers. I knew him inside out. He adored his parents with every fiber in his being and cherished the time he spent with them. He was a child who loved with no limit and no regret. It was disheartening to see him lay lifeless and unmoving on the road. Struck down by a speeding car. The incision on his head was prominent as the carmine liquid inundated the road. Arms outstretched at an odd angle as if he was begging for mercy. The funeral was supposed to be short as to not draw unwanted attention but his mother held onto him like he was her last piece of life and letting him go would make all to come crushing down. Her tears cascaded down her cheeks and poured down on the bunched up creases of the black crisp suit that embraced him, hoping that maybe the fairytales were true. That he would feel her warmth, her magic, and her love seep into him and raise him out of the smothering four foot box. My melancholy heart ached in pain as a tear escaped me while I stood at the far end of the tent. Watching as her husband wretched her away from the peacefully sleeping boy, eyes red and tired.

A sharp pain wedge itself into my chest as anamneses of my late daughter tore through my mind. Holding her close to my chest hoping for a miracle that I knew deep down would not happen. Despite Mary denying it, we were cognate in so many ways. Yet society classified our grief to be of different levels even if the underlying factor was the same. I knew exactly how it felt to be ripped apart, to be stripped of what one loves and left exposed to pain and suffering. To lament for someone so long your heart can’t take any more. The nightmares that haunt you taunting that you could have done better even when it has already been done. For the following months, people from various walks of life came to give their condolences. And for months they barely spoke. Their eyes were a never ending abyss of stygian blackness weighing you down with languish every time you gaze upon them. The words of visitors falling upon death ears as they single handedly delivered a long discourse on how things will be alright in time and how they should be strong. But how is one supposed to be strong when they are in pain. I wondered whether people learnt how to console someone at the same place. It is never nothing new. The same words ringing in your head day in day out but no one really helping. It is the constant reminder that torments a grieving person. From Mary’s side it was different from my own. For her, everybody knew the tragic incident and didn’t bother to ask whilst for me, not everyone was aware. “How is your little girl, Emily?” “Uh… uh she… passed on” “I’m so sorry! My condolences” “Where is Emily?” “She … passed on a couple of months ago” “I’m sorry I didn’t know” It is having to repeat that statement over and over again like a mantra until it finally knocks me into the reality that she was indeed gone. I didn’t want to assimilate myself to my boss, I was way pass that. But her words buzzed through my head. You don’t know how it feels for a billionaire to lose their only child. I didn’t know whether she was being frank with me, condescending me for my financial state, pointing out that I had other children so it hurt way less or she uttered the words out of grief and she felt like no one understood her pain. It had come to me that she had tried to equate us, seeing who had gone through the most suffering and seeing who is at an advantage just like how society had taught her to do. The rich people’s emotions hold more value than your own because they can pay for ways to express them and for people to listen to them. My grandmother had once told me so and now I had finally witnessed it. Nobody took heed of the people in the backstage even if you were bleeding your guts out they would only notice after the show is over.


I had been told that Saut D’Eau is the Haitian celebration of the voudoun loas, or spirits, D’Ambala and Simbi, that takes place in a mountain oasis of a wonderful waterfall. It was a story that I could not miss. I told Davou, my photographer, about Saut d’Eau like I knew all about it. He got excited and we went, borrowing a Toyota Land Cruiser from a friend’s rental car business. He warned that he road was windy and that the falls were up, way up on a mountain. He was right. It was a lousy road and after numerous mechanical stalls because of the dust and eventually a wilderness roadside carburettor cleaning by the ‘greatest mechanic along the Carrefour Road’, and after eleven flat tires, that is eleven flat tires, we arrived at the town of Bonheur with about fifteen extra people also going on the pilgrimage to Saut d’Eau. They sort of joined the Toyota separately at each stop and directed us to the falls. The ever savvy Catholic Church coincidently had the Catholic miracle celebration of the Virgin in a Tree just up the street from the pretty Bonheur Chapel the same week as the popular good luck Saut D’Eau celebration. We had been told that there would be rains and there would be thunder with lightning throughout the three days of Saut D’Eau. The rains were from Simbi and the thunder and lightning from D’Ambala. The first drops started down as Davou arranged the cameras on the jeep hood for cleaning. We followed the pilgrims slipping in the mud our way down to the fall base and river start. Rounding a clump of vegetation we were treated to a glimpse of paradise. Before us in sheets of rain rising at a gradual pace were thick rivulets of falling waters, green and white and spreading pyramidically into a pool hidden by wild jungle. The shades and tints of green, climbing, hanging, lying as a bonnet to the flow of cascading thick waters. Before us rising at a gradual pace were bodies climbing, resting, bathing, in groups, solitary, drinking, coying, laughing and praying. They dressed in white, in yellows, in blues, greens and reds. Candles provided the flame of the spirit of their dedication, smoke twirling clouding in the mist of the falls and the light rain. Black skins glistening, brown skins were tanned and light skins glowing. A sight of wonder, eyes flowing upward to the falls’ beginning and the sky.

The rain came in showers and squalls whipping cool and warm, it was refreshing after the dust of the trip and the humidity of the town.

We went over to where an Italian film crew had set up to document the event from under a great banyan tree. And we were clicking: “Look at that, man.” “Get that woman in the river.” “The candles, get the smoke of the candles.” “That prayer group and the naked woman.” “Damn, look at that…” We paid no attention to each other, it was too good, too much and we had been blessed with beholding it. BOOM I looked down at my feet, a round white light exploded and imploded and vaporised. I looked up to see if anybody else had seen it and saw a man to my left and one to my right flying through the air. I turned to see Davou’s feet suspended, he clutching at his cameras protectively as he flew up and then landed on the wet uneven ground. Another man had landed with an oomph to the left of Davou. A bomb, I thought, but I was still standing. I touched my chest to assure myself that I was still alive. I looked for a place to hide, and back to Davou. “Come on man.” I called to him, as he was automatically checking his cameras, wiping wetness with his dust rag. “Okay, okay,” he looked around, “what was it, a bomb?” I looked at the one guy who had fallen slipping while running back into the bush up the trail. People were gathering around another and the other fellow was crawling toward me mumbling something. The Italians were trying to organise something for one of the fallen men. “I don’t think it was a bomb… I’m still standing. I think it was lightning.” I agreed with myself, my ears ringing it difficult to think. I looked at the branches directly over our heads. “But, lightning doesn’t strike under a tree, does it?” “It did.” Davou answered flatly, hardly masking his irritation. “What do we do, where do we hide?” “We were under a tree, man.” I reasoned, shaking the crawling man off my foot, “There is no place to hide. What the fuck this guy wants?” “Probably five Gourd.” Davou joked, referencing the beggars in Port au Prince who irritated him so much. I pulled my foot back from the guy’s groping hand as another man explained that the fallen guy wanted me to bless him and heal him. “Tell the guy to crawl over to the tree base of the banyan and rest until he sees me again, then he will be healed.” Davou chuckled. The stranger translated this and the fallen man happily mercy-ed me as he back crawled toward the trunk of the banyan. “We can’t run so let’s go to the source.” My voice called to Davou. “Hey man, let’s do something.” He responded. The light rain had stopped for a moment. The stranger begged us to be our guide and carry our cameras but we decided he was more frail than us and having the instant ability to frame your picture and tint it the way you wanted was not by ordering a part from a tired, sweaty fellow who doesn’t know what you are asking for anyway… The Italians were moving the fallen guy away with the help of the crowd on a crude stretcher. People were fanning him with palm fans as the group of them clumsily moved off. We walked, slipping and sometimes crawling through groups having spiritual ceremonies dressed in whites, mainly woven, and direct colours, people moist and dark. Many greeted us as we passed, us having to respond in a different greeting. “Bon soir, monsieur.” “Le plaisir eh moin, madame.” Bonsoir is pronounced the Haitian way similar to the French inflection when happiness is meant. In the greeting, bon is by far the predominant vowel. A flash of teeth and shy eyes seem to have to accompany the salutation by men and women. The higher we moved people would turn when we would be within three meters and greet us with smiled and bowed salutations. When we took care to be extra quiet they would feel our presence as pronounced as the jerking of heads round to view. Then they would smile and bow, urging us ahead of their ways. And the thunder and lightning accompanied us constantly with nobody seeming afraid. We looked out at the strikes shooting off in all directions and listened to the grumblings and booms without comment to each other. I felt no fear, just some need to accomplish this climb. It started the lightest of rainfall again. We arrived at a level where very few people roamed. At a four foot outcropping of stone I decided I had to urgently shit. The tropical traveler always carries toilet paper. A little hole covered by a rich brown soil later I felt totally refreshed, and this immediately after an exerted and humid climb through a peoples’ energy so uplifting it was profound. What a feeling to climb as though carried, still to enjoy the balance of footing, the climbing, the closeness of a spiritually accepting humanity, the greens, flowers, candles, waters. A rush of earthly smells, assailed only by the vivacity and freshness of flowing waters bouquets. The grace of movement among warmly intent peoples. All the while lightning crackling through active sun clouded skies horizontally, vertically, diagonally, alone, in clusters, thunder unceasing. To rid yourself, at the conclusion of the trek, of blocked passages. I rained sweat. Davou was swimming in his shirt and film carrying vest. My tee shirt, shorts and topsiders figuratively melted from my body heat. But, Davou was clicking away. I decided to go over to the falls and unattached myself from a tee shirt that tried its best not to move. People were standing on the other side of the main torrent atop a slightly rounded head of stone which gave a waterfall’s view of its creations. To get to the ledge I had to pass through the waterfall. There was a small trail behind it but that route almost gave me the notion to post a sign saying ‘other trail’. Grass grew tall on the other trail. I started descending a short slope at the beginning of the hard drops, solid wetness weighed me as I gained the centre of the hole in tone and fall. I strained to look up into its sharp rushing and discovered that I was under solid water as well as being under the fall and I was breathing. I stood there under the million fingering pressures of cascading waters in a small pool of rushing water rationalising why I should be breathing. Upon the conclusion, or near it, that enough air was present depending on the force from above at wavering levels to allow breathing, I started choking, inhaling water and choking. I ascended the hole with the help of laughing others on the ledge. When I sputtered my last sputter I looked at them and found them all standing back and staring at me. They didn’t look at me like how’d that guy get here, they looked at me like a guy who just performed a good card trick and what else did you have in your bag, my friend. I didn’t come all the way up here to perform for anybody so I thanked the ones who did for helping me and turned to look out and down upon the flow and vibrancy of colour. People becoming colours in a distantly radiating pattern of textures. I thought there must be a god to selfishly create this masterpiece of brightness to look down upon. I found my arms raised in an opening of my self to the vitality of pulsing energy in front of me. And something touched me, not like the palm of a hand but forcing, not like a strong breeze but not holdable. Inaudible sounds resonated against my chest and upper stomach. I was looking out at the river, people, jungle, horizon and sky while feeling an uneven cadence of what I could only conclude to be a spiritual essence trying to communicate with me. I could not figure out what to do to link up with this other dimension. I tried breathing, blanking out all stimulation, I tried ohms, I tried holding thought as still as a mirrored lake. It all felt false, not false but like I was trying… I lost it. Turning, I saw everybody else had their arms raised and in open eyed concentrated prayer. They wound down more or less together focusing on me and smiling, than bashfully shrugging and laughing to each other. One of the group who had spent some years studying in New York pointed out to me that my hands were glowing like day light phosphorescence. He said it was like I had been struck with lightning. I told him that I had been almost struck, maybe a foot away from the first strike of the day. His eyes opened wide.

“Can I see the stone?” “Hunh?” I answered studying my hands’ veins running with orange-yellow glowing lights. “The stone, Sobo’s stone, can I see it?” “What stone? Sobo?” “You don’t have the stone? The stone that was thrown to you from the sky?” “Naw… you think lightning is stones falling from the sky?” “Yet, you knew to come up here.” He thought aloud in English, ignoring my question. “You were touched, ya know, like blessed by Simbi or… ya see, by the stone’s being thrown to you, I mean you didn’t get hit… You were glowing, man…” “I could probably find it…” “Good. The stone is a gift to you from Dhambala, Simbi, Sobo, Erzulie, as was the glowing to mark you apart, dude. Let’s go find it.” he exclaimed softly so the others could not hear. I was gone. Back to our packs, telling Davou about the stone, us running back down the fall-side to the tree, to the spot… but no stone to be fund. We dug all round and no stone. The man we had left under the tree awakened from a rest while we were digging. As we slowed down he crawled, calling to us, on his knees, then raised a knee, squatted, raised another knee, then stood. He walked toward us saying hundred of mercies. He grabbed my hand and put it on his face where tears were falling. I told him, “You are your own strength, not me. Go, allez, monsieur.” He went bowing off and I knew I would never find the stone.


Another year had come and gone. I sobbed as I looked around the empty room. The bright pink room that was once filled to the brim with toys, books, and clothes, a perfect preservation of a 7 year old’s life, now blankly stared back at me. I turned to the corner of the room, where a bulging trash bag lay. I didn’t need to actually look, and I really couldn’t, with my vision blurred by the fat teardrops I hadn’t let fall the whole year. Yet I could imagine the contents of the trash bag: the fidget Hello Kitty toy that squished when you closed your hand around it; the assortment of colored gel pens in a sequined pencil holder; the bookmark she carefully made me at school. Looking at her roomany other day of the year would cause a fleeting, agonizing feeling that I could turn off as quickly as it came. Over the years, I had become pretty skilled at burying my feelings deep down, completing the reverse mining process of taking my memories from diamonds to pushing them back into rock, preserving them for later. But today, the feeling stayed, piercing into my chest with an enduring pain, one I deserved. I wanted to transfer this piercing pain to the person I thought warranted it the most now: my husband, for packing up all our daughter’s items like they were common trash.

******* Leading up to Christmas, she always used to make wish lists of all the toys she just

needed.  Of course, the list often poured over the page she was allotted, so I bargained with her to pare the list down so she could get her most wished-for toys under the tree.

That year, I put off shopping until the last minute. I always took Christmas Eve off so I could spend the day making tamales with my mom. So, I made a mental note to shop that morning before heading to my parents. She had bothered me for days, clenching her list in her tiny fist every day. On the last day, she ran up to me and reminded me that all of the miniature purses for her collectible dolls would be gone if I waited until the last minute. She had seen one at her favorite store, so I had to go buy it. Looking up momentarily from my phone, annoyed she had cut into my social media hour, I shushed her and told her I already knew. I would make sure to go to the store as soon as she stopped reminding me. But of course, I completely forgot to make time for that shopping trip that fateful morning as I rushed out the door. My mind was a jumble as I gathered all the tamale ingredients, my pressure cooker, my utensils, and my

mandil , as I would most definitely need to keep my clothes clean for the various Christmas parties after we were done cooking.

The rest of the day, or rather days ,  passed by in a festively-induced blur, as it usually does every Christmas season. My mom and I rushed through the preparing and cooking of 4 dozen tamales, then we promptly opened all their presents so we could get to the next 2 grandparents’ houses. After all the parties and overnight stays, we finally made our way home to open our little family presents. It was now the 26th of December, and with a guilty pang, I finally remembered that I had forgotten to go to my daughter’s favorite store to get her last wished for item: the miniature purses. I remember the guilt lasted in that moment for only a second. She would just have to make do with the gifts that had already been purchased. There were more than enough gifts under the tree: over 10 packages proudly declared her name, including one lavish gift that was well over $100, plus more gifts she had already received from extended family. This thought placated my guilt, quieting it for the next week as she played with all her new gadgets.

My family’s quiet did not last for long. I will forever remember the morning of January 1 as the worst day in my existence. My sweet girl decided to let us sleep in, recovering from our long New Year’s Eve the night before. She changed, walked out our front door, and took the 3 block trek to her favorite store, confident she knew the walk from the times she had gone with her aunt. She was almost there, yet thwarted by a motorcycle that was unbothered to stop at a red light and fled the scene after taking our baby’s life. ******* I walked to the corner wall where the trash bag lay, letting my back thump against the wall and releasing control of my legs, sliding down to the floor with a hard plop, landing just next to it. I lay my head gingerly on the trash bag, unable to open it and place everything back in its rightful area. Instead, I let odd ends and sharp corners dig into my cheek, the side of my arm, and my ribs; allowing the poking areas of my body to feel sharp discomfort was the only sensation tethering me to this physical world. If it wasn’t for that, I would have been swallowed whole by the ocean of my grief. My tears had already started a small pond, pooling at my lap as the fading light and growing shadows indicated the hours had passed. For the past few hours, my sobs had filtered out all other outside noises, the most effective type of white noise. Now, I vaguely registered the shutting sound of the front door and the heavy, familiar footsteps ascending the stairs. I couldn’t bear to face my husband right this second, so I remained on the floor, still pressed against my comforting trash bag. Maybe if I stayed completely still he wouldn’t notice me, leave me to my grief and protect himself against my oncoming rage. As he opened the pink door, my wishes were not granted. He immediately looked at my corner, eyes growing wide as he saw my disheveled body draped on the floor. Silently, he walked the small distance between us and sat down next to me, gingerly placing his head on my lap.

“Do you want me to put it all back?” He asked, in a voice barely above a whisper. “I thought 10 years would have been enough”.

“100…years…would…not…be…enough,” I managed to get out in between gasping sobs.

He sat up, held my face in his hands, and gave me a slow peck on the forehead. He then stood, bent down, and scooped me up in his arms as easily as lifting the trash bag next to me. As quickly and silently as he walked in to the room, he took me out of the room and laid me on our bed. He carefully covered me with a blanket, then walked out. With a heavy heart and matching eyelids, I dozed off. The next morning, as I stared at her complete room once more, I could breathe again. My memory diamonds were back in their places, mined into the walls of that pink room. My heart will never be completely repaired, or as shiny-happy as when she was here, but it would do for now.


Jack stood at the doorway, stooped, with his hand held up and pointing at the doorbell, but unable to actually push the little steel button. He felt the tickling sensation as drops of sweat rolled down from his forehead, and he felt hot in his chest but cold everywhere else. In his frozen stillness, he began thinking over the vents of the past few weeks and what he had to say. It took him numerous calls just to find the address. He could no longer make contact with his son any other way, so he had to go over to his house. It took him two hours get there, during which time, he practiced all the things he would say to him. Upon his arrival, he felt ready; he stormed out of the car with a straight back and a determined face, his steps fearless and strong, but as he was nearing the mansion, his legs started to weight more and more, making his movement rigid, his shoulders leaned inwards and his heart started pounding faster. With his confidence vaporized, his body froze in a position of stillness at the door. It’s been more than ten years since he saw his son. Ten years ago, he briefly appeared on his son’s wedding and wished him good luck for the future, then went back to the office to run the accounts. During the following ten years, times changed, and he changed with them. He realized his errors in his life, and the biggest of all was his relationship with his son. It took him a great effort to pick up the phone and call him, but he did it, and they talked. That conversation still haunted his mind, and he could still recall all that was said. “Hello. You have reached William Fisher, executive director of Fisher & Thom’s Ltd,” Jack was nervous even as he dialed the number, but hearing his son speaking made his face turn ashen. “Hey Will. It’s me…” After moments of silence he continued. “It’s me, your father.” “Oh, right. Hey dad. I didn’t recognize your voice,” Will’s own voice was rigid without a trace of cheerfulness. “Hey son. I wanted to call you… It’s been so long since I saw you, and I-I…” “Yes, it’s been a few years, hasn’t it?” Will suddenly cut him off. “Don’t worry about it, dad. How is business doing these days?” “Yes, it’s good. Everything is great there, but that’s not the real reason…” “Have you finally fired that Joseph Pierce – I remember he always gave you headaches.” “Listen, son. I’m not here to talk about Joseph Pierce or the firm; I’m here to apologize to you.” “For what?” There was real surprise in Will’s voice, which scared Jack more than an outburst would have. “I’ve done some pretty bad things in the past, and I want start over. I want us to be a family again.” “But dad, what are you talking about? We are still a family,” he said in a carefree, emotionless voice that made Jack’s eyes watery. “Yes,” Jack said quaveringly, “but I want to see you again, I want to get to know you and…” “Sorry dad,” like a sudden icy breeze Will’s voice hit him in the head, “I’m getting a call on the other line. Listen, don’t worry about it. I will talk to you some other day. Bye.” And his son hung up before he could even say goodbye. After that initial conversation, he made more attempts, but all were in vain. He thought that Will just didn’t want to talk to him anymore, but he desperately wanted to make this one thing right. He wanted to show his son that he cared about him. He wanted to show Will that for once in his life he would be there for him. He wanted to try to be a father for once. He had one phone number; he didn’t even remember Will’s wife’s name; and he had no idea where they lived. So he did the only thing he could, and he called up friends and family members he hadn’t seen in years in an attempt to learn his son’s location. After the tenth call, an old family friend gave him the address, and he set out on an early sunny morning with an optimistic smile on his face, and a plan in his mind. He imagined how surprised Will would be, when he would see his old man at the door. His son would invite him to his house, and Jack would apologize for all the years he was not there for him and all the times he missed from his life. Then he would tell how he realized that the connections are all that truly matter to a person: not work, not travelling, not the colleagues; but the truly important connections – the ties of family. Then, they would both look sideways with watery eyes, and Jack would mutter ‘I love you, son’, and his son would whisper an ‘I love you, dad’ and they would give each other a manly hug. The vision in his mind was crystal clear, but walking towards the door it became murky, and he was forgetting all the script in his mind. His heart was pounding and his limbs anchored down, unable to move. Come on, man , he thought to himself, it’s now or never. He will be happy to see you no matter what. Just talk from the heart. And with that idea, he pressed the doorbell and heard a ringing sound resonating inside. After a few seconds, which seemed like hours to Jack, muffled footsteps came closer and closer until the door opened. It was him. Will’s face didn’t even twitch as their eyes met. He had stern, commanding features making him quite handsome. As Jack examined his son’s face, he realized that Will was more and more reminiscent to his younger self back in the old days, when he was still working at Wall Street. He was even wearing a delicate suit, which seemed strange, since it was a Sunday afternoon. Jack felt like he was looking into a mirror to his past. “Hey, son,” he said, but the other one still looked vaguely at him, then with a light of recognition, his face turned into a half smile. “Oh, hey dad. I didn’t expect you. You should have called,” he was leaned at the doorframe with his hands around his chest, seemingly blocking the entrance. “I tried to call you, but you didn’t…” “Oh, you must have called my old number. I only use that phone to make personal calls, but mostly I use my business phone.” “Right,” Jack glanced down. “Listen I wanted to come here to talk to you personally.” “Well, you are here. What did you want to say?” “Son, I know I was a terrible father, and I wanted to apologize for the past and…” “Oh, this again? Dad, you were not a terrible father. You didn’t do anything to me. Why are you crying?” Jack wiped his watery eyes and looked into Will’s eyes. “Look, son. I was absent from your childhood; I was never there for you, and I was always busy with my nonsense: my career, travelling to exotic places and making money. But I want you to know I have changed and I want you to know from now on, you can count on me. Of course I understand if you don’t want me in your life, but I just wanted to apologize.” Jack’s eyes were solemn, contrary to Will’s, whose face remained rigid with a half-smile and cold eyes. “Look dad, I appreciate you coming here, but I don’t really have the time right now. I have a plane leaving in an hour, and I have to get ready.” “I-I understand. Where are you going?” “I have a meeting in Norway. I will be away for a few weeks and…” Will was interrupted by someone calling out for him. Jack glanced inside and couldn’t believe his eyes – it was a little girl there, maybe six years old. He didn’t even know that his son had a child. “Daddy, who are you talking to?” The little girl asked and Jack’s face shone at the sense of having a grandchild. “It’s nobody, dearie. Get back inside, I will join you soon.” And as soon as she came out, she was gone. “I didn’t even know you had a child,” Jack’s throat was dry and his voice muffled. “I have two actually. Now, listen this meeting is really important. It was good to see you, dad, but as I said I have business to attend to.” The door shut before him, before he could even say goodbye. The words of his son still echoed in Jack’s mind: nobody – when the girl asked who he was talking with, he said nobody , he though. So is this what I became: just a nobody? Maybe I was always a nobody to him – no wonder he’s so cold towards me. He doesn’t even hate me; he just barely knows me. On his way home, Jack didn’t think about anything, then stepping into his house he began repeating the conversation in his mind. He didn’t see any possibility to ever visit Will again: his son didn’t even give him his proper phone number – his business phone’s number. The whole conversation sounded like he was arguing with his former self: with someone, who doesn’t care about the people around him, puts on a fake smile for conversing, and places financial success above all else. Did his son really become like that? Or was it just a strange resemblance to his own past? With all his heart, Jack hoped Will wouldn’t turn out like he did, because that would result in negligence towards his family, a divorce and years later a bitter realization about all the mistakes he made. Eventually, he would realize that there would be nobody to save him from his crippling loneliness, not even his own family. Only time could tell. And Jack could do nothing, because he was just a nobody, a passing ghost in his son’s life.


I saw it happening in real time. Happening to me, right before my eyes, and there was nothing I could do about it. It was like a dream I often have, where I’m being chased by something or someone, probably myself, but can’t get away. It’s not that I get caught, but I get bored and just give up. Sit on the curb, and wait. Nothing happens, no noise, no lightning, no visions, or ascensions, nothing.

This is different. It feels different, because I’m awake no doubt, or at least I think I am, but then I’ve been known to nod off in the middle of a sentence.

I could see the wall of frozen water, a tsunami of manipulated snow, or God had flushed the toilet again. I should run, I know I should run, but I’m unable to move, frozen as if I was just pulled from the freezer and left to watch myself thaw. I can hear people yelling at me to get out, head for higher ground. The sires are screaming, the birds are flocking, the wild flowers in my mind are doing nothing. It is as if they understand there is nothing you can do, so why try. The inevitable has arrived by first class mail. I am not a defeatist type person. I’ve always believed there is always something that can be done. To just sit there and wait for the inconceivable is just not me. I’ve been told that I’ve been known to squeeze eleven pennies out of a dime. I don’t remember doing that, but I do believe we can all do more with less. Problem is, there are people who believe therefore, that you can do everything with nothing. An improbable probability that takes on meaning only when you refuse to believe in probability, as it takes away your ability to improve, change, survive the un-survivable. I know that is perceived to be an oxymoron, but what is life, if not a wall papered with oxymorons. I would rather look for the end of eternity than sit and wait to see if what I’ve been told is true, inevitable, and there is nothing I can do to change God’s mind about the concept of no beginning, no end.

If that snowball hits me in the eye, I could be blinded for life. End up living on the street because no one will hire a cyclops, no matter how good a person, or how optimistic one is. And all because of the physics and natural attributes of the combination of water and cold. It seems unfair, but then what is fair.

I saw the arm cocked, the snowball cradled in the palm of a red mitten, and yet I found it impossible to believe someone could be so cruel as to throw ice projectile at me and not envision the retribution I would bestow upon them with ferocity of Zeus. Sure they may only be having fun, but it won’t be fun for me, living in an abandoned car, not having enough money to feed a pet I always wanted but was forbidden to have.  And being that grotesque one-eyed guy who people cross the street to avoid, and being grotesque isn’t even catching. All I can do at this point is grit my teeth, and accept my fate. # Good God! Can he get more melodramatic when all he has to do is duck. I’ve known him for his entire life and I realize he thinks differently than the rest of the universe, or at least the universe I’m aware. He tends to clamor on about rising above adversity, climbing out of hell because his being damned for being contemplative, had to be a mistake. He was always a reason to, or an example of, questioning the impossible, but trying, just to find out for sure.

Just think about it. If you were behind a frozen wall of packed snow, an ice fort, and were involved in a war with the neighborhood kids who were although physically more advanced than you, but considered by you to be androids disguised as humans, when the arm comes forward, wouldn’t you duck?

It is not his fault really, he was born a prognosticator, a Democrat in a Republican family. When his father rants and raves about pulling and bootstraps, he considers the make and value of materials used, and how and who made them. He is opposed to exploitation of people, especially children, probably because he is one, physically at least. Maturity factors: let’s say Alzheimer’s. He could apply for social security and probably get it.

Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing discriminatory about looking at something from every angle before deciding if you like the shape, color, weight, quality, to determine if it will fulfil its needs. But it is the criteria needed to make that decision, that drives everyone crazy. And so the conundrum for some, an inevitability for him. To duck or not to duck, that is the question.

Of course it could have been tempting fate by walking on an ice-covered skating rink, sliding down a tree strewn hill, or attempting to navigate the ski jump at the snow park on a toboggan. All seemingly simple choices unless you are him. But not being him all we can do is watch in expectation and attempt to conjure meaning from ill conceived conceptualization, or reasoning from dubious fatally conceived results, no matter the infusion of faith. I have watched him on several occasions similar to the one being analyzed. On one such occasion skiing from the bumper of a car unbeknownst to the driver on newly slicked streets of the first ice storm. Dry patches are less rare than you would imagine and once encountered leave little to renegotiate before leaving substantial amounts of skin behind as tip for destiny. Sometimes, no matter the contemplation, the planning, theorizing, the actuarial tables; the worst occurs. Sometimes it doesn’t. No one knows why. We can speculate as to the reasons one looses an eye while another receives new glasses and is cautioned to be more careful. I watch as he eyes the snow-covered ice ball heading for him. I can visualize the cogs is his mind spinning like deranged second hands of the alligator’s clock. Him weighing the probability of the improbable, knowing he will receive his metaphysical answer within a fraction of a second, and yet continuing to argue with himself over the percentages necessary to drive him to fate of an abandoned vehicle. I watched as the iced meteor slid silently through our universe passed him and exploded on the rear wall of our fort. He said nothing, just smiled, made the sign of the cross knowing it had all been unnecessary as he knew, as I knew, the neighbor boy although oversized in body, and undersized of mind, through like a girl, before anyone bothered to show girls the proper way to use their weight and dexterity to throw the perfect snowball, that always finds its mark.


"LMAO, Bitch. You can't actually be serious," Amy smirked down at me.

She's always had it out for me, and I don't know why. We were friends in Kindergarten and 1st grade, when we both joined Pierre Deaumont Charter. In 2nd grade, we had been put in separate

classes, so we started to grow apart. I had never dreamt that we'd be enemies though! Yet it had happened. In 3rd grade, we were once again in different classes, but she went out of her way to find me and tease me. She had blossomed into a bully by 4th grade. Elsewhere, she'd be the stereotypical popular girl, but here at Charter, well, they're different. They don't like to admit that they have those kinds of kids too. Social hierarchy? Can't be! Not at Charter! They like to think that the Social Emotional classes they provide us with, along with the 'all round energy of peace and acceptance' -their words, not mine- have changed us all greatly for the better. They like to think that they aren’t like other schools. Well, here’s the truth: that’s just as stupid as the whole not like other girls thing. But whatever.

I glared at her and stood up. While I sat, she towered over me in her 3” heels(which she should not be wearing to school!), but when I stood up, I was taller. I’m the tallest girl in 6th grade, which annoys my parents, because they don’t want me to grow too much before I get my period and then be stunted, but it’s not like I’m that tall. It’s just that the kids here are waaaaaaaay short. Literally, the 2nd tallest girl is 4’7”. In 6th grade. Seriously. Like, what are they smoking???? JK, JK, even if we do have a social hierarchy, we truly don’t have any smokers, vapers or stoners, so that’s nice. And our school has a high school section too on the same campus.

“Shut up, Amy. And maybe zip your fly,” I smiled, grabbed my books, my four person group of friends stepping in besides me on our way to advisory. Amy wasn’t even wearing any zippers, except for the one on her leather jacket- REAL leather, talk about horrible!- but she hadn’t realized that yet, so ha! I know, I know, how immature, but I couldn’t help myself!

“Forget about her, Anusha. That witch will move on soon if you ignore her. You need to stop humoring her, or she’ll keep annoying you,” my friend Aalini fancies herself some kind of psychologist. It’s usually hilarious, the things she says, but also often annoying.

I playfully swatted her arm, “Aali, bbg, don’t you see that lovely look on her face though? She’s still trying to figure out where her zipper is!”

Lana, Athena and Norie laughed with me, but Aalini just rolled her eyes. Our laughs sounded so interesting together. My deep chuckle, Norie’s sweet giggle, and Lana and Athena’s high pitched cackles. They are twins, and though they’re, like, SUPER different in every other way, their laughs and voices are exactly the same. They moved here to NorCal (that’s North California) from Greece 2 years ago, but they only joined Pierre Deaumont last year, in 5th grade. After a while, Aalini finally joined in, snorts popping up in between her sharp bursts of laughter. I knew she’d give in, since she can never be upset for more than 5 minutes. I remember one time, in 3rd grade, when we first became friends, we had met because she was mad at her brother and was ignoring him. No joke, 3 minutes later, she ran back and apologized to him profusely. It had been hilarious, watching him shake his head at her.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of something whizzing through the air, and then I felt something smack me in the back- super hard! It knocked me over and I fell to the ground, all the wind knocked out of me. I heard my friends turn and start shouting at Amy and her idiot squad of jerks, who were tittering. Norie bent down beside me. “Are you ok? Of course not, here let me help you up. I’ll take you to the office, ok? Yeah, and then we can tell the teachers- sorry, educators- that it was that horrible witch and her sniveling sycophants. Ooh and then we can tell them about all their other horrible deeds!” Two things to know about Norie- she is very caring and kind, but she also doesn’t really listen to people and she almost never stops talking. She’s also the only one of my friends who doesn’t get upset at me when I use- in their terms- fancy smart person words. Instead, Norie goes as far as to adopt them, peppering them through her speeches. I swear, she’s gotta have some sort of, like, notebook somewhere, where she documents all the ‘fancy smart person words’ (like sniveling sycophants) that I say, since she can’t seem to remember, like, anything else.

I turned onto my side to face her. “Norie, bbg, I’m fine, well, I’m not, but I just need some rest. You can help me to get to the office, but I don’t want to deal with anything about that idiot right now. My head hurts too much for me to care enough. It hurts too much for me to get this sentence out!”

She smiles at me. “Okay, I can do the talking. You just rest, and I’ll carry you there- actually no. I’ll call the girls and we can all carry you! It’ll be a team effort, like this school loves!”

I craned my head to look at our other friends, who were still bothering the jerks. Aalini was shouting insults - I was astonished that the teachers hadn’t yet arrived!-, Athena was writing a list of all the things that the witch and her jerks had done to us- it was fixing to be very long. It was already up to her waist!-, and Lara was recording the whole thing, while bragging to Amy about how she had the newest phone, while Amy had last year's model. She never talked like that to us, and we didn’t have any phones(well, I had the model from 6 years ago, but that doesn’t count!).

“Um, okay. Norie, sure. But first I have something to say,” I winked.

She beamed at me and helped me stand up. Then, she supported me and we waddled over to where Amy and her jerks were still standing. She saw me and turned from my friends, poking her minions in the back. The 6 of them glared at us, then smirked. “What do you want , idiot?” she sneered.

“Just a quick question, honey ,” she looked confused, “Why do you hate me so much?”


We ran screaming for the car. Jesse fell twice on the way. The first time I helped him up as he looked behind us. The second time I could hear the thuds. The water held in the pot holes were vibrating with each thud. Either he would make it to the car, or he wouldn’t.

I heard him scrambling and scraping on the wet asphalt trying to get traction in his Vans. Great shoes for boarding, terrible shoes for running away. “Shit, shit, shit,” I heard Jesse repeat over and over again as he loped for the car in flinging array of arms, legs, and stringy wet hair. I ran around the hood sliding in the rain and grasped the driver’s side door handle on my way down. Thumb pressed on the button; the door swung open as I went sprawling. I heard a thump as something hit the passenger door followed by rapid pounding. “Hurry man, you gotta unlock the door! It’s right behind me!” I climbed out of the puddle, using the door as support, unlocking the doors as I slid behind the wheel. Jesse quickly got in slamming the door and repeatedly hitting the lock button. I didn’t think locked doors would help us, but you have to give an A for effort. I smashed the ignition button and the Mustang roared to life.

We hydroplaned sideways as I gunned the gas. Jesse was yelling, “Terry we have to go! It’s gaining!” I gritted my teeth and hung on to the wheel for all I was worth, spinning the wheel madly to keep us out of a one-eighth where we would face whatever was chasing us. The Mustang peeled and fishtailed leaving us both screaming, but forward momentum was finally achieved. I never saw what was chasing us. As we pulled out of the empty warehouse parking lot a distraught screech could be heard. We sped down the street once the Mustang achieved purchase, and my white-knuckle grip on the wheel did not let up. I glanced back in the rearview mirror; I could still feel the thudding footsteps in my bones. I didn’t see anything, just rain glistening in street lights. Nothing was there at all.

Jesse turned around in his seat looking out the rear window, “Shit. We could have died Terry. Who would have thought the stories were true? Do you think it will follow us?” I glanced over at Terry, “How the hell should I know? I’m not a monster expert. I didn’t even believe the stories. You were the one who thought they might be true!” Jesse slid back in his seat as I turned a corner on three wheels. “It didn’t seem to be following us… Or at least I didn’t see it leave the parking lot. I think you can slow down now Terry and put your seat belt on if you’re going to drive like Steve McQueen.” I did another quick glance, “Thanks for the advice mom,” and rolled my eyes. We just escaped with our lives, but from what? I let off the gas after we were about a mile or so away and latched my belt, “Better?” Jesse was wringing out his hair in my floor board, “Yeah man. We don’t want to get pulled over by the cops after all that. I don’t think I could do another adrenaline dump tonight.” We were both doing that nervous chuckling you do when you recover from a trip before you smack the pavement. Like, “Heh, heh, that was close.” I drove to a park not too far from the neighborhood where Jesse and I grew up together. I needed to make sense of what had just happened and get a grip on myself before heading home.

I parked the car facing the water feature in the pond. The water feature was redundant with the rain still coming down. It didn’t matter any ways; the park was a dark Monte painting behind my windshield in the rain. I looked around the park before everything was smudged out of view to verify, we were alone. No lovers parking, no kids smoking joints outsight from mom and dad, not even a bird to be seen in the parking lot. Just my Mustang, just Jesse and me sitting in the pouring raining attempting to calm down after what we hadn’t really seen. Jesse blew out a sigh, unbuckled his seat belt, and folded forward in the passenger seat hugging his knees. I stared at him as I tried to get a grip on my own scared addled mind and process what had just happened. He turned his head to look at me through the curtains of his dark hair, “That was for real right?” I still had a firm grasp on the wheel, “Yeah. At least I know a heard something, and I know I felt something, but I didn’t see anything. Did you?” He sat back in his seat pulling his hair behind him, “I saw something. It was dark and huge, but through the rain that’s all I could see.” There was silence for a few moments, nothing but the patter of the rain on the roof of my car. I looked out into the shadows of the park. I could have sworn I saw something move in the dark gloom, but after a few more moments of nothing I decided it was my imagination. Terry interrupted my paranoid scanning of the park, “Should we tell someone? Like the police or something?” “Yeah, and what do we tell them Jesse? My friend and I were trespassing in the old, abandoned warehouse on 36th and this monster chased us out of there. No, I’m sorry officer we did not see what kind of monster it was. We only know it had to be big.” I rolled my eyes, “They’ll think we’re crazy or playing a prank. Either way, we will be the ones in trouble.” Jesse looked at me in disbelief, “But don’t you think people need to know? What if someone else goes out there and gets killed? How would you feel about that?” I turned in my seat to glare at him, “I tell you what Jesse, tell your parents and let me know how that goes. Ten bucks says they will say something about you being high and not go out there again.” Jesse glared back at me for a few moments before slamming back in his seat and saying, “I guess you’re right.” I shook my head in frustration, “Might as well go home now.” “Yeah,” Jesse said sullenly. I hit the ignition button, and the lights came on. Somehow the monster had found us. It started running towards my car. The quick thuds shaking the car and rattling my brain. I could not believe what I was saw. I reached for the gear shift, but the mechanics of how to shift left my mind in the moment of pure terror. The last thing I heard as the creature grabbed the roof of my car was Jesse saying, “What the…!”


Twiddling By Gavin Matthew Henrietta sat contemplating, her booth occupied with three others. It was a slow night at the Ellipsis Diner. Missouri rain and rolling thunder encouraged most of the city’s people to stay home where it was dry and safe. Henrietta and her crew had the eatery to themselves except for three waitresses and two other patrons. “You should have just let me k . . .” started Charlie before Henrietta nudged his shoulder. He was a burly man with skin like midnight and a stare that could petrify Medusa herself, but Henrietta didn’t care about his gruesome gaze. She just needed him to shut up. He wasn’t talking to her but his complaining was beginning to work her nerves. “We are in a public place, fool. Show a little more decorum,” Henrietta whispered as her almond eyes matched Charlie’s glare. He was a foot taller and several pounds heavier but she wasn’t intimidated. Henrietta had always been slender with chestnut skin and a full halo of natural hair. Her appearance never stopped her from living her life on her terms. Even her Coke bottle glasses did little to hinder the respect she demanded. “Should have let me . . .” Charlie continued as he returned his gaze across the table. “Shake his hand.” Prancer, an elegant woman dressed in a houndstooth coat with a low-cropped afro, shook her head with disappointment as her narrow eyes challenged Charlie. “See. That’s your problem right there. Chuck, you too damn eager to shake hands. Half our jobs would end smoother if you stopped trying to shake hands with a suckah.” “Oh?” Charlie shrugged as he leaned back, his leather jacket subtly squeaking against the booth cover. “I think Quincy would agree with me on this one.” Henrietta rubbed the side of her head as she brought her eyes forward across the table. Quincy had slipped out of consciousness a little after they had sat down. His skinny brown form seemed blemished by the massive black eye decorating his left socket. Rainwater clung to his corybantic afro while blood stained his purple corduroy jacket and bell-bottom jeans. A pair of large circular glasses, bent and cracked, bafflingly held onto the ridge of his nose. Henrietta couldn’t help but think of how pretty Quincy was before he got his ass kicked.

“You can’t speak for him,” said Prancer. “He doesn’t care for when you . . . shake hands either. We all say the same thing. Quincy. Me. Hell, even Henrietta would prefer you didn’t try to shake so many hands when we’re on a job.” “Come to think of it, we’re fussing about the wrong thing here. Where were you, Prancer, when Quincy was getting . . .” Charlie started, only stopping as their waitress arrived. “What can I get you folks tonight?” asked the young girl as she fiddled with the hem of her pastel uniform. “Could you please start us off with a round of coffee?” Henrietta said. “Black with a couple of sugars for me, cream for the big guy next to me, likewise for the foxy lady, and straight black for sleeping beauty over there.” “Alright. Is he copacetic?” asked the young girl as she looked at Quincy’s slumped-over figure, his head resting awkwardly against the wall. “He’s cool. Rough night, you know. Just needs something hot and black,” replied Henrietta. The waitress gave another concerned look but shrugged off the worry before strolling away with the orders. Henrietta and her crew watched her clear the diner floor before turning back to one another.

“When Quincy was in . . . conversation?” Charlie finished, his eyes surveying the other patrons sitting within earshot. “Where was I?!” Prancer scoffed. “The goddamn . . . conversation was happening on the second floor and Leon . . .” “Ahem,” Henrietta warned, raising her eyes to Prancer. “And . . . the politician,” Prancer corrected and growled. “Talked me through the goddamn window!” Prancer attempted to whisper but the vitriol in her statement still caused the crew to check for listeners. Charlie managed to clear his throat as his eyes went big. “What?” Charlie replied. “For real? You look fine. No cuts. No tears. Your hair is still in place. Still look like an Ebony model to me.” “That’s because I got myself together in the van afterward, despite Henrietta flying down Prospect like a bat out of Hell.” “Damn,” Charlie grinned. “You really should have let me shake his hand.” Henrietta continued her quiet contemplation as Prancer and Charlie went back and forth nitpicking one another. Her thoughts were elsewhere, their bickering becoming white noise behind her thoughts. That job should have been a cakewalk. It should have been an in-and-out kind of gig. There was no indication that the politician would have been a problem or that they would have needed more than one safecracker. Henrietta remembered hearing the window crash. By the time she and Charlie had made it up to the second floor, Quincy was in no condition to finish the job. The mark put up a good fight for a statesman and judging by how he brawled for his property, it was fair to say he might have given Jim Kelly a run for his money. “Prancer,” Henrietta interjected, cutting through the arguing. “Check if Qunicy is still alive.” “He’s breathing fine,” Prancer answered as she felt her friend’s chest rise and fall with a steady rhythm. “Great. Now wake him up just in case he’s concussed.” Prancer managed to get Quincy to stir, carefully bringing him out of his slumber. He took a moment to look around. The bright lights of the diner seemed to spear at his eyes while the monotonous rain tapping from outside pounded at his ears like an orchestra. Everything focused and settled within a few seconds but a stone of ache still sat lodged at the base of his skull.

“Oh right,” Quincy mumbled and covered his eyes as his memory revived itself. “What do we do no, boss?” Quincy was always professional. It was one of his most charming qualities. Nothing else mattered in the face of his work. His domestic issues, financial problems, love life, etc. Not a single thing deterred his focus on a job. Such a centered mind was to be expected from a safecracker who enjoyed his work. Henrietta admired his laboriousness. She even thought at one point he was homeless but nobody could say for sure because all Quincy ever talked about, moved for, was business. “You sure you’re tip-top?” “I’m aces, boss. Trust me,” Quincy comforted with a weak smile. “So what’s the skinny on our situation now?” Henrietta let out a deep breath before nodding to Prancer. “Dig this,” Prancer began, conducting her hands for emphasis. “After our conversation with the politician went sideways, Henrietta managed to bring him low with some well-placed words. Low enough for Chuck to have the last word, right? But by then he had already worn you out with all the talking so we couldn’t finish the project without you. Then Chuck was mad about you getting overwhelmed by the conversation and wanted to shake the statesman’s hand. You know how he is always trying to shake some fool’s hand on the job? Needless to say, we had to stop Chuck from shaking hands and we didn’t get our project funded. Henrietta figured it was time to call it a night and didn’t waste a second agitating the gravel. So the politician was brought low but didn’t get his hand shaken, our urban project didn’t get funded, and we all ended up here at the Ellipsis Diner for a brief reprieve. Now we’re just twiddling our thumbs, ya dig?” Quincy nodded, slow and pointedly, as the crew watched and waited in silence. His face indicated that his mind was putting the puzzle together but the seconds bled into minutes. The waitress had stopped by to drop off the coffee and then left again after everyone declined a meal. All four had taken sips of their drinks as they continued to wait for Quincy’s understanding and confirmation. “Okay,” Quincy said before taking a long swig of his steaming black coffee. “Now Prancer, what the hell are you talking about?” End For Now


Blank. That is how you would have described the whole world in the beginning. There was nothing but darkness and a spirit splashing about in a vast bottomless ocean. The figure, a child with a round face and big eyes was young, only two thousand nine hundred and twenty days old. The child’s name was Nimij and he is the divine.

The story goes that in the empty space, Nimij floated about in the water. His small, pudgy hands splashing excitedly, causing ripples to appear in the water. The circles forming one, two, three at a time. The high pitch giggles that racked the small child’s body caused the water to quiver. Sometimes it was lonely in the water. When he was lonely, he would pull off some of his skin and place it in the water. His mind imagining features that he desired to see on a different person. Nimij ended up making five friends in total, four older and one younger than him. Each one eventually shriveled up and died. Their corpses formed uninhabited land. After each one’s short-lived era, Nimij’s heart started to grow still. There was no reason for it to sing or beat.

When the child made it to eight thousand seven hundred and sixty days, he attempted to make another friend. His flesh had finally mended back to its soft olive complexion after the last attempt of making his last friend Koesoh. Nimij placed his arm to his lips and let his teeth remove the skin, leaving an oval with a crooked outline. The copper flooded his mouth as he took the skin from his mouth and laid it on top of the water next to him. His brain pictured a male, the same age as him with dark curls, big brown almond eyes, a big nose, and thin lips that were rosier than his own. His forearm sunk into the dark pool, blood forcing bubbles and foam to come to the surface. Nimij watched as the familiar ritual took place. The skin stretched and retracted as it tried to wipe up the spill. As Nimij watched the body form its limbs and hair, he couldn’t help but feel the energy that came off of the new form. It was nothing he had ever felt before when he created a friend. It felt...felt happy, innocent, bright. When the new mold sat up in the water, he gasped sharply. Nimij took note of how the white of his new friend’s eyes played peek-a-boo with him. He also took in a small feature his subconscious had added to his new friend. A spot tattooed the tip of his long nose giving him a little more definition. Nimij would lie if he said he didn’t find it endearing. He would be a liar if he said that he wasn’t fascinated or proud of the new friend his brain came up with. He would be a liar…

“Hello,” the man spoke in a deep, intoxicating voice. It took Nimij by surprise, his subconscious had never created a friend that sounded this way. All of the other friends had soft and high voices. The man’s voice made Nimij feel something. Something that wasn’t there for the others. Something that made Nimij feel the beat of his heart. The organ was practically useless due to never showing off its perfect soft melody.

“Hi,” Nimij whispered, biting his bottom lip. The beautiful friend in front of him makes him hesitate. The words in his head do not make sense. He stared at his new creation for a minute longer. Names circled around in his head, but none of them seemed to fit. Then the letters formed, the sound formed, and before he knew it, the name left his lips. “Gnuyheat,” the word makes his tongue bounce, “your name is Gnuyheat.”

“And what is your name,” Gnuyheat asked him.

“Nimij.”

“Ni-mij,” the newborn pronounced each syllable carefully. He let the name absorb into his new brain. The younger male even took in Nimij’s appearance. Gnuyheat took in everything about him from the way his eyes moved slowly and how he played with the water with rising anxiety. “I...like your name,” Gnuyheat added after the silence dragged for too long.

“Thank you.”

For days and weeks, they talked. They talked about many things from Nimij to the abyss to the land in the water. The two males smiled, laughed, and stared at one another soaking in their presence as best as they could. They understood each other well. Gnuyheat knew how to make Nimij smile to the point of his eyes closing and his crooked smile broaden. Nimij knew how to get a hardy laugh and the most beautiful ideas Gnuyheat’s brain could come up with. One idea struck Nimij with curiosity.

         Gnuyheat had raised the question of what if there were more spirits that looked like them, but they lived on the islands in front of them. Then with a smile, he said, “What if it was no longer dark on the islands?” Nimij of course just stared at him with a smile. “We could watch over them and help them build their own place.” “If,” Nimij had said, “if there were more of them, I would run out of flesh.” “What if we use some of mine,” Gnuyheat had offered. “Before I wither away.” “I do not want you to do that. I want you for as long as I can have you with me. Now, let’s drop the idea and move on, alright?” Gnuyheat only nodded before he changed the subject to how he didn’t like the shape that the combined bodies made.

Unfortunately, Gnuyheat’s soft skin soon began to wrinkle just like everyone else had. Nimij was watching his best friend wither away just like his other friends had. His handsome face was slowly deteriorating as well, but to Nimij, Gnuyheat was still the most beautiful creature he had ever made. It was eighty-seven days later when Gnuyheat died. His skin was leathery and his eyes were opaque. Nimij had pulled Gnuyheat over to him, tears in his eyes. The two sat in the silent vacuum. Nimij listened to the shaky breaths that left his friend and Gnuyheat listened to the harsh beating of his best friend’s heart.

“I don’t want you to go,” Nimij had said as he caressed the black curls of his friend. “You are my friend.” “Y-you are mine too,” Gnuyheat had gasped. He was terrified of dying at that moment. He loved Nimij and loved being able to touch him and speak with him. Now, he knew he wouldn’t be able to do that. He would join the bodies and be one of the empty, lonely, cold bodies.

For hours they stayed close together. For hours Gnuyheat struggled to breathe. For hours, Nimij held in the tears he was trying not to shed in front of the only thing he’s ever loved. Two more hours passed before Gnuyheat died. The water dragged him in and pulled him to the bodies. Nimij tried to stop him as best as he could but Gnuyheat connected quickly to the bodies. Nimij couldn’t help the green feeling he felt at that moment. The corpses touching his beloved Gnuyheat sent him in a fit of rage. His shaky legs held him up as he walked through the ocean to the land. Staring at the limbs that connected together he grabbed onto Gnuyheat’s wrinkled arm that floated outstretched. With a firm yank, and a few aggressive stomps he pulled Gnuyheat far away from the collection. He pulled him to the farthest corner in the abyss. As he mourned, his tears fell on the exposed, dry skin of his beloved friend. His tears decorating the man’s body with different bodies of water. He traced the cold skin to make a pathway across the dry skin to represent the ground we walk on. Nimij even took some of his own hair to make grass, shrubs, and trees. With a kiss, he made flowers and insects. With a tap, the divine made mountains and valleys. And finally, with the statement from over eighty days ago, he pictured the land to be filled with people. He took every piece of his skin apart to mold a small village of people. Their faces and personalities were all different from each other. As he stared down at his new creations he took his thumb to his third finger and snapped. A light appeared and shined bright against the pale forms. With a smile, Nimij knew his work was finished and he laid down. He grabbed Gnuyheat’s covered hand with a bony hand. He kissed his temple with a smile before drowning himself in the abyss, connected to the only friend he had ever loved.