Jennie had always been inexplicably intrigued by Stephanie's natural ability to be bright and bubbly all of the time . Stephanie, without a doubt, was always the centre of attention without any effort whatsoever. No matter where she went, people flocked to her like sheep following a shepherd. Jennie however, had always been alone. This was, of course, by choice. After having been sent into foster care when her parents had passed in a car accident, and being thrown from terrible home to terrible home, Jennie had silently vowed to stay secluded from anyone and everyone so as not to get hurt again. Sure, she felt lonely sometimes, but it was better than the immeasurable black hole that had been left inside her after her parents' untimely death. Being only 9 years old at the time of the accident, she hadn't been able to fully cope with the loss of her parents, and shutting the memory out completely had seemed like a better option than having to face those feelings some 8 years later. The day that Stephanie had sat down next to Jennie at lunch, Jennie immediately got up and left, thinking that it would put an end to any attempts at contact. When Stephanie approached her at her locker later that day, Jennie was even more distraught. "You're Jennifer, right? I'm Stephanie. We went to East Elementary together." Jennie cringed at the sound of her full name. The nickname her parents had given her was the only piece of them she had kept, and having it torn away so suddenly made her stomach fold into knots and acid spill up to burn the back of her throat. "It's Jennie. Did you need something?" She tried to speak with a malicious tone, hoping to scare off any attempts Stephanie might make at continuing any form of interaction between the two. Instead, she was met with a warm smile, which only caused the acid to move from the back of her throat into her mouth. "I'm going shopping for a new dress, and I need a second opinion. C'mon, I'll have you back home before you know it." Stephanie reached her arm through Jennie's, pulling her into an inescapable tidal wave and dragging her down the hallway towards the front doors of the prison that they called high school. When they stepped outside, Jennie squinted, trying to block out the sun; adding any more light to the already blinding situation made Jennie think her head might explode. Apparently Stephanie noticed this, reaching into her purse and pulling out a pair of sunglasses and sliding them over Jennie's eyes without a word. Jennie reluctantly climbed into the front seat of Stephanie's obnoxiously pink Beetle, and thought she might throw up when Stephanie folded down the convertible roof. "It's a perfect day, can't you feel that breeze!" Jennie thought this was, in fact, the worst day she had ever lived. After a painful 20 minute drive with Stephanie singing whatever top 10 hit was on the radio, they arrived at a small boutique on the outer edge of town. "Gosh, I love this place! I've been coming here for years. Harriet, the lady who owns it, is basically my grandma. Sometimes I just come here to visit with her when I need an escape from reality, y'know?" Stephanie smiled again, looped her arm back through Jennie's and pulled her into the shop. Jennie's nostrils filled with the scent of vanilla and lavender. There were chairs set up in a corner, and a set of plush pillows in the display window at the front with books stacked neatly in a row beside them. Try as she might, Jennie couldn't bring herself to hate the boutique. The faintest hint of a smile crept across her face, which she covered in a fake cough so that Stephanie didn't see it. "Steph! So nice to see you! Oh, and you've brought a friend, what a nice surprise!" Jennie guessed that the woman must be Harriet. She was short and round, her silver hair tied into a neat bun on the top of her head. She wore a white sundress patterned with pink roses, and looked surprisingly stylish and hip for someone old enough to be Jennie's grandmother. Harriet gave Jennie a warm smile before walking to the reading nook and taking a seat. "What does she mean surprise? You're always surrounded by 	people, surely you don't come here alone?" Jennie tried to comprehend why Stephanie would possibly bring someone she barely even knew into her comfort place. "I usually come alone, but like I said, I needed a second opinion this time. Oh, look at this one!" Stephanie walked over to a rack and grabbed a purple gingham dress, holding it up for Jennie to see. The next day, Stephanie sat with Jennie at lunch, and Jennie reluctantly didn't chase her away. Stephanie talked about how much she was dreading her 4th period english class, and Jennie tried her best to ignore her. When the warning bell rang, Stephanie grabbed Jennie's phone and put her name and number into the contacts, telling her to keep in touch. Slowly, the days faded into weeks, and Jennie began to enjoy Stephanie's company. She still tried to pretend like she didn't care, but she grew to appreciate spending her lunches with Stephanie instead of eating alone. After a month or so, Jennie began engaging in whatever topic Stephanie happened to be on that day. Eventually, she even began initiating conversation herself. With each new day, she vowed to cut herself off from Stephanie, but only found herself drawn deeper and deeper into the whirlwind of her life. When the anniversary of her parents death rolled around, Jennie stayed home from school like she did every year. She pulled out her bike, which she used as her sole form of transportation after vowing never to get her license, and started the ride to visit her parents’ grave. She got to the cemetery, pulled out her blanket, and started filling her parents in on the new friendship that had blossomed through the past year. For the first time, she finally had something to tell them that wasn't negative. She jumped at the sound of her phone, yanked abruptly from her thoughts. She smiled as she read the message from Stephanie. Missed you at lunch today. Where are you? It isn't like you to miss class. Want to get a milkshake after I'm finished classes? Jennie smiled, feeling herself relax as she read the message. Can you meet me at the cemetery? Of course! Be there as soon as I can. As Jennie waited for Stephanie, she began to feel that black hole inside of her expanding, tearing through her body in searing waves of pain. She was thankful for Stephanie, of course, but her whole body was on fire, burning with guilt from the inside out. She had broken the most important promise she had ever made to herself. She had betrayed her parents. The more she thought about her connection with Stephanie, the more her parents seemed to fade away. She tried to picture their faces, imagine the sounds of their laughter, the warmth of their love. With each passing second, she felt the details fade away, her entire existence being taken over by pain. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. All she could do was claw at her throat, desperately trying to get even a single atom of oxygen into her lungs. Right when she thought she might never recover, she felt a pair of arms wrapping around her. She sat there in silence, letting Stephanie hold her as she finally processed her parents’ death. After what felt like an eternity, Stephanie broke the silence. "Hey, talk to me. What's going on?" Jennie was hesitant to open up to Stephanie, but knew she couldn't keep herself locked away in the cage she had created for forever. Stephanie sat and listened as Jennie finally explained everything. She talked about the loss of her parents, and how she had vowed to shut herself out from everyone so that she couldn't be hurt again. She explained how she had never let herself process her grief, and how everything had come crashing down when she had gone to visit her parents at their final resting place. She explained her time in foster care, and how she had only shut down even more after being thrown from home to home. She never had a stable family, and it only reinforced her need to keep herself isolated. If she didn't allow herself to get attached, it wouldn't hurt when she was inevitably torn from her temporary home, and she would be able to move on without a second thought. "Jennie, I am so sorry you ever had to make yourself feel that way, but you deserve to be happy. Losing your parents must have been terrible, but you can't let it hold you back from living. You'll never be able to fully escape your grief, but if you let yourself live a little, I promise it will get easier." Stephanie pulled Jennie back into a tight embrace, feeling her soften up ever so slightly. "Can I ask you something?" Jennie's voice escaped her mouth as a hoarse whisper, barely audible. "Of course! Anything, anything at all." "Why did you bring me to that shop with you? That first day you sat with me at lunch, I just got up and left you, and when you came to my locker, I was awful to you, on purpose. Why did you keep coming back to me? I don't get it. If I were you, I would have run as far away from me as I possibly could." "Back when we were in elementary school, my best friend Adam and I went to the beach. Adam wanted to swim, but I didn't. He tried to get me to go with him, but I said the water was too cold. Our parents had gone to the boardwalk to get ice cream, and left us alone for a few minutes. When Adam got into the water, he got stuck in the riptide and went under. By the time I got back with our parents, it was too late. We were only 13 when it happened.

For years, I blamed myself for his death. I shut everyone out and wouldn't talk to anyone. Eventually, I started to open back up, and I realized that even though Adam was lost that day, I didn't need to lose myself with him. Life goes on, and eventually I realized that maybe I should keep living for the both of us. I opened up, let people in, and I started to remember how much I enjoyed being happy. When I first noticed you in the lunch room, I didn't sit with you. But after seeing you alone in there for a week straight, I realized that you needed someone to help you remember what happiness felt like. That's why I dragged you with me to the boutique. You deserve to be happy, Jennie. Your parents may be gone, but you're not. Don't you think you deserve a chance at a good life?" Those words slowly filled the hole that had been burning inside Jennie for years. It would never truly leave her, and there were moments when it seemed to erode and expand again, but she always managed to help fill it back in. For the first time in her life, Jennie finally understood why Stephanie could be so bright and bubbly all the time, and she finally allowed herself to start being bright and bubbly too.


Mama always told me I was too naive. She said that my dysfunctional brain would soon enough be fucked by someone more defective than myself, and sure enough, she was right. She would always insult me under her breath, you know? But I loved my mama, the same way she loved me. I remember the way that she would pull my hair, as she brushed it, the innocent reminder that she was in charge no matter the circumstances. I thanked her, I really did. I let her know how grateful I was that she made me into who I am today. I would´ve never been this strong without her.

Small town, small circles. Just like the movies, mama left me out of her circle. Forced me to fend for myself, running around back and forth trying to find where I belong. Then he came, he was new and shiny, the girls fawned over him the same way they would a new shade of lipstick in the shops. He was special, different. The way his hair fell over his eyes whenever he would laugh. Although I hated to admit it, I wanted him. I was ready to accept the defect to my dysfunction, so I did, and he was mine.

I’m sorry you only got to meet him once mama, you really would’ve loved him. He was a lot like you, the constant criticism of my maladaptive behavior, rarely letting him touch me. Until he did it, he pulled my hair just as you did the reminder of who was in possession of the power. It was him, and I immediately gave into that power. I gave into him, I let him own me, just the way you did. The only difference was, I liked the way he possessed my body, my soul, and every little part of me. I loved him.

You always told me to trust the stranger, not the friend. What reason does the stranger have to hurt you? What grief have you caused them, as you caused to the closer people in your life? Unless you’re a movie character and you accidentally murdered their cousins, wifes, son in the absurd family tree, they have no reason to hold a grudge against you. But since the day I met him, I knew he wasn’t one to trust. Which made him all the more thrilling, everything inside of me told me to follow him, to love him. To love him the way that I needed to be loved, cradled with an undying partnership, based on your brain rather than your heart.

I shared my secrets with him, not entrusting them but no longer caring whether or not they were known. I knew that he would do anything for my sake, which amounted in my curiosity in which he would kill for me? Was he willing to give up his sanity for the dysfunctional woman he met in this new town? Was I willing to put up with the defect that could ultimately put us both in an abundance of danger? We were inseparable, every part of me had a need to be close to him, crying out in agony when he was away. Goosebumps would arrive in my arms when he was near. Hair raising as he touched my back. The dopamine rushed throughout my body when his fingers wrapped around my neck. He craved violence, and I craved him. His sadist ways brought out my submissive nature whenever he was around. I would cry and beg for him to do as he pleased, wanting to make him proud, wanting his protection.

I wanted your protection mama, I wanted love and care and yet you gave me shit advice and an eating disorder. My entire life was spent looking up to you, wishing to be the one forcing them out of my circle. I wanted to be you. I wanted every ounce of your power and presence. The way people would shiver as you walked into the room, jealousy turning the walls green with every step you took. The sun seemed to follow you as you walked. Your own personal light flooding into your eyes, the bright blue color sparkling like a broken glacier, holding itself up in the ocean, while everything around it tried to make it drown. But you never did, mama you always stayed afloat. Like a nagging pest that just wouldn’t leave no matter how hard you tried.

Every attempt I managed at your life was counteracted by the forces of nature that always seemed to be on your side. Everyone was always on your side. Everyone loved you mama. But you never had any room for me. All I wanted was for you to love me. Then he came, then he swooped me up into his arms and gave me all the attention he could muster. I was the center of the universe. I was now the sun, turning my back on you just as everyone else did when you began to lose your shine.

I loved him and he loved me. I loved you mama and you loved me. So when the sharp and silver blade plunged into your chest I hope you knew it was love, impaling you. The way he licked up your blood gave me the largest sense of admiration for you mama. For once you were providing for me in a way you never had. You made him happy mama, you should’ve seen the joy in his eyes as your liquids pooled below my feet, his tongue sliding up my thigh, traces of red following closely behind. The most erotic and fullfilling sense of comfort i’ve ever experienced. Everything in me wanted to scream in pleasure as your skin parted for the blade. As effortless as it would be to slice through a fruit.

Now guess what mama? I’ve made you proud, I finally did it. Everybody fucking loves me. Everyones eyes follow where I walk everyones mouths drop when I look. I took your advice mama. Thank you.


“There’s a monster in the house Mamma,” Daisy rubbed her bleary eyes as she shuffled into the living room, where her Mother sat with a cup of tea. The Mother opened her arms as the little girl crawled into her lap. The radio hummed quietly in the background and a soft glow from a lamp warmed the room. “Don’t be silly darling,” the Mother soothed, smoothing Daisy’s long, brown braided hair. “Daddy wouldn’t let any monsters inside, would he?” Daisy frowned. “But Daddy’s been sick for an awfully long time. How can he fight the monsters if he’s sick?”  “The monsters are scared of Daddy. They wouldn’t dare come here. Now, off to bed with you.” The Mother kissed Daisy’s head and held her hand as she led her back upstairs. Her husband, Eric, had fallen ill two months ago. At first, it had seemed like merely a slight cold but he had quickly deteriorated. Chills, aches, nausea, headaches, dizziness, cramps, weakness, exhaustion, confusion-the doctors were at a loss. He had been forced to take a leave of absence from work. The doctors suggested a change of scenery might help along with clean country air. So, the family of three rented a charming farmhouse on a popular lake for the summer. The house was tucked away about a ten-minute drive from town on an overgrown apple orchard. The lake was only an hour or so from the city so many fathers, and sometimes mothers, would drive to work each day while their children attended day camp. This also meant that Eric was not far from his doctors. Friends, family and colleagues often called to check up on him. When he was too weak to speak, the Wife updated them on his health. The Wife could tend to her husband, wheeling him around in the fresh air, and visit with other mothers while he slept. Daisy had made many friends and spent the days running around in the sunshine. Eric even joked that they might finally have the son he wanted after this trip.

The Wife enjoyed the peace and quiet. She had not had to attend or host a dinner party or afternoon tea in weeks. In all honesty, Eric's illness was a blessing. No more deadly quiet words, no more plates smashed to the black and white tile floor, no more long sleeves, no more sips of gin to calm the nerves, no more holes in the wall. Just peace. Silence. Normalcy. No more, “Yes dear, of course dear, I’m sorry dear." No more shaking in fear as she desperately clutched a shirt she had managed to burn while ironing.

Her husband was a loving father but a demanding and harsh spouse. Afterwards, there were always new dresses, a wonderful night out and fresh flowers for weeks. He never meant any harm, of course, she just always managed to push his buttons.

They had been high school sweethearts, a surprising combination of a football star and a bookworm. She had been ecstatic when he had asked her to prom. They married shortly after graduation and began college together. In their third year of school, the Wife became pregnant. Eric wisely encouraged her to put school on hold to take care of their new daughter. The new Mother obliged. Eric said that was what he loved about her-she knew when to listen and she valued her family above everything else. She gave up her dreams in order to be a good Mother and Wife. So, she needed to be the best Mother and Wife she could be. There was nothing else left. *** The Wife hummed as she stirred a pot of soup on the stove. It was Eric’s favorite. She had won awards for this soup. It was one of the only things that made him feel a bit better. She thought after this batch, he would almost be as good as new. They had been at the farmhouse for three weeks and he was finally doing well. He even had the energy to work on his models and play a game of golf. She knew her soup was a key component to his improved health. Eric was still built like the linebacker he used to be, but lately, he had looked like a giant skeleton, skin hanging off his bones, eyes sunken and face sallow. He was finally starting to fill out again.

The whole family had gone to the beach today. The weather had been perfect. Eric had a burst of energy and they basked in the sun, letting the water lap at their toes while Daisy splashed around. He was kinder now, calmer. He seemed grateful that his Wife took such good care of him. It was nice to see this side of her husband. Afterwards, Eric had been exhausted and she put him to bed. Daisy went off to her afternoon day camp and the Mother had lunch with a few other Mothers she knew from the city.

“Mamma!” Daisy shrieked happily, slamming the screen door as she skipped into the kitchen, wrapping her skinny arms around the Mother’s waist.

“Hello, Sweetheart!” The Mother squeezed her daughter back. “How was your afternoon?” “It was super fun! We went to the park and had a water balloon fight and-and we made friendship bracelets and um made fruit salad!” “That sounds like a great day. You wore sunscreen, right?” Daisy rolled her eyes. “Of course, Mamma. What are you making for dinner?”

“Fried chicken. I thought we could all go on a walk after we eat, maybe get some ice cream.” Daisy’s eyes brightened in delight as she grinned a gap tooth smile. “Yes, yes, that sounds great! I’ll go clean up and visit with Daddy.” She hugged her Mother before running up the stairs, sneakers squeaking.

*** Her husband had continued to do well the past two weeks and had regained much of his strength. The doctors had said Eric was on the mend and that no more appointments were needed. Things have been wonderful. He took Daisy to the park, the family often went out for ice cream and he helped around the house. The couple was spending a nice day at home while Daisy attended a traveling carnival with her day camp.

That afternoon, after a lovely lunch, the Wife and Eric were washing up before Daisy arrived home. The plan was to spend a night playing board games with their daughter. The Wife was washing the dishes while Eric dried them. She grabbed a mug from amongst the warm suds, wiping it down with a sponge before rinsing it off. As she went to hand it to Eric, her grip slipped. The Wife froze in fear as she watched as the mug fell to the floor, almost in slow motion, before it shattered. She slowly raised her eyes to her husband’s. His hazel eyes blazed with fury, his mouth tight, jaw clenched. “You fucking klutz!” Eric boomed, voice full of a painful promise. He raised his hand and the Wife flinched, cowering.

“Daddy?” Daisy asked, timidly, as she entered the room, her wide brown eyes full of concern. “What’s wrong?” Eric paused.

“Nothing, Pumpkin,” He lowered his hand. “Your Mother and I just had a little disagreement. Why don’t you wait outside and we’ll go for ice cream?” Daisy beamed and happily skipped away. The mask fell away and Eric turned on his Wife, shaking with rage.

“Can you do anything right?” Eric clutched her shoulders tightly, his fingernails making her wince. “Clean this mess up and don’t make me yell in front of our daughter again.” He shoved her away and she stumbled. “Yes dear, I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again.” The Wife meekly whispered. Eric stomped away and back, shoving the broom and dustpan into her hands. The broom handle smacked roughly into her jaw. She refused to flinch again.

“What are we having for dinner tonight?” The Wife stood up straight and looked him in the eye. “Soup.”

*** The Wife stirred the soup that was bubbling away on the stove. Eric fell ill again shortly after their little spat two weeks ago. He seemed even worse this time around, but she didn’t call the doctors. She had almost become a nurse, after all. She knew how to care for him better than those quacks. He needed rest, vitamin tablets and aspirin, plenty of water, tea, fresh juice and soup. Most of all soup. He always perked up when he had it and then slept soundly through the night. “Mamma!” Daisy scrambled into the kitchen and threw her backpack on the ground as she ran into her Mother’s arms.

“How was your sleepover, darling?” The Mother asked as she scooped her daughter up, spinning her around as Daisy giggled.

“It was sooo much fun! We had ice cream sundaes and stayed up late playing flashlight tag outside! Her daddy made us pancakes this morning. You know what the best thing was though?” She leant to whisper into her Mother’s ear. “There were no monsters.” The Mother stiffened and set her daughter on the ground. She took a deep breath and steadied herself. “That’s wonderful! Why don’t you go unpack your things and wash up? I can make you grilled cheese for lunch.” *** “What are you making Mamma?” Daisy stood on her tip-toes, trying to peer into the pot. “Soup”. The Mother gently nudged her daughter away, worried she would accidentally touch the scalding hot stove or pot.

“Ooh, can I have some?” “No!” The Mother said sharply but she pasted on a smile as Daisy flinched. “No, sweetheart, this soup is for your Daddy. It helps him feel better”. “Oh, okay, like medicine?” “Yes, like medicine”. She breathed a sigh of relief. Daisy motioned for her to lean down. She whispered in her Mother’s ear. “I can hear the monsters in Daddy’s room now, Mamma. Buzzing, squeaking, scraping, squealing. They sound hungry. How can Daddy get better if the monsters are in there with him? Can I go see him?” The Mother’s blood ran cold but she maintained her cheery facade.

“Daddy is very tired, darling. He needs all the rest he can get. He might get you sick. Why don’t you make him a card tomorrow and I can bring it to him? I’m sure that would cheer him up."  She gave her daughter a kiss on the cheek before ushering her towards the door. “Okay! I’ll work on it right now!” The little girl hurried up the stairs, forgetting her backpack.

The Mother went back to her soup. *** Summer had started its sweltering rebellion against the looming fall. Record high heat and humidity caused the Wife to constantly wipe sweat from her brow as she stirred her newest batch of soup. She was trying a slightly new recipe today. Three more weeks had passed and Eric was not doing any better. Who wouldn’t be tired of eating the same thing three times a day? She gave him bowl after bowl of her soup yet it seemed to work less and less. Eric was too weak to even sit outside anymore so she left the window in his room open. Hopefully, fresh air would help. Summer was almost over and their daughter was coming back today from an overnight end-of-summer camping trip with her day camp, which was really just in the Johnson’s backyard. The Mother had wanted to chaperone but, of course, she couldn’t leave Eric. He was so quiet lately, the Wife wondered if she did need to call a doctor, after all. The Wife paused her stirring as she heard the screen door bang open, followed by the sound of sneakers hurriedly scuffling across the floor. “Mamma!” Daisy barrels into the kitchen, making the Mother let out an “oof” as the little girl slammed into her body. “Hello, darling!” The Mother squeezed her daughter tight. “How was it?” “We had s’mores and went on a nature hike and told ghost stories and Kelly’s story was reeeeally scary but I was brave!” The Mother chuckled and ruffled her daughter's hair. “Of course, you were, my big brave girl. I’m sure you didn’t get much sleep last night. Why don’t you go clean up and take a nap? I’ll wake you for lunch.” Daisy gave her Mother another hug before running upstairs. She forgot her backpack. The Mother went back to stirring her soup as she hummed along to the radio. An hour later, Daisy came down the stairs and entered the kitchen with a concerned frown on her face. The Mother put down a plate with a ham and cheese sandwich, carrots and chips on the table before opening her arms for her daughter to run into. “What is it, darling?” The Mother squeezed her tight as Daisy buried her face into the Mother’s chest. “Mamma, I can still hear the monsters. I smell them now too. It smells like when that possum got stuck under the porch last summer, only worser.” The Mother’s heart skipped a beat. She took a deep breath. “Daddy’s sick, remember? People who are sick sometimes don’t smell very good. I left the window open. Hopefully, that will air things out and help him feel better. If you want, you can sleep in my room with me tonight.” *** The Woman settled into her reading chair with a crime novel and a hot toddy. She had given her husband his supper and played with Daisy before putting her to bed. Finally, she had time alone. The Woman blew gently on her drink before taking a sip. She had just opened her book, the newest who-done-it, when she heard a blood-curdling scream upstairs. The Mother jumped up, knocking her hot drink to the floor, where it rapidly seeped into her book. She ran upstairs, heart pounding a tattoo of Daisy, Daisy, Daisy .

The Mother frantically checked her daughter’s bedroom, but Daisy was not there. Another scream sounded at the end of the hall. She rushed to her daughter. Daisy stumbled out of the room at the end of the hall. Eric’s room. Daisy scrambled to her mother, falling at her feet.

“Mamma!” The little girl sobbed, clutching her Mother’s skirt. “A monster!” The Mother shushed her daughter and led her to her bedroom. With trepidation, she took the seemingly endless walk down the hall. The door was slightly ajar, darkness seeping from within with strange sounds, buzzing, squeaking, scratching, and squealing drifting into the hall.

The Mother took a deep breath before pushing open the door and a few cheerful drawings floated out. Daisy must have been putting them under the door. She smiled down at a picture of a happy stick family of three but faltered, the father’s figure had an odd shadow stretched behind him. It almost seemed ready to swallow him whole. Kids and their wild imaginations. She breathed a sigh of relief as she looked up to see nothing was amiss.  A decomposing corpse rested in the bed. A permanent grin stretched rotting tendons and hanging skin across its bony jaw as flies buzzed, cockroaches scuttled, and rats squeaked while they feasted on the buffet before them. Maggots spilled from its eye sockets. Bowls upon bowls of uneaten fetid soup are piled around it. A disturbing, putrid and sickly sweet scent permeates the air. A rat tranquilly sips from a cup of untouched gray murky tea. Two weeks of the morning paper are stacked by its head, torn apart by rats for nesting material. But, the Wife doesn’t see the grisly tableau before her.

She walked towards the bed with a smile, causing the carnivorous menagerie to scatter. She fluffed the pillows which oozed brown liquid with a wet squelch . She hoped her husband was comfortable. “How are you feeling today, dear? Daisy has this wild notion that there’s a monster in here with you,” She chuckled as she stacked a few of the bowls of soup. “I’ll go fix you something to eat.”

The Wife entered the kitchen and began to chop vegetables. She did not notice the brown slime dripping from her fingers. She started to sing. “ You are my sunshine, my only sunshine ,” She heard a sniffle coming from beneath the table. A tear rolled down her cheek. How strange, she mused as she wiped it away. “Daisy, dear, there’s nothing to be upset about,” The Mother said calmly. “Your father will be right as rain in no time. He just needs rest and more soup. I swear this recipe is pure magic,” She filled the pot with chicken stock and water to begin boiling the vegetables. “ You’ll never know dear, how much I love you ”.

Daisy quietly sobbed as her mother continued to croon the lullaby. Daisy had really let her imagination get away from her. The poor thing was really frightened. Some nice, warm soup would cheer her up. The Mother added her secret ingredients. “ Please don’t take my sunshine away .


“This is my worst nightmare” I say, barely breathing the words out. I examine the folds of skin on my now deceased great grandfather while holding his cold, limp hand. I wonder what it looked like when he was younger and smoother. I picture him as a boy around ten playing baseball, and his mother afterwards wiping the dirt from his rosy cheeks. How easy it would be to pull out a handkerchief and wipe the dirt in one stroke and send him to bed where he’d sleep deeply. Do wrinkles make it more difficult to clean? Do they get in the way? I never asked myself these questions until now. His hand was a lot heavier than I remember, but now I wasn’t really holding it, I was carrying it. I don’t want to forget the way it feels in mine; I absorb it all; the calluses, the size and his strength. Don’t forget I tell myself but the coldness is distracting. I’ll just pretend its cold outside and we’re taking a walk together while holding hands. I close my eyes and imagine its Christmastime and we’re going to pick out a tree for the house. It’s so crowded and he takes my hand to lead me through the tangled mess of people and I feel safe. Yes, this will do, I think as I grip his hand tighter. I don’t want to let go. I hold the fantasy for just a second longer until I feel two limbs dressed in pink cotton gripping me like a claw from behind. A despondent voice tells me “I know you loved him so much honey…but now he’s at peace”.  Why does everyone always say that? Without taking my eyes off my great grandpa I respond as politely as I can, “Yeah… thank you”. There was nothing else to say. He’s gone and there’s nothing we can do about it. I wish people would just say what they’re actually thinking and not just say it because they think that’s what they’re supposed to say. I hope she’s not trying to get me leave his side; I need more time. I look around the room to observe everyone. I’m curious about their reaction. Is anyone like me? I now notice that some have left the room and only a few remain. Are they afraid of his dead body?  My little sister is in the corner curled up like she’s in a tornado drill crying while my mom pets her blonde hair, while also crying. My grandma sits at the foot of the bed where she remained from rubbing his feet earlier; she looks down crying silently to herself and brushes the curls that have stuck to her face, cemented by her tears. My great grandmother, the only one not crying, looks as though she is in a trance. She is on other side of him, motionless and is also holding his hand. I study her; her petite frame of only 4’-9” and red faded hair that is now mostly white. She never dyed it or wore much makeup. My grandpa said he preferred her “natural” look. I smile thinking of their love. She doesn’t notice or acknowledge anyone around her. I realized I was witnessing something very intimate and pay closer attention. I hear her say “See you soon” like he’s only gone to go fishing. She releases his hand and gives it a pat. He was her reason for living and like a robot that is shutting down, she lowers her head and stares at the floor.

Most of his family came here to say goodbye. My cousin Andy flew from Florida and just made it before he died.  All of his children, grandchildren and some great grandchildren are all here. What man can say he had so much love in his life? We all depend on him so much, what will happen to us all? The nightmare is starting to feel more real with each minute of his passing. I hold this moment of all of us together with him one last time vowing to never forget this moment knowing that it will soon be gone forever. Hard heavy footsteps accompanied by soft gentle ones capture my attention enough to make me turn my head away from my great grandpa to the door. My uncle Mike is standing next to a middle aged lady with brown hair that I have never seen before. She’s not wearing scrubs like the other nurses but she is dressed in a way that tells me she isn’t just a visitor. “The pastor is here” My uncle announces loudly like a teacher’s pet.  It’s like him to want to take control of a situation and inform everyone of everything. Everyone looks to the uninvited but appreciated guest and says nothing. A few try to force a smile to be polite but their puffy sullen eyes and quivering lips still read sadness. “Hello, I’m Lisa and I want to start by saying how sorry I am for your loss.” My great aunt, the baby and the most vocal and lurid of the deposits my great grandfather left behind, expresses an appreciative “thank you” while my great uncle and grandma nod in agreement. “I’m one of the pastors here at the hospital and I’m here if you’d like to pray together” Her voice is sympathetic and kind but with a shimmer of confidence. My grandma, the caretaker of the family is the one to respond now “Yes, thank you, that would be nice” She accepts the kind gesture. She is one of the nicest people I have ever met and would simply agree whether she wanted a pastor or not just because she wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. Actually, I’m pretty sure that’s what she did just now. Even though she grew up religious, in her adult life she has never been to church nor have I heard her speak of God. Maybe she was thinking of the other family members, like her brother and his family, who are more religious than her and would like a pastor to pray with. Or maybe…it just came down to what her father would have wanted. He was such a religious man; He spent so much time in the church organizing activities and volunteering with whatever they needed. When he wasn’t at church he was living his life to the best of his ability, integrating the Ten Commandments into his daily life. Thinking back, I don’t ever remember a time that we didn’t pray before a meal. Whether my grandma believed it or not, this was part of what made her father and this was about him. When I grieve, there are times I need to be alone. So without saying anything, I decide to leave the room and give the siblings some time to say goodbye to their father with a prayer. I leave the clumps of family that are gathered together like the last of cereal bits in a bowl of milk, and head towards the kitchen area down the hall. I look around in the cabinet and find bagels, muffins and granola bars; I search further and find popsicles, juice and Jell-O. Anything too sweet feels too celebratory and now that I think about it, I feel nauseous anyway. I just want something to make me feel again and hot coffee feels like it would do the trick. Coffee is acceptable for any occasion and not just for the morning: after dinner with dessert, late night drinking, meetings at work and it doesn’t matter whether you’re sad or happy, coffee is always there. I add a couple creams and one sugar and take my first sip. It’s not good, but I keep drinking it anyway, appreciating the warmth and sweetness it brings. Looking at the goosebumps on my arms, I now realize how cold it is in here and take the coffee and hold it close to my chest brushing my long blonde hair to the side so it wouldn’t dip into the coffee but wondering why I even care. The little pleasure it brings me makes me sad, reminding me of the happiness we’d all share at meal times. Just the day before with all his family surrounding him, my great grandpa woke up after being asleep for a day and said “I’m hungry! I need some breakfast!” So my mom and I went to Denny’s and got him a large special of pancakes, sausage, bacon, eggs and toast with jam. We sat by his side while he told us what bites he wanted. He couldn’t eat much and told us to “eat some too”. We sat there feeding him, ourselves and any family member that wanted a breakfast bite. Laughter, smiling, eating, conversing, togetherness; the mood was joyful. That evening great grandpa even felt well enough to bellow out a song. “I’ll see you in the Morning, bright dew on the grass, I can’t go any further” he pauses trying to think of the words while everyone listens, watching him in silence, “because I can’t think very fast” the last lyric was like a que for everyone to start laughing. Here is a man that was dying and he still had a way to make everyone laugh. My guess is that it is an old hymn of some sort; luckily I was able to record it on my phone. He was always breaking out in song of hymns, folk, country and occasionally Bing Crosby. I mean, he used to break out in song. I have to get used to referring to him in the past tense I remind myself. We were told he was going home soon. We were told we’d have more time. Sure, hospice would be sent with him but we were still thankful to get him back home where he was comfortable. But… he went to bed that night and never woke up in the morning. He was still alive though, just sleeping is what everyone kept saying. Then morning turned into afternoon and time kept passing and he was still just sleeping but now we were saying it with hesitance. I guess he was singing about a different kind of morning.  I arrived at the hospital around 3 PM. The once happy mood of great grandpa getting to go home turned into a somber one of the truth. The time had come and we sat, waiting.  A nurse came in to check his vitals and gave us a pitiful smile. My grandma, being a nurse herself interpreted his numbers and confirmed “It won’t be long now”. Thinking back on these memories sends another shot of pain. I’m not there for my family I panic, I’m missing what’s going on, and maybe they need help with something. I run back to the room, setting the rest of my coffee on a cart just outside. It hasn’t been long since his passing, but others are already starting to leave. This is the last time I’ll see Grandpa it hits me. I ignore the looks and the questions of “where were you?” and go to his side and take his hand once more to say my last words to him. I don’t want to cry now; I want my speech clear and confident. I look at his face as if he were still alive. “Goodbye Grandpa…I love you” I say like I have said a hundred times except I know this is the last time I’ll be saying it. I hope that he can hear me in some form. Now it’s time to go. I can’t go on lingering and seeing his body any further knowing he can’t answer back or feel my hand. I have to get out, now. “I’m leaving” I announce to the whole room and start to walk out. I might look like and sound like a psychopath but I don’t care at the moment. I want to say goodbye but I can’t do it that room. An assembly line of hugs and kisses are given until we all decide it’s enough and we walk out together. While walking, my mom tells me I should spend the night with great grandma so “she’s not alone”. I agree but I’m worried that I won’t be able to comfort her, I can barely comfort myself and I don’t understand what she is going through. I drove separately to the hospital and I’m thankful because now I can really let loose on my own. Before I start the car, I play the recording from him singing yesterday and I break out in tears that just don’t stop. My hands wipe my tears like windshield wipers during a heavy rainfall and I start my car and leave. I notice the exit sign “Wixom” and I realize I’m almost at great grandma’s house and I don’t even remember most of the commute. I look at the tissues that are bundled in the passenger seat.  I wonder how much water I’ve lost from crying; I wish I had something to drink. Right off the exit, I spot a McDonalds . I decide it’s better to stop here for something to drink than to bother grandma. While waiting in line I see an ad for a large fry and my appetite returns. My body must be craving salt from all the crying I’ve done.  I order a large fry and an unsweetened iced tea, eating it in the five minute duration to my great grandma’s house. I pull up to her house and notice her light in the living room is still on. I’m glad she’s not in bed yet. Not knowing what to say to her, I greet her as usual. She’s already in her nightgown and ready for sleep. But she seems so out of sorts right now. When I talk to her she looks to the side without acknowledgment. I’m pretty sure she can’t comprehend what I am saying so I don’t say anything more. Part of her soul must have left with Grandpa. I decide the best thing to do is to get ready for bed. Being 18 and pretty much using my car as suitcase, I already have pajama pants, a t-shirt and a toothbrush in tow.  My mom also suggested sleeping in the same bed, on my great grandfather’s side, and although I feel uncomfortable being in his spot, I do as she suggests hoping it helps in some way. I’ve never slept in the same bed as her and I feel so out of place. What if she reaches for grandpa in the middle of the night and finds me? How do I comfort her? I hope just being here is enough.  I stay awake for a couple more hours thinking about our plans for tomorrow, how much I will miss him, how our family will change as a whole and how I will never look at McDonald’ s french fries without thinking about this night.


A good 10 minutes had passed from the phone call and she still couldn’t bring herself to move. Reba’s stiff feet refused to take another step and the rest of her body complied. After she hung up, she grabbed her phone, her bag, the laptop, clothes and clenched on to them, waiting for something to happen. Her wrist watch moved another minute and then another one, still nothing happened. Reba’s stone-like body got stuck in front of the chestnut door, focused on its tiny crack . (Was it always there?) As soon as she will open the door, everything will become real. She tightened her belongings closer to her chest, but wouldn’t let go of that crack. (How long will I stay there?) Reba just moved in a few weeks back, what else had she missed about the house? (I don’t want to go… Do I wait for Nicolas?) When Nicolas asked her to move in two weeks ago, he did it with open heart. After she finally said yes, they celebrated by making love on the oak floor, next to another small gap that neither of them noticed. She accepted to move back to Myria only because of him; Nicolas gave her the reassurance that things can be safe here. And that reassurance was what she was waiting for again. (I can’t do this alone… I can’t go back there) As long as she saw the dent, she knew the door was there, too. And if the door was still there, she was still safe, in the house. A part of her hoped the door will open to a caressing hand to touch her shoulder and tell her not to worry, everything was being taken care of. That she was not needed anymore and she could just return to her couch, cocoon herself into the warmest blanket and when Nicolas will get home from his late afternoon shift, she would jump in his arms. The night was getting darker (How long do I wait?) and the front door was not touched at all. Years ago, after the event happened, her therapist urged her to face her fears alone, leaving the trauma behind, by returning to Moulley Valley at some point. Reba postponed that from happening as much as it was in her power. She moved out of Myria when it was time for college - 800 km away from all she knew, seemed a decent distance between her and her home. What her Mom considered to be emergencies and specifically asked Reba to come back for a few days were almost always related to church. It would either be a memorial service for her dad, Ethan, that had passed years prior and needed year and year again to be celebrated and cried for, either another holyday function that Mom wanted Reba to be a part of. Reba came and faked enthusiasm as she always had, ever since she was a kid. Out of 4 years in college, these “emergencies” became less often than she was dreading them. Her college friends were understanding enough to come and join her as an excuse for a road trip when was needed. For “mental support”, as her former therapist would say. Those road trips excuses extended into a full year of travelling abroad, as soon as they received their diplomas. Reba was the first to propose the idea, coaxing her young peers that “those careers will still be there, but live happens now ”. On a certain level, she did believe it. And she was committed enough to the idea to even push it for another few months. But the gig was up when the other parents started asking questions about their money and life plans. Reba was the only one that was using her own saved money, but came to the conclusion that it was time to put the big girl pants, too and come to her senses. She found a job in advertisement in the heart of the capital, still away from Myria. The event barely crossed her mind in the last couple of years. Mostly, because she surrounded herself with new people, all the time. But in reality, because she dug a trench so deep and long between her and her past live, mentally, emotionally and geographically, that there was no need to fear the event as much as before. It was lurking in the back of her mind, but it became less terrifying, knowing there was no need to return there.

           Until now.            Faith has always had a good sense of humour. If faith could choose to be anything, most likely it would be a tarantula. Eight all-seeing eyes, that pays full attention to everything that moves across the scorching sand. An all-knowing creature, in a way. As soon as an insignificant, small prey passes by, the lurker is ready to grab it whole. For that, it needs patience of a saint. Again and again, until the time is just right. Out of 8 years that Reba stayed away from Myria and its memories, 8 of those were uneventful. The occasional short trips back to the city, to catch up on Mom’s emotional state were just not good enough for The Tarantula to fully snatch the young oblivious Reba. It took this long to lure her back, using Nicolas as bait. After just a few weeks back – the longest she had stayed since being a teenager – this happens. Her phone suddenly chimed a message. Is from Mom: “At the airport, getting a red eye flight. Be there in a few hours, by morning. Are you on your way?” Her Mom was going to be there soon also, “you can do this”, she imagine her Mom telling her. But Mom never thought of things in those terms, that people needed to hear encouragement. Or if she did, for sure she didn’t voice it out loud to her daughter. Ever since her husband died in a car crash, her smile crippled more and more, until it was gone. She spent a lot of time at church, praying that her daughter will not suffer as much as she was, while hiding her tears every time she passed by Reba. Mom prayed in silence about things Reba never knew about. Between working double shifts and praying in the House of God, Mom didn’t have enough time to ask Reba what loss was to her. So she asked help from her own parents, to take Reba in for a few months, over the summer. Bunu and Buna , as Reba called them, jumped to the occasion to offer a safe place for their granddaughter to grief and grow. “I can’t help her if I don’t have money”, Mom said. “Who will help me now, if not me? It’s for the girl’s sake”, she argued. “She will understand when she will grow up”. But Reba never understood. No matter how much her therapist tried to explain that some love gestures are difficult to recognise.

           Reba was all alone now, too. “Who will help me now, if not me?’ It was time to return to Moulley Valley, to their grandparent’s home.            Reba locked the door behind her and put her things in her Honda Civic. The GPS showed a 50 km trip ahead of her, meaning she will be there by midnight.

•            Reba might have wanted to forget the way to Moulley Valley, but her gut didn’t. This was her first time driving on the snaky road herself, but she knew every lengthy curb by heart. The forest that she was cutting through became much denser that she last remembered, but then again, she last seen it 9 years ago, in her uncle’s car. A 2009 Renault Clio that she will forever remember as “this piece of shit”, that Hall was always complaining about. If it was not for the “goddamn ABS light that flickers like a Christmas tree”, it might have been the “fucking windows” that usually get stuck. Hall would constantly cry about how much money fixing the car would eat up. Mom was in the car, too, heading to the Valley and she couldn’t care less about the car maintenance. But what she really hated was his foul mouth, that he was bringing the Name of Lord in vain. She’d school him and then silence would fall again in the car. Mom didn’t push for any particular topic and so Hall would put on a CD. They didn’t seem to have too many things in common, even though they shared the same parents, memories and, up to their 20s, same house. Maybe they didn’t have that many things to talk about, after all. The day her Mom sent her to the Valley, was a beautiful and sunny one. The river flew along the same side as the road, just a few metres below. It ran down from the heart of Backon Mountain, all the way to Moulley Valley, where hikers stop for the beautiful view and for good spots to set up their tents. Nature filled up the emptiness left by three strangers from the same family. So did Layla . “Did you know”, Hall began his story, “that this song was actually sung by Eric Clapton about another man’s wife?” If the poor man expected a reaction from Mom, he sure didn’t get one. She was too busy with her own thoughts. And Reba, 17 back then, knew this behaviour far too well. “Really? Is it somebody famous?”, the girl asked. “So apparently” he joyful continued, “this man got the hots for none other than… the wife of George Harrison! And made her this song!” “Who’s that?’ “ Who’s that? My God, Reba, what are you kids listening to these days?” he berated her, looking in the rear-view mirror. “Hasn’t your Mom shown you the cassettes we had when we were young, of this little band called …. The Beatles ?” Hall looked at Mom, to try and jerk a smile, but nothing showed. “Oh, yeah! The Beatles . I know them, I just don’t know their names”. “Well, don’t worry. Buna has a lot of their albums back home. I’m sure she’ll play them all summer long for you. You will have a lot of fun here with her and Bunu . The song stayed with Reba even after all the ordeal. That summer she did listen to The Beatles , just as Hall had predicted. And also The Doors , some Rolling Stones , Led Zeppelin, Eagles, The Byrds and the Matriarch’s favourite, Queen. For that summer, Reba pictured how her Mom and Hall’s childhood might have been, with parents like theirs. They all went out fishing in the morning and cooking together in the afternoon. She watched her grandparents dance in the summer warm nights. And played games, in between. For that summer, she felt like a seen teenager.

   The present October chilly wind was welcoming Reba back. A small fraction of her heart still wished for somebody to be with her now. Mom was in pilgrimage 500 km away, Hall’s trucking job took him everywhere in the country, she didn’t have too many friends in Myria, to ask for a favour on a random Tuesday night and Nicolas was far too new for all these. No matter how much she anguished for help. (Who will help me now, if not me?)

 A few more minutes until her destination and the pumping pulse she felt in the ears were more vibrating. Her heart banged like crazy and the wheel she was steering lost its grip since her palms started to sweat. She couldn’t say how exactly she got there, it seemed more like an autumn dream. And yet, there she was, in front of the dark blue house she knew from before. “Get it together, Reba. Do it for Bunu”. The three knock on the car window came from nowhere, but the dark. And it extended the heavy fat arm of Olivia, the neighbour that called Mom about Bunu’s situation. She was the village nurse and took it upon herself to check on him ever since his condition had worsened. Hall and Mom came as often as they could, but he refused to let them help with things he allowed Olivia to do. It seemed too much for the old man. Olivia and the dreamy hooved man were the only one with full access. Since he started the morphine, his dreams were getting more frightening and vivid, he couldn’t stop the hooved, fury man’s visit. It was a risk he wanted to take, to ease the pain. His last walk in the garden was in the spring, when he got out of bed and let the sun touch him. Soon after, the pain got too much. Reba asked Olivia to stay with her just for a little bit, just to enter the house. But the nurse’s kids needed her, too. “They get scared easily in the dark. But come for me if something happens”, the nurse offered. Reba knew little about the struggles her grandpa had been going through. His cancer came late in the mourning process of his wife. She knew from her Mom that he started drinking heavily after her funeral and didn’t stop until the diagnosis came, a year ago. The summer that Buna’s heart decided it had enough and stopped, changed him as much as it had changed Reba. It had seen enough beautiful trees and bees, it had given and received enough love, danced enough songs and taught enough lessons. But for her husband, it was never going to be “enough” without her. The day the last shovel of dirt was thrown on her coffin was the same day Bunu left the door open for Death itself to come into that big, old house. •            Reba remembered how her heart sank, at the sight of her grandma lying on the floor. She had no life in her anymore and maybe no soul , either. The Flowing Woman took it. Her ruby-red eyes haunted her all her life. How that ghostly being came out of nowhere, but maybe was always there… How it felt her grandma’s face, with her pointy fingers… And then it disappeared without even touching the ground, holding something close to her. Reba fell down in her own urine, before even trying to make a sound. When she told the story, nobody wanted to listen. Especially her grieving mother. 9 years later, Reba entered the same house that made her run away. With her heart skipping beats, Reba held to her chest while hoping no Floating Woman would visit again.            “Bunu?... It’s me, Reba…” One shy step in front of the other, Reba went from one dark room to the next. No living soul around. The only sound she heard, led her to the back room of the house. Bunu was lying on a short-legged bed, with his face to the wall, struggling to release the cough that burden old, sick men. Only light source came from a TV that nobody paid attention to. He looked so fragile, one strong cough and he would break into a million pieces. This was a pale image of the man that danced with his wife in the garden, waiting for supper to cook. Was it the same man who gave his time and shoulder to Reba, to cry on? The one that told Reba the door was always going to be opened for her? It was. Reba covered her mouth, to hide her crying. It wouldn’t make any difference to him, his drugs twisted reality and fantasy too well by now, to understand she was really there.            “I am here, Bunu… I came back…” The burning sensation that filled her chest was new to Reba. Her scared childish fears gave space for a different feeing: guilt. Of wasted time and stupid dreads, that kept her away. Floating Woman or not. She sat down by his side, kissing his hand that couldn’t feel a thing. “I’m so sorry… I am so sorry…”            “It was never… about you… Reba”, a voice challenged her. The raspy voice was coming from the room she has just come from. As Reba lifted her eyes, an enormous shadow filled the room. A hooved, hairy creature tried to pass through the door, eyeing the person lying in bed. Reba stared in disbelieve at its horns and long dark fur, thinking this can’t be real. Bunu saw it, too; he greeted him with a smile and collapsed back on he pillow. Those ruby-red eyes made Reba dizzy…

 “You… saw me once… And thought I’d… take you. It was never… about you, Reba” “You are… the Floating Woman ? ! ” “In a way. My… good friend here… searched for me. We must go” “You are Death…’ “I am… his faith now”. The human-like hands of the creature caressed the old man’s bony cheeks, touching him like the last spring sun rays had done. The girl tried to push it back, but that was nothing to push; its presence was not there for her. She tried grabbing the sick man instead, holding him tight to her heart, hoping it will make a difference. That Bunu will wake up and embrace her back. She needed to bring him back. The tears she cried fell on the man’s pale face.

 “Let him know he is not alone! Please, just let me tell him how sorry I am! Please! Don’t take him yet!” Before disappearing as sudden as it came, the creature took what it came from and held it tight. “It was never… about you”.


I hate smoking! And yet, there’s nothing quite like it in the world. I always know that it’s going to make me sick, and despite this, I always crave another cigarette. Why is that? What urge drives me to do this? Do I want to make myself sick? Do I want to feel unhinged, uneased, unsafe? The moment I put a cigarette to my lips and feel that sweetly taste, or is it the smell that’s sweet? The moment when I inhale that first puff, the smoke filling my mouth with that disgusting taste of burnt paper and weeds… I pause for a nanosecond and I inhale again, this time the smoke runs through my throat burning it as it goes down to my lungs. Sometimes I even feel it in my stomach. My lips are dry, I lick them and feel the taste of the cigarette butt on them. Such a sickly taste, it makes me want to vomit. And, exhale! My mouth is dry and the smoke makes it even more so. I’m starting to feel woozy, I always feel like this when I smoke. Every damn time! Maybe this is why I do it, for this mini feeling of elation, this quasi-break from the shit-show that is my life. For this one moment of feeling something good, of feeling in control. Inhale, pause, exhale, repeat! Sometimes I like to play with the cigarette between my fingers, gripping it between my thumb and index finger, using the middle one to complete this delicate balancing act between practicality and showmanship. I look like Rodin’s ‘The Thinker’ when I smoke like this. Is this why I do it? Neah! Or is it. I think grizzled old sailors smoke like this, you know them?, the ones that have that look in their eyes, like nothing can move them anymore. As if they’ve seen it all. You know them, right? Have I seen it all? Do you actually need to see everything, to see it all? Or, maybe you just need to see enough of it to get fed up with the rest and be done with it. Forever. I have an acrid taste in my mouth and my stomach’s churning. Damn, I hate smoking! “You look ridiculous!” he startles me. How long has he been there? I try to find words but I’m all chocked out. The queasiness climbs up a note. “What are you looking at?” he insists. I’m looking at him. He’s all teeth and no smile. Sitting across the table from me, cigarette at the corner of his mouth. He looks so confident, so full of self. Is it this? Is this why I smoke? A half-assed attempt to be more like him? “Did you grow some extra teeth?” I try to look confident but I can feel the blood rushing from my brain. He lets out a chortle, exposing more of his teeth. He always did look more hyena than man when he laughed. “Why? Did you lose yours?” How can he be so sure of himself? What does he have that I don’t? I bring the cigarette to my lips and pull on it as I look him in the eyes. I need to put it out or I’ll end up puking. I use this as an excuse and break away from his gaze and search for the ashtray. Exhale! I crush the cigarette, chasing down any stray embers. “What do you want?” I ask him, striving to regain my composure just a bit. “To help you, of course!” he answers, smiling benevolently. As I look at him I realize that his face looks like one of those Japanese Noh Masks, if I shift a bit to the left all his benevolence turns into something else. “Hmmm, why?” I can’t take my eyes off of him, it’s like I’m expecting for the mask to crack if I stare long enough, to allow me to see into his soul. “Come now, why must you always treat me like I’m your enemy?” he asks. “Because you never treated me as a friend!” bile rises in me as I utter that word: friend. Once I thought he was my only friend, he chose to be by my side when no one else would. Through thick and thin we carried each other. When I got bullied he toughened me up, when Mom humiliated me he reassured me, when Dad beat me up he stood up for me. He had always been there for me, and yet, somehow, as I look back on it, it feels as if he was always there for himself. It seems that my words found the tiny gap in his act, a geyser of hate shoots from his eyes as he bends closer to look at me, to frighten me. “You insolent wretch! If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t have survived so long in this world.” “Yes, yes! I know the story too well to have you chew my ear off with it right now.” “You …” spittle shoots from his mouth as he finishes his sentence “weakling!” As I look at him I see only rage, his mouth wide open, predatorial, telling me that he would like nothing more than to rip out my throat. “I am what you made me!” I shout convulsively. And at that moment everything fades and a hysterical laugh spews out from his clenched jaws. As I stare in amazement I can feel the pressure of time flowing through me, his laughter unceasing, unending, its point to break me in ridicule, to bring about ceaseless memories of moments such as this that I was forced to endure throughout my life. Moments that broke me, no, shattered me to my core, until I couldn’t make heads or tails of what I was anymore. Like all great artists, he ends his performance on a high note, tilting his head to one side and says: “If only!” widening his grin into a rictus. “No!” flatly “You are what you’ve made yourself to be. Every inch of the fabulous victim that you’ve become has been handcrafted into perfection by your spineless and stubborn self.” As he finishes his sentence I am left hollow. The echo of his words resound in me, bouncing from the walls of my being, faster, stronger, until their truth becomes one with who I am. I feel tears starting to well up at the corner of my eyes. I feel completely, utterly broken. “As I was saying” he continues “now that Mom and Dad are finally gone, good riddance for that” as he makes a mocking cross gesture “and you are all alone in this big bad world, I’ve decided to come and help you!” smiling benevolently once more in emphasis. That’s right! I am all alone now… I… am… all… alone! “I was thinking that we should sell their apartment and go to the beach for the summer. Drown our sorrows into whatever we can drown them over there… " he goes on. I am all alone! As the words sink deeper and deeper into my being my hand goes out towards the cigarette pack. With trembling fingers I pull out another cigarette and bring it to my lips. The taste doesn’t bother me anymore. I search for a light, feeling my pockets in a clockwork fashion, first the right pocket from my jeans, then the one from my shirt, finishing with the left jeans pocket. It’s not there. I am all alone! “We can stay at that hostel by …” and on. It was behind the ashtray. I light up the cigarette and I pull on it purposefully. It goes straight to my brain, relaxing me. As I do so I take a closer look at the lighter. It’s the most ridiculous kind of pink and it has the image of a black cat on it. Sarah bought it for me. I really loved Sarah! and I am all alone! ripple inside. “We’ll spend all day at the bar, the one right on the beach …” and on. “The one where we met Sarah?” my sight is glazed over at this point and I’m staring into nothingness. “Yes! that one” venomously, “hopefully there will be fewer shrews hanging around this time,” he straightened up at this. “In any case, we first need to get rid of the apartment.” I am truly, deeply alone! I remember now. I started smoking in order to fit in. “We should start by…” “No!” I calmly bring the cigarette to the corner of my lips. We stare at each other through the mirror one last time. I raise my arm and squeeze. “I’ve always been alone!” softly. Click!


I have never been this high in the Temple, climbing to the most sacred floor to bring an answer to the greatest issue facing our Church in years.

I fear it is the wrong answer. I do not want to go. I pray to the gods they do not take their rage out on the bearer of the message.

My red robes, thick and heavy, slide down my shoulders as I take step after step. All I hear is the shushing sound of it scraping along the stone steps. Sweat runs down my forehead and prickles along my back as I walk through the pools of flickering candlelight on each landing, up and up and up the stairs. I look back, hoping to see only the empty staircase, but she is still there, many steps behind, my curse. As a Novice I had never been in the Inner Sanctum, and after today might never again.

I had discovered the issue, through a chance encounter, and now horribly I was tasked with its resolution. Princesses Tanya had asked me not to reveal her secret.

I will have to ask the gods forgiveness for letting her down.

I lost all my skills at deception since living in the safety of the Temple. I truly had tried to be subtle when I asked my advisor, the Hieromonk Christian.

Christian was watering the vegetable garden on the 45th floor of our temple, one of the converted garden floors. His heavy bulk moved slowly amongst the raised beds. I was pushing the water barrel on the small cart behind him. With the shades up, warmth from the morning sun felt good. As usual he was giving me a lesson.

“Today we are limited in communications to only those near us.

In the Before Times,

people could talk to someone, see someone anywhere in the world at any time.” I nodded along, Christian told so many unbelievable stories. Yet there was one I needed to know about.

“Master, you have called the god Azon, the Grantor of Miracles. 'Make a wish today and by the next day the wish would arrive' is this the truth?” Christian smiled, he loved explaining the mysteries of his religion.

"Yes, all people who were of the faith could whisper their wishes into the magic boxes, then the god Azon would send the miracles directly to them.” “That is impossible!”

I had heard this before but needed it confirmed.  “It is true, it is written.” He said this, I know, to irritate me as I can not read.

He holds his great knowledge over me like a hammer.

“The magic has left the boxes, so now only those trained in the mysteries can speak to the gods.” He gestured to the blue-black robes he wore, symbol of his status as a Hieromonk.

“Can a Princess of Gram make a wish, and have it come true?” I reached out to touch a plant, trying to act like I did not care about the answer. His head turned, his eyes focused on me, “What is your concern with a Princess of Gram?” “Just wondering, nevermind.” I looked down and stared at my two hands washing each other.

Christian’s eyes blazed and he rounded on me, grabbing my arm and holding tight.

He stared at me. “Novice, tell me everything.”  Christian, the Hieromonk who found me in the streets and raised me from a young child knew me too well. I believe it when he says he can read my mind. “I found Tanay, a Princess of Gram, on the kitchen level when I was cleaning the pots. She wanted food- she said the Princesses are not given enough food so they will stay small and thin.” I did not mention that I had been sneaking her food for months, or our conversations about being young teenagers in this difficult world.

“She is… ill,

and asked for me to make a wish to Azon.” I looked up and saw this half-truth was not working.

“The Princess is… with child.

And she wishes to have Azon make it go away.

Sir, that is her wish.”

“One of the virgin Princess of Gram?”

Christian’s face contorted in disgust. “Another one.

She should be thrown out of the temple, she is contaminated!” He took two steps away, and then came back. “If our congregation finds out, it will ruin us! Princesses of Gram are the daughters of the god, renowned for their beauty and their purity! They cannot have children!”

“- I thought so too, but her belly is-” I demonstrated with my arms her huge stomach. “-Princess Tanay said it was the will of Azon.” “Well how did this happen?” The skin on my shaved head pricked up when I saw the fear in Christian’s eyes. He did not know.

I walked through the outer rooms and deep into the most sacred space of the Temple, on the highest floor with the message. I could not believe this is how I am going to meet the Prime Leader.

Princess Tanay is scared too and is making me hold her hand. Her grip is strong and she is leaning in close to me. It makes me feel better, though I will have to cleanse my hands after.

Tanay’s face is heavily painted but underneath I know it is pockmarked and pale just like mine.

On the way I could see through what was once the exterior walls of this giant building.

The sun streamed in through the large shattered and missing windows. The height of this old building, high into the clouds, was tall enough to see the mountains to the east and feel the swirling wind coming in from the unseen ocean sea, salty and fresh.

I didn’t get close enough to look down to see the ruined city below.

I knew from another windows I would see the only other still-standing towers.

There used to be many, but all the rest of them have fallen. Destroyed in the Great Quake, or the war that followed.

I could picture the street below in my mind, the cold and the dirt, my life in the car where I starved and fought for every morsel of food.

The homeless people living below against the walls could not be seen, or smelled this high up.

My dreams of being in this building, and now at the highest level have come true.

I do not want to be here now carrying this terrible message.

A dog scurried by, chasing a pigeon trying to roost in the broken rooms. Is that the window they will throw me out of?  I stepped up to the large doors of the inner Sanctum and tried to compose myself. I wiped my face with my sleeve and took a deep breath.

I could see shapes moving behind the drawn drapes covering the glass panels of the large room. Originally the building was all glass, though it has almost all been shattered, replaced with wood or plastic or sheets of metal, reclaimed from other parts of the building.

The unbroken glass shows how special this room was. The walls around the Sanctum room were painted in elaborate and dream-like scenes of dancing fish and swimming deer and birds walking upside down, and the ever present symbol of the god Azon, the upturned arrow.

I squeezed Tanay’s hand, pulled my shoulders back and put on my most serious face as I knocked.

Jonathan, a Hieromonk in his blue-black robe, opened the door, concern on his puffy, bloated face. Then he looked behind me at Princess Tanay.

“It is not allowed in here!”

“I was asked to bring her…” I looked over Jonathon’s shoulder at the Sanctum, tapestries and ornate furniture filled the room.

I saw an empty tall chair, and the Temple leaders huddled around a table. More than twenty Hieromonks were gathered. They were the fattest people I had ever seen.

Christian’s familiar face was in the corner and I eagerly took a quick step toward him. At his quick shake of the head, I stopped and waited.

Moments later my presence was noticed, and an Hieromonk with a beak-like nose and red eyes gestured for me to come over and leave Tanay. “I am Josiah, the Grand Secretary. What did it say?”

He stared openly with hunger at Tanay, his slack mouth open.

“The Princess said ‘It was the will of Azon’.

She gives no other explanation.” I whispered in reverence. “Outrageous!”

Said Josiah “We need an answer- this is the third one!” Another Hieromonk said. The conversation continued, ignoring me. I kept my head down, and watched the Hieromonks scurry around the room.

“Novice, you discovered her, do you have any insight on how this came to be?” Christian addressed me directly.

I remembered watching my sisters with the men in the cars, for the food, for the blankets.

“Well, when a man and a woman lie together, then-” I started.

“There are no men in the Temple!”

Josiah cried.

I looked up at Josiah, not understanding.

“Only followers of Azon are above the 40th floor in the Temple, there are no men .

All of us, the Hieromonks and the Novices have sworn celibacy and are above such base desires. It must be the will of Azon!” Josiah said, to nods and agreement all around. “The virgin princesses need to stay pure!” Josiah roared. His voice booming.

“How else can we appease the god with worthy sacrifices!” He looked down his long nose at Christian who scrambled away and next to me.

“If it is found out the Princesses of Gram are spoiled, impure, then the faith of our believers will turn against us!” Josiah pursed his lips.

“This must be dealt with!” His voice thundered and his face turned red. “We need to find out what is happening!” He looked at the closed door in the back of the room.

We must consult the Prime Leader.

We need to hear directly from Azon, god of miracles.” I leaned over to Christian.

“I believe she had someone to help get her that way, maybe one of the other Novices, who may have been the father-” “ No!" Josiah said, overhearing me. “Did it say that?” “No, Grand Secretary, but it makes sense-”

“What did you say?” Josiah turned toward me, flames in his eyes. My whole body turned hot with shame, I had used a forbidden word.

 “I said I -sensed- it from her-”  Christian stared at me disbelieving- “I feel you are not well-” “We must make a decision what to do with this unclean Princess who allowed this to happen.” Said Josiah. “ A Princess of the Gram must be seen as perfect in every way, the ideal for our followers, beautiful and pure-”

“-We should just throw her out the window, '' the Hieromonk Jonathon said, “like the last one. No one would notice another dead body out there.” His lips curled in disgust. "Throw that boy out too, he knows too much. Novices should not be speaking with Princesses.” “Not yet. She invokes the god Azon."  Josiah said. "And we need to stop this from happening again.”  Josiah went to the interior door, and then returned with a tall, older man, all in white. He was led to the center of the room. He seemed to float, his robe sagged off his large belly and covered his feet completely. He stared across at Tanay with a curious expression. “The Princess’s fate will be decided here.” Josiah said.

An

elaborately carved wooden box was carried by Jonathon, held carefully with both hands.

The Hieromonks began a chant:

“...azon-com…azon-com…azon-com…azon-com…azon-com…azon-com…” Jonathon brought it to the Prime Leader and he opened the box. I had only heard rumors of the Prime Leader, I had never seen him before. Bald, with a huge prominent chin, he had a vitality I had rarely seen.

His hands, opening the box, were thin with long yellow claw-like nails.

I was transfixed, keeping my breath low and quiet and my head down. I did not want to get noticed. My eyes did not leave the Prime Leader and the box. I felt the energy inside myself grow and pull me toward the power of him.  Jonathon was short so even I could see over his shoulder. Inside the wooden box on a blue velvet-lining was another smaller box, worn and faded. Muted and dull gray, the Prime Leader took it out with both hands and handed it to another Hieromonk.

He opened this box and the Prime leader took out a ring.

It was an unusual ring with a large dark stone. A whispered myth turned out to be true, the legendary Muud Ring! I knew all about it, it glowed in different colors to show the gods’ wishes.

The band was a coppery green, with gold paint flecks . The Prime held it up and then put it on. The Hieromonks chant became even louder.

“...azon-com…azon-com…azon-com…azon-com…azon-com…azon-com…” The Prime Leader then closed his eyes, raised his hand wearing the ring straight out and said in a loud, clear voice,

“I, Azon Prime ask, what should be the punishment of this Princess of the Gram?” I saw all the Hieromonks watching the ring intently, while the Prime Leader held out his hand stiffly, the ring’s stone dull and black.

Tanay was crying, her painted face smearing with tears as she waited for their verdict.

At a sharp intake of breath I looked back at the ring. It was starting to change color!

A dark red at first-  “Red is for death!”

A voice spoke, excited.

I wasn't sure if that was exactly red. “No it is changing-” Cried another voice.

“Is that some Yellow?”

Christian, said to me. “Yellow is release-” I moved closer, I couldn't help myself. The ring was drawing me in, I felt it like a rope tugging at me. I didn't see any yellow. “It should be close to complete now.” Said Christian.  The Prime still had his eyes closed, gritting his teeth. “Dark Blue!” Josiah said. “Sadness and pain. Get rid of her.”

“That is purple!” A high-pitched voice cried out. ““Purple is for passion!”  I looked around at everyone staring at me and slapped my hand over my mouth. Tanay began screaming, her hand pointing at the Prime Leader, “He did it! He made me lie with him.  He said it was the will of Azon…”

All of the Hieromonks began shouting and scurrying around the room. In the excitement I looked to make my escape.  The Prime Leader opened his eyes and stared at Tanay.

Their eyes connected, sparks seem to fly with energy between them.

He smiled. “It is the will of Azon-

that she dies!”

I was almost out the door when I saw Tanay, her sad eyes pleaded.

I grabbed her hand and pulled her with me.

I saw the gray box on the ground and picked it up too.

“Where can we go?”

“I don’t know, I lived outside before- but we will need the gods in our favor.” I looked at the box, with the familiar upward curved arrow underneath some words.

“Can you read this?” ‘Azon.com’ She said.

Tanay rubbed the words. “There is also an A, and a ‘m’ Amazon.com .” "We are saved!" I leaned into Tanay. “Whisper a wish.” I said. “That is where miracles come from-”


Unknown person: Yesterday on university Able read eggs Ice night Dark animals number ginger every ready, Lettuce encyclopedia answer vase even Not on working Lorraine Avery looked over at the text she was sent at 11:00 at night and blinked. The words made no sense and she wondered if her tiredness was affecting her vision. She looked at the caller ID and noticed that it was an unknown number. She knew that she should block the person and go to bed, but she got curious. Perhaps this was one of her friends playing a trick on her. Lorraine: Who are you? The person typed a moment before responding.

Unknown person: I am Judd Elliot. You do not know me. She searched her mind for the name, but he was correct, she did not know him. Then why was he texting her? He probably had the wrong number. Lorraine: You must have the wrong number. Judd: Is your name not Lorraine Avery? Lorraine froze. How did this stranger know her name? Was this some sort of stalker? She was about to press the block button, but something stopped her. She was still curious about his first message. Why had he written those random words? Lorraine: How do you know my name? Lorraine: And why did you write that weird text in the beginning? Judd: I have known your name for some time, but don’t worry I am not a stalker or anything like that. I know that is probably what you are thinking. I will explain how I know your name later on. His words were so cryptic. He had not answered how he knew her name. She did believe him that he was not a stalker. She did not know why she believed him, but she did. Still, something about thing whole conversation made her uncomfortable. She continued texting though. Lorraine: You did not answer about your first message? I assume it was a mistake though. He only responded by sending another strange text. Judd: YELLOW ON UNDER, APPLES RED ENTER, INTERN NEVER, DROP ATE NAIL GUARD EATEN RISE, LOOK EACH ASSOCIATE VAN EARTH, NOTICEABLE OVER WASHED She read the text, but it was just as unrecognizable as the first one. She wondered if he was playing some sort of game. Or was he tapping the words by accident. But she doubted that since this particular message was in all caps. She looked at the time, 11:22. In a few minutes she would go to bed, after she got more answers. Lorraine: How old are you? Judd: No time for that question. Lorraine: If there is time for you to text me at 12 am, there for you to answer. Judd: Fine, I am 22 22, huh. So, he was the same age as her. Lorraine: Where are you from? Judd: That is better for you not to know. Lorraine: Why not? Are you scared I will stalk you? Besides, I was only asking what state you are from, not your address. Judd: I need you to do something for me. It is very important for your safety and you must trust me on this. I know you do not know me, but I only want to help you. Lorraine shivered at his words and burrowed deeper under her covers. Perhaps she should just block him and forget this whole conversation. But something about his words reverberated in her mind, for your safety. What did that mean? Lorraine: You are scaring me. What do you mean by ‘for your safety’? I am perfectly safe. Lorraine: If this is some sort of prank, you got me. For a second, I almost believed you. Is this, let me guess, Michael? No, Peter. Yes, this is definitely something Peter would do. Judd: No, I am not Peter, nor am I pranking you. I wish I could say that this was just a prank, but this is something very serious. You must trust me. I can’t say much more than that. Lorraine: I do not understand you, Judd He only responded by typing yet another one of those strange messages . Judd: Yosemite Octopus Underneath, Apt Recycle End, Igloo Nope, Drastic Area Name Greed Ever Right, Let’s Envelope Awning Very Eel She groaned. Why was she wasting time texting this strange guy? Was she so bored that she spent her night texting a random stranger who had the propensity to right random words for no particular reason? Apparently, she was. Lorraine: Would you stop with that? I can still block you if I want. Judd: No! Do not block me! Please read my next message carefully. Lorraine: Fine, as long as it is a real message this time Judd: (Read Carefully and look beyond what is written) Yikes Oh Up, At Red Egg, In No, Do At No Go Egg Red, Let Egg At Van Egg, No Oh Why. She tried to do as he said and read slowly, but his message still made no sense. She read it again and tried to notice something different, but didn’t see anything. Lorraine: I do not know what you want me to see. Whatever it is I can’t find it. Judd: Compare it to the other similar messages I sent you, but you must hurry. We don’t have much time. Time for what? She checked the time, 11:45. Nothing significant beyond the fact that she had been texting him for almost an hour. Lorraine: Are you going to disappear soon or… Judd: Lorraine, just read the message! Lorraine: Fine, I will. You don’t have to be so pushy She looked at the messages he had sent and studied them. Ah, she found something. In all the messages he had made the first letter of each word the same. She pulled out a piece of paper and a pencil. Slowly, she wrote the letters. Y-O-U-A-R-E-I-N-D-A-N-G-E-R-L-E-A-V-E-N-O-W. She wrote it out as a sentence and it read: You are in danger, leave now. Lorraine: Judd, what does this message mean? Judd: No time, just get in your car and drive to the location that is in your gps. She looked at the gps on her phone and sure enough there was a location on it. A pounding sounded on the front door and then she heard a window shatter. She jumped out of bed. Lorraine: Judd, I think someone is breaking into my house! What do I do? Judd: Go out the back door and run until you are far enough away. I will try to get to you as fast as I can. She heard footsteps coming up the stairs where she was. She froze. Lorraine: They are coming upstairs! Lorraine: What do I do, Judd? Lorraine: Judd?! Lorraine: Judd!!!!


My day started as usual. I woke up, took a shower, and got ready for school. And as usual, I was five minutes late for class. As I walked into class, the professor looks in my direction. "Glad you could join us, Serena." She makes eye contact. "Well? Are you just going to stand there?" "Apologies Professor, I'll take my seat." "Thank you. As I was saying, if you want to write a good article in this Journalism course, you better pay attention." She kept going with the lesson, but my mind spaced out, thinking I remember this... But that was impossible, I couldn't possibly know the whole lesson. maybe just a part of it is familiar. That's right! Only a little part is something I know! Nope. The rest of the lesson was as if I'd already learned it. Weird enough though, I didn't have any notes on the lesson, even though I clearly remember writing them. Oh, well. Looks like I'll just have to re-write them. What was the lesson the day before yesterday? I thought about it, and the lesson didn't make sense. Why would we learn about the proper technique of writing an article for journalism, if we're only learning about Journalism today? Well, that was another thing that didn't make sense. There were no notes for that lesson either. I let the thought leave my mind and decided to talk to Professor Chase after class. Class went by a lot quicker than I thought it would. While everyone was streaming out of the classroom, I walked up to the professor. "Excuse me, Professor Chase, do you have a minute?" "Sure, what's on your mind Serena?" I took a deep breath. " Well, I had a question about today's lesson. It was as if I had already learned it. For some reason, it seemed like this lesson was taught yesterday. Is that normal?" Professor Chase looked like I'd slapped her. "Well, that's certainly odd. How about the day before yesterday?" "I think we learned about the proper technique to writing an article in Journalism. At least, that's what I think we learned about. I don't seem to have the notes for that lesson though." I looked at her. "Professor, are you alright? You look like someone smacked you between the eyes with a book." Her voice was hardly above a whisper when she spoke. "That was tomorrow's lesson. How? I didn't even write the whole lesson plan..." She stares into my eyes for an uncomfortable thirty seconds. "I suggest you go and get a check-up in the infirmary. You might be ill." Okaay, that's weird. She's acting as if you're crazy. But, it would makes sense as to why I know 'the future' or whatever. "Okay, Professor. If I'm not sick, see you tomorrow!" I left the classroom quickly, because the Professor's actions were scaring me. Instead of going to the infirmary, I went to the library. To the science fiction section. I began to look for things like people telling the future, knowing the future, or something like forgetting the past and only "remembering" the future. Nothing. Literally nothing came up. How is it possible that nothing comes up? There has to be something like that in that section, because it makes no logical sense. Since I didn't find anything, I let the subject drop for the time being. I didn't mention already knowing the lessons in class, or how I oddly knew things that didn't happen yet, like the new drink at Starblock's Coffee. (I knew ahead of time by, like three weeks. oops.) Mostly, my life went back to normal, except for the fact that I still didn't remember anything like who my parents were, my friends, other family, and what I liked. But, I put that subject aside. For now. -A couple months later- By now, I had graduated from the University of Journalism, and was currently looking for a job as a journalist. It was a futile search, because it seemed as though all the jobs were already taken. So, I was just working part-time as a barista.(Yes, at Starblock's.) Most days that I worked were easy, but busy. My hourly wage wasn't much, but it was enough to get by, live semi-comfortably. -Two years later- "Serena, are you ready?" an unfamiliar voice says from the shadows of my bedroom. "Ready for what? What's going on?" "Are you ready for the answers you've been looking for for the past three years?" I can't say that I wasn't shocked as to how this person knew who I was, and more so, about my secret. "Who are you first of all? And second, how the hell did you get into my house?!" "All those questions will be answered if you come with me." The voice was definitely female, but not of anyone I knew. "Where are we going? What should I prepare myself for?" "All of that will be explained when we arrive." -A long ride in a fancy car later- "Are we finally here where I will receive the answers I've been seeking for the past three years?" "Yes." I came to know the person who broke into my house as Akira. She was generally average looking, but her eyes were very, very electric green, as if they were fake. She was a lot more intimidating with her voice, but when she was just sitting there, you wouldn't expect her to be the kind of person to sneak into someone's house in the middle of the night. Honestly, I should've known that this would happen today, but oddly, I only saw parts of it. "So, who am I here to see?" "The boss. She's been investigating you for two years." "Is that even legal?!" "Yep, Boss runs her own private detective agency. Hardly any people come though, because she doesn't advertise her services." Akira led me through a building, still dark with the early morning. (More like 2 am, but whatever.) The corridors we walked through were all empty, except for an occasional potted plant. "Here we are. Just through that door, the Boss is waiting for you." "Finally. What should I expect? Is the 'Boss' scary, or just normal?" Akira didn't respond, just nodded her head toward the door. I reluctantly went in. Surprisingly, the inside was well lit, and it looked nice. "You're here," said a voice from across the large room. "Sure, took you long enough." "YOU!" The "Boss" was Professor Charlotte Chase. "Surprised?" "Um, yeah. Were you an undercover detective the whole time?" "Yes. I was assigned to investigate you, before I took the role of your Journalism professor. That was before you got your father's gift, yes?" "My father's gift?" "Yes, Serena. Your father was also gifted. Your mother on the other hand, is just a private detective." "Are you hinting something here?" "Yep, I'm your mother, and I'm guessing you forgot? The gift of knowing the future, comes with memory loss from your past on the day the gift was activated." "How come? What the heck?! how does that logically make sense?" "It doesn't, but going completely off topic here, would you like to work for my agency? You would probably be the best detective around." -Later. Much Later- "And the Detective of the Year award goes to Serena Chase!" ~The End~