“That’s the thing about this city, no pets allowed under any circumstances,” explained Janice, the very peppy realtor.

“Are you serious? I have never heard of a town that didn’t allow pets in,” replied Harris as he looked over at his wife.

“I am unfortunately telling you the truth.” “Well, I wish you would have told us that before we bought the house,” mentioned Willa. “I am sorry, I didn’t think it was pertinent information. Most people who move into Garrison are aware of this stipulation.” Janice then handed the keys off to the new homeowners and went on her way back to her office. Leaving the couple slightly annoyed at the fact that they were just hearing about this moratorium on pets.

“Well, what are we supposed to do with Richard,” asked Harris? “I don’t know, maybe we could give him to your sister, she already has a couple of iguanas,” suggested Willa. “If she will even take Richard, plus we will have to drive two provinces over to drop him off if she does decide to take him.” On the way back to their apartment in Sasha, British Columbia Harris got on the phone with his sister.

“Hey Celeste, so we didn’t know that our new home in Hyacinth didn’t allow pets.” “They don’t allow pets? I’ve heard of that kind of stipulation in apartments but never at a house.” “True but it’s a city thing.” “What?” “I know we were shocked too but the house is so nice and we decided it is worth it.” “Well, what are you going to do about little Richard?” “Um, I was hoping you would take him.” “I guess I could take him off your hands, maybe he will be a good companion for Cornelius. He has been so lonely since Hamilton died.” “Thank you, sis! I was wondering if you could come out and get him, we could show you the new house.” “I suppose I am overdue for a little road trip. I can even bring my work with me, I’ll head out tomorrow. Just let me check and see if my neighbor will watch my pets.” “I really appreciate it, Celeste.” “Say no more, I can’t wait to see Richard.” He hung up the phone and told his wife, “She is going to do it.” “What a relief, and I have to say, asking Celeste if she could come out and get Harrison was a good idea.” “I thought of it last minute. I just thought with the move and everything that it would be easier on us if we didn’t have to drive out there.”

“I’m just glad she is going to take Richard but I’m sure going to miss him.” “Me too, I always wanted a lizard as a pet when I was a kid, and having Richard has been great.” Celeste made the journey the day after she spoke on the phone with her brother. Bringing along with her a nice enclosure for Richard. She also planned to have him roaming around with the others from time to time in the house. Harris had sent her a picture of what Harrison was residing in and Celeste figured that was not good enough. She knew that Harris loves lizards but she was often regarded as the crazy lizard lady, similar to her neighbor Dana who is considered a crazy cat lady.

After what seemed like forever, she pulled up to their small 70’s style apartment building that they were going to vacate soon. She lugged her enclosure and a small duffle bag up the thin stairs to the third floor, then rang the doorbell. Harris came to the door and answered it. “Celeste, hey, come in.” “Thanks, I can see you guys are all packed up for the most part.” Willa poured pink lemonade into some glasses and brought it over to the couch they planned to switch out for a more plush and comfortable one. Celeste took one and said in her high pitched voice, “Thank you, Willa. You are looking great, by the way, is that a new hairstyle?” Willa twisted her red-dyed curls and replied, “Yes, it is, I got so bored with the old look. So, is that for Harrison because he has an enclosure already?” “It is but I thought this would work better for him.” Willia just nodded her head and said, “Well, should we go on over to the new house?” “Sure, I want to see this new fancy house my big brother here has been talking about.” They decided to just take one car and made their way to their new house on Roberts Street.

“Well, it sure is charming.”

“You like it,” asked Harris? “I sure do but the porch could use a little pizzaz.” “I agree, that’s why I am trying to convince your brother here to let us have planters and little sculptures.” “Hey, I compromised on the windchimes you wanted, so don’t push it.” Celeste just rolled her eyes thinking about how he had always been annoyingly stubborn. They went inside and showed Celeste what the layout was like and what they were planning on doing with the extra space.

“It looks great but no pets huh? I sure wouldn’t live here.” “Well, it’s too late sis, we already got the house. I think it is worth the sacrifice.” “If you say so.” They went back to the apartment and loaded Richard and his new enclosure into Celeste’s van and she was on her way. “Well, at least we know she will take care of him,” mentioned Willa. “Yes she will, I guess we will have to adapt to that no pets policy.” “Yep.” They finished doing the packing that night and the next day stocked the moving truck they rented. The plan was to move everything into the house and then replace certain things they want to as they go along with making it their own. A few days after they finished the big move, one of the neighbors came by bringing some delicious-looking cookies.

“Thank you, this is so thoughtful. I’m Willa.” “Oh yes, anytime, I’m Ren. Some of our fellow neighbors are going to have a little get-together Friday night, would you like to join?” “That would be great, when and where?” “At my house across the street and it will start at like seven.” “Great, thank you for the invitation.” With that, Ren went back to her house and Willa brought in the plate of cookies that had saran wrap around the bright blue plate. She set it down on the new oakwood table and unwrapped it to have a cookie. She discovered that a piece of paper had been placed underneath the cookies. Thinking that it would just be a nice little note, Willa grabbed it and read what was on it. It said in dark blue sprawling cursive, I am sure that you were told about the no pets law here in town. If you want to actually be able to keep one, join us at the Trell’s house on Wednesday at 4:00 pm. Just call me at 236-852-8769 to discuss this further if you’re interested.

 P.S. don’t breathe a word about this.

Willa inhaled deeply with surprise and then called out to Harris, “Honey, you should come to see this, one of the neighbors brought us cookies.” “I’ll be down in a minute.” Harris with his heavy footing came down the all-white stairs and came over to see what Willa was talking about. “Yum, these look good.” “Yeah but look at this note.” Harris read it and then looked at his wife with wide eyes saying, “This is kind of crazy but maybe we should give her a call.” “We already gave Richard to your sister.” “I know but we could get another lizard or ooh maybe even a cat. You’ve always wanted a cat.” “If we get caught though I don’t want to pay that ridiculous fine.” “We will be discrete just like this neighbor is, what is their name?” “Her name is Ren and she also invited us to go to her place on Friday for a little get-together.” “Look at us already making friends.” Willa rolled her big brown eyes at him and then took a bite out of the cookie she had in her hand. They decided that they would in fact call Ren about this and also find out more about the party that was going to go down on Friday. Willa made the phone call about an hour later and found out that there is this group in the neighborhood that gathers all of these pets so that everyone can still have one. They just don’t have them in individual houses to avoid being detected. Willa relayed what was talked about to Harris and they agreed that they should go on Wednesday.

On Wednesday, they went over to the Trell’s to see what this whole thing was really all about. When they arrived, they used the small golden knocker to announce they were at the door.

“Hello, you must be the new people in the neighborhood,” said a woman with warmth in her voice.

“Yes we are, I am Willa and this is Harris.” “Nice to meet you both, come on in.” “Thank you. You have a nice home.” “I know right, my husband and I moved in here five years ago and we have just adored this house and the city in general.” “It does seem great so far,” replied Harris.

“Oh, you will love it here as you get more acquainted with the area.” They followed the homeowner down the hall to their kitchen and saw that there was a small group gathered in front of the all-black table.

“Hey guys, this is Willa and Harris.” Everyone said hello and Willa and Harris did the same in response. They helped themselves to a few appetizers and took the deep red colored wine that was offered to them. It tasted to Willa like an expensive brand and it was absolutely delightful. It took some time for the conversation to move onto what Willa was informed of by Ren. The woman who had opened the door, Sammy said, “How about you guys follow us down to the basement and we will explain more.” Downstairs there was a cacophony of animal sounds inside.

“We have very well insulated walls so that you can’t hear them elsewhere.” Harris thought for a moment that this environment was not all that suitable for pets but Sammy reassured him by explaining, “We sneak them out every morning just before dawn to a farm outside of the city to let them walk around and get fresh air.” “You haven’t been caught? I would think it would be hard to transport all these animals without being detected,” postulated Willa.

“We were worried about that initially but it has been successful so far.” “How long have you guys been doing this?” “We started it up about four years ago.” Sammy then gestured for them to come in closer to see the variety of pets and explain more about how they could have their pet housed here. She explained that everyone comes over when they want to in order to spend time with them.

“You can even join us when we take every pet here out to the farm.” “Well, we had a lizard before we came here but we gave him away to my sister when we found out we can’t have pets here,” mentioned Harris. “Well, if you want to get another pet you certainly can.” Willa then turned to Harris and said, “We could get another lizard and maybe a cat or something.” “I would like to have another lizard but if you also want a cat we can do that.” “We have a friend that lives in the neighboring city that helps us get pets and even gives us a discount. I’ll give you both the number and you can call him up. I am not sure if they have lizards there but you could find out. As you can see we mainly have cats and dogs, some rodents too.” They followed Sammy back up to the main floor with the rest of the small group. Then they were on their way to go home and discuss this plan.

“I say we call this guy tomorrow,” suggested Willa. “I would say let's not be rash and be cautious but I really want to get those pets we want and this may be our only chance to have some while we live here.” “Well then let’s do it.”

The next day they were able to get a hold of Ralph; Sammy’s friend, and were instructed to come that afternoon to peruse the selection of pets. They drove out to see what they could find. The shop had quite a variety of pets to choose from, even lizards. Willa thought about how she would love to own all kinds of animals but that would be unrealistic. In the end, they had decided to get an orange tabby cat and an amazing-looking bearded dragon. They named them Orange Blossom and Seaweed respectively. Back in their own city, they went to drop off their new pets at Sammy’s place. Although both Willa and Harris really just wanted to bring them back to their own house. It was not an option though, so they went to her house and didn’t even get caught on the way there. They knocked on the door again and when Sammy opened the door she ushered them in hastily with their pets.

“I see you were able to get a lizard. A bearded dragon no less, what a cool-looking animal. You have everything this creature needs right? Also, this cat is darling. Have you given them names?” “Yes we have everything for the lizard right here in the bag,” replied Harris. “We named the bearded dragon Seaweed and the cat Orange Blossom,” explained Willa.

“I just love those names.” Sammy helped them take their new pets downstairs and they set up the enclosure for Seaweed. There were already cat kennels there and for the most part, they were just allowed to roam around.

“Well, I think you are all set, let me know if you want to come with us to let the animals roam sometime.” “Thanks, we will,” said Harris. With that Harris and Willa had found a way to skirt the ridiculous mandate about there being no pets in the city. It wasn’t exactly ideal but it was better than not having animal companions. They enjoyed the party that was thrown on that Friday, allowing them to make new friends and share in the joy of having secret pets.


The Essence Of Time—George Davis

  I was on a train traveling from Boston to Portland, Maine late on a Thursday afternoon. The car was packed with leaf-peepers heading to photograph and enjoy the beautiful, multi-colored leaves of red, orange, yellow, and green fall foliage.

  As I sat in the dining car drinking my third cup of coffee and staring out the train’s window. I was lost in thought when a young lady, I guessed, in her late twenties sat down. “Do you mind if I sit here, mister?”

  “Not at all. It is nice to share a table with so young, and may I say, pretty girl?”

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling.

  “Are you going to Maine, miss?”

  “Yes, Saco. I’m home from a break in my classes at BU. I haven’t been home in quite some time.”

  “So you have parents in Saco?”

  “A mother. My dad died five years ago.”

  “Does your mom work?”

  “No, she doesn’t have to. Dad left her well off. He was president of Hinton Shoe Factory in Biddeford.”

  “That’s nice. I’m sure your mother will be glad to see you.”

  “I’m not too sure. You see, I am going to tell her I am engaged to marry.”

  “She should be happy for you.”

  “I hoped she would be, but it’s who I am engaged to that she won’t like.”

  “Oh, are you going to marry an ax murderer?” She smiled.

  “No, I’m engaged to a police officer in Saco. So far, I’ve kept it from her, but today I shall have to break the news to her and pray she doesn’t go to pieces. You see. My mother is very emotional, one of the things that used to bother daddy. He was so straight-laced, sober, but very fair. Mother, not so much.”

  “My name is Oswald Googins,” I said. “They call me Ozzie.”

  “Barbara Owens.”

  “Nice to meet you, Barbara.”

  “Same here, Mr. Googins.”

  “Ozzie.”

  “Okay. Ozzie.”

  The afternoon went quickly as my beautiful guest and I conversed.

  “So, Barbara, do you intend to return to Saco after school?”

  “I have three more months, and I’ll have my degree. Then I plan to get married and live in my hometown unless I can convince my husband to find a job many miles from my mother. Don’t think badly of me, Ozzie. My mother wants to be in command of my every move. She’s been like that since I can remember.”

  “I hope you and your future husband the best of luck in the future, Barbara.”

“Thank you.”

  The conductor said we were an hour from Old Orchard Beach. I, with Barbara, was enjoying another cup of coffee and a bag of potato chips, an odd combination I know. But when I eat chips. I like a beverage as well, and today; it's java.

  “Do you drink much coffee, Ozzie?”

  “More than I probably should, four or five cups. That black, rich brew gives me the get-up and go I need every day.”

  “I learned in my studies, coffee is a stimulant.”

  “There you see. I knew it was a healthy habit.”

  "But it is also a depressant that can lead to panic attacks, anxiety, and even loss of sleep.”

  “I am aware of the side effects, and I do sometimes feel the effects of the caffeine.”

  “You know you can substitute some herbal teas. For instance, Chamomile tea is a calming brew with no side effects.”

  “I can’t drink tea. When I was a young lad, many years ago, my mother would give me tea to drink when I had an upset stomach. You can only guess what the results of drinking that golden liquid was. And, to this day. I cannot drink tea.”

  “Hey, Ozzie look at those beautiful maples with their reds and yellows. There is nothing like God’s paint strokes on His creation.”

  “You are right, Barbara. The scenery is magnificently displayed, showing God’s handiwork.”   “Old Orchard in twenty minutes,” the conductor announced.   “Well, Ozzie I’ll soon be getting off this train. I just want to say. It has been a wonderful trip. I have enjoyed our talks immensely. You are such a kind man, easy to talk to.”   The trees along the railroad tracks with their bright colors were, along with meeting Barbara, the most desirable part of my trip.   As Barbara exited the train, she turned and smiled, waving her small, lily-white hand. I waved in return. I shall miss that wonderful young lady. I can only hope and pray her life is full of love and happiness.

  I watched as she stood waiting for her luggage. Coming up behind her, I saw a tall, handsome man in a police uniform tap her on the shoulder. She spun around and the two kissed. I could almost see the stars in their eyes light up.

  I shall never forget this train ride when I met Barbara Owens in the dining car. It shall ever be considered my finest hour. When we were nearing the station where Barbara got off the train we both took a few minutes to take in God’s wonderful landscape: tall, colored tree leaves matching the green fields, and as if waving good-bye to us, the grass swayed in the afternoon breeze. It was a picture of grace and beauty. I could not tell you the ecstasy that, at that time, welled up in me like a hot flowing lava stream. My heart was on fire. Barbara’s beauty and God’s magnificent glory shining forth through His handiwork. It was the best day of my life as I watched Barbara exit the train. I said, “There goes my everything, all that I have ever wanted in life.

  I got off the train in Portland and drove home to an empty house. But, I thought. I was glad I’m me with all my ups and downs. I still have a roof over my head, food in the Pantry, and Goldy my orange in a bowl swimmer.

  “Good night, Goldy. Pleasant dreams.


Matthew, do you recognize this photo? Should I? Yes. After all, you took it! I didn’t take that! Why would I take a photo of what looks like a small bowl of half-eaten raspberry jello? Because you often take photos of food or other things I’ve never thought worth the effort. I’ve always found that a tad weird. Oh I know. I know. Don’t say it. You’re a photographer and see photos where others, like me, just see objects. But that said, how do you know it’s raspberry if you don’t even remember taking it? Like, maybe it’s strawberry jello? Well, whatever. Still, if I took that photo, when did I take it? 44 years ago today, Matthew. On a very important day: March 31, 1980. Er…you mean the night before Addie was born? Correct! I was in labour and labouring. I’d been in labour over 40 hours and they kept giving me epidurals for the pain which slowed everything down even more. Remember that? Well yes, but I don’t remember taking the photo. I’m guessing the nurse had brought you the jello but you didn’t feel like eating it? Exactly! Actually, I was surprised you photographed it instead of eating it. You said something about it being a way for us to remember everything about a day as important as the birth of our first child. Besides, you were having trouble staying awake through so many hours of labour so you had to do something besides listen to me moaning and groaning. Ringing any bells now? Sort of. But after all, Martha, what do you expect from an 82-year-old man? That was 44 years ago! And many thousands of photos later. You know, after you proposed, you told me you wanted to record our entire life in pictures, and you weren’t kidding. That’s why we still have boxes and shelves filled with enough photos to wallpaper this 2800 square foot house! And here we are needing to get rid of stuff so the kids aren’t left with a monumental job when we’re gone. Now, which of them will get the significance of a bowl of red jello? They weren’t even born yet! Well, Martha. Think of the photo as still life. Not every photo has to be of beautiful scenery or people or… Of course Matthew, but I have to say that in the 50 plus years we’ve been married, I’ve often been amazed as to how you see a photo in say, a bowl of jello, or mushrooms growing out of a bathroom ceiling in some old hotel in Maine, or a greasy trailer hitch, or… What trailer hitch? When did I photograph a trailer hitch? When we travelled down the California coast in the second year of our marriage. We were camping. You’d had several beers on an empty stomach while pitching the tent and you tripped over the hitch. I can still hear the expletives. You slammed your shin good and properly. When you settled down you grabbed one of your several cameras and took a photo of the hitch to record “another important event worth remembering”. Ha ha. Yes, I do remember that now you mention it. See, that’s the beauty of always having a camera handy. Photos help us remember. Even when they don’t, right? Sorry for laughing. Do you recognize this photo? Of course! I took that one of you sitting on those rocks looking at the Atlantic in Newfoundland. Gee, you looked hot in that red string bikini. I couldn’t stop posing you. How well I remember! My backside was so sore from the jagged edges of the rock sticking into it every time you made me change position till you got the angle you wanted. And it wasn’t enough to take several photos with one Nikon. No. You then grabbed your other one loaded with black & white film and took several more, before you decided you wanted some slides as well and grabbed your third Nikon…all while I was trying not to slip off the bloody rock into the ocean! I wanted to throttle you.

Oh Martha…stop being so dramatic and making me feel bad. I’d just get carried away when I was taking photos…especially when the photo was of my beautiful new bride. There you go sweet-talking me again Matthew. Was that the day we started to drive back to the main road and those young kids were pointing at our car and shouting, trying to tell you that you had left all three cameras on top of the car? Yep. I nearly had heart failure. You weren’t the only one knowing how much those cameras cost! But, there was one other time on that honeymoon trip that I really wanted to grab your camera and hurl it into the sea. Let me guess. Prince Edward Island, right?

Right! Different bikini… Blue with polka-dots? Yep. It was more than my bikini that had polka dots that day after you kept me standing up to my waist in the water while darn sand flies and sea lice feasted on my legs, belly and buttocks for 20 minutes! I’ll never forget the red dots that appeared everywhere that night and itched for weeks! Well, I was standing in the water too and had a few nips myself if I remember correctly. Yes, but you were standing in water up to your ankles and not to your waist! But just like these days, you never notice mosquitos while I’m being eaten alive, you don’t suffer with allergies like I do. Talk about suffering for art’s sake…except I was the one who always ended up suffering!

Oh, it wasn’t always you suffering Martha! Do you remember when we had the studio and I had to cover this huge wedding in the country and I had constipation for three days before the wedding? Oh shoot, yeah! Well “shoot” isn’t quite the right word. I’ll never forget when the urge finally got me just before dinner and I ran for the toilets. Oh the blessed relief when the blockage released. But then it wouldn’t stop coming. I was sweating and ready to hurl with nausea as well, and the smell! I’ll never forget it. Then I made the mistake of trying to flush…and it flushed…all over the top of the toilet, down the sides, all over the floors and was heading for the doors to the reception hall. Worse yet, members of the wedding party along with guests were waiting to use the toilets. Some were cracking up laughing. Others were disgusted and I was embarrassed to hell and back. Now THAT was suffering for my art…and our livelihood! Well, fortunately, the bride and groom were very understanding and it didn’t lose us any business. Yes, but there was one other time we did lose business. Oh, when was that? When these two well-dressed couples came into the studio for a portrait just after I’d purchased a lovely long posing bench…and I hadn’t finished tightening the back legs on the bench. Do you remember what happened?

Remind me. Well, both the ladies were rather big women so I got the ladies to sit on the bench and their husbands to stand just behind them. Then just as I said “Ok folks. Give me your best” , the darn back legs on the bench gave way. All I saw was two ladies going backwards and two pairs of chubby legs fly up in the air. OMG! Did you snap the photo at the moment they were giving you “their best”?

No. Nor did we ever see them again. They left in a huff. Well, I can’t imagine why. That was a “snapped” moment in more ways than one, Matthew. Yeah…and even though I was mortified both times, I still burst out laughing whenever I remember them. Oh, BTW, speaking of remembering, you do know what tomorrow is, right? Ummm…oh, of course. April 1st. Addie’s birthday! Right. And trust Martha Banter to be the one to give birth on April 1st. Our poor Addie has had to live with that Banter Blooper for 44 years now!


It was the third time he noticed her, sitting in a back row of the theater, staying until the end of the last credit. He thought he was the only person who did that. She was not attractive, but she was pleasant looking, with mouse-brown hair and what looked like a decent figure. She always dressed in long skirts, with oversized cardigans covering up her top half. It was hard to see her face, lit only by the flickering movie screen. The last credit rolled, the screen blanked. The house lights came up, showing a magical illusion for what it was… tatty, old, sticky with spilled sodas, the screen curtains fraying, their threads waving lazily as the curtains lowered. It was the last showing of the day. His indecision tore at him. Should he get up and leave first? Wait until she left? Try to leave at the same time, so he could strike up a conversation? The thought of conversing with her left his tongue curled up tightly to the roof of his mouth. He didn’t know her — she was a stranger. Who knew what kind of person she was? It could be she would laugh at him, point at him, and ridicule him for the amusement of the cleaning crew. OK, he would leave first, not risk the humiliation of failure. The house lights clarified that her seat was empty. When had she left? Why had he not realized? He was too busy worrying to pay attention to the real world, that was always his problem. Resigned, but secretly relieved, he got up, carrying his tweed jacket folded over one arm. The pathway to the lobby seemed like a grand exit, as if to carry that movie magic one more minute. Then the lobby door opened, and all was noise and chaos. Usually, that was how it seemed. But being the last show, all the other patrons had left, and it was only the cleaning crew left. They glanced at him incuriously and returned to their work. The aroma of slightly burned popcorn drifted sourly in the air, overlaid with floor cleaning solution. He was careful to walk on the floor that hadn’t been mopped yet, not wanting to add to the cleaning crew’s work. He pushed open the main lobby door and walked out into the dark, humid night. He wouldn’t need his jacket. As he walked across the parking lot toward his car, he relived bits of the movie in his head. He particularly liked the poignant scene when…

“Why do you stay until the end? Are you following me?” The woman seemed to come from nowhere, slipping out from the darkness, until she stood in front of him, confronting him. It was the woman he had seen twice before tonight, of course. Thousands of words cascaded through his brain, desperately struggling to catch hold of a few and make some sense of them. He opened his mouth to talk, but only his throat clicked. He swallowed and tried again. “I’m not following you.” He ducked his head to avoid having to make eye contact with her. This close, he smelled a fragrance, something cloying and heavy, reminding him of an elderly aunt from his childhood. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, unable to stop fidgeting. He cast a sideways glance at her. She was standing stolidly, arms folded, feet spread as if they were planted in the earth. Her frumpy gear was matched by an unpleasant scowl on her face. Desperate, he went on the offensive. “Why do you stay until the end?” She was taken aback. Maybe no one had ever asked her that before. Her scowl slowly dissolved into a wistful smile. It changed her whole appearance, made her appear welcoming and warm. “My father left us when I was young to find work in the movies. He never made it as an actor, so he worked off-screen, doing any job he could. He worked on a lot of movies over the years. I like to read the credits, and see his name scroll down the screen. It’s as close as I’ll ever be to him.” He was taken aback. Her blunt honesty astonished him — sharing such intimate details with a total stranger. He didn’t know what to say to her. At a loss, he stood, mute, hands hanging by his sides like lumps of meat. “What, does it sound strange to you?” Her voice sounded defensive. “It happens to mean a lot to me. It’s like, for a second, my dad is there with me, and I’m seeing what he’s done.” Now her tone was wistful. “I found out he died a long time ago. These are the only moments I’ll ever have with him.” Now that she had shared those details with him, he knew what was coming next. His insides squirmed, worms in the intestines, writhing in a tangled ball. He knew that wasn’t real, but that was exactly what it felt like. “Why do you stay until the end?” Her question dropped with a thud into the silence between them. His ears were ringing. He glanced at his car, but it was too far away for him to run for it. Cornered, he capitulated. “I, um, I like the illusion of magic.” “That’s it? That’s your only reason?” She would not let him off easily, not after the way she had spilled her heart and soul to him. How could he explain? Entering the theater on hushed carpeting, sitting in a plush seat, screening the previews, followed by the movie. Magic started, and he wasn’t a stammering loser. He was a muscular blond laughing carelessly, a dark, curly-haired man with a mustache charming a woman at a beachside table. He always had the right word, smoked expensive cigarettes, fought the bad guys, always stood up for what was right, for the little guy… and the women. They fell for him every time, closed their eyes and lifted their mouths to him. It was magic, and at the end, he was desperate for the magic to cling, for a little longer. He read every line of the credits, not wanting them to end. Only when the house lights went on, could he force himself to leave. Sad, empty, missing some essential part of himself. Back to being a beige man in a gray world, dull and dreary and empty. “Well, you see, in magic the illusion must be handled skillfully, such that the observer thinks it really is magic. You don’t want them to see the hands switching the cards. Magic is a combination of good dexterity for sleight-of-hand, and the heart of a showman, to create the successful distraction.” She looked at him, lips pursed as if she had bitten an unripe persimmon. “That is interesting, but it doesn’t explain why you stay through the credits. By that time, the magic is done.” He shook his head, buried under the weight of his unspoken words. “I, um, I, I, I…” He took a deep breath. “Idon’twantthemagictostop.” A cold sweat broke out on his brow, and his hands trembled. She thought about what he’d blurted out. A smile slow as the dawn broke over her face. “You’re like me. You want to be close to something you can’t have, but you can pretend for a while.” His eyes widened. No one had ever said so succinctly what he felt. He felt as if she had given him a key and unlocked his own thoughts for him. She smiled, a brief ray of sunshine. “See you at the movies.” With that, she turned and walked away, leaving him cradling this newfound knowledge like a delicate infant.


“My husband didn’t commit suicide. I poisoned him,” said Mary Farber to Detective Ruth Barnes a week after her husband Bruce died. Mary knew she had to protect Bruce beyond the grave in whatever way she could. Her beloved husband was a proud man; reputation was everything to him. He built a successful career as a financial advisor and served on the board of the Greater West Chester Chamber of Commerce and the Chester County Board of Commissions for years. People in his community knew, respected, and genuinely liked him.  When she arrived home from work a week ago, she discovered Bruce lying on the floor of their bedroom. She immediately sprang into action, called 911, and continued to administer CPR. When the medics got him to the hospital, though, he was pronounced dead. She was told he’d had a heart attack. Mary collapsed and sobbed uncontrollably.  How could she go on without her precious Bruce? He was the love of her life. During their 12 years of marriage, their love for each other never waned. If anything, it intensified. He could be a bit too introspective at times, but she knew that when she married him. Nearly every evening, they made time to enjoy each other’s company by sharing a meal, talking, or just cuddling on the couch while watching television. And in the bedroom, they could still cause thunder and lightning! Her husband was one of the fittest people she knew. He went to the gym almost every morning and was an avid hiker, biker, and runner. His favorite food group was vegetables and salads, and he only occasionally ate dessert. How could a 39-year-old man in this good of shape drop dead? Truth be told, Mary was more apt to develop heart disease. Sure, she only 33 but was 20 pounds overweight, and her preferred foods were anything with the word sugar at the top of the ingredient list. Finally, giving into Bruce’s strong suggestion, she had recently started to walk in the neighborhood with a couple of her girlfriends three times a week, but they spent more time working their jaws than getting their heart rates up. Not Bruce though. He was serious about his exercise. How could Bruce have been the one to have had a heart attack?            Then, Mary got her answer when she received  a request from the West Goshen police department to come down to the station. Detective Ruth Barnes closed her office door. “Mrs. Farber, the forensics report came back. I regret to inform you that your husband’s death has been ruled a suicide.”            Mary felt like she was experiencing Bruce’s death all over. The blood drained from her face, and she felt like she was having an out of body experience. “That’s impossible! Why would he do that? He loved life.”            “I’m so sorry, but I checked your husband’s medical records. He was on an antidepressant, wasn’t he?” Mary took a deep ragged breath. “Yes, he takes, I mean took, 20 mg. of Prozac daily, but it was more for the stress of his job than depression. There’s no way he would have killed himself.” “Mary, we detected a large quantity of Fentanyl in his system. You were adamant the other day that your husband barely took an aspirin, let alone illegal drugs.” Mary nodded.  “You can understand how we reached the only conclusion that makes sense, and unfortunately that is suicide. Was your husband under any additional stress lately?” “No more than the usual everyday stress from his job.” “Did you notice any signs of depression or unusual behavior recently?”  “Not really.” Mary couldn’t tell the detective that sometimes she’d find Bruce sitting in his favorite chair staring into space. “Earth to Bruce,” she’d say. Bruce would snap to and smile at her. “Sorry, just deep in thought. You know how I am.” She couldn’t talk about all the other things she’d noticed about Bruce lately, or the cops would maintain that he committed suicide. Her husband had been edgy these days, snapped at her for no reason, then apologized later for being short with her. Numerous times in the past few weeks, she’d turn over in the middle of the night to hug him and would find him gone. Often, she’d find him reading on the living room couch or pecking away on his computer. When Mary questioned him, he just said he was having trouble sleeping. “A lot going on at work. Nothing I can’t handle though. Go back to sleep, Sweetheart.” But, two days ago, he came out of the bathroom with red eyes as though he’d been crying. “Baby, what’s wrong,” Mary said rushing over to him. “It’s my allergies. All this pollen has gotten the best of me. I’ll take another Zyrtec.” “Are you sure that’s all it is? You look so sad.” Bruce put his arms around Mary and smiled,” You’re such a worry wart, honey. Everything’s fine.” Mary supposed she was in denial about her husband being depressed, so she believed his excuses. Abruptly, she realized how blind and gullible she had been. How could Bruce be so overwhelmed that he felt his only recourse was to take his own life? Why didn’t he talk to her?   Mary had to put those thoughts aside for now and think fast about how to protect her husband’s reputation. She couldn’t let people know that Bruce committed suicide. If she was to preserve his character, she only had one viable option. If she told the detective that she poisoned her husband, people wouldn’t think less of him. They’d think he’d had a crazy wife, but she could live without that. The authorities could believe she  killed Bruce because it was on her medical records that she was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder years ago. It was managed well with various medications, but no one needed to know that.  She’d tell the the detective she had been hearing voices telling her to kill Bruce , and she finally did. She knew she wouldn’t get the insurance money, but they had enough money in their savings accounts and stocks to sustain her. She also made decent money as an assistant editor for a small publishing company; although, she’d probably lose that once she confessed to murder. Still, that was the chance she’d be willing to take. She’d find a good lawyer who would advise her to plead temporary insanity. She would most likely be committed to a mental institution for a few months, but then she’d be released, and she would live comfortably, although never happily again without the love of her life by her side. ************************************************************            Bruce held the lethal dose of Fentanyl, purchased on the dark web, in his shaking hand. He knew from his research that this dose would cause cardiac arrest and death. Since Bruce never even smoked weed, and was an athlete, nobody would think to investigate a drug overdose. Besides, his father died of cardiac arrest at 60, and he certainly wasn’t a drug dealer. It was important that his death looked natural so Mary would get the insurance money. Lord knew, there wasn’t much left in their savings account or stocks. He really didn’t want to die, but he saw no other way out if he wanted his wife to continue to live comfortably. Mary didn’t know Bruce had lost his job at Swanson Financial two months ago because of embezzlement. He kept up the façade that he was still working though. On the days he went into work, he’d leave for the gym at 6:15 am as he’d always done. But instead of showering and dressing for work after his workout, he’d gotten to know all the parks and walking/running trails within a 50-mile radius of his home in West Chester, Pa. If it rained, he’d spend all his time reading under a pavilion. Then, he would change into his work attire at the end of the day. To say the least, he’d gotten to know park and fast-food restaurant restrooms better than he’d wanted to. Mary often worked from home as an editor, so on the days he worked from his home office, he’d keep his door shut, with something “work” related ready to pull up on his computer screen if Mary knocked on the door. He’d planned on returning the money he’d siphoned from Swanson Financial, but he was caught before he was able to do that. His boss, Brett Swanson, the owner of the financial firm told Bruce he’d been more than fair letting him pay in increments, but he was done.  Bruce only had until tomorrow to pay the rest of the money back, or the Brett would prosecute. There was no way in hell he could round up that much cash to pay Swanson Financial back in a day. Bruce had invested most of his savings and stocks, and $100,00.00 from Swanson Financial into Brismet Corporation, a semiconductor chip company. Mary didn’t know anything about any of this, of course. She had her own banking account which she used for groceries, pet care, household items, and personal needs and, most of the time, that was the only account she dealt with. She claimed to be mathematically challenged, so she left all other banking matters to him. She had no clue that Bruce hadn’t paid the mortgage for three months. Their mail never arrived before 5:00 pm, and he made it his “job” to retrieve it. So far, he’d been able to intercept the foreclosure and late bill notices before Mary could see any of them, and the phone calls always went to his cell.  Brismet was an ·e-commerce company, that outsourced product development, material sourcing, inventory, shipping, and manufacturing. They sold their products online via an e-commerce website to customers, and a third-party manufacturer handled the order fulfillment and shipping. Initially, Brismet was doing well, but four months ago, due to supply chain shortages and rising inflation, the third-party manufacturer put all the orders on hold, tying up most of Brismet’s and, consequently, Bruce’s money. Bruce had depended on getting a hefty paycheck from Brismet at that time, so he could at least replace the money he’d “borrowed” from Swanson Financial and replace his and his wife’s savings and stocks. Then, he would start making beaucoup bucks and could finally quit working at Swanson Financial. Although he was skilled when it came to gambling with other people’s money, he hated the high stress of it all. Once he replenished all the money he’d used to invest in Brismet, he would confess to Mary what he’d done. He’d assure her that he didn’t tell her anything about his investment into Brismet because he knew she would have been besides herself with worry and would undoubtedly freak out. He was only protecting her because he knew how tenuous her mental health could be.  Once they became multi-millionaires, though, he knew she’d eventually see that everything he’d done was to benefit them and would forgive his deceit.  Yesterday, though, he’d drained the rest his and Mary’s savings account to pay Swanson Financial back, but it only amounted to $23,000.00. He had hoped his boss would continue accepting the repayments with the promise that he’d replace all the money by the end of the month. He felt sure that Brismet would be back in production by then.  But Brett had become an asshole and told Bruce he’d given him more than enough time and would take matters to the police unless all the money was all paid back by tomorrow. Through tear-filled eyes, Bruce stared at the pills in his trembling hand.  He loved life, and it had been pretty good to him in many ways, but he loved Mary more. He was sure that if he went to jail, and most of their hard-earned money was gone, Mary would go off the deep end. She’d worked so hard to be mentally healthy, and he couldn’t let her spiral out of control because of him. She would grieve, but she’d persevered through her parents’ death two years ago. She was young and pretty and would soon find another man to love. Bruce had reviewed their life insurance policies, and there was enough of a payout for Mary to live comfortably for the rest of her life if his suicide wasn’t detected. Bruce would miss her terribly, but he had to protect his dear wife from beyond the grave in any way he could. Bruce was trapped in a strong box, and there was no way out other than his death, so he swallowed the pills.


I glanced at the rearview mirror and saw him, slumped in the backseat with his greasy hair falling over his eyes. The sight of him ignited a fire in my chest, a familiar burning rage that I had spent years trying to extinguish. The flames licked at the edges of my heart, fueled by memories of abandonment and pain. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white as I struggled to maintain control. As a successful novelist, I was used to weaving words together into a tapestry of emotion and intrigue, but now, I could hardly form a single sentence in my head. My father had left when I was just a child, choosing drugs and alcohol over my mother and me. For years, I had wondered what I'd done wrong - what I could have done differently. As an adult, I knew it wasn't my fault, but the damage was done. Our relationship was a broken puzzle, the pieces scattered, never to fit together again. His abandonment had left me with a gaping hole in my heart, one that I tried desperately to fill with anything I could. The countless nights spent crying into my pillow, my eyes red and swollen, my throat hoarse from the sobs that wracked my body. I remembered the depression that had gripped me during my teenage years, the feeling of utter despair and hopelessness that had consumed me. The scars on my wrist were a constant reminder of the pain I had felt, the desperate attempts to numb the agony with the cold bite of a razor blade. As much as I hated him for what he'd done, I couldn't help but mourn the father I'd once loved. The man who had held me in his arms, who had sung me to sleep, and who had promised to protect me from the monsters under my bed. But he had become the monster, and I was left with nothing but shattered dreams and a broken heart. The car ride had been tense, the silence between us heavy and suffocating. The flames of rage and the icy grip of sadness battled within me, each vying for control. I clenched my teeth as I remembered all the birthdays he'd missed, the school plays he'd never seen - the nights I'd cried myself to sleep because he wasn't there. Now, he'd come crawling back, drawn like a moth to the flame of my newfound wealth and success. He'd insisted on me giving him a ride to the airport, and though I wanted nothing to do with him, I couldn't bring myself to refuse. As we continued driving, I couldn't help but notice the way he fidgeted in the backseat, his fingers tapping against the armrest. I remembered a time when those fingers had held me, when I was small and innocent, before the world had tarnished his soul and broken our family apart. Suddenly, the car shuddered, and I felt the engine give a violent lurch before dying completely. We coasted to a stop on the side of the road, and I slammed my hands against the steering wheel in frustration. The tension that had been building between us finally snapped, and I turned to face him. "Are you happy now?" I spat, my voice shaking with anger. "You couldn't just leave well enough alone, could you? You had to drag me into this mess!" He looked at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and desperation. "I'm sorry," he said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Sorry?" I scoffed, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. "You think 'sorry' is enough? After everything you've put me through? After all the pain and suffering you've caused?" He looked down, unable to meet my gaze. " I know I've made mistakes," he said, his voice cracking. "I can't change the past, but I wanted to try and make things right. I thought maybe, just maybe, you could find it in your heart to forgive me." "Forgive you?" My laughter was harsh and devoid of humor. "For what? For leaving me alone with a broken heart? For making Mom work herself to the bone to support us? For being the reason I had to grow up too fast? For the scars on my wrist and the nightmares that still haunt me?" The storm of emotions swirling within me threatened to drown me. The anger and sadness waged a war inside me, tearing at the fabric of my soul - leaving me feeling raw and exposed. Each memory that surfaced was like a razor-sharp icicle, piercing me anew with its frigid, unforgiving coldness. The pain was unbearable, and yet, I could not escape it. He flinched at my words, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I know I can't make up for what I've done," he said, his voice barely audible. "But I wanted to try. I wanted to be there for you, to be the father I should have been all those years ago." My eyes filled with tears, and I shook my head. "You don't get to just waltz back into my life after all these years and pretend like nothing happened. You don't get to play the doting father now that I'm successful and it's convenient for you. You lost that right a long time ago." The silence between us was thick and heavy, weighed down by years of pain and heartache. I stared out the window, watching as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting shadows that danced like ghosts across the landscape. The darkness crept in, swallowing the last remnants of light, and I couldn't help but feel as though it was a metaphor for our relationship – consumed by the shadows of our past, with no hope of ever finding the light again. As we sat there on the side of the road, the wreckage of our relationship laid bare before us, I realized that there would be no resolution. There could be no healing, no forgiveness, not while the wounds still bled so profusely. The scars that marred my body were a testament to the damage he had inflicted, and they would never truly fade. In the end, the father I once loved had never even had a plane to catch. He had lied, desperate for a chance to reconnect, to reclaim the only successful thing in his life – his daughter. But the bridge had been burned, the ashes scattered to the wind, and there was nothing left but the bitter taste of betrayal. The story of a troubled father and his heartbroken daughter ended here, with no happy ending, no resolution, and no closure. Only the haunting memories of what could have been, and the unrelenting pain that would forever bind them together in a twisted, tragic dance.


Hi, my name is Kieran. I don’t know how old I am, or was, and I don’t really care. I don’t understand that. You might see me and think I am like every other boy by the way I look. It has gotten my parents into some difficult situations, like the time I changed my reversable shorts at a crowded McDonald’s when I got ketchup on them or like when my mom was asked to leave church because the pastor said I was demon possessed for having a tantrum. You see, I have autism, and the doctor said it’s severe. So much so that he told my dad I’d be a vegetable all my life. I don’t understand that either. There’s a lot of stuff I don’t understand, but more than people give me credit for. I try to be a good boy, but self-control isn’t in my wheelhouse. My biggest weakness is food. When mom took us to McDonald’s, we would go in the play area with the slides to eat and play. I’d watch her and as soon as she took her eyes off me for a second, I’d run over and steal someone’s food right out from in front of them. It led to many apologies and replaced meals, but it meant little to me because money is one of those things that just doesn’t make sense. Discipline never worked on me. The risk was worth the reward. I just got sneakier, and I would eat until I made myself sick. Mom and dad once got in a fight over who was drinking all the soda. Every time dad went to get one, they were gone. Mom thought dad was the one drinking them all. I was waiting until they went to bed or not looking to grab one out of the fridge. When I was done with them, I would hide the empty cans behind my bed along with any other evidence that I was in the food. After a while, mom did a thorough cleaning of my room and found all my trash. To this day there are locks on the fridge. However, occasionally, things get left out, and I have to play it cool to get the goods. One example came at my cousin's birthday party. Now, I like birthdays because there is cake and ice cream and balloons and presents, but I hate all the people that get in your face to talk to you and all the noise. At my cousin’s party, even though I didn’t talk, my parents took me around the house to say hi to everybody. I’d let people hug me even though it made my skin crawl just so I could get a lay of the house and see if there was anything I wanted to get into. It was when we went into the kitchen to say hi to my aunt that I saw it – a two-tier chocolate cake. I knew I had to have it. From there mom took me into my cousin's room to play with the other kids. I have never really played with other kids. Being in the same room is good enough for me. So, I grabbed a toy where if you turn the nobs and press the buttons Disney characters pop out. It was fun for about a minute, but I couldn’t get my mind off that cake. I could see it from the bedroom doorway. It was like a pile of gold guarded by giant, nasty trolls. I needed to be a stealthy ninja if I were to get by those trolls and claim the gold. I left the bedroom and stood between the kitchen and living room, staring at the ceiling, spinning in circles as I tend to do to entertain myself. No one took notice, which was good, I was blending in. I went into the living room by my dad who was talking to my uncle and grandpa. I jumped around flapping my arms, laughing hysterically. Nothing out of the ordinary. They were busy talking, not worried about me in the slightest, so I went to check on mom, who was in the kitchen with my aunt. They were busy cooking. No obstacle there, but grandma and a lady I didn’t know were sitting close to the cake. I sat down on the floor next to them and began to hum and rock. I watched them through the corner of my eye to see if they were paying attention. Occasionally, grandma would glance down at me, but her glances became fewer and fewer as I slowly scooted away from them. The time was right. I had people all around me, but I had blended into the background to the point that no one noticed that I was about to devour my cousin’s birthday cake. With both hands I dug my fingers into the soft cake and shoved it in my mouth, creamy frosting covering my face, crumbs raining down the front of me. I wiped my hands on my shirt and started shoveling in as much as I could as fast as I could. It was only a matter of moments before someone was going to catch me, but the euphoria of the sweetness was overwhelming. To my surprise, I got halfway through the cake before my aunt turned around with a distressed scream of “Kieran!” That just made me dig faster. I knew mom was on her way. I knew what was coming. But I was getting every crumb I could into my mouth before it happened. As always, I was unphased by discipline. I was quickly dragged to the bathroom since my hands, face, and clothes were covered in chocolate. Mom scolded me the whole way through. Or maybe she was venting her frustration. I had no clue, but she was angry. After that, dad was put in charge of keeping me busy and out of trouble until dinner. My aunt salvaged a piece of cake for my cousin and put a candle on it for her. The rest of us had ice cream for dessert. I really wanted more of that cake. It sucked watching them throw away as much as they did. I didn’t understand why they did that, but they do a lot of weird things I don’t understand. Yep, when it comes to food, I don’t mess around. If it isn’t under lock and key, I will find a way to eat as much as I possibly can. Just because I don’t understand everything everyone else does, doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Underestimate me, and you’ll learn the hard way.


This story alludes to the loss of a child.

My father sits at the piano playing “Piano Sonata Number 14” by Beethoven. It’s a slow song, a heartbroken song for a heartbroken man. God seems to know what’s happening this morning as a light rain falls dutifully on the windows. It keeps a steady rhythm like a metronome. But the time my father played to a metronome is long gone. His long, angry fingers crash into the keys as thunder roars in the background. I stand, lingering in the doorway. His body sways and rocks, a man lost in the song. Lost in his own devastating grief, unaware of the child who needs him for arguably the first time in her whole life. Instead, he crashes into the keys. Louder and louder as the crescendo dictates. I see his right foot, shielded in a black loafer, gently pressing on the golden pedal. The notes linger in the air and I want to rush to him like we did in the summertime. When Mama plaited my brown hair in a long, mermaid’s tail down my back. He lifted me onto his lap and let me touch the most valuable item in our whole home. Mama, stood where I stand now, watching with a joy on her face that at the time seemed indescribable. Papa’s calloused fingertips dancing along my infantile ones as he taught me scales. His laughter filled the parlor room with love, joy. I could swim in that laughter.

Now, I depart from my father’s grief, watching as the laughter was broken down into tears. I step into her sanctuary, her bathroom. Mama always said, “It takes more effort to frown than to smile, my love.” She’d pinch my dumpling cheeks and mumble something about wrinkles before turning to face the mirror. Her face was like a painting, stuck behind the glass. Her blue eyes sparkling as she applied rouge, a little mascara, and her signature red lip. My little fingers reached up to grab at the perfumes, delicately housed in crystal castles. She’d smile down at me, her little dumpling. Her long, elegant hands, nails perfectly polished in pastel pink for Easter, vivid red, white, and blue come July, burnt orange in the fall, and a deep green by Christmas, would grasp the castles and release a cloud of love into the air. “Choose your perfume wisely, my little dumpling,” she’d say. Sometimes, I would get to mock her. I’d crane my neck up high and dab some lilac essence onto my neck. The bottles stand haunted, untouched. My little fingers still reach for them. I pull and let out little sounds of frustration as my hand flaps on the counter. I successfully feel the hard tube of one and grab on tightly, pulling as I go. I don’t notice as it edges off the counter and I gasp as it falls. I have destroyed a crystal palace. Tears rush forward as I hear my father’s heavy footsteps crash up the stairs.

He’s set me on my bed in a new, black dress. My little feet dangle off my bed. My father sits at the piano playing “Piano Sonata Number 14” by Beethoven. My first dress lies crumpled in the corner of my room and I tilt myself back onto my pink comforter. I can smell Mama as I do this. So I sit up and throw myself back again, inhaling her as I do. I can see her face, bright as she clutches one of my dolls. She’s waiting for me. She says, “Let’s take a walk,” so we do. Mama reaches out her fingers and I grasp at them with mine. We walk down the wooden steps. She holds me up so I can skip one every so often. We walk out the big, red door, out into the front garden. Mama smiles at the rose bushes, coming into bloom in the spring and summer. She shows me how to kneel down and smell each of them. Her pearl earring brushes my cheek. It’s cold and it sends me into giggles. Mama smiles back at me. We walk to the Big Tree, just a bit away from our garden. I tell her all about Tilly, my doll, and how she is a princess and so am I. “Right you are, my little dumpling, a princess for the red of your days,” her lips press into my forehead. They leave a red scar of love.

I awake to the soft song of a violin. Violet must be here. I brush my curls back from my face and smooth my dress. Downstairs, a shaft of bright, afternoon sun cuts across the wooden floors. I am an international spy as I plop down and dangle my stocking covered feet off of the balcony. My hands grip the wooden banisters out of habit as I poke my face down and peer. I can see Papa, playing the piano. His broad shoulders sit straighter now. Violet is indeed there with her violin. Mama used to watch them play. She would sit back on her warm, leather chair, with me in her lap. When I was too small to silence myself, she’d shush me softly in my ear. I can feel her warm breath as it breathes comfort and safety into me. Her arms would wrap around my waist as the violin cried or laughed or stomped in anger. However, her belly grew too big to hold me in the chair. She told me she had swallowed a watermelon seed and that made Papa laugh, even as the song crescendoed into joy. Violet laughed, too as she took a break to bounce her bow off of Papa’s shoulders. “Our home shall always be filled with music, my dumpling,” promised Mama.

But now, Violet does not stand tall with her violin. In fact, she sits in Mama’s chair. That does not sit right in my tummy. I stand and rush down the stairs. My stockings make the journey slick. Papa doesn’t look up from his work. Violet plays deep, long notes as Papa crashes along with her. I rush to Mama’s chair and tug at Violet’s dress. The music stops. I see tears in Violet’s green eyes. Papa doesn’t turn to me. His right pinky reaches out and lets loose a high pitched note. Violet begins playing from Mama’s chair. I tug on her black lace at the bottom of her dress. She stands. I take my seat in Mama’s chair. It feels warm. I decide to make Mama proud and keep myself quiet. I button my lips. But music is boring. And Papa’s shoulders seem to slump down low, low, low like the lowest branches of the Christmas tree which brush the tops of colorful bows and boxes. I unseat myself, my stocking covered toes scratching at the leather. I wander into the kitchen. Juliet is there. She stands with her broad back against the white counters. Wisps of red hair escape her bun. I march up to her and she lifts me onto the counter, an act of rebellion against my father. “Cookie?” I ask. She doesn’t correct my speech. I am handed a chocolate chip cookie and crumbs soon fill my dress. I offer a bite to Juliet who refuses. My brow furrows in confusion; Juliet always enjoys a bite of cookie with me. She isn’t wearing her blue dress with white apron today. Just a long, black one. Like Violet. Like me, I realize.

The door opens. I hear some adult speech and reach for another cookie. My father sits at the piano playing “Piano Sonata Number 14” by Beethoven. Juliet slams a glass of cold milk beside me before returning to the counter. I swallow it in three gulps. She lifts me off of the counter. I return to Mama’s chair. Papa does not look up, his fingers slam back into the keys of the piano. I am bored. So I stand and try to clamber into Papa’s lap. He doesn’t permit me. His music does not stop wailing. I huff and stomp my foot. Juliet comes in and mumbles an apology. We sit in Mama’s chair together. Juliet does not feel like Mama. She’s not as soft and she doesn’t smell like perfume or roses. Her hands are rough and unpolished. Juliet does not wear any earrings. I turn so I can whisper in her ear, “When is Mama coming home with the baby?” Juliet pushes my head to her breast. I can smell a new scent on her. It’s clean. Frustration echoes in my heart as I demand the question once more, “When? When is Mama coming home?”


It's finally All-hallows Eve October 31st or Halloween as most people would say.Every year my fellow witch sisters choose a meeting place so that we could come together and solve whatever issues we may have. Our witch circle is fairly small because you don't know who you can trust anymore. Our circle has been the same for years. we have beautiful Luna a very powerful witch with the powers of psychokinesis Luna says she loves her powers but when she's angry everything moves and it's very scary. we call bree mother nature because she has the power to control the weather this is very helpful on our vacations but bree usually let nature take his course being a good witch and all. And we have Lilith she is the most powerful witch I do believe without Lilith we cannot fix anything Lilith has many Powers I have seen her move things with her mind, change her eye colors, change shapes and she has the ability to see through walls and other things and could hear very far away she is definitely the most powerful of us all. And this leaves me my name is Cordelia I have the gift of intuition. Living in Salem Massachusetts is not the best at times for a witch with intuition. I was born in raised here in Massachusetts if this was 1692 I probably would have been hung or burnt alive already. What's unbearable is walking around with constant reminders of how numerous people died that may or may not have been practicing witchcraft. I usually walk around Salem attacked by the memories, because most of it is frozen in time in museums of what was. Now that I finally realized why I am so unusual is because I was born a witch, A very powerful witch with the gift of intuition that's if you want to call it a gift. This power gave me nothing but sorrow because as I grow I often react to people's emotions way before they express them and this leaves me looking like the bad guy for years my emotions have been all over the place. Believe me, feeling other people's personal feelings is nothing to wish for. Because most of the time people are not very happy and all that emotions comes towards me. Making me feel like I am being attacked and I usually respond badly. I'm never wrong about what I feel, but I'm always wrong because I'm fighting back because of how they feel about me accept they haven't told me how they feel yet. I guess being different people hate you because there are so many people that live right next to me that really have strong hated feeling towards witches. This is like being in hell when everyone is against you and you the only one fighting for yourself. As a witch, I usually dream about what's going to happen way before things happen. I've never really believed my dreams until they began to come true. Right now it's about 48 degrees here in Massachusetts and I'm already dressed and black from my head to my toes and not because I'm a witch just because I love black. I usually do small spells being that I'm a good witch. Just spells to shut people up just for a little peace once in Awhile. But these people are making it really hard for me to stay good. my mind often wonders about binding certain people because they really deserve it. But I never before did any black magic being that I don't know the consequences of the powers that I would release. I never before have done any black magic maybe I'm just scared that I may grow a giant mole on my chin and a long crooked nose or maybe turn green or something. I guess that's funny to you but the consequences are real and I don't believe I'm ready. From the beginning this had been a disaster so on all-hallows Eve, Luna, Bree, Lilith and I are going to come together to quiet down my intuition. We plan to meet at the North River of Salem walk. Because water has the most energy. Before our rituals, we must Purge ourselves and wash and stay away from animal flesh.we supposed to had met at midnight but we were running late and luna forgot the candles and everything was off. Something was just not right. Everyone said that they feel weird but we just ignored the feelings. As we arrived at the North River the mist in the air gave me a chill. Lilith began to bring up the old altar from under the dirt and the dust began to blow we covered our heads until it passed us by. We began to light the old candles and Lilith kneel at the altar holding up the cauldron we begin to recite earth, water, air, and fire until we felt like what we wanted was given to the universe. Lilith began to walk backward around the circle reciting a spell. The sky became dark and it begins to rain and fish was flying out of the sky and we begin running and when I turned around bree had hold of Luna choking her and bree had luna  twirling in the wind. We began to run towards luna just to help her when Bree began dropping lightning bolts towards us. The rain was unbearable and we could barely walk with the wind blowing so hard we finally got to Luna and Bree released her just to hold all of us up twirling in the wind. Lilith began to chant and we began to follow saying." from the beginning we were one nothing on this earth could make it undone" from the beginning we were one and nothing on this earth could make it undone. Holding hands and chanting seem to be calming Bree down she let us go we hit the ground hard but we were ok. But we never stop chanting until Bree's eyes begin to look noticeable and then we called her name and when she responded we knew we had bree back. We never really understood what happened on that all hallows eve but we know next time if something feels off to pay attention. Bless be


Omar stretched out his arms and yawned.  Through the opening of the cave came the burnt orange light of the dying sun.  He stood and looked down at Carmia who was still asleep.

Should he wake her?  Should he lie back down beside her and hold her tight?  He knew she lay naked under the six or seven blankets they had stolen from the abandoned Bed, Bath and Beyond  store.  It was all that was left over in the looted remains of the place.  The lucky ones, the ones who had prior knowledge the sun had died and Earth was next, made sure they supplied themselves with everything they would need to survive as long as they could.  By the time Omar and Carmia got to the outdoor shopping mall every store was stripped down to the floor.  They were lucky to find these blankets, a pillow and a saucepan hidden away by someone else, he supposed.  Were they going to return later to pick up their stash?  Perhaps they were dead like the countless others who they passed in the street on their way to these mountains.  Panic. Suicides. Fear.  Once the news came out that Earth would perish within a year it didn’t take people too long to revert to their animal instincts of survival. Everyone for themselves!

He walked quietly to the cave’s opening. They were blessed to be able to make it to this cave alive.   He hated killing her but they had no choice.  The woman in her thirties had beat them to this place.  She even had a gun which by fate or fortune when she pulled the trigger to kill him nothing happened. The safety was on and as she fumbled to click it off he rushed her and plunged his walking stick through her heart without even thinking.  Something within had overpowered him making him lunge forward toward her.  Instincts.  Pure animal instincts.  The sight of the blood, the woman’s eyes filled with surprise as they began to cloud over. And the way they just threw the body down the cliff as if throwing out a piece of trash.  He leaned over the precipice and puked.  He had to do it to protect them. He peered through the thickening haze.

If there is a God, forgive me for killing her.

He stood, wiped off the spittle from his lips and looked back at Carmia.

Let her sleep.

Their love making last night seemed to have gone for hours and exhausted both of them.  They both exposed their raw passion for each other that surprised even himself.  It was as if he was a wild animal filled with lust as his tongue plunged deep in her mouth, his hands touching her every part of her body, caressing at times, probing at others.  They were caught in some type of a wild sexual frenzy feeding off one another’s emotions and primal needs.  She was like a raging fire as her lips began licking the sweat off his chest, sucking on his nipples then pressing hard against his lips while she grabbed  his hair as she drew him closer, closer.  He ran his fingers along the small of his back and felt the scratches her fingernails etched deep into his skin.

Was is so absurd to think he loved her and would do anything to keep her?  Would she keep him?  Did she love him as he did her or was last night just a purge of pent up sexual inhibitions? After all, he really didn’t know her. They had only met three days ago.

He was rummaging through an upscale neighborhood going house to house foraging for anything to take with him for his trek to the mountains when she came at him with a knife.  Damn might have killed him if she hadn’t tripped over the leg of a overturned chair.  She put up a good struggle, but eventually he won.  Did he regret punching her?  Not then. But now, yes of course.  His first inclination was to leave  her there lying unconscious in that house’s living room and let the crows pluck at her flesh if the dogs or cats didn’t get to her first, but he was far from a killer.  When he looked down at her lying there a wave of sadness fell over him.  He was an accountant for Christ sake.  A man of reason and moral integrity.  He never killed anything in his life.  He left the house then but after taking a few steps toward the sidewalk he turned around and went to her.

He was hoping she had regained consciousness and left but no, she was still there.  A trickle of blood was oozing from the corner of her mouth. Her upper lip was beginning to swell.  She looked pitiful. Helpless.  He went to the kitchen, turned on the tap and wet a nearby washcloth.  Yes. The water as electricity was still on.  It was as if in this apocalyptic chaos the rudimentary essentials; gas, electricity and water remained alive while man slowly died off.   But no cell phones. Why? He wrung out the washcloth and went to her.  She moaned a bit and slightly shifted her head.  She was no beauty by any means. Nor was she ugly.  Average looking he’d say. Average body with a bit of a bulge around her stomach.  He was no prize either.  Overweight for being thirty. His nose angled just enough at its end for his sister to tease him growing up by calling it a ‘ski slope.’   Perhaps in a different life, a different time he would have turned out differently but today, right now in this moment he didn’t care.  He was alive. A woman who he had just met and shared a sexual experience he had only fantasied about all his life was lying asleep twenty feet from him.

If anything he would not die alone.  The white orb of what was the sun was barely visible through the thick gray haze.  The air was getting cooler by the day. Temperatures were dropping from eighty degrees to fifty.  The last newscast he watched before the cable, direct TV and regular television went dead stated that Earth was now experiencing the result of its sun collapsing upon itself over a thousand years ago.  There was no hope.  Earth was dead.  He was dead. Carmia was dead.

He walked over to her, slipped under the layers of blankets and laid beside her.  Her eyes opened.  She smiled.  He embraced her as if at any moment a wind would come and sweep her away.  His eyes meet hers.  “I love you.”


Prey . The thought came to Dwayne suddenly as he stared out the screen door at the front yard. Fine hairs rose on the back of his neck, while his ears perked up, and his hawk-like eyes scanned his surroundings, the trees that bordered his land. “Ellie,” he said to his partner, “we got company.” The roar of an engine and the crunch of gravel under tires reached his ears then. One vehicle it sounded like. How many people? Ellie, in her ratty pink robe, shuffled to stand beside him. She slipped an arm through his and snuggled in close. She stared out the screen door, too. He kissed her head, his eyes never leaving the yard. Only moments before he’d been enjoying a cup of black coffee, smelling early morning mountain air, the waft of wood smoke reaching his nostrils from last night’s bonfire. The rain, little more than a drizzle, made everything clean and the world smelled fresh. Fog hugged everything. When the sun rose, it would burn away quickly. The Bronco jostled out of the mist then, bouncing around a bunch of trees that formed a tunnel almost. Dwayne heard the scrap of branches across the roof, as the vehicle continued up the rutted lane and jerked to a stop feet away from the porch. “I’ll get the rope,” Ellie whispered, taking his cup and pulling away. He watched her go. She was his world. They had each other. There was no one else. She knew what needed to be done. No questions asked.  He’d slipped farther back into the cabin’s shadows so he couldn’t be seen from the dooryard. Then the engine fell silent. He turned his attention to the young woman sitting behind the wheel. Despite being near seventy, his senses were well tuned, eyes and ears that of a far younger man.  When he’d been a soldier – a lifetime ago - his squad mates claimed his ability to know the enemy, to almost sense the enemy, bordered on the supernatural. But he knew it was no such thing. He just turned on the primitive part of his brain. It was kill or be killed after all He could hear the enemy approach no matter how silent they thought they were and saw them camouflaged when they’d believed themselves blended as perfect scenery. He swore he could hear them breathing. Like now. She was not breathing easily; he could read that. Her eyes looked tired. She looked troubled, eyebrows arched down concerned, as she studied his cabin. He estimated she might be early twenties.  Pretty thing. She sat there, gripping the wheel – he could see her white knuckles – at ten and two. But she couldn’t see him. He’d claimed part of the cabin’s shadows as his own. He was in hunter mode. Then, the driver’s door opened, and he watched her long legs find the ground; she followed. She was a vision all right. Close to 6 feet. Thin, hair pulled back, like Ellie wore it.  A few errant blond strands had escaped and dangled limply by a cheek and she nonchalantly drew it behind her ear.

Prey. His large fists clenched and unclenched. He imagined cutting into that flawless, young flesh later while she screamed, and the smell of blood filled his nostrils… The hunger, which he had long repressed – over thirty years now - was still there which surprised him. He had imagined it gone. Nope. Dormant, maybe, but never gone. The worn grey hoodie she wore hung off her shoulders like a shawl, or a cape. She tugged it up and seemed to get swallowed by it. Looked much too big for her. A boyfriend or girlfriend’s, perhaps? Beneath it, she was dressed in a loose fitting, faded beige blouse and tight blue jeans. She looked hesitant as she continued to look around. And then she closed the door slowly, still looking around and nudged it with her hip and it clicked shut. For a second, he closed his eyes. He heard the sigh of a breeze, a crow caw in the distance, the tick of the vehicle’s engine cooling down. He heard it all. And then focused on the girl. He could smell vanilla. Her perfume. He heard her footsteps, walking, slow, coming closer. Dwayne licked his lips. Keep coming, he thought. Yes, keep coming. Eyes still closed, Dwayne’s fingers fell easily on the hunting rifle in the corner where it always leaned.        Private Property, Trespassers will be prosecuted, read the s igns on the gate at the end of the drive; others had been nailed on trees at intervals along the twisty road – road? More like a trail – clear warnings to poachers and hikers alike to think about walking here.        Clearly, she'd ignored all signs.        And then he sensed it.        His eyes snapped open.        She was spooked. Not by him. Prey sometimes sensed danger, which was just the name of the game. That couldn’t be helped.        He watched as she pivoted on her sneakers. The hoodie fell off her shoulders as she began the short sprint back to the car.        Time to move.        The hunter ripped open the screen door, stepped through, lifted the rifle and took it in both large hands, curled his finger around the trigger, eyed down the site, and fired. #    #    #        This must be it, Carrie thought as she stood outside in the fog and drizzle, eyeing the cabin. So quiet, isolated. The Bronco’s engine ticked. She’d driven for hours to get here.        Using an index finger, she hooked a lock of hair behind her right ear.        Did she smell the remains of a campfire?        No. No one should be here.        Still…        Jonathan had given her directions, and this had to be it, right? Not like GPS was working up here. Damn near impossible to get a signal since she left the main roads. She approached the cabin nestled among thick evergreens and deep shadows. An old Ford pickup sat rusted off to the side.        She didn’t remember Jonathan saying anything about a truck being here.        Dammit Jonathan! They were supposed to be together. Emotion caught in her throat at his memory. Oh, how she longed for him now.        Mustn't think of him. Just get inside and -.        She barely got to the front step when the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end and goosebumps peppered her arm.        This wasn’t right. Her heart hammered in her chest. Run, her inner voice screamed. She listened.        She spun quickly, her hoodie falling to the ground.        The Bronco seemed far away suddenly. She heard the cabin’s screen door bang open behind her…. She didn’t dare look behind her. Two feet from the Bronco! One.        Don’t look. Almost there! Her shaking hand grabbed the driver’s door handle… She’d made it! Despite her warning not to look, she did.        She saw a huge hulk of a figure standing on the stoop with a large rifle aimed her way. The sound of the rifle blast echoed around her. #    #    #        Dwayne, of course, was a crack shot. The war had taught him to be a soldier. They had not taught him to kill, of course. He had learned that all by himself.        But killing with a gun was so impersonal.        The knife was his weapon of choice. It was so personal.        He’d fired two feet to her left, the ground exploding in a spray of rock, grass and mud.        She froze in place, arms going up. He ratcheted another shell in the chamber.        “Next one is through you,” he said. He saw even more clearly now the dark circles under dull green eyes. Troubled soul. Haunted even. He recognized it from his own reflection. She’d been in a different kind of war, he thought, as he readily sized up his prey. Blood pounded in his temples as he witnessed her expression: real terror. Hot saliva burst in his mouth as he pictured ramming his knife in her leg. Wound the prey so they couldn’t run.        “Come,” he said, waving his rifle toward the screen door which Ellie held open. “Inside.”        Trembling, the stranger headed his way but as she approached, she reached down for her hoodie.        “Leave it,” he said.        She stared down at it in the mud.        “It was his,” she stammered.        His? Yeah, a boyfriend. An ex by the sound of it.        “Come now,” Dwayne said. She started up the two steps to the sagging porch.        Dwayne savored the succulent fear wafting off her.        “No dawdling.”        “I was looking for a cabin,” she stammered.        “You found one.”        “Another one,” she said. “Please, I’ve picked the wrong one is all…”        She actually tried to break free, but Dwayne's hand shot out, grabbed her arm. Dragging her past the threshold of his lair – long time since he'd called the cabin his lair - he relished the way she winced, then whimpered, as his thick fingers pinched her flesh.        Such pleasure he found in this. Easily, Dwayne imagined her later, squirming as he finally slit her throat and watched the light go out of those green eyes.        “People know I’m here,” she said.        “I doubt it. Not here, they don’t. You said so yourself, girlie, you got the wrong cabin.”        One handed, he laid the rifle barrel against her temple, cold steel against warm skin. She clamped her eyes shut. Tears spilled down her cheeks and he felt her tremble.        Yes, he'd murder her soon, relishing ever second.        Easing his grip on her slightly, he pushed her ahead of him. “Let's get to the bedroom.”        She tensed. His nostrils flared; he relished the woman’s fear sweat. His head swam. Her eyes pleaded with Ellie, seeking help from another woman.        “Lady,” Dwayne said. “I'm no rapist. Ellie, check her pockets, fetch me her car keys.” #    #    #        Within minutes, hands bound behind back, ankles tied tight, Carrie writhed on the rumpled sheets on the bed in the back room.        The wife, girlfriend, whatever - Ellie, he'd called her - plopped down in a chair against the far wall, rifle across her lap. Maybe, Carrie reasoned, she could appeal to Ellie while hubby went to pick through her truck.        “Please,” Carrie begged. “Loosen the ropes, so I can escape.”        Silently, Ellie shook her head.        Between gritted teeth, Carrie said, “He's going to kill me!” She struggled with her bonds, then went limp. Sobs racked her body. “Please.”        “He hasn’t killed in years,” Ellie said matter of fact.        Carrie swallowed.        “He swore off it. For me. No matter, if you were free, you'd go to the law...” Ellie continued. “Cops would come. Dwayne would fight back, die.”        “Believe me, I won't call the police -”        Ellie gave her a sad smile. “He can’t take that risk. Neither can I.”        Carrie conjured up quite a violent death for herself. “Look, I'll -” What? She thought. Offer them money? No, they'd never be bribed like that.        “I was a prostitute once,” Ellie said. “He killed a few of the girls I worked with, before he took me. Brought them here, buried them in the woods.”        Carrie tried to fight the ropes, but they only seemed to get tighter.        “I didn't fight like the others, Dwayne said. For some reason, he wouldn’t cut my skin…”        She felt dizzy. Cut? No! “Oh, don't misunderstand, I begged for freedom... but I didn't care whether I lived or died, I guess. Not really. Two weeks later he untied me. I stayed.”        “Stockholm syndrome,” Carrie said. “You're sympathizing with your abductor.”        She shook her head. “He saved me, I saved him, I guess. We fell in love. Makes no matter how it started, our love is real. And no one is going to destroy what we’ve built.”        She sank back on the bed, praying death would be less painful than she envisioned. #    #    #        Dwayne would have to hide the car eventually. But first things first: what secrets did the stranger have? He’d ask her, of course.        Sometimes, like with the hookers back in the day, he liked to hear their life stories from their own lips before he killed them. It was like a trophy, a part of them he carried always.        He’d get to that with her.        Still, it didn’t hurt to see what he could find out himself. It kept the mind sharp, after all. With the keys, he opened the trunk and saw the duffle bag and several suitcases. He rifled through it, clothes, toiletries. It was packed so nicely. So, she was going on vacation. Suntan lotion, a skimpy bathing suit. So, why was she in the mountains? He found her passport. When he opened the passenger side door, he put his head in and - What was this now?        Minutes later, Dwayne marched into the bedroom. Ellie stood to greet her man. She was always respectful.        Casting his eyes at the woman on the bed, Dwayne said, “So, Carrie, what’s your story?” #    #    #        “The police are looking for me,” she sobbed. She swallowed, tears welling up in her eyes. “Or will be. I had no choice but to run.”        Their faces remained impassive.        “They think I killed Jonathan Foss.”        “Your boyfriend?” Dwayne said.        She nodded. “He's an actor,” Carrie continued as though it mattered.

       Dwayne's face showed little interest when she said this.        Carrie shook her head. “I was his press agent. He was married...”        Dwayne grunted.        “Last night he told his wife he was leaving her for me. He called me ecstatic, excited. It was a fairytale, like the romantic comedies he stared in. He’d pick me up in the morning…”        “And?”         “When he didn’t show, I found him in his office... dead. I was calling the police...” She paused. “And then…they would think I did it.  I was being framed for his murder.”        “His wife gets rid of you both,” Dwayne said, nodding.        “Why’d you come all the way out here?” Ellie asked.        “He has a cabin. He said his wife didn’t know about it. I didn’t know where else to go. I had a rough idea.”        Carrie thought of Jonathan, his dead eyes staring into space. How she wished she could picture him alive, get that last ugly scene of him on the office carpet out of her mind.        She choked back tears. He’d told her once about the millions he had stashed away in his cabin for when he left his wife. “Lawyers can’t touch what they don’t know about,” he’d said.        But she didn’t need to tell her captors that part. What difference did it make now?        “I really loved him,” Carrie whispered. Inner strength depleted, she felt warmed by one thought: She’d soon be reunited with Jonathan. #    #    # Sighing, Dwayne glanced at Ellie.        “Fetch me the knife,” he said.        Ellie nodded and left the room with the rifle. He plopped down on the chair Ellie had vacated, the wood protesting his weight. He leaned forward, clasped his hands together and stared into the woman’s eyes.        “I see you,” he said. “Clearly.”        It was Ellie that changed everything for him, Dwayne remembered. She had been prey once. Why was she any different than the others?        It made no matter now. Love was a strange monster indeed.        It had changed them both.        “I haven’t killed in years,” he said. No use prolonging it.        “Please, please,” Carrie said.        She clamped her eyes closed, whispering prayers.        There was no God here.        Ellie returned with the knife and handed it to him and started to leave.        “Stay,” he said. “Eyes open, Carrie. I’ll make this fast.”        She opened them.        Quickly, he showed the terrified woman the knife Ellie had brought. Sharp. It felt good to hold it in his hands.        “Please, no,” she said.        What choice did he have? He loved the terror wafting from her pores. He could imagine the blood racing through her veins and grabbed the knife in both hands.        “I enjoy playing with my prey,” he said. “It’s been a while.”        And he gave a primitive scream and …        He began to cut.

#    #    # It was pouring when they led her outside minutes later. She took in the fresh air, sucking it in, trying to calm her jangled nerves.        He’d cut her ropes instead of her throat.        Now, he said, “We understand each other.” And then he grabbed her arm, drew her close and whispered in her ear. She swallowed hard, nodded and met his eyes. His eyes. A cold blooded killer’s eyes. And then he let her go with a light push away. Spotting her hoodie on the ground, she ran to it, lifted it up and hugged it and bit back the sobs that threatened to drive her mad. Gravel pinged against the undercarriage as she steered the Bronco back the way she’d come.        In her rear view, Carrie saw the large man fixed in the shadow of the doorway, Ellie cuddled close. Rain spattered the earth, masking the couple in a hazy mosaic of early morning fog.        Crumpled beside her on the passenger seat, the hoodie.        She could see the Glock sticking out of one pocket.

“I smelled the blood,” the man had whispered in her ear. He knew the truth. It was the hoodie he was wearing when she shot him in the chest. It was his favourite. It smelled like him. She’d slipped it off him and wrapped herself in it.        There were no real fairy tales.        If only Jonathan hadn't ended their affair, if only he hadn't insisted on staying with his wife.        Carrie sighed.        If only. The End