Author's Note: I don't really like this story but it's my first step to get back into writing again... so constructive criticism is always appreciated!!! Rosa Mori is Latin for 'dying rose' which you would later make sense of towards the end :) Thank you to Ruth for helping me fix my grammatical errors! We were moving again. My dad had left us to confinement within the empty barriers of that cold, unforgiving room. That room bound me through its dead walls, walls that lay a pale grey as those suitcases were ready to be piled again. The tuft of unruly mundane brown hair found itself tucked behind my reddened ears, careless and lazy, like my brandished soul. Fumbling through my winter coat, I grasped upon my splinted car keys, a metallic red keychain symbolized as a dying heart that lay helplessly, dangling by the rusted copper keys. Locking the door behind as mom cleared away the rest of the empty storage boxes, I slipped into my car, my jolting head ducking its dented red frames, sided with smoky grey. Dirt cracked nails drumming against the tarnished wheel of my beat Honda. The radio recently instilled rambled away as I looked into the rearview mirror, examining any smudged mascara that had gone wrong this morning. Thudding the break with a reflexed foot, I switched at the keyhole that lay filth driven through the splintering decay of the key. I tucked the plastic folder full of overflooding math worksheets under my heavy-hearted arms. I slipped into the brightly lit room; my eyes scanned for a vacant spot within a bustling crowd. They went about their business; without consideration of my existence. It made me wonder how everyone's life could attain such normality: the same schedule, the same routine while mine had to change constantly, trying to fit into the fantasies of mom-- although it was hard to. I plopped down into the far corner of the cafe's tables, pulled over the bright floral printed mask over my chilled face, honeysuckle eyes prying at the entrance, waiting for Darby to promenade in with Mrs Wright striding behind her only daughter. And she did, through the streaking sunlight, the two came inside, abandoning the scrawly streets. "Debbie! I thought this was class cancelled--cause you're moving!", the 10-year-old looked in amusement, a splatter of ebony freckles clouding over the bridge of her nose as she smiled, her crumpled chipped tooth outshining the rest gleefully. I smiled, outpouring warmth elongated from within as I pinched her nose in an attempt to feel like the best tutor in the world. Mrs Wright kept her smile stern, shoving a 50 onto the glossed oak table. "This lesson and the other two lessons are covered. Since you'd be moving soon, Deborah, I decided to add a ten", she muttered before she strode out to her expensive car that waited patiently. A content sigh escaped from my lips, wispy with sharp intakes of unnecessary breaths. I slipped the 50 into my purse before turning back to the grinning girl in front. "Okay, do you want to start with Math or English first?" I pulled out my pencil case and clicked at the pen lamely. "Math, the worst should be the first." she goes on, her eyes drawn to her worksheets with scrawly handwriting that had been gone over with rushed cursive scribbles in inky red. "Wait, I'll get something for you to drink," I called, dusting off at any non-existent crumbs at my overly loose denim jeans that screamed with the worst fashion sense, paired up with a baggy green turtleneck and thick-framed glasses. My hands swiped over to the counter, hands gently going over to the blunt silver to eject a sharp mimicking screech that fell to deaf ears of the young girl at the counter whose hair swept into a neat silky black bun with strands that fell against her powdered cheeks. She looked up, bright-eyed, face full of recognition as I was a usual customer. Every Monday evening, Wednesday afternoon, and Saturday morning, I came in to tutor Darby. As expected, I had become acquaintances with most of the staff. "Oh, uh... Chloe! Pumpkin Spice Latte as usual for me and--for Darby, of course, orange juice would do." I grinned, slipping 5 dollars over the counter. "Sure! Uh, we've lowered the price down, so it'll be $3.45", "Oh! Okay. Just keep the change then", I smiled before returning to the distinctively disorganized table. "Messy aesthetics?" I raised a brow before I slipped into my seat. I went on to mark the sheet put forth by Darby; her forehead scrunched into concentration. Perseverance was the girl's middle name she said after learning the meaning of her new spelling word. "You wanna move onto English now, Darbs? Since you've finished your math?" I said. I handed back her marked sheets, gone over in splotches of red cursives and illusionary numbers. "Hmm? Sure! I don't think I have any questions!" she beamed, shoving the rest of her slovenly math into the pits of her overflowing bag that lay imprinted with ebony zebra markings against the hot pink background, patched with remnants of debris. Inside, crumpled sheets sank to the bottom in a fury of impatient hands who didn't seem to care where her hard work had flooded to its ends. I handed out to her a new list of spelling words as the steamy drink arrived, the drink cooling beneath the milky white cream and bubbling foam that lay decorated with a sift of crushed cinnamon. It was nothing special, but my favourite out of the menu. Darby took her interest in the brimming glass of orange juice before taking a benevolent sip, too large for her mouth to withstand the trickles of salivated orange juice that ran down her chin. The ignorant girl took no notice of this. "Okay... let's try this word out!" I smiled, clicking a mechanical pencil for Darby to use as she stared at her snapped one. "Uh... I-R-E-G-A-R-D-L-E-S", she uttered, her pale eyes squeezed into fistfuls of tightly wrapped skin. "Oh! Nice try but, it's wrong. Ir-re-gard-less. Try again!", "I-R-E-G-A-R-D-L-E-S-S! Did I do it?" her eyes glinted upon me. "That was better, but it is, I-R-R-E-G-A-R-D-L-E-S-S! You forgot the double 'R', that's all!" I patted her shoulder before taking a milky sip out of the cup that sat, filled to the very top. My eyes skimmed over to the ticking clock that sounded quietly. Everyone sat unaware of the time. Wednesday afternoons always had the least amount of time, probably because Darby would have another class after this. I assumed it was piano lessons. "C'mon, your mom will be here soon, and I have to get home to help finish packing! Wait here and tidy your spot. Finish your juice!" I told her while I took my latte to the counter. "Hey, Nina! Would you mind putting my drink in a paper cup?" I have to get going!" I looked over, neck-craning, to see the girl bringing over a paper cup projecting a green aura of painted leaves, pouring the rest of it skillfully with ease. "Here you go, girl! Have a great time in-- what's that place called again?" she chuckled. Nina was a pit full of laughter and smiles, flaunting with positive vibes. "Pennsylvania, Thanks!" I smiled, grabbing the cup and returning to my table to put away my folders. A burly man with an exotic fiery red moustache and deep green eyes who deemed to look like I had seen him my whole childhood had left a receipt before me it was scooped into my adorned hands, spiking with dirt. 'Barny Beans" was labelled carefully at the top in carefully typed fonts in cursive. "Um, thank you, sir!" I called out, shoving the receipt into my coat's pocket, grabbing my tote, and placing out a pleased pile of notes at the tip. "Do you want to wait outside?" I looked at Darby. She pulled a chunky beanie over her head, grimacing at the fact that she needed to wear it. The wind hit against my pale winter struck face, numbing me of most of my embellishing senses. Stuffing my hands into my pocket, I felt my hand go against something crisp, something new, like paper, not thin like the receipt. Pulling it out, I realised it was an envelope that had trailed into my pocket while I stashed away the tinted bills. I flipped it onto its conjoining side, to see neat cursives, labelled to the irony of my name, "Debbie, my darling" although I had no lover and within was a rose, my favourite deep red rose... but it was dying... gently succumbing...


Once upon a time, for this is a fairy tale, and that is how all fairy tales begin, there was a king who ruled over the city of Traskia. But this story is not about the king, but rather about a young man called Tang, who was as far from being a king as anyone could imagine. The sun was setting as Tang set up his camp for the night. He set his pack down beside the knarred oak. The tree had an inviting hollow at the base which was just right for his small body to curl into. He would sleep comfortably tonight, something that he often couldn’t take for granted. But first he needed to something warm in his stomach, so he set about gathering twigs and small branches to set up his cooking fire. Luckily it had not rained for a few days, so the kindling was dry and caught easily when he stuck his firestone. He set his small cooking pot over the fire, filled it with water from the stream he had discovered earlier, and started to prepare a stew from the meagre ingredients he had gathered – berries, some mushrooms, grana bark which would give the stew a tangy bitter flavour, but one he had grown accustomed to over the years. The wind picked up, swirling the leaves on the ground around him and singing a mournful song in the branches above. He settled down into the hollow and ate slowly. From this vantage point he had a good view of the valley spread out before him. In the distance, the fires from Traskia slowly winked into existence. When he observed it objectively, the sight was beautiful. He considered for a while how it must be to actually live there, to see the welcoming lights getting nearer, the anticipation of warmth and family. He shook his head, reprimanding himself for thinking so fancifully. He was hatha, an outcast, at best pitied, at worst shunned and ignored. It wasn’t always so. He had had family, a mother who loved him, an older brother who teased him but ultimately also cared deeply about him, and younger sister whom he cherished dearly. But he was also always aware from an early age of people who looked at him strangely, who crossed the street instead of passing him by. Later, as it became obvious what he was, he knew he could no longer stay. He didn’t want to bring shame on his family, so he had crept away one night, out into the dark and hostile forest, never again to return to his village. He cursed his sentimentality as he warmed his gnarled hands on the still warm pot. He was better off how he was, he didn’t need anyone else. He ignored the small voice which yearned for light and companionship, and settled down for the night, taking his threadbare blanket out of his backpack and setting it around his shoulders. The night was cool, so he put some more branches on the fire. They would see his fire from the town, of course, there wasn’t any avoiding that, but the townspeople would leave him alone, they wouldn’t make the effort so seek out the source of a single campfire. *** He awoke to the sound of voices not far off. It was still nighttime, the moon had set some time ago, so he pushed himself deeper into the tree and looked around carefully. He saw torches now, and they were coming his way. He thanked the stars his fire had gone out earlier. As quietly as he could, he shouldered his backpack and crept deeper into the undergrowth. The voices were nearer now, four maybe five men. And not just any men, these were the king’s own footmen. What the hell were they doing here in the dead of night? They were following the track he himself had used earlier, swinging their torches to the left and right. He praised his own presence of mind that he had chosen a campsite away from the track and deeper into the forest. He pushed himself deeper into the undergrowth, flattening his diminutive form low against the foliage. He knew what would happen to him if they found him. He had heard rumours of the king’s mines deep underneath Traskia, and of course he believed them. The voices and the lights faded, and Tang breathed a sigh of relief. It was stupid of him to come this close to the capitol of course, but somehow he always had to come back, drawn like a moth to a flame by the dream of companionship, of a comfortable chair by a fireside and a tankard of ale in his hand. He waited another few minutes until he was certain the men weren’t coming back, then he pushed himself up from the undergrowth and brushed himself off. What on earth were those footmen doing in this part of the forest? Had a prisoner escaped? He’d best be moving on, and this time he wouldn’t take the trail, he would stay deeper in the forest, where there was less chance of being surprised. He would move around the rim of the valley, keeping the lights of Traskia in his sight as orientation as it was still several hours till dawn. *** At first he thought it was his imagination, the wind playing tricks with his mind. It had picked up more, and now it was blowing a gale, bending the trees wildly, howling a ghostly lament in the treetops. But no, perhaps he hadn’t imagined it – there it was again. He stood still, trying to ignore the sound of the wind for that other small sound he was now sure he had heard. And now it came to him distinctly, a faint voice crying against the gale. It was hard to ascertain the direction it came from, but it seemed to be coming from somewhere to his left. He moved cautiously, stopping every few meters to listen for the sound. He heard it again, this time louder, so he was sure that he was going in the right direction. Why was he following this voice? Surely it would be better for him to ignore this and go his own way, keep himself safe? But something drew him on, perhaps it was the plaintive distress of another human and a desire to comfort that voice which led him on. He was close now, he was sure of it, and there was no mistaking the cry for help. With a lurch he suddenly found his feet slipping out from under him, and he grabbed wildly for a tree trunk to stop him from tumbling down the steep slope that had opened up before him. He cried out in surprise, and as he did so a voice cried up to him: “Who’s there? Please, help me!” Tang peered down into the darkness. It was a girl’s voice, it sounded quite young, and certainly scared. He called down to her: “My name’s Tang! Don’t be afraid, I’ll try and help.” “Please Tang, don’t leave me here, I’m so afraid!” Tang debated whether or not to remove his rucksack. It would easier to climb down without it, of course, but he might need its contents when he was down there. He decided to keep it on, calling down to the girl that he was coming to her, before slowly inching his way down, his body pressed against the steep slope, his hands and feet feeling for roots and branches to stop himself tumbling down. He prayed that he would find an easier way out of here when light returned. The gale had reached a fever pitch now, the howling of the wind and the groaning of the trees so loud that it seemed to Tang that he was descending into the jaws of Hell itself. He finally felt the slope become less steep, and he was able to stand. He called out to the girl once more to determine her location, then carefully made his way in her direction. When he found her, he reached out to comfort her, and heard the girl cry out in astonishment. But not fear, and that encouraged him to sit down beside her. He pulled out the blanket from his backpack and placed it carefully around her shoulders. “Who are you? Are you hurt? What are you doing down here?”. He fired the questions in quick succession, then, realizing his voice must have sounded harsh, fell silent and waited for the girl to answer. “My name is Tara”, the girl replied after a short silence. “I live in the city with my family. I left to go to the village of Dizar, I have a cousin there. I was walking in the forest when I lost my way. I didn’t see this slope, and now my leg hurts so badly, I’m not sure I can stand on it. I called and called, but the wind is so loud, I had almost given up hope of anyone finding me.” The girl fell silent again, and Tang regarded her thoughtfully. Dizar was ten leagues away, hardly a journey one would undertake before nightfall, and one would usually take the paths, rather than walk through the deep forest. And on a night like this too! Instead of questioning this, he simply said: “You’d better get some rest. You’re safe for now, and I’ll have a look at that leg in the morning. I can’t do anything before daybreak.” The girl seemed to acknowledge the wisdom of this, pulling the small blanket tighter around her and resting her head against Tang’s shoulder. Hesitantly, Tang put his arm around the girl and pulled her closer. She didn’t resist, and soon he heard the gentle and regular sound of her breathing against the wild frenzy of the gale. He lay awake a while, thinking. This was something he never thought he would experience again, a companionship and a closeness to another human being. The girl reminded him of his younger sister, of the times he had often comforted her when she had fallen down, or when she had woken in the night from a bad dream and had come to him for reassurance. Was this what he was secretly yearning for? Why he always drawn to the towns even though he was an outcast? Still, it would probably be different in the morning. The girl would wake and be afraid of him. And then? He couldn’t just leave her, she needed help. These thoughts swirled through his mind, until the incessant howling of the wind and the gentle breathing of the girl drew him into a fitful slumber. *** Tang awoke at daybreak. The girl was still sleeping, so he gently eased himself away from her and stretched to shake off the uncomfortable position in which he had slept. The girl was younger than he had thought, possibly twelve or thirteen, but of course already a good head taller than him. She was pretty, with fair skin and smooth hands, and long red hair tied back in a plait. She was wearing a simple travelling cloak and rough clothes. What on earth was she doing out here on her own? The girl awoke and met is gaze without flinching. “Thank you, Tang” she said simply, and he nodded. He gave her some food from his backpack, before setting about looking at her leg. It didn’t look broken, thank goodness, but she might well have twisted her ankle and it would be painful to walk. Still, they would have to try. He would find her a stick to lean on, and he could prop her up on the other side, and perhaps they would make progress. They would have to stick to the trail, of course, and take the direct route down into the valley. And then? Tang didn’t really want to enter the city itself, but what choice was there? He would figure out something when they had got that far, first they had to get out of this ditch. That proved easier than he would have thought, as they appeared to be in an old dried up riverbed. By walking along the bottom of the riverbed, they eventually came to a place which was shallow enough that they could climb out without too much difficulty. They walked till they reached the crest of a small hill, when Traskia itself came into view. From here it would be easy enough to find one of the trails leading down into the valley, and after a short while they came across one which Tang was sure would lead in the right direction. Progress was easier now, but it was still slow going, the girl resting her weight on his shoulders, and using the branch he had found to stabilize herself with the other hand. The girl said little on the journey and he fell to wondering how he was going to get her back to her family. The storm of last night had abated, but the wind was still blowing strongly. Above the sound of the wind he now heard a different sound, one that clenched his heart with fear. The steady thud of horse hooves, and by the sound of it they were on the path behind them, approaching fast. He could almost sense the steam of the horses’ breath on his back, feel the pounding of their hooves in his bones. Before he had time to react, they were upon him. The last thing he heard was the cry of the girl, before his world exploded into darkness. *** When he awoke, it was again dark. His head pounded – someone had obviously hit him very hard on the back of the head – and he had trouble focusing on where he was. As his vision cleared, it appeared he was in a small dark room, the only light filtering down from a tiny window high above. A heavy wooden door with a small window at the top told him all he needed to know – he was in a prison cell. He was free to move around, they hadn’t bothered to chain him up, so obviously he wasn’t a very important prisoner, for which Tang was grateful. But why had they brought him here at all? Why hadn’t they taken him to the mines directly? He cursed his own carelessness and stupidity. What had he been thinking, helping that girl? The girl! Tara! What had they done with her? He sank to the ground and groaned, rubbing his face in his hands. How was he going to get out of his one? Then he got up, went over to the door and banged as loudly as he could. “Hey, let me out” he shouted, knowing at the same time that that was a pretty pointless thing to say. It did attract attention though, and before long he heard footsteps approaching, before the small window has thrown open. “Look, the prisoner’s awake!” laughed a voice. Tang stepped back to look up at the face in the window. “Why am I here?” he cried, “I’ve done nothing wrong!” “Nothing wrong?” the voice laughed again. “I wouldn’t call kidnapping the king’s daughter nothing! You’re going to hang for that one. They’re preparing the gallows already!” The window slammed shut, and Tang fell back to the floor in astonishment. Tara, the king’s daughter? He couldn’t believe it! Why was the king’s daughter out in the middle of the forest at night? Had she run away? That would explain the footmen, of course – the king must have had half his men out looking for the girl. Why didn’t he think of that? There was a low bed covered in straw in the corner of the room. He went over and lay down, his head still pounding from the knock he had received, but now from the knowledge that he would almost certainly be hanged in the morning. He could tell the truth, of course, but who would believe him? He closed his eyes, and covered his face with his hands. A weariness overcame him, and he fell into another deep sleep. *** He awoke to the sound of the door being opened, and before he knew what was happening, he was enveloped in a warm embrace, the long red hair flowing over his face. Tara! She wasn’t wearing the rough clothes from the night before, but rather a flowing red dress to match her fiery hair. Her foot was bandaged, but she seemed to be walking a lot better today. “I’m so glad I found you!” she cried after she had released him from her firm embrace. “I tried to tell the guards, but they wouldn’t believe me. I told my father last night how stupid I was to run away, and all you had done for me. You must come with me now, he wants to meet you!” In a daze, Tang took the girl’s hand as she led him up out of the dungeon, through the streets of Traskia and up the hill to the castle. All along the way, people stared in astonishment at this strange scene. She took him through the main entrance and up many a winding staircase, until they came to a room with a roaring fire with comfortable chairs. The king himself stood up to greet him. “I owe you my thanks, Tang!” said the king, offering him a tankard of ale. “Let’s toast my daughter’s safe return” – at this point he cast an exasperated smile at his daughter – “and from this point on you are always welcome in my city”. And of course, for this is a fairy tale and how all fairy tales end, Tang lived happily ever after in the city that finally welcomed him home.


I hate icebreakers. I don’t want to break the ice. The ice can stay firmly intact for all I care. I don’t want to get to know any of these people. It’s 9am on a Monday morning and my boss wants me to join a project about the reintegration of systems for the financial something or other... I wasn’t listening. I’m sat behind a stout balding man of about fifty. Counting the hairs on his head is the only thing keeping me engaged right now. It can’t be more than sixty, I don’t think. I wish he would just shave them off because that tragic combover is fooling no one. I bet his wife isn’t bothered. I heard him talking to the man next to him about what he did over the weekend and which restaurant he went to with his wife, and which seafood he tried for the first time and wasn’t a fan but his wife enjoyed. I find it kind of funny how wildly different people’s lives can be. Some people get so lucky, and some are cursed. I’d guess he’s probably fairly in the middle. He’s a nice guy, I’m sure. I said I would try to be less negative, but I’m fighting my nature. The project leader is rambling on about himself. I thought ice breakers were meant to be quick introductions but I’d have his life story by now if I was listening. As I watch the next person stand up and swing their pickaxe into the ice, I think about what I’ll have for dinner. I can’t be bothered making anything, I’ll probably just get a take out. Next, a lady about 40 years old is standing, giving her contribution to the big old iceberg. She must be the next closest person to my age, and she still has at least fifteen on me. Fifteen years is a long time. I used to think a couple months in the summer was a long time as a kid. A lot can happen in a couple months. Maybe a couple months still is a long time. Time seems to move so slowly now.

“And you, sir?” The project manager is staring right at me.

Shit it’s my turn. I shoot up like I’m spring loaded. “I’m sorry, what was the question?” I mumble through the shame.

“Where would you go if you had a Time Machine.” The project manager beamed at me waiting for my response. Every other head has swivelled round and locked on to me. The balding man stares into my soul. I can almost read contempt on his face as he awaits my reply. He must have known I was counting his hairs. I need to say something. It’s not a big deal. “Where would you go if you had a Time Machine?” But it is a big deal. If I had a Time Machine, I’d probably go back to the Athenian acropolis and see democracy in action. I’d love to see Socrates orate the shit out of that place. I’d visit Plato’s academy and - I don’t know why I’m lying. I never understand why lie to myself. Do I think I’ll get one over on my own mind? No, I know exactly where I’d go and I knew it from the second he asked the question. It’s all I think about. I try to pretend it isn’t but it is. I’d go back to the night at the lake with her. My mind’s embarrassed because I hate being soppy, but what the hell am I going to do in Athens? Yeah, no, I’m going back to see her again. Do I even need a Time Machine? I relive it every night in my head. I always think that reliving memories is like tending to a garden. You have to water them or they’ll fade away. And this is a memory I cannot lose. I cried myself to sleep one time when I came to the realisation that my brain can’t hold every single conversation and moment we shared together. I just found it so frightening that I was losing a part of her. This is all that exists of her now but in my mind I can’t catch all the little bits that fall off her. That’s a scary thought. It’s probably the worst part of grief. I’ll never have a new memory of her so I have to make do with my dwindling supply, that slowly trickles away day by day, year by year, until I’m in a nursing home and I don’t remember my own name.

That night is locked away in my mental doomsday vault though. It’s still so fresh, even though it was over a year ago. I can still see the crescent of the moon, lonely in the clear sky dancing on the surface of the water, as we dangled our legs over the edge of the jetty. I can’t believe we still thought we were just friends back then. It was 2am and everyone had gone back inside. It was just me, you and the lake. We were sitting there for hours just talking. I could talk to you nonstop from now until the end of time. It was like breathing, it shouldn’t be that easy. You had no business being that fun. Who gave you the right to have me in stitches with a single glance. We were cackling away on that jetty. You were telling me the story of that time where you lost your friend at the bar when you were really drunk, and you came home and thought they had died so you started planning their wake, phoning funeral directors out of hours. I’d heard it before, but it almost got better each time. Our laughing slowly faded, and we looked out onto the surface of the water. The glassy surface was almost completely still, save for the little ripples our toes made when we tapped the water. Then we turned to each other, and I really looked at you for the first time. I stared into your eyes, and was shocked at what I felt. My gut was in free fall. You became the only light to my eyes, at the end of a very long tunnel. Then I felt that magnetic force; I could no longer turn away from you. The realisation hit us both at the same time, I think. We looked at each other confused. I was always indecisive; you helped us out by putting your head on my shoulder, and we just watched the lake in peace. In perfect tranquil silence.

“It’s funny,” you said eventually.

“What is?” I turned my head to your face.

“I feel like … I knew this moment was coming. And yet it’s still all a surprise.” I could feel your warm breath on my face now. “Do you know what I mean?”

“No,” I laughed. “But I feel you.”

You lifted your head off my shoulder and looked at me, taking me in. “I think I know what happens next,” you said. Our faces were inches apart.

“Oh yeah?” I smiled coyly, trying to act aloof. But my was heart pounding, you could probably hear it. Your hand was on my face and that magnetism drew us together and we kissed for a lifetime. My life could have ended there. Sometimes I wish it did. When we finally pulled away, everything was different. The moonlight seemed far more beautiful, each little ripple in the lake telling its own story, and your eyes were worlds upon themselves that I could fall into forever. We laughed, and you put your head against my chest, but I lost balance and we both toppled into the lake. I thought I was going to have to give you CPR the way you were catatonic with laughter. With your arms around my neck we played in the water, and splashed each other as we waded about in our soaking heavy clothes. We let our outer layer dry on the jetty, and laid back on the grass where we fell asleep, you in my arms, under the infinity of endless stars.

If I had a thousand time machines, I’d go there a thousand times.

To be honest, my memories aren’t cutting it anymore. I feel like I’m burning when I think of you, like I need to reach out and grab you but there’s nothing to hold on to. There is a dark empty hole in my body that can’t be filled, a necessity that I’m starved of. I get by, but just about.

Over and over again I play our memories together in my head. It’s the only time I am alive. I need those memories like a needle in my skin. The happiest moments of my life are tainted by your shadow, and yet I torture myself anyway. Can I even say I miss you at this point? It’s a masochistic fascination. But it’s like you’re trapped in my head and if I could just let you out… I could drag you through the back door of one of my dreams and yank you back into the empty spot on my bed beside me. We could laugh the whole thing off, and I could hold you, and see you and feel you and tell you there’s no such thing as pancreatic cancer. We could go out to dinner the next day and I’d be acting nervous because there’s something I want to ask you. And we’d go to the park with those old fashioned street lamps you love, and the overlook of the city. I’d grab your arm and get on one knee and show you the ring. You’d say yes, you don’t get a choice. Sorry it’s my fantasy. We could live in a tiny house we can barely afford, with just a mattress on the ground and we’d cuddle up by the heater. We’d love it because it’s ours. We’d have kids and grandkids and grow old together. I think we’d be one of those old couples that both go peacefully together barely days apart, like some act of fate.

But you won’t grow old. I’ll grow old without you, counting down the days until I go, and we’re reunited because life hasn’t been the same without you. Because I have this aching pain in my mind worse than any wound I’ve ever had. I feel this pain every moment and I just yearn for you. My shattered heart will never be whole again. You took the pieces to the grave. I can’t take you as my wife, I will be married to the void.

“Sir?” The project manager was speaking to me again. I get whiplash from the speed I’m yanked back to real life. I’m surrounded by strangers. It’s 9am on a Monday morning and the bright office lights are blinding me. “What would I do with a Time Machine?” I ask. “I’d probably visit the Athenian acropolis and see democracy in action.”

The project manager smiles a polite thanks, and moves onto the next person who is now droning on about some medieval battle, while I swallow the lump in my throat and feel your hands slip away.


The last time I danced was in February. Not this year’s February, but last year’s. It’s too many months with no contact. Now I’m walking into a hotel for one of my favorite pre-pandemic pastimes. I’m greeted by a bright welcoming face behind the check in desk. I can see her smile and she can see mine. There’s still a wall of plexiglass between us from when it was needed for protection, but seeing another human this close without masks hiding half of our faces feels incredibly intimate. I accept my room keys and head to the elevator. My finger hovers over the button, pausing in mental preparation to notice I’m about to touch a public surface and I need to have sanitizer ready to scour my skins as soon as I get to my hotel room. I let out a full exhale and remind myself that while I’ll likely still sanitize frequently, it’s no longer a mandatory survival habit.

The room is small, and I think about how there will soon be five of us here. Two in each bed and one on the floor; breathing the same recycled air for all of the hours we aren’t in the ballroom downstairs. Dancers have done this for years; cramming too many people into each room to save money since the festival tickets, private lessons, and travel costs are expensive. But this time is different. Most of us haven’t shared a room with someone outside of our household for a long time, and we’ll need to readjust to this closeness, trying to get back to how things used to be. How things were in the dance world before being in a close embrace with a stranger could be deadly. Before we feared our own friends and family members getting near us.

My roommates won’t be here for another hour or two, but I can’t wait for them. I’m too excited to get downstairs and catch the first workshop. Brazilian Zouk: Back to the Basics starts at 8pm and my stomach flutters with a mix of anticipation and doubt. Before the pandemic I had been dancing and training in Zouk for five years. I wouldn’t have been as interested in a Basics workshop back then, but after this long of not being able to enjoy this partner dance, I’m worried I’ll forget everything I knew before. The countless hours and dollars spent on technique training, practice, and teams. Can muscle memory last this long? As I get closer to the ballroom I see the display tables lining the hallway. Vibrant festival banners, flyers and tee shirts, leggings and body suits, and glittering shoes are a sight for sore eyes. Then I see my friend that I met years ago at another festival. “Ah - hi!” we both squeal and run toward each other. There’s a brief pause before we close in on less than six feet of separation, but then we break through it and lunge at each other in excitement. “Oh it’s been so long!” She says as we rock in a joyful embrace.

“Yes, I’m nervous I won’t be able to do this anymore; that I’ve forgotten everything,” I say, stepping back with a furrowed brow and pouting mouth. “Same! I was so sad I didn’t know if we’d ever have these festivals again. It’s been torture to be without the dance fam for this long.” “I know, it’s been so awful and also devastating who we’ve lost,” I look down, thinking of the two instructors and a few other Zouk community members who didn’t make it through the pandemic.

My friend brings me into a comforting hug, and I notice how it feels so foreign after the time apart from others, but it’s also a welcome home, this closeness. “They’re here in spirit with us,” she wipes a tear from her eye. She had taken lessons with one of the instructors who passed and the memory of the wisdom and energy that person brought to the scene is heartbreaking in this moment of recognizing their absence.

“Are you catching this basics workshop?” I nod toward the ballroom, just as we hear warmup music starting and a mic check from the instructor.

“Yes, let’s do this,” she links her arm in mine and we head to the end of the hall.

We find a set of empty chairs along the wall and settle in to change our shoes, pulling our Taygras out of their bags. She’s wearing a magenta leopard print bodysuit and I’m wearing galaxy-patterned leggings with a tee shirt from a 2018 festival. We jump onto the dance floor and join the crowd in the warm up movements. I see a few other friends, including one of my roommates on the other side of the dance floor. We wave excitedly then refocus on the instructor leading us through slow head movement to warm up our necks and prevent injury.

After the workshop a group of us heads to a restaurant down the block for a late dinner. For most of us, this is the first time we’ve eaten indoors with friends in a long time, and it’s almost magical. Our voices fill the otherwise-empty restaurant with exclamations about how good it feels to dance again, but also how nervous we are for the social. What if we’ve forgotten how to lead or follow, all the technique we had practiced for years? What if we get hurt? Is it really safe to get as close as Zouk dancing requires? That last question hangs in the air in a moment of stillness. The medical experts throughout the country (and world) have declared that it is safe, the virus has been contained and we can feel free to live lives that involve normal contact, as long as someone isn’t showing symptoms of illness. But after nearly two years of fear of being near other people, it’s a hard concept to fully accept.

We clear the table and head back to the hotel. My roommate and I grab extra keys for the others staying in our room and head up to our floor. We each grab a side of one of the beds and lie back for a moment, taking in the reality of where we are and how long we’ve missed this.

“Well,” I turn to her, “do you know what you’re wearing tonight?” “No, I definitely need your help with that!” She jumps up and unzips her suitcase. “I brought six different outfits for the socials since I just couldn’t decide. Also, what if styles have changed or something since the last festival I went to and we’re supposed to wear something different now?” Her shoulders tense toward her ears in worry.

“I’m pretty sure the Zouk scene didn’t become extra fancy or different while we were all isolating. That would be pretty unfair. I think we should go for what makes us feel good right now, so we can focus more on the dance than what we’re wearing.” “True,” she starts pulling outfits out and holding them up in the mirror. “How do you like this one?” She has a purple and white zebra-striped romper held up to her.

“Love it! What shoes would you wear with that one?” “Maybe these?” She pulls out a pair of nude three-inch heel ballroom shoes covered in rhinestones.

“Hot, but don’t forget this is Zouk and you’re rusty… would those be dangerous?” “Ugh, you’re so right. I should find something shorter for this first night so I don’t fall on my ass doing turns or rotisserie.” “Ha, yep, I think I’ll be going more casual tonight and sticking with flats to avoid just that.” By 11pm the rest of the roommates have arrived and we’ve been catching up, getting ready, and sharing our mix of excitement and nervousness about the social. We talk about the workshops happening the following day and how it’s been so long since we’ve been on dancers’ schedules. We’re not sure we can make it to the end of the social at 4am, and then especially to the 11am combre workshop after that.

“I feel like I’ve learned to sleep a lot more during the pandemic, so if y’all find me snoozing on the side of the dance floor please pick me up and bring me back here,” one roommate asked with a wink.

“Yes, me too! I feel like making it to 2am is ambitious enough for me for this first night. I’m guessing we’ll also be super sore tomorrow too. Watch those necks, ladies!” The roommates nod in agreement and one touches her neck just thinking about circular head movement and how rusty we all are with it.

At midnight we make our way down to the ballroom and are met with the distant familiarity of dance social humidity. The mix of sweat and joy in the room creates a thick air being sliced through with the beats and lights from the DJ booth. We take it all in and start looking for partners.

“Oh I love this song, let’s go!” One of the ladies from our room is a lead, so she pulls another roommate onto the floor.

I scan the room and then find a friend from our apprentice team years ago. We briefly catch up on how we’ve been holding up and then rush to the middle of the dance floor to start out the night’s dances. The right side of my face touches the left side of his as our torsos and hips connect. Our arms and hands find their positions and we start with a shared inhale in the embrace. Our heartbeats find each other, then connect with the song. Our collective weight shifts one way, then the other, then into the basic step. The music guides us as our movements grow and we create shapes in time with the beat and lyrics. This is what has been missing. The distance between me and other people for so long made me unsure I could get back to Zouk, but I’m here, with the other dancers and we’re reconnecting. We’re finding our way back to each other and I never want to lose this again.


Right as I thought everything was finally falling into place, I looked at my watch to see if I was still on track. I had things to do and cookies to bake for Santa. "10:33" Huh. That's weird. I could have sworn it was later than that. I shrugged off the feeling and opened my computer again. The first thing on my list was to write a story that sums up this past year. I also still had 8,000 photos from just 2021 I needed to upload to the cloud, and a handful of articles to write before the year ended. But finding the motivation was becoming harder and harder. A new variant has been spreading like wildfire and we had to make the hard decision to skip our annual Christmas Eve party at the in-laws again this year. I could have thrown in the towel, given up. The world would have understood. There are only 10 days left. And it's been another hard year. Call it a year, wrap it up, put it under the mistletoe. No...that doesn't make sense... As I dragged and dropped a thousand photos at a time, I stared at the blank page the next tab over. Waiting for me to write something. Anything. My fingers begged for my brain to come up with something. ANYTHING. My brain, in turn, raced through its reserves but came up empty-handed. Is this writer's block? I don't like this feeling. It's heavy and it hurts. I guess I should consider myself lucky for not having experienced this before now. But I still don't like it. I pride myself on being able to look at a blank page and just start writing. I may not know where the story I build will go, but I am proud of my ability to write the story that needed to be written without fail. As the seconds ticked by, I was failing. Formulating a sentence right now felt like my fingers were dodging a thousand sharp daggers lodged between the keys on the board. Looking back at my Fitbit, it still read 10:33. I pressed the buttons to see if it was frozen and it wasn't. I could start the timer just fine so it clearly wasn't dead or it would have just simply shut off. "Mom, my Fitbit isn't working," I heard the 9-year-old as she found me in the living room. "Ok bring it here," I told her, keeping in mind that my Fitbit was also not working right. As I took her Fitbit, I pressed a button to wake it up. "10:33" "Huh, that's weird," I commented. "What's weird?" the 9-year-old asked anxiously. Whoops. "Oh nothin," I replied, trying to not exacerbate her anxiety. "Both our watches say 10:33. What does your tablet say?" "Oh," she said, looking at the tablet she brought with her. "10:33. Why?" She wanted to know the answer. For her - time is numbers. And numbers are logical. And logical is black and white and predictable. "I am not sure. I wonder what time it actually is, maybe we can manually update our watches," I told her, hoping a possible solution would lower her increasing anxiety. Before trying to figure out how to manually reset an automatic electronic, we looked at the clock on my computer I had open in front of me: "10:33" Without skipping another beat, I turned on the TV and checked the menu: "10:33" We looked at each other and we had the same question. What the heck? "Let's go to Papa's and check their wall clock. It's an old analog so it should be working just fine," I told her shyly. I didn't know what was going on, but I sure as heck didn't want to give her any anxious worries for her to feed off of. We put our shoes on and grabbed our coats. It wasn't raining but it was cold. Supposedly there is snow in the forecast, but as Oregonians - we know better. We will believe it when we see it. Papa's house was just next door so it took not even 30 seconds to realize that their analog wall clock was also not working. I had to think fast to ward off a full panic attack from the 9-year-old. "I am not sure what is happening. There is probably just a glitch. Since you can still play Minecraft - go back home and we can check later," I hoped this would appease her for the time being. And thankfully it did. I have never seen all clocks just stop working. And I didn't have a solution. Heck, I didn't even know why time it was. I assumed somewhere around noon because the winter sun was halfway to the Western horizon. As the 9-year-old ran back home, I headed back to my computer. Did I cause it? I probably did. I finally felt like everything was falling into place and my future was finally coming together. And then poof! Will it forever be 10:33? Nothing else seemed to stop. The clouds were still moving, the cats still meowing to escape, the dogs still needed to be run, and my stories still needed to be written. Ugh. I don't have time to stop and catastrophize why time has suddenly stopped or philosophize about how time is just a number and yet there is never enough of it.

Opening my laptop again, I stared at the blank page that was burning a hole in my soul. Pressing the shift button over and over as if I was capitalizing the first word of the first sentence to be written, the sticky keys notification popped up, reminding me I still hadn't written a single letter. Out of habit - I looked at the time at the lower right-hand corner, hoping bedtime was creeping closer. "10:33" Oh yeah... What happens after time ends? Fine fine FINE! I shut my laptop and grabbed my phone. Not surprised the time said 10:33 there too. I opened my journaling app. And I did what I do best - overthink why the clocks aren't working. Clearly, they stopped because I finally figured out who I am. It took me till my mid 30's, but now that I am here - silly me for thinking that life would get better from here. Nope. The universe just loves to laugh at me. Last time the universe laughed - my bank account was overdrafted and my checking account closed. This time - time has ended. Or just froze? Wait, did I take a nap and now I am stuck in a Disney special of Christmas past, present, and future? Do I have to escape to unfreeze time? Nah. Overthinking is my middle name and overthinker is my game. Or is it overthinker is my middle name, overthinking is my game? Eh, oh well. But it never ceases to amaze me that when I finally make sense of my world, the world throws me a wrench. Maybe there was a solar flare that took out time. How do you exist in a world without time? Time hasn't been around forever. But living without time gives me as much anxiety as forgetting my phone at home does. Everything we do is dictated by time. When we wake up, when we go to work, lunchtime, nap time, daytime, nighttime. We are either on time, early, or late. I remember laughing when I first met my husband 16 years ago and went to my very first Native American Pow-Wow. He had to teach me Indian Time. Being the rule follower I am, I start panicking at the remote possibility of arriving less than 10 minutes early to, well, anything . So when I learned about Indian Time, I laughed. I couldn't imagine a world where things happen when they happen. When we are told that Christmas Eve dinner at my in-laws is at 5pm - we know it will be closer to 6 or 7pm that we will eat, so might as well grab a late lunch on the way. As I started reminiscing about my past with time, it occurred to me that at some point during the Pandemic, I mentally embraced Indian Time while physically still holding on to the heartbeat of the clock on my wrist...and on my phone...and on my computer... Our ancestors rose with the sun and laid down with the moon. When the day reached its hottest - they found shade and took a break. Their stomachs ruled meal times, and not the other way around. Could the end of time heal our Earth? Nah....that's a stretch. Putting my phone down to stop from spiraling, I couldn't help but come back to the present moment. The present moment where I finally feel like I have arrived at something I had been working towards for almost a decade. As my friends and family all figured out their purposes, their missions in this life, their reasons for living...I was on the sideline cheering them on. Genuinely happy for them because that's who I am. But I'd be lying if I didn't feel alone and in last place. I know, I know. Life isn't a race. But over the last four years, I had never been more depressed. The political environment didn't help. But I am referring to not knowing who I was or why I was even here. Based on chronological time, I was late. I was late to the "what do I want to do, who do I want to be, when I grow up" party. I was late to the "career, not just a job" phase. The only thing I was early too, was getting my period at 9-years-old. And nearly every appointment for the past 20 years. Peeking at the clock to see if it started counting again, I was thankful I didn't get my hopes up. "10:33" Screw it. Just because the clocks have stopped, doesn't mean I stop. I may be struggling right now to find the words, but this is only temporary. The words will come when the words come. Maybe at 11pm. Maybe at 3am. But I trust they will come. Just like I trust that the days will continue even if all the clocks in the world stop ticking. I opened my laptop again and went to that blank page. When time stood still, I came alive. I wrote the first sentence, not knowing the next. In the silence of the extinct ticks, I listened to my gut. I wrote the second sentence, not knowing where I was headed. My fingers typed slower than the words started forming on my tongue. As I reached the final couple of sentences, a sense of relief washed over me. As the clock on the wall freezes, I finally understand. I am where I am supposed to be on my journey - at just the right time. Not a moment too early. Not a second too late. At the end of the day, time is what we need it to be. Therefore, I am not late. I never was. Sure, following my dreams is taking a little longer than I expected. But had I sped through, I would have missed the love my kids have for one another. I would have missed the fog lift from the wetlands just past our front yard as a double rainbow emerged. I would have missed the moment my girls learned how to cannonball into the pool and demanded I let them do it over and over and over... Maybe watching the clock so closely, is holding me back. Lifting my fingers from the blank page now full of words, I almost closed my laptop when a sudden urge made me look at the clock in the lower right-hand corner. "10:34"


Shelley Glazen tapped her cigarette against a homemade ashtray. It was misshapen and cracked with age, but it had been her first attempt at art, the first time she fell in love with creating something with her own, rickety hands. Now, decades into her hobby, she found joy in teaching others at the community center. At seventy-three, Shelley was proof anyone could take up a skill and make something beautiful. She taught both throwing clay and Beginners' Drawing. “It's not about getting famous on the ticky-tock!” she said on the first day of classes, her voice bouncing on the well-rehearsed speech. “It's about expressing yourself and most of all...having fun!” She knew she was a little silly and foolish, but felt it encouraged the shy artists to break into their deepest desires free of judgment. She sucked on the filtered end of the Turkish Gold and studied the sketch in front of her. All her classes up to this point had other retired, white-haired gals like herself, but this semester she had a young boy fresh out of high school. A real oddball. A gentle, kind spoken boy...but odd. Shelley felt incredibly old and disconnected whenever she spoke to him about his perspectives or his subject matter. It was always trains. Whatever the lesson of the day; color theory, shading, angles, whatever, the boy drew trains. Not just any trains. No. These were slinky, bent at the middle like some sort of serpent and instead of wheels they had long, catly appendages and razor fangs popping out of humanoid faces, dripping with crude oil. Sometimes the smoke from the engine parts engulfed people that were never detailed and often shapeless, sexless blobs. She held the most recent charcoal sketch and turned the stiff paper, squinting at it in an attempt to determine the correct angle. A glow of yellow light shone out of a bulbous nose shone and onto the train tracks. Shelley finished her cigarette and leaned back, holding the paper up to the ceiling fan light, forcing the shading of the image to change and warp as though it were a demonic creature. She had to give marks for the use of sparse color and lighting but marked off for the tracks being in the wrong position. She wasn't sure how to grade the train's structure. Should she judge it on the behavior of cats or the behavior of locomotives? A new shadow appeared in the doorway of her tiny office, and she lifted the paper to eye her husband, Robert. He plucked idly at an earlobe. “At it again with those damn trains?” “I just wish I knew what it was about them.” “Art's an obsession. We can't ask for everything to be explained.” He raised his free hand to show a large glass of brandy and wiggled his tufty, white eyebrows. “How 'bout it? I got the popcorn on the stove and the movie picked.” Shelley chuckled and slowly detached herself from the art projects and the office. She clicked off the light and took a glass. “You sure know how to woo a girl.” “Just you wait for the foot rub.” The movie he'd picked was a semi-recent feature exploring the final days of Van Gogh, all masterfully painted frame by frame in his style. By the end of it, Shelley's breath had caught up behind her nose. She wept open and ugly. Robert pat circled on her back until she was able to settle, and she was glad she could be this way around him and not feel like an idiot. “I'm sorry, darling,” he said. “I'll pick a better one next week.” “No,” she said, kissing the hard sandpaper of his cheek. “It was a wonderful movie. Beautiful. The brandy got to me. That's all.” “That's all?” His eyes narrowed and disappeared behind puffs of skin. Shelley shook her head. “I could never paint like that. The poor man.” “You're not supposed to paint like that,” said Robert, wrapping his arms around her. She snuggled deep into him and listened to the vibration of his lungs. “You're supposed to paint like you.” Inspired, Shelley brought to the community center the red wagon she normally used when walking to Kroger. She filled it with cheap canvas and paints and waited outside the classroom for everyone to arrive. “We're going on a little field trip today to paint outdoors. It's called plein air.” The weather was perfect and the walk brisk, filling her lungs with a sharp autumn wind that carried the scent of dead leaves and pinion burning in fireplaces of the nearby homes. They only walked as far as the park, where a bend in the running trail led off to a lush, overgrown patch of protected wetlands. She hoped to teach her students what Robert had said to her that previous night. Paint like you. After all, the odd boy of her class wasn't the only one with a unique perspective and perhaps Shelley could show how one piece of landscape could be different for each of them. “The old masters used to do this all the time,” she informed the class with authority, even though she'd only read about the fact that morning. Truthfully, she didn't even know if she pronounced 'plein air' the correct way. It was very French, and her tongue often felt slow and heavy with other languages. She secretly hoped that the odd boy would be forced further away from the comfort of drawing trains and look to more organic inspirations. By the time the class was done, Shelley had five pictures of the trail and two of the playground. She considered it a success until she spotted the odd boy's submission. He'd done the trail as well but included a train in the far distance. At least, she thought with a bit a dash of resignation, it was a real train and not a funny shaped one. She carefully set the paintings into the wagon and began to walk back to the community center. The clacking of the wagon wheels thumped in tandem with her troubled thoughts. Was there something wrong with the boy or was she being an old and judgmental fuddy-duddy? Trains made him happy. Who did it harm? During their dinner of homemade challah and potato soup, Shelley discussed this with Robert the day's work. He listened, beefy hands folded neatly together, the tufts of his eyebrows shifting thoughtfully like an old dog chasing something in its sleep. “Perhaps it's his home life? Maybe he wants to get away and can't...the train is him trying to escape. Do the faces look like him?” “I suppose,” she rubbed her temples, then stood and collected the dishes. It was her turn to clean. Robert had done all the cooking. That night, Shelley dreamed monstrous, mechanical beasts chasing her. They snatched at her with steaming claws and tore her apart with the fangs folded inside the wide, human mouths. It startled her so terribly, that she couldn't convince herself to fall asleep again. So, she braided her hair and put on her walking clothes. It was nearly four o'clock in the morning and not much traffic on the streets. Still, she kept her flash jacket on and walked purposefully to the only train station in town. As a girl, Shelley enjoyed taking the train to visit her relations. She loved the clunking, churning sounds, the strangers that passed at the rural stops, the long arching bridges that crossed over the Brazos. The viewing car was her favorite. At night, she'd hunker down into one of the captain's chairs and stare into the night sky, as though she were in a spaceship. She understood the delight in the slowness of a journey by train. She appreciated the nostalgia. She simply couldn't wrap her mind around the boy's added layers of oddness attached to them. Should she ask and risk embarrassing him or herself? What if he was simply drawing some sort of Pokémon? She frowned and lit a cigarette, cupping the glow in her cold hands. She didn't think an obsession with those little Japanese creatures was hardly any better than one of trains. At the current hour, none of the trains ran. The station was abandoned, and it had an old world feel to it, as though the platform hadn't been updated since Billy the Kid allegedly stood in the very spot. Shelley stayed by the outdoor ticket booth, smoking, and running her hands over the smooth wooden back of a bench she stood beside. Would the train yard speak to her and explain why some might be overwhelmed by their hulking frames? If architecture was meant to be jazz frozen in time, then what were trains? She waited and waited, but the only answer came from the chirping of predawn birds and the wind rustling the orange-gold trees. Three tracks away from the platform, she saw the flash of a light and thought for a moment that it might be a night watchman. She hoped that she wasn't standing on the platform illegally. There hadn't been any gates or signposts, but she could never be certain with these types of places. Shelley finished her cigarette, waiting for the flashlight to come closer but it never did. She brought her jacket closer to her chin, shifting nervously. There were whispers now, frantic and cooing. She stuck a pinkie in her ear and wiggled it, then listened again. Yes. A singular voice coming from the same direction as the light. I love you. I love you. More than you can know... and a long, drawn-out sigh followed by a laugh. Shelley brought a hand to her flushing cheeks and turned to leave. She hadn't meant to snoop on any love making. She stumbled off the platform and grabbed the railing before she fell. A trashcan toppled over and the voice, Shhh! What was that? crawled through the morning mist as though to snag her by the hair. Shelley trotted to the end of the lane and paused to catch her breath. She stood under a streetlamp that had already shut off for the day and cupped her hands against the oncoming headlights of an early commuter. There, at the far side of the block, where the back of the train yard began, was a figure. A shapeless lump that reminded her off the people in the odd boy's pictures. Hands trembling, Shelley went home and made a strong pot of coffee. She knew that she had no reason to be scared, all that bubbling in her nerves was left over from her nightmare. She had always been scared of the dark, deep down, although she never admitted it to herself. In retrospect, what Shelley heard and witnessed were two unremarkable moments wedged together in her frightened mind. Robert woke at the normal hour, and she told him all about her early morning walk. He fixed his paisley bathrobe, uncomfortable by the notion of her out on her own. He said as much. “I'm just trying to figure out why the trains,” Shelley answered in a small, unsure tone. “Well,” Robert cupped his thick fingers around a red coffee mug. “Well...I'll come with you. Tomorrow.” “I couldn't ask you –” began Shelley. “Sounds like fun. I'll nap in the afternoon.” He wiggled his eyebrows like it were an invitation for something more. The following morning, Robert woke with Shelley. He packed a thermos of coffee into his jacket pocket and folded the blanket they used when they went to concerts together and sat in the grass. Shelley grinned, her lungs fluttered, and it felt like a date. She took him to the exact spot when she first heard the sounds. They waited and when the minutes passed without any sign of another person or a flashing light, Robert reached for her hand and squeezed her fingers. “Show me where you saw them.” Shelley pointed into the third row of trains and Robert led her gently from the platform. They stumbled over the big chunks of gravel and the old metal lips of the tracks. She leaned into him, giggling as he nuzzled the tender place behind her ear. He asked, in a hushed tone, “Is this what you heard?” then moaned soft and slow. “No.” her smile was sly, and she gripped his fleshy jaw. “Like this. I love you. I love you. I love you. ” They sank down onto their creaking knees and Robert fumbled with the blanket. He spread it out and unbuttoned his shirt. “We'll get busted.” “Oh, no!” Shelley replied with a dramatic gasp. She laid down and shimmied free from her pants. “Wait. I got a cramp.” Robert moved his hand over her hip, massaging. “Like this?” “Yes...” Shelley rolled her head to the side, and he kissed her neck. He shifted to an odd angle to alleviate the pressure off his bad knees and kissed with vigor when she gasped. She pushed him off and whispered, “Hang on.” “Another cramp?” “No. Look.” She directed his head to a dark space underneath one of the freights. There were pink candles burnt down to the stubs and little strips of paper singed at the edges. Robert shuffled off Shelley and reached for one of the shriveled bits. He held it into the light of a naked bulb hanging off a nearby pole. He squinted. “Some kinda jumbo. Fake Latin...” “That's mine,” a voice behind them quivered. Shelley shrieked and struggled to crawl away, holding onto her pants with one hand. She tried to pull them over her knees but dropped them in her panic. Robert stumbled to his feet and spread his arms to block Shelley from view. “Who are you? What do you want?” “This is my safe space,” said the shape coming slow out of the shadows. “This is our spot and you ruined it.” “We're sorry,” said Shelley, standing at last. Her numb fingers slipped around the button of her pants. She recognized the voice. The odd boy from class. “We just were –” “We're married,” said Robert stiffly. “We're allowed to kiss.” “This is my spot,” he said again. He placed a thin hand onto the side of the freight. “Poor boy is leaking. They put him out of commission. He just needs a little love, and you ruined it.” “Sure, sure,” said Robert. “We meant nothing by it.” Shelley could tell he was uncomfortable. It was the same too easy, too wispy tone he used when playing a bad hand at bridge. “He needs special care. You see? He isn't thriving.” The boy's lamp-like eyes turned to Shelley. “But you can feel it, can't you? That's why you were drawn to him. Yesterday. Today. He's got a way with words.” “He...he does?” Shelley asked, eyeing the muscles on Robert's back tighten. “Is he who you draw?” “Sometimes,” said the boy, in a cool, detached way. “Sometimes it's our children.” “Oh. I see,” she said. The human faces in the trains were beginning to make since. “He needs to be compete again.” “Well, I'm sure that there are men who know how to fix this sort of thing,” Robert said, puffing out his chest. The odd boy nodded and then he brought a hidden shovel into his hands. He swung it against the side of Robert's head. Then, before Shelley could cry out for help, the shovel came to her. When she regained consciousness, her hands shuffled over old wood. Splinters dug into the tips of her fingers. Blood crusted her nose, but she could still catch the scent of melting wax and dust. Although she could feel the space around her, she couldn't feel herself move. It was like quenching a thirst without drinking water. Shelley's temples throbbed and she cautiously opened her watering eyes. The odd boy was standing in front of her. He held a riveter, muttering under his breath and bringing the sharp nose of the tool in and out from her field of vision. “What are you doing?” Shelley groaned. “I'm finishing my art,” said the boy not looking at her. “I'm making him complete.” Her eyes flickered to the opposite end of the car. There was Robert, riveted into the side of the car. He wasn't a man. The clothes were gone. It was only his face against the soft wood and his tongue rolled out like an animal. His skin was stretched, stapled into the sides of the freight. “No!” cried Shelley. “No!” “Shhh,” said the odd boy. Shutting her mouth with the hard staples of iron. Her teeth broke and she accidentally swallowed bits of bone. “You're part of us now. Part of him. This is good. I'll show you.” He set down the tool and wiped the sweat off his brow with the tattered end of his shirt. He picked up his backpack and lit a fresh pink candle. Inhaling deeply, he took out his pencil and drawing pad. Then, he sat beside the candle and began drawing them. His hand moved fast across the white paper, smudging the ink with the side of his fist. “It's beautiful. It's exactly how you showed me. Aren't you proud?” He turned to show the sketch to Shelley. She saw herself, flayed out like a newly caught fish, sinking into the sharp shadows cast by the candle. Her hair sinking into the grain of the wood. Her mouth buttoned shut. She was only a face into the side of the train, and it was beautiful. It was his best work yet.


Cacophonous sounds of terror pierced the air. An orchestra of chaos wreaked havoc all around. Curdling screams, obscene battle cries intertwined with the shrill clanging of swords and the striking of arrows as they hit their targets. Horses pained brays’ go unnoticed as champions force their chariots to ride through the fray. Blood soaked the earth, the blood of enemies, the blood of allies and the blood of innocents. Bodies littered the floor, the preponderance of them lay in the most perturbing positions and disgusting places. The fight has lasted too long already.

Flags flew high, each side fighting for their honour and their belief. Yet their wake will leave only destruction behind. They would make widows out of women, orphans out of children, scared little boys out of soldiers, empty men out of champions, calamity out of peace and terror out of joy. War brought devastation to everyone but the heartless who found pleasure in bloodshed and entropy.

Amid this massacre, a temple stood above the battlefield. It’s white pristine marble untouched and untainted by mortal blood. So far, it is safe. It wasn’t a big temple. Compared to the other beautiful, looming buildings around it, it was small. It was slighted and inconspicuous. It was perfect.

Hidden within the ivory-coloured walls of the temple, she huddled close to herself, hunched over as muted sobs wracked her body. Her hand clasped her mouth tightly, suffocating her wails of anguish. She was Cassandra, Princess of Troy. And here she sat, trembling -no,

cowering-

in the Temple of Athena. Raising her trembling hands to her face, she desperately tried to claw away the tears from her face. She was Cassandra, Princess of Troy. She needed to be courageous, powerful. Worthy of her title as a monarch of Troy. But her tears wouldn’t subside, they wouldn’t stop.

Every heart-wrenching sound of the war below echoed faintly throughout the sanctuary. Every sound made her quiver with fear. Gasping for air, she breathed erratically, painfully. Each breath she took felt as suffocating as if she were trying to breathe underwater. The horror of the war outside was distant now. All she could hear was her heartbeat. It’s rapid, rhythmic melody taunting her as an unwanted reminder of her mortality. Her eyes were wide with terror, too petrified to blink. No amount of self-assurance could make this hysteria wane.

Oh, how cursed she was, Cassandra of Troy. A High Priestess, a Princess, a favourite of the god Apollo. ‘Beautiful’, everyone had praised. Be them mortal or divine. Adored by all, she enamoured everyone. Even the god of the Sun, Music and Prophecy Apollo, was besotted by her. And as proof of his enthrallment, he approached her with gifts.

“I will bestow upon you, prophecy and foresight. In return, you will heed my requests and fulfil my desires,” the god had offered her, “you will become a priestess of Apollo.” “I accept,” Cassandra had said. A humble smile on her face, but a flicker of defiance gleamed in her eyes. How foolish she was, to try and defy a god. Anyone would think it senseless to deny one of the Pantheon. Anyone but her.

Apollo was outraged that she dared to refuse him even after their deal. Furious that she wouldn’t comply with his advances onto her, the seething Apollo did not see it fit to refute the gift he’d bestowed upon her. Oh no. That would be far too kind. No instead, he placed a curse on the human he once desired. “Every prophecy you tell will tell only the perfect truth,” he spat, “But no one will

ever

again believe any truth you speak.” It was all because of one god’s fury that no one heeded her forebodings of the Fall of Troy. She had done everything in her power to try to get them to listen. To

make

her people listen. It didn’t work. It never did. Every prophecy she foretold from the day she was cursed, was never acknowledged as veracious. Every truth she spoke was rejected, ridiculed and dismissed. She could only watch as every divination, every revelation she had foreshadowed whether it was exhilarating or heartbreaking, it would always come true. And no one believed her until it was too late.

Sitting on the cold marble in Athena’s Temple, Cassandra closed her eyes and gave one last prayer as the pounding of footsteps grew louder. She’d known what was to come. Cassandra had seen it thousands of times. Its visions plagued her dreams, leaving her with sleepless nights in her wake. This tragedy had been burned into her mind until she knew the events to the second they would occur.

The Greek soldiers would storm into the temple, dirtying it with their bloodied bodies, Ajax leading the assault. He would examine every corner and every crevice hungrily for a suitable enough, beautiful enough trophy to claim as his prize. He would look everywhere. He would murder the women. Slit the throats of the children and completely defile every sacred artifact on the holy grounds. And eventually, he would find

her

kneeling behind the statue of Athena with her eyes closed, her face tear-streaked but still as beautiful as she was known to be. And he would decide then and there, that she would become his prize.

She ended her soundless prayer and opened her eyes. Standing there, in twisted glory, was Ajax, whose sword was held tightly in his hand, soaked with the blood of her people. And now, it pointed at her throat threateningly. Cassandra straightened her back and held her head up high, looking Ajax in the eyes. She refused to submit to a man like him. Her body trembled as tears fell from her eyes. But she did not recoil from his looming figure. She repulsed to let him see her cower beneath him. Even if she were to die, she would do so with pride.

“Curse the gods,” she rasped as she mustered her last act of defiance, eyes livid.

“Curse the truth.”


In a late summer heat in June. Jackson was going through the rounds in his head how everything happened. How could a joke between three of his friends go so horribly wrong. No-one really knew the kid they bought with them, his gang was what you called 'menace'. Jackson liked to think of himself the leader of this so-called gang so at the chance of every opportunity that arisen he would be the second to say things like"hey," yeah...wait".. "Yeah! that was my idea." Sort of deal and most of the time everyone at Oakland High would get sick of it.  Clara was always the one whose attention he would try and get by flexing against his new sports car out, by the parking lot most morning's before school started.  Which she always felt was so obnoxious and self conceited but being the polite raised girl she was, she just smiled with him and she was cordial. Not enough that he would get the wrong impression but enough so she could walk into class without being bombarded by him all the way to the school corridor. Clara was popular sure, but she wasn't one to know it. Everyone liked her because well.. she was the only real person there, who chose to show kindness rather than rudeness. Also being with the fact, that her father is now a pastor but she begged when they moved to northern Arizona that she would have a normal life and that she would always believe in Christ till the day she died. She just wanted to be a normal teenage girl and get to know what it felt like since he joined the mission. Ron loved their father-daughter time way too much. Clara needed to be around girls her own age as she didn't have her mum there anymore to guide her through the certain rounds of puberty, that a young woman was supposed to go through. She would cringe at the thought of her father trying to take that role. When she started oak Highland high. Jackson had never seen a woman so beautiful and tried his best to show her, he was all for her. She had blond wavy hair which she always wore in a scrungie. Little to no makeup just enough to bring out her eyelashes,rosy cheeks and round lips. She never wore a skirt because of her father. So the rest was a mystery to the boys here at Oakland. While all the other girls were wearing skirts practically up to their thighs to get attention, wraping their skin coloured tights around them to help keep them up that length. Jackson being the rich guy that he was with dark hair,muscles and a sports car. Would get attention by other girls. Partially, most girls who were looking for a cruise around and for abit of action shall we say. A piece of eye candy for a girl to show-off to another girl type of thing. As Jackson HAD biceps.Yes, even for a young teen he had a strict workout regime. People would joke that he looked like a character from Dragonball Z.  What people didn't know was his family life wasn't exactly as perfect as he made it out to be. Working out was his distraction. Of how his parents would tell him he was a failure and what is he going to do with this life. Getting yelled at most times by his father whenever he walked in the front door. So, he would often avoid home after school driving out to the grand canyon most evenings to look at the vastness of the the view thinking isn't there more to life then this!! Knowing in himself that when all his studies where done he was going to get out of this place and start a fresh further down in the south. The rest of the so-called gang he was going to have to leave behind. Their was a group of four of them. Rodney, Jasper, Billy and himself. They would be a bunch of hooligans between themselves. Jackson couldn't understand why he chose these acquaintances but he did, they were funny and eventful to be with,at least. Till school finished. Jackson thought about this while thinking about the kid whose name he always forgot about. Whenever he would hear it. Considering Toby, the name of the kid, would keep trying to join his gang by doing crazy stunts in front of them to show that he had what he takes and they should give him a shot. Jackson just found it hilarious and would call all the boys just to sit and gawk at him. Walking away even if he was left on the floor by the sidewalk bruised up, from trying to jump off a high ledge from part of the school building. It was really sad to watch that he would only walk away if Clara wasn't there. Otherwise he would go over to him and make himself useful by going to the school nurse with him. Usually carrying him over his shoulder to show how strong he was. Not knowing that Clara just cared about Toby like she did most people since her mum died. "Toby, ...one of these days your going to kill yourself." After she would say this. He would promise her, he would be careful next time...we'll, Everytime, considering that he felt like ending his life due to peer pressure of his antics sometimes. Hoping it to be true. Toby had no friends and was so lonely. He didn't feel as though he had a good future ahead of him because his family were from a far part if the way in a trailor park. He hated always going to school with old beaten up clothes that would smell of damp, from his parents always forgetting to air them out. Moth eaten holes through the side of them from lack of care. Toby perserved for the time being. This was his life. The tailor park was his home. Arizona was his state. He just needed a few friends to be goofy with to help life go along just that little bit easier.

Until one day it was too late. This was thanks to Jackson and his gang getting him all rared up to do the ultimate stunt imaginable. Just him and them. In the early start of May. Toby... died.

The depth to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, it is 6,000 feet deep, which reaches its deepest point. It holds the fifth position on the list of the deepest canyons. Going the course to the bottom of the Grand Canyon might last you up to 12 miles or 16 km, depending on how much trail you choose. Nearly five million people visit the canyon annually, but as we later learned, only about one percent of them hike all the way to the bottom, The chosen route being the South Kaibab trail.

Toby took this route un-experienced, without help and no guide. Just him. The gang looked on and watched as he started to go in. None of them thought he would actually try to go all the way to the bottom.

But he did and failed.

Falling 4,000 feet from where he was.

He cracked his skull and his body lay all the way down at the bottom. The only ones who could see him were the Indian tribes in Supai Village which is located at the base of the Grand Canyon within the Havasupai Indian Reservation. His gang members had no idea what had happened to him. Just that they had seen him roll all the way down. Jasper and Billy suggested they bolt. Jackson was still caught in shock and Paul was egging him on to come and continue with the rest of them. All the gang were being driven by fear at this moment. Jackson was dreaded with murder! ........ They would go on for weeks after this searching for Toby.. It took at least a day before the parents even bothered to call the police. Jackson... Turned silent after this. The gang barely saw eachother anymore. And, People were suspicious but not so much so that anyone of the school suspected anything. Which takes us back to Jackson looking out on the vista of the grand canyon Ona late summer evening in June. It had been four weeks since Toby died. They still hadn't managed to find him, his body that had now been buried by the Indians 6,000 below in the Supai Village The only ones that new Never said a word... Just a silent secret among themselves. Like the very old famous saying goes: "It's all fun and games until somebody gets hurt." In this case it was... Death.


The feelings of longing are often abated by the feelings of anticipation. Before she leaves the house she stops by her vanity, pausing for a moment to dive through the chest of drawers, in search of a still-full bottle of perfume. There are never enough occasions to justify the expense but today was occasion enough for her to dab the scent against her wrists before tossing it back into the drawer. She wanders through the house like a wraith, staking stock of the state of affairs, creating a mental checklist before she reaches the door, keys in hand. Grey clouds roll overhead as she exits the house and heads to the car, a large duffle bag hanging of her shoulder. The scent of a storm crackles in the air, casting a sickly glow before dawn but she pays it no mind. Within the safety of the car, where the stormy scent was gone she arranges the contents of her bag throughout the car. A bag of snacks on the passenger seat, a travel mug with fresh coffee in the cup holders, a blanket in the backseat and finally, her sunglasses. She takes a quick look outside before she stows her sunglasses in the duffle bag and keeps it at the foot of the passenger seat. With a thin smile on her face she starts the car and backs out of the driveway. Love is a strange thing. It is like smoke, hard to catch, hard to keep but when it is thick and warm and everywhere it can make your chest hurt. Love provokes behaviour that would otherwise be considered abnormal. One would not willingly breath smoke the same way one would not travel half way across a country every third Saturday of the month. And yet, it happens. He is on a bus. It is never crowded, not many people ride this way and he often has an entire row to himself. He makes sure to arrive at the station one hour before the bus arrives, neurotic he knows, but busses come every five hours and he cannot miss this bus. He has his headphones in, choosing a selection of songs to create a new playlist as he files into the bus alongside strangers whom he had now grown accustomed to seeing. There’s an older woman who always wears a leopard print fur coat, a mother and a son who always laugh as they drop crackers onto the dusty bus floor and an older man with a bowler hat who has a locket pressed to his lips the entire ride. He settles into a seat and lies against his bag, preparing for the long ride. She adjusts her rear-view mirror to catch the slow build-up of light as the sun crests past the low hanging storm clouds. They both sigh. If people could be connected across space and time, these two are an example of the phenomenon.

He's three hours into the ride and turns his phone on to call her. She's just merged onto the national highway when she sees his call. she picks up and cannot help but smile as she hears his quiet, tired voice.

They speak as if they were beside each other. She tells him about her new breakfast smooth and how traffic was light today. He tells her about how he bought ice cream before the trip and how he thinks the mother and son dropping crackers might live at the destination they were both travelling to.

She says something funny in the phone, giggling at herself as he laughs too loudly, surprising the surrounding bus passengers. But love has no volume and so he does not realize he is too loud until he notices the wary looks. He quiets down and curls into his seat, wrapping his arms around himself, imagining as he speaks to her that it is her arms wrapped around him.

It is almost silly. They are travelling to meet each other and would be together in a few short hours, so why call? Why run through the topics of conversation that could be left for their reunion? Why talk to the point where there is no longer any meaningful conversation, where they exchange sighs, hums and unintelligible noises instead? But they were not meeting so they could regale each other with stories of their own lives. They were meeting so they could remind each other of the simple fact that they both exist.

Rain is battering her windshield and over the sound of the car wipers she asks him how his new friends are, jokingly adding that she was jealous they got to spend so much time with him. They both know she is not joking. He tries to reply lightly, mentioning that they are well but that they really want to meet her. He pauses and then adds that she could come out to meet them some time soon.

Soon, she echoes.

They both sigh, their voices heavy with an understanding they wish they did not have to understand.

And then suddenly the call cuts.

She’s not worried. It has happened many times before, her large cell phone bill be damned, her phone would always drop the call at some point after leaving the city. She waits for a few minutes, the silence of the car amplifying the sounds of the road. He always calls back.

So she waits and waits and waits, he does not call back.

He never does.

The next call she gets are from paramedics, then the police, then the hospital.

The next call she makes is to his family. The next call she makes is to a funeral home.

So this time when she drives on the third Saturday of the month, the drive is void of any conversation. Her sunglasses are now balanced on the bridge of her nose, the sun shining almost violently against her car. Her drive is long and she pops chips in her mouth between the winding turns of the road. It is almost 2pm when she reaches her destination, a small town carved into the side of a mountain, halfway between her home in the city and the opposite coast.

She parks her car and walks to the local diner. The staff recognize her, ask her why it has been so long since they last saw her. She waves them away with a chuckle, blaming the poor weather. The waitress comments how they have not had bad weather since that infamous storm a few years ago. She ignores the comment and orders two milkshakes.

She exits the diner with the two milkshakes and makes her way to a local lookout point, the edge of the dusty rock giving way to a valley filled with brilliantly coloured trees, the multi-coloured leaves straining against the autumn wind. She walks a well-worn path to a small bench and sits down, placing a milkshake beside her before taking a sip of her own and looking out into the valley.

It is not the same doing this alone. She goes through the motions, buys the milkshakes, huddles under a blanket on the bench, notes the variants of trees in the valley, but it is empty. She does it anyway because to her, it is better than nothing.

She takes a long breath, stinging her lungs slightly with the chilly air.

Behind her the trees rustle and she turns to see a young boy, no older than 17 shyly hiding behind the foliage. She waves him over and watches as he limps towards her, a crutch supporting where a leg should be. She hands him a milkshake when he sits down. She looks back at the valley, the milkshake in her hand trembling. They sit in silence for a few minutes, as they usually do.

“This conversation ends up being the same every time,” She says wearily, breaking the silence when her milkshake was half empty.

“Well the reason doesn’t change,” The boy says simply, “So we can’t really expect the conversation to change, right?”

She laughs, surprised at the unexpected wisdom in his words, “You’re right.” Her eyes catch the shadow of a hawk soaring above the trees below her, no smaller than button from her point of view, “I’m always going to wish that I told him I loved him.”

“And I’m always going to wish that we were doing something other than dropping crackers on the ground,” The boy finishes, “I don’t think we can wish any different.”

She brings the milkshake to her lips, “Thanks for coming every month.”

He shrugs, “Helps me too.”

“Not really sure what it does for me,” She admits, as she feels a particularly sharp gust of wind. It blows down into the valley and she finds herself watching the trees rustling together, leaves breaking from branches only to float away. Sometimes, the feelings of longing cannot be abated the feelings of anticipation. On those days, the longing is that much more painful.