This story is about a cancer patient who is planning his funeral. Prognosis

       by Jonathan Shiller Dr. Ruben took one look at my sunken face and said, “You need a break. Take a week off and get your strength back.” Months of chemo had worn me down, so I took his advice and slept in until 11 before heading to my appointment. I arrived early and sat in the plush reception area waiting for my name to be called. It looked and felt like any upscale Manhattan dentist or dermatologist’s office, beige leather seating and subdued, abstract paintings hanging on the walls, the clicking sound of a laptop and the muffled ringing of a phone creating a serene, hushed atmosphere. A few women, heads covered in handkerchiefs or tilted wigs, sat next to a partner or family member, each sinking into a leather chair, silently scrolling through their phones. I got a bit of a chill and slid my cheap puffer jacket over my shoulders, not sure if I was actually cold from yesterday’s treatment or if I simply had an eerie feeling about today’s appointment at the West Village Funeral Home.  I closed my eyes, and suddenly I was transported back in time 20 years to 2003. I’m sprawled out on my second-hand Crate and Barrel couch watching an episode of Six Feet Under , my favorite show of the moment. It often began with a despondent widow or mother seated across from the sons of the late funeral director. They showed concern and unwavering patience as she arranged her husband’s or child’s funeral. I hung onto every word of one of the sons, David, the tormented gay character whose turmoil was so relevant to my life in those days. One episode in particular stood out for me. I remember the character Amanda Previn who died after choking on a piece of Lean Cuisine chicken and, with no family or friends to miss her, was undiscovered for a week until her gray corpse began to emit a horrific odor. She didn’t get to leave this life on her own terms. I, on the other hand, had been given the gift of borrowed time. Here I was, snuggled under my thick coat, waiting for my arrangement conference, ready to plan how I would be laid to rest. It seemed like an eternity since that day when I sat in a gorgeous burgundy leather chair across from Dr. Ruben who looked at me solemnly, hunched over his large wood desk with tanned, creased hands folded on his desk blotter. He gave me the news that would make my life screech to a halt. It felt so unreal. From a routine blood test to being given a specific number of months left to live. More tests to confirm this, but unlikely that I would survive much longer. The sound of a throat clearing shook me from my dreamy state. I slipped my phone from my pocket and read through unanswered texts. My sister, my mom, my ex, Martin, a request to select “C” to confirm my appointment with the pain specialist. For months, even when I felt like I had already been buried and then exhumed or when I felt good enough to push through that groggy, hangover feeling, I kept everyone in my life updated on my situation. I called them back, responded to texts, even sent memes to let others know I had not lost my sense of humor. But no one knew where I was on this chilly March afternoon so hopefully they wouldn’t worry about my delayed responses. Some things you just need to handle on your own.  	“Bryce Larson? Greg is ready for you.”

I stood slowly and tried my best to casually approach the very polished woman seated at the front desk, her hair tied back in a tight bun. She told me to head through the door to the left and Greg’s office was the second on the right. I felt like I was going to see a financial advisor, not pick out a box for my remains.

His name was Greg Torino and his office was large with a sofa on one end, fluffed up with a series of multi-colored throw pillows, and a large desk with neat but tall piles of manilla folders filled with personalized requests for how funerals would be handled as if people were simply planning one of many vacations.

He asked me to sit on the couch, and he sat on the other end, legs crossed, keeping his distance.

“So Bryce, tell me a bit about yourself and your situation.” At first, I struggled to get the words out. I just stared at Greg’s crisp charcoal gray suit and hair combed into a perfect side part. I crossed my arms and rubbed my hands up and down the upper arms of

my too casual wool sweater. Here I was, a 45-year-old man, wearing a Gap sweater and baggy jeans. I knew I might die soon, but should I have dressed for the occasion? “Well, Bryce. You are very brave for going through this.” “Do I have a choice?” I sniffed, remembering how congested I had been recently.

“Ok well you’re here and you’re facing this. Let’s go through a series of questions and I will take some notes. First, how are you feeling?” That’s when it all poured out of me. The 18 months of treatments. The pain. The smell . That smell inside my nose, the taste in the back of my throat, an incessant reminder of the chemo even when I am feeling more like my energized self. The numbness in my fingers, the chemo brain when I couldn’t remember if I paid the rent on my small studio apartment. The soreness where the port sits inside my chest, like a little hourglass holding my remaining time inside.

I was wailing, sucking in air, saliva dripping down onto my jeans and the microfiber sofa cushion, Greg jumped up to grab a box of tissues and handed me a huge stack. I tried to dab at all the stickiness and then ended up simply rubbing the remnants into my sweatshirt and pants like a child whose parents would throw the clothes in the wash later. Then I put a wad of tissues between my legs to sop up the moist spot that had formed on this lovely couch.

We talked. For what seemed like hours. It never felt like this was simply another one of Greg’s appointments. He put me at ease, and as I spoke and answered his questions, he intermittently tipped his head in one direction, pursing his lips and nodding in what felt like genuine concern. I decided to be buried in a traditional way, following my Jewish heritage, so no cremation. Greg laughed when I said,”It’s just a rental, you know?” And it would be a simple service led by an available cantor or rabbi from the LGBTQ Synagogue, preferably someone who knew me from high-holiday services.

We sat quietly for a few moments, just looking at each other. This conversation made me feel like I had let all the air out of the balloon of tension that up until now had filled my entire body. My shoulders relaxed, and I squished myself into the comfiness of the couch.

Then Greg asked, “Do you ever ask yourself, am I too good looking to die?” We both busted out laughing. From hysterical weeping to light-hearted belly laughing in the span of 90 minutes. And that smile. Greg was growing on me. But of course. Nothing could come of it. I was like a box of cereal left in the cabinet too long. Stale, dry, and approaching my expiration date. “Listen, my next appointment isn’t for another hour, so why don’t we run out and grab a coffee and we can come back and chat some more?” “Well, run is kind of presumptuous, Greg,” I said. “I see, Bryce. Yes, I should have said stroll. We will stroll,” Greg said, rolling his eyes. I laughed and walked slowly out of the office with Greg right behind me. The Think Coffee was only a few blocks away. It wasn’t until we were moving down the sidewalk that I realized just how tall Greg was. Definitely over six feet. Definitely at least five inches taller than me. I felt like his awkward little brother standing next to him. He could easily pat me on the head if I made another sarcastic comment. I looked up at Greg.”So how is the air up there? “Is that the best you can do? I thought you were wittier.” “Well Greg it comes and goes, like my energy levels. I have been feeling a little run down lately, and now I am on a break between treatments, so hopefully I will regain some of the pep in my step.” “Understood,” Greg replied, a little sideways smirk as he looked over at me with his twinkling blues.

We stood across from the barista. There was a pause and silence between the three of us. The momentary surprise and recognition when you see someone you haven’t seen in ages. “Bryce, oh my god. You look..,” said Martin, a look of pity in his eyes.

I grimaced and shook my head. “I know. I know. Cancer is not good for an already pasty boy with the inability to grow facial hair.” “You haven’t responded to my messages. I was going to come by….”

“Thank you…at least I know my cat won’t eat my face if I trip and fall and die in my apartment.” Martin chuckled nervously, but Greg just stared at me, his eyes almost doubling in size.

“Is this your new…,” Martin started to say before Greg interrupted him. Greg lifted his right palm, in an unmoving wave hello. “Hi, I am Greg. We are just having a casual coffee as we work on Bryce’s final wishes.” Martin just stared back at us, unable to speak, sweat appearing on his forehead. He then simply said,”OK, what can I get you guys?” As he handed us our drinks one of them slipped from Martin’s grip, spilling all over the counter, dripping to the floor. Martin just stood there in disbelief and then burst into tears. “I’m so sorry Bryce. For everything.” Greg, a man who was particularly skilled at cleaning up messes, quickly grabbed a massive stack of napkins and began wiping the counter and the short half wall below the register. My hero in this moment.

 When all was clean and Martin composed himself, we said our goodbyes, and I walked happily next to Greg as we made our way back to the funeral home. Greg looked down at me and asked,”So, is that Mr. Right?” “Yes, Greg, the man of my dreams. But we broke up when he found out I was marrying him for his money.” “Wow, Bryce, now I can see how you survived this ordeal. Sense of humor is everything.” Greg

grabbed my shoulder and squeezed. For the first time in almost a year, I felt that electric charge that I thought I could never summon again.

 We walked through the reception area and Greg, both coffees still in his hand, offered to go grab

some sugar packets. I agreed and Greg left me to wait in his office. I just stared around the room and let my thoughts drift, resisting the temptation to pore through all those manilla folders.

Greg returned quickly and handed me my cappuccino. I took the cup, and we resumed our positions on the sofa.

“Tell me more about Martin. The real story,” said Greg with a genuine curiosity in his voice.

“Before I tell you about Martin, I want to just be really honest with you right now. I don’t know where you came from or how you ended up handling my consultation today, but there is a real spark here. And I am feeling good today, but who knows how long this will last. Are you sure you want to keep flirting with me? “Listen Bryce, in my line of work, you learn to appreciate every day as if it was your last. I am healthy and 51, but who knows how much longer I have myself? I am enjoying your company. Can’t we just stay in the moment?” “I mean I am not really an in the moment kinda guy. But I can try to be more spontaneous if that’s what you’re saying. Even though it makes me nervous like a closeted teenager.” I paused and leaned back against one of the stiff pillows, and I tipped the cup to my mouth, taking that first glorious sip of the cappuccino. I noticed something written in black Sharpie on the cardboard sleeve: 646-567-4901 Greg smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Just in case of emergency.”


John Schaufensterscheibe immigrated to Canada in 1793 with his young wife Gerta. John was an inventor and a visionary - he loved to tinker with things. He loved to make wooden items - everything from surprises for die kinder (the children) - to decorative nutcrackers - to handheld corn seeders and mortar and pestles - just everyday things: nothing too fancy or modern.

After a busy day of working the fields John would dread having to bend over to take off his muddy shoes, especially since he was a very tall man, so one day he used a nearby stick to aid him. After a few days of using this shoe stick, as he called it, he whittled it down into a smooth tool to slip into the heel and slide the shoe off. He soon got the idea to refine and market this tall man's aid - the shoe horn - it was a raging success! He became moderately wealthy and was able to provide for Gerta, and later his twelve children for the rest of his life. Over a century later, John's great great great Grandson Arnold Schaufensterscheibe is still receiving royalties from the largest shoe horn company in North America. Now Arnold fancies himself a celebrity for the worldwide utilized invention of his forefather John. He loves to take quarterly vacations to tropical destinations on deluxe cruise lines: he always asks for the King Suite and mentions his ancestry; he becomes belligerent when his shoe horn nobility is taken into question. Arnold also doesn't like to wait. He wants immediate service anytime his patience is tested. Whenever he goes out to the local Stroop-waffle house he refuses to wait to be seated; he will forcefully push costumers off their seats and onto the floor if necessary. Whenever this arrogance is mentioned he asks with a stone cold expression, "..and how did you get your shoes on this morning?" When the costumer responds, "I just used my shoe horn," Arnold's face becomes rosy with burst veins as he says mockingly, " Do you know who I am?" He intensely pauses as he shakes with anger then continues, "I'm the great great great grandson of John Schaufensterscheibe!"

The costumers face goes blank - nobody would dare argue with history. Arnold isn't married - not because he isn't desirable (so he tells himself), but because he can't find a suitable mate to carry the Schaufensterscheibe heir. He once dated a charming brunette named Isabelle. She was a good woman with many unique abilities and skills. Isabelle could paint-by-number holding a paintbrush between her toes, she was a miraculous ventriloquist and she made the spongiest spongecake in the region. Where's the catch?

She used her index and middle finger to put on her running shoes - like a savage.

There was no subtle conversation of "I think we should see other people," or "it's not you - it's me," Arnold just stomped Trumpishly and showed Isabelle the door - he barely waited for her to clumsily slide on her sneakers: watching her struggle just asserted his reasoning for parting with this inefficient woman. Arnold gave up on his search for the ideal mate, and settled into the realization that there is no one who could tick every shoe box. How could such a handsome, intelligent, charming, and modest young Schaufensterscheibe man be left a bachelor? He longed for companionship: for comfort, and for strudel. As all men do. One last romance ditch attempt surfaced itself: a Singles' 7-day Caribbean Cruise was scheduled in a months time. Arnold booked a ticket and began planning his itinerary details and even his packing list. He would bring four pairs of dress shoes and 8 deluxe-handcrafted-shoehorns (one for each day and a spare - heaven forbid one should fall overboard). Everything else was pretty standard and uninspiring: shirts, shorts, toothbrush blah blah blah. Soon the time came to finally pack up his Volkswagon and drive to the cruise ship terminal. Along the way he visualized his luggage and it's contents, and just as he arrived he suddenly remembered he'd left his silk satchel with his 8 monogrammed shoehorns on his dresser at home! This was catastrophic - there were only a few significantly worse things that had happened in his lifetime. He would rather get a parking ticket for blocking a handicapped spot during business hours, or an ingrown hair in a very sensitive place, or suffer the wrath of a destitute seagull when he's trying to handle not one, but three corn-dogs!

The time to decide is now. Not tomorrow - not when he's situated in a chair by the pool with an umbrella in his drink - but now.

He exited the vehicle and patted every pocket in his pants: perhaps he had put an extra shoehorn somewhere. He often does - he's found them in very unusual places before - in the dishwasher, under the dryer, in the Gerber Daisy planter box. No luck - nowhere on his person. What course of action should he take? He figured there have probably been many people faced with the very same situation, and no news of some disastrous outcome has ever surfaced from their poor packing. What is the worst possible consequence from a shoe horn discrepancy? He might have to loosen his laces, or he might not end up getting the shoe securely on his foot. Only a slight bit of discomfort could possibly manifest - don't overthink this Arnold - he said to himself. Inhale, exhale, panic tingled up his spine giving him shivers, or maybe that was the ocean breeze. The sea air felt like clean sheets on his skin, and it sounded like chaos and calm, the ebb and flow of the universe. In that moment a mystical notion unearthed itself in the stillness: not everything needs to be forced into it's place.

He held onto the guard rail with one hand and his suitcase with the other and boarded the ship. He was greeted by a dark haired woman in a loose flowing skirt and bikini top. She smiled like the sun and hung a flower necklace around his cleanly shaven neck. "Welcome," she said with a voice like apple strudel. "Excuse me miss - where is the gift shop? ...I need to buy a pair of flip flops." He turned around and let out a freeing sigh.


Someone was sitting in her chair. Sigh. She looked around trying not to get overwhelmed at now having to pick a different place to sit. She always sat there. It was this beaten up and torn vintage brown leather chair in the corner of the café with a window facing her favorite tree and near the bookshelf. Also it was perfect for people watching and she didn’t have to worry about anyone really disturbing her. Normally she came in the early mornings and would work on her writing or sketching and then read for a little bit while enjoying a couple cups of coffee. She wished they would put a reserve plaque for her reflecting: Ellie’s Corner. That shouldn’t be too much trouble since she came here so often! Right!? Right, Ellie. First world problems right here. Not getting to sit in your favorite corner of the world, because this person just had to sit here. How did they even get in here this early?

“Hey do you want to sit here?” She didn’t know what to do. She froze. Was she really just standing there staring at this girl angrily because she wanted her seat? What happened to sharing is caring? Now what was she supposed to do? If she said yes, would she be considered rude and snobbish. If she said no, would she just look like an idiot? Crap, Crap, Crap!!! “It’s ok. I’m about to start my shift anyway. I know you normally sit here, I just wanted to see what was so great about this corner? I think I understand now.” “Umm thank you.” She mumbled shyly gripping her notebooks tightly to her chest. She sat in the chair and set her books on the wooden round table underneath the window and groaned inwardly. That was embarrassing. Should she just leave now. Would she have to find herself a whole different Coffee Shop to go to from now on. She just wanted to curl into a ball and die.

“Hey, sorry if I seemed so forward and startled you earlier. I know you normally enjoy drinking our Pumpkin Spice Latte but I thought you might enjoy trying this new drink I came up with called: The Pumpkin Surprise! I hope you like it!” She started walking away before she could say anything in response. Great now she had to try a new drink! Today was just not her day! She Always got the same drink! It was so scary trying something new! No, she was going to do it! The girl, the barista with the pretty green eyes, wow she didn’t even know her name. How self centered was she? No, She wasn’t self centered she just struggled with her mental health and that was ok. Just a year ago she wouldn’t even have let herself be out in public. So this was good! She just had to try not to be so hard on herself. Maybe she would even try to ask what the green eyed girls name was today before she walked home. Sniffing her pumpkin surprise she felt like she was being hugged and as she curled up into the giant comfy chair she looked outside at the oak tree with it’s changing autumn leaves falling to the ground. She smiled. “Hi can I have a peppermint white chocolate mocha with skim milk and no whipped cream? Oh and I would also like an egg croissant sandwich please?” “Sure, that will be $8.95. Cash or Card. What name would you like for the order? Thank you and have a nice day!” Turning from the customer Maddie sighed, blowing her bangs off her forehead. Today was busier than normal for a Tuesday morning. As she finished gathering her customers orders and finally the store came to a lull she had a moment to breathe. She supposed that was ok, that it was pretty busy. More money for the store and

it just meant she would be less distracted by. Shaking her head with a small smile she glanced over at Ellie in the corner looking out the window. She was so shy it was adorable. She had been coming in here for about a year now and the only reason she even knew her name was because she asked what name she wanted for her order. Ellie always came in at the same time, ordered the same drink, sat in the same seat and always did things in the same order every time she came to the café. Maddie was a patient person and thrived on chaos. She was always busy with working at the café, going to full time college, working out and volunteering at the animal shelter on Friday’s. She had a few couple close friends and would spend time with them when her schedule would permit. She always looked forward to seeing Ellie every time she came into work. Her friends had tried encouraging her or rather teasing her about when she was going to ask Ellie out.

Maddie would always laugh it off. Her schedule was too busy for a relationship and she had a feeling Ellie had a lot going on emotionally and didn’t want to be another complication in her life. She always seemed to have this aura around her that was bittersweet. Like she was bearing the weight of the world on her shoulder and just needed someone to share the load with. Over the course of the year of serving her drinks and observing her. Ellie seemed to be improving. She was starting to look around the café more, sketch more and seemed to be blossoming into herself more and more. Ellie didn’t know it, but she secretly always made sure that that corner of the café was reserved for her and was her spot. She just didn’t want Ellie to feel self conscious. She hoped that her sitting in her spot and bringing her a new drink wasn’t too much for her. She was almost about to graduate college and apply for teacher positions but she still wanted to work here part time mainly so she could see Ellie. Pulling her shoulder length shiny wavy black hair into a messy ponytail she looked up to see Ellie staring at her from her chair. Cracking a smile at her and tilting her head. Ellie blushed and turned away.

Yawning Ellie smiled with satisfaction. She got a lot of writing done today. She was going to try and submit some of her stories to a women’s magazine later this week and was trying not to be excited and nervous and trying her best not to talk herself out of it. She gathered her things and was about to head out the door when she took a deep breath and turned around walking back to the front counter.

“Hi, I… uhh…” She stammered. This was a mistake. What was she thinking. She couldn’t.. “Hey Ellie! How did you like your coffee?” “It was uhh..good. Thank you. How did you know my name?” Ellie asked nervously. Her brain thinks stalker, stalker, stalker... Maddie pointed at her coffee mug with the sticker saying Ellie on it, smiling. “Oh, right sorry about that.” “It’s ok! You’ve also been coming in here for the past year and this is your favorite drink you always get right? How’s your writing been coming along?” “Good, I..think I’m going to try and get some of it published this week!” “Congratulations! I’m graduating college this week!” “Oh wow! Congratulations! That’s great!” “I’m Maddie by the way.” “Sorry a year of coming here I should know your name by now, I’m so selfish!” “You aren’t selfish for not knowing my name! Don’t worry about it!” “Thanks.” “Umm do you think you would be up for..” “Well I have to get goi...Sorry what were you going to say?” “Oh, nothing, don't worry about it! Have a good rest of your day Ellie!” “MMmm ok, You too!” Ellie stammered walking out of the cafe mentally hitting herself in the head. Maddie sighed. She finished closing up shop, locked the door and dropped her keys. Bending down to pick up her keys someone was bending down to pick up her keys with her. Ellie?

“Hey Ellie, thanks! Didn’t you go home earlier?” “Yeah, I just...I just..I wanted to say thank you for always being so nice to me! I tried baking some pumpkin bread since you always seem to have that when you work..And was wondering if you would want to hang out sometime after you get off work?” Handing Maddie a box with a piece of paper on it with a phone number. Maddie and Ellie stared at each other for a while. “If you don’t want to, you don’t have to..” Ellie said, embarrassed starting to shift away. “I would love to.” Maddie said smiling.

“Ok great, see you tomorrow then.” Ellie said. Maddie smiled to herself, shaking her head in awe. Ellie was so lovely. Looking at the autumn leaves starting to appear on the trees next to the cafe Maddie was filled with a sense of excitement and happily headed home. She couldn’t wait for this new chapter in both her and Ellie’s Journey.


The computer keys went wild tonight, as Carol Seiken typed away at the story she has been writing since she was a child. She reflected on all the memories she is fond of, and all of the memories she wished she would forget. Never in her life has she written a story this grand, this important. It was hard to put so many of her thoughts into words, but she typed away at any thought that she believed needed to be heard. Her excitement raged as she was nearing the final sentences of her biggest accomplishment; the greatest story she could ever dream of. Tonight, Carol was about to finish her autobiography - detailing all the important and memorable events from her life since she was a child - all the way until this very moment. Every word she typed gave her more excitement, as this was in fact her lifelong dream. It amazed her that she was finally about to fulfill this dream. Carol looked back at her very first memories - all that she could remember, of course. It was hard for her to remember very specific memories of her childhood, but she reflected the best she could. She remembered when her grandparents came over, always bringing a special treat for her to eat, like candy or chocolate. Her uncle would come and they would watch tv. She remembered how she used to climb on his shoulders like a monkey. She looked back at the first birthday she could remember; she had her whole kindergarten class come to her house and watch a magician perform many tricks. She looked back on all of the holidays: Halloween, when she dressed up as Wonder Woman. Christmas, when she got her first bike and her father taught her how to ride it. Her favorite was Thanksgiving, when she would douse every spot of the turkey piece she received with warm gravy and would fall asleep in her grandpa’s arms as they watched the Jets play against the Bills. Moving on from Carol’s childhood, she looked back on all her accomplishments growing up. She graduated top of her class and studied at Yale, where she pursued her passion of receiving her Bachelors of the Arts in English. After college, she traveled around the world to study the many cultures present in different countries. She stayed in Sweden for a couple years and studied German during her time in Munich. She stood below the Eiffel Tower and watched it glow at night, tearing up at the beauty of it in person. She spent days reading up on the history of the Great Wall of China, before actually walking on it. She even walked through Rome and had gotten a tour of the Colosseum. The best part about these experiences is that she came home, and with great enthusiasm, told her family about her entire experience traveling. As she reached her adulthood, she still hadn’t married or found any sort of love interest. One man, however, changed her life and helped her become the woman she is today. Lee Cantonelli, a veteran of the United States Army and a successful accountant, caught her eyes almost immediately. A friend had introduced them when they all went out to dinner, almost as if they had gone on a blind date. The next weekend, Lee and Carol went out to dinner - a fancy steakhouse by the name of Abe & Louis’ - for their first date. Carol wrote about how they talked all night, and they were talking even until the restaurant was about to close. As Lee paid the bill and walked Carol to her car, Lee asked her a very general question: “What are you going to do for the rest of your life?” Carol, without hesitation, responded with a simple yet touching answer: “I’m going to spend it with you.” From then on, Carol had found the man she had awaited for many years - one that she indeed would spend the rest of her life with. Her time with Lee was most certainly memorable - they had kids, and then their kids had kids. They loved to spend time with their grandchildren. When her family came to visit, they would often listen to Frank Sinatra and would catch up on any ‘family news’ of sorts. Her youngest grandchild, Gabriel, would dance to the music - his diaper would be falling down as he danced, which she thought was hysterical. Lee loved Gabriel’s dances as well, and would turn up the music and try to dance with him. He was a fun man, and everyone loved his presence. One other thing Carol and Lee had in common was their love to travel. Carol would tell Lee all about her time overseas and all the great monuments she came across. Lee always wanted to travel - so they decided to travel together. Carol took him to Europe, and tried to take him to many areas she had not seen before, such as Southern Italy and even taking a trip to the Taj Mahal in India. They often took vacations to the Caribbean Islands and relaxed on the beaches for days on end. She knew she could never travel alone ever again. As she went over her final accomplishments of her book, Carol was stuck reading the parts of her life where Lee was involved. She reflected on how great of a man he was. He played golf with friends and could talk to anyone about football. She laughed at all the inside jokes they had made throughout all their years of marriage, not forgetting anything funny or important that he used to tell her. There was one thing they both regretted, however, and that was not meeting sooner. They wished they had met each other when they were younger, so they could’ve spent their whole lives together. Unfortunately, Lee passed away a few years ago, but Carol stayed strong in his passing. Lee died a happy man, and still loved her unconditionally - in fact, he loved her the same way he did since the day he met her.  Carol looked back towards the beginning of the book, seeing that most of her childhood and teenage memories were of many accomplishments, but reflecting upon her time with Lee made her realize that he was the greatest thing; and that the best accomplishment was ever meeting him. As she read through many parts of the autobiography, she started to feel guilty. She had spent her whole life taking memories down in hopes of one day writing an autobiography about herself. She thought - how was this fair ? How was it fair to write about her life when she owed someone else for all the great times and experiences she had as an adult? Carol had finished the book. She didn’t feel accomplished, however, even though this had been her lifelong dream. She felt that she needed to do something else. Carol sent the finished book in to be published, entitling it: Carol Seiken: An Autobiography. After doing so, she got started on a new story; one that was filled with adventure, excitement, and love. She had decided to write a new story - a story that meant the world to her. Carol opened up her notebook and began to brainstorm. Instead of reflecting on her own life, she reflected on the times of her life that she had spent with Lee Cantonelli. She was going to write a love story, a story on how they met and everything they had been through. Only then did she know that she was on the verge of achieving her lifelong dream; a story that put not herself in the spotlight, but a story about her and Lee’s lives together as one.


Summer Love - the Quarantine Edition “Then I Woke Up” by Mary Corbin I could never have seen it coming if you had asked me two months ago but I fell in love this summer. Who doesn’t fall in love in summer, right? But this was no ordinary summer and this was certainly no ordinary love. This was my love from the summer of 1980. Come back to find me. With so much sitting around not going places, one does get a little restless to say the least and you sit on the couch reading your Facebook scroll and your Insty page and all levels of crazy that comes through the news pipelines and you just start thinking over your life. People reconnect. They do, in this kind of unpredictable climate. For all kinds of reasons. To reconcile differences, find common ground, have a good laugh, compare coping mechanisms, to cling to life. And just plain boredom. Listen, Zoom can do wonders to a lonely heart.

One morning, another quarantine morning, I woke up. And I found an email in my inbox from Marvin. Marvin Macks. Marvelous Marvin Macks. He was my first true love when I was just 19 years old back in Chicago. Marvin and I fell in love over potato skins and half-and-half's and in case you didn’t know, a half-and-half is a pint glass filled halfway with tap beer and half Guinness Stout. We met through a mutual friend and it was love at first sight. No really it was. We were both damn cute and he was a college soccer star with great teeth and a hot bod and lots of room to party and have a good time. Pretty soon we moved in together and we just couldn’t get enough of each other, I mean, we were connected at the hip. At one point, though, in our relationship we decided we needed to branch back out with our own friends once in a while, not forget those people altogether so we experimented with him going off on a boys camping trip or me going out with the girls for ladies night somewhere. We were working at keeping things open for each other, not getting in each other’s way of a broader scope of relationships and experiences without each other. There was only that one time that it sort of pissed me off when I was invited to go on a weekend road trip to visit some friends in college at Mizzou - that’s in Columbia, Missouri, in case you didn’t know. Anyway, it was some big football game and my friends were practically begging me to go saying “everyone is going, it’s gonna be a big party weekend, you’ve GOT to go”. So I said yes. Well, I ran it by Marvin first and he said yeah, sure, I should do it. Go have fun with my friends.

What I didn’t know and didn’t learn until I came back from my weekend was that Marvin had just been given two free tickets an hour before to see the Boss, that’s Bruce Springsteen, in case you didn’t know, but, really, I mean do you really not know that? So, Marvin hadn’t had a chance to tell me yet and he decided right then and there not to tell me he just scored those amazing tickets for Saturday night because we had made that pact, that silly little pact, that we weren’t going to stand in each other’s way to doing things with other people. He had two ninth row tickets to see the Boss, for god’s sakes, how could he think he couldn’t violate the pact just that one time! Other than that one tarnish on our sterling trophy, we really had a wonderful relationship. For two young kids who didn’t know much about love, we were perfecting something together. But we only lasted for two years because he went off to grad school and I went backpacking around Europe with my friend Lori and you know what they say about long distance relationships. That silly phrase about absence isn’t true, don’t believe it for a second. The heart doesn’t grow fonder, it wanders. So we drifted off into our own lives on opposite coasts as I landed back in the States in California with a surfer from Seal Beach who I met at a youth hostel in Italy and that was that.

Marvin and I kept in touch for a few years after that, sharing stories about boyfriends and girlfriends and marriages and dogs and vacations and kids, he with three and me with two, but then you know, life just is. Parents pass away, careers change, your kids have milestone events and the letters and phone calls get farther and fewer between. Then I woke up. I woke up one otherwise banal morning making coffee and toast, one more day in lock-down avoiding the news and people on the street, to find an email in my inbox from Marvin. “Hey, how are you!” it said in the subject line. What other Marvin could it have been but my Marvin, right, other than the fact that he started every conversation with “Hey” and also the fact that I never met another Marvin in my whole long life.

So I opened it. I read through a long tale of happiness and loss, success and failure, joy and sadness. In essence, the threads that made up the fabric of his life. Any life, really, when you think about it. It was an entertaining read, he was a good writer. At the end of it was his phone number saying I could call anytime if I was so inclined. Well, was I? I mean it had been thirty years since we were last in touch, what could we possibly have to say to each other? Is the bond still there, I mean, does something like that, someone like that stay forever or simply disappear through the revolving door of people who shape your life? I didn’t know the answer to that question at all. I did know that I felt something weird in my stomach when I thought about him and I don’t mean just now when I think about him but all these years...whenever. I thought. about. him.

I left that email in my box for a few days, thought it all over and finally responded saying “Yes, let’s talk soon!” in a vague, non-committal, no date or time specified kind of way. But then he called me on it as he would always do and proposed a more exact day and time to talk on the phone or Zoom, if I preferred. Oh, god no, I’m not ready for Zoom with Marvin but a phone call would be fine. So it was settled and I tried not to think about it too much. Then I woke up and it was the day of our call though I would have to wait all day until 3:00 for it to happen. You can imagine the nerves and the questions and the lists and the doubts and the genuine excitement that built up until that hour crept slowly closer and closer. Then it was three and I’ll be darned if Marvin didn’t call me at exactly 3:00 as if he was on a timer or something which would be just like him. I picked up and said hello with a slight question in my voice. “Hey” he said nonchalantly. “Hey,” I said back. And from that moment it just flowed. Like we had just seen each other yesterday. Well, it was just yesterday if you put it in the proper context of a whole continuum of space and time, right? People don’t change that much I don’t think and time is just a relative, abstract construct of our minds if you ask me. Marvin was so eager and excited and downright giddy about our reconnection, saying things like, “You’re so good for my brain!” and repeatedly telling me how happy he was. He wanted to talk every week and wanted to know if it was ok with me that he “plans to stay connected with me from now on”. I was happy too. I admit it. During our first conversation on the phone we agreed we had had something special, that we had a bond, that we raised the bar for every relationship that followed. He loved talking about how respectful we were with each other and how we never got in each other’s way. Except for the concert, of course, it was a pretty perfect union. Marvin also told me he was divorced. Then I woke up a couple months into our revived friendship to a voicemail from Marvin from the night before, wherein, after a few scotches he tells me he never should have married his first wife, that he should have married me, “...despite my three great kids with her…”, should have quit with the not getting in each other’s way bit and that it was me all along and that he’s been talking to his therapist for years about me. Then he sort of trailed off into an awkward silence and a “well, that’s all I needed to say….for now. Ok, talk soon?”

Me? I’m still married. Had I told him that yet? I’m pretty darn happily married, too, but you know, it’s been a long time together whatever with one person. You know how it goes. But what do you do with a voicemail like that? Ignore it? Cut things off? Talk about it, laugh about it together? It was starting to feel like I was cheating on my husband, getting deeper into a forbidden tryst that would cross a line with no turning back, that I would regret for years to come. I talked to my sister about it, “What exactly are you doing?” she asked me. How the hell did I know. Yeah, it was much more innocent than the way I just mapped out, there was no indiscretion. But it had all the markings of a classic summer romance. Those stomach flutters in anticipation of the call, the giggly laughter sharing stories, shared points of view, the visions in my head of the plans we made to see each other. But, let’s face it. It’s Covid Summer and who knows when Marvin and I will actually see each other in person, when and where and how, and maybe even why, that’s all just speculation and pipe dreaming for now. We’re all in quarantine. Letting our minds run wild with desire and fantasy and hopes and dreams for a better future where we hug and kiss old friends, have grand summer reunions and sit under the trees with wine and cheese. But worse, maybe, we see the past as some perfect world where a boyfriend was a one truly heroic, perfected love that can never be matched. That is worthy of rekindling and creating a new spark better than the last. A place where the sun shines brilliant everyday and we frolic in unending love and joy. Then I woke up. This morning, I woke up. On my Facebook feed was a post from my friend Jen in Asheville, North Carolina, one of those memes that people pass around. It said, “Don’t let a pandemic be the reason you get in touch with your ex.”


The clock on the mantel struck 4:50 A.M. His eyes fixated on the clock as he clenched his blood soaked chest. Frantically he begins to scan the oddly disheveled room. He started leaving bloodied fingerprints against the hall wall leading out of the entrance way. "Not again," the man muttered. He began to slowly shuffle his feet. There's no sign of his wife, or children. The house is eerily quiet, and seemingly empty. A loud clicking could be heard pacing the wooden floors. Click. Click. Click. Click. Holding his breath he slowly makes his way through the first floor of the two story farmhouse. In the kitchen broken glass is strewn about, cabinet doors are partially ajar, and the open fridge was slightly scooted forward. "What on God's green Earth is happening," the panicked man began to scream as he collapsed on the bottom step of the main stairway. All of a sudden there was a violent shaking of the ground beneath his feet. Everything started clinging, and clattering as it was being strewn about. The clicking was becoming faster and louder as it rushed towards him. Without warning there was a tiny blood soaked canine that appeared in the doorway. "Oh, my goodness you poor thing," he sputtered as he picked up the dog to examine it. It wasn't seriously injured. There were some tiny cuts and scrapes, but otherwise he was unscathed. The man plopped the tiny creature back onto the floor. "Honey?! Kids? Is anyone home?," the man called out. The dog began barking uncontrollably. He petted his head and started speaking to it as though it were human. The dog would shuffle about and walk in a complete circle. It was obviously as distressed as the man appeared to be. The clock on the mantel once again made a loud clanging noise. It sounded as if there was metal banging against the wooden frame. He rushed to the clock only to find to his horror that the hands on the clock were missing. The distraught man managed to make his way upstairs only to find his own body slumped over on a desk in a nearby room. "No. No. No. No. Please, no," he sputtered as he made his way over to his body. There was a knife protruding from his chest as he examined his own body. Beneath him was a bloodied note that read 'Times Up' in bold print. With a sudden jolt he felt as if he was being sucked back into his own body. Waking up soaked in sweat he began feeling his chest. He frantically reached for the alarm clock on a nearby nightstand. The clock hands had completely disappeared, and blood began dripping down the face of the clock. Screaming he swats at the alarm clock. He had then woken from a nightmare within a nightmare. He noticed a pain in his hand realising he had swatted his clock in real life as well as his dream. There were subtle purplish bruises, but nothing major. "Honey, when you get time can you fix the clock on the mantle. I think it's broken," his wife yelled from downstairs. The man got up and got dressed. Then made his way down the stairs and into the entryway. He glared at the clock. His heart started to beat faster, and he felt as if his stomach was doing flips. One of the clock hands had been dislodged. The second hang loosely down over the 6. His wife rushed his two daughters out of the door quickly. They were running late for school this morning and missed the bus. Their mom was to drop them off before work. She slammed the door behind her. By doing so she jostled the second hand loose. There were now no hands on the clock. The man began to panic. He flipped the clock face down before grabbing his wallet and keys. The door locked shut behind him as he made his way to his vehicle. The man turned just turned on the radio when all of a sudden the radio started rapidly flipping through channels on its on. The clock on radio went from 7:30 A.M to 6:30 A.M and kept counting down. There was a loud static noise that pierced the air. The radio began flashing, but all it was showing was 30. He kept fumbling with the radio as he drove down the highway towards work. While stopping briefly at the stop light he noticed that the car was now acting more peculiar. The blinker kept clicking and the wipers would come on. He looked to his left only to see a giant clock displayed on the front of a building. There we no hands. He suddenly began to panic as he continued to creep near the building. There was a slight traffic jam leaving his stuck face to face with the handless clock. There was a loud cracking sound as the facing of the building crumbled. The clock slowly loosened and fell to the ground bellow. It rolled out towards traffic. People began panicking and retreating from their vehicles. The man tried to open his door but the door handle broke. That is when he franticly began to kick the drivers side window. He heard a loud beeping. Distracted he looked down to the floorboard and lying there was a broken watch. It's hands had been jostled free and it's glass cracked. There was a loud whooshing noise that made him look up abruptly, but by then it was too late. The giant clock ornament had crushed his vehicle with him trapped inside. Rescue workers arrived on scene and desperately began trying to free him. Unfortunately, the efforts were futile as the found the man split in half. One worker rushed to the side to hurl. The other stared in disbelief. That is when he heard a loud ticking noise. That is when the rescue worker discovered the broken watch clasped in the man's bloody hand. Tick Tock. Tick Tock. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tock.


Today is the first day that I, George, get to work with my best friend; we got a new job at the same place, the FCF. People know it is a Federal office, but its true purpose is known to only a few. FCF actually stands for the Federal Center of Fiction. Authors of fiction are all registered in files, but me and my friend have a bigger purpose than to classify files and papers. We are going to guard a door in the basement of the FCF building. We’re not supposed to say what it contains; everyone who went through that door never came back. But that’s not the worst. The worst are the things that could come out of that door, into our world. Me and my friend Jake arrived at work early for our first day. We had already done a training yesterday and learned all the emergency codes. We switched our clothes for black costumes each equipped with one revolver, one knife, and one sword. All in black, we went down the stairs until we reached the cold and dark basement. There was nothing, except for the door and an emergency button. The door was two meters high and many symbols were carved on it. We were impressed. Our morning was easy; literally nothing happened near the door. So, we were more off-guard in the afternoon which ended up being a huge mistake. Around two o’clock, we were making jokes when a pounding came from the door. Soon, sounds were coming from the door every minute. The boss had clearly said that absolutely nothing was supposed to come from the door, including sounds. We should have made the emergency code as soon as it happened once, but, instead, we got closer to the door to listen. The sounds were too blurry to be identified. We still got closer and when my hand touched the door, it flew open. Jake looked at me and went for the emergency button. He told me to run to the boss, but before either of us could sound the alarm, we were sucked through the door. We had both lost consciousness. When we woke up, the door and the room were gone. We were in the middle of London, near nighttime. ’Hey George, you okay?’ ’Yeah fine and you?’ ’Well yeah, I just don’t get why we’re in London. What’s in London already?’ ’Come on Jake, I bet it’s Harry Potter’ I answered, excited by the idea of meeting the boy who lived. Jake did not seem excited though. ’Does this mean Voldemort is also here?’ ’I guess?’ I realized what was the biggest problem in worlds of fiction: the villains. And which villain would say no to another world, ours, to terrorize? It was important not to reveal the secret of the fiction door. ’George, do you think we’ll be fired?’ ’Yeah, I don’t think the boss is going to forgive us.’ As soon as I finished talking, something roared in the distance. We looked around but could not see anything suspicious. Jake and I started walking on one of the many streets and looked around. The roaring grew louder and closer. We followed the sound until we arrived in a park, no idea which. We saw it, a disgusting monster with tentacles. ’That’s not Harry Potter’ I said. ’And that’s not the 21 st century’ Jake added. I looked around and understood. There was no car, only carriages, and horses. We were so caught up on the question of the time we were in, that we forgot the horrible creature. The roar we heard next was right behind us. We turned around slowly and fell face to face with the monster. We screamed and everyone in the park looked at us in annoyance. They did not see the monster. We started running and, when we turned around, the creature was not following us. It was actually occupied with tattooed fighters wielding shiny blades. We hid in the bushes; if we could get a better view of these heroes, then perhaps we would know in which fiction world we were. When the monster was disintegrated by one of the shiny swords, a man with black hair got a short stick out, a stele. Me and my friend finally figured it out; they were shadowhunters which meant they were in one of Cassandra Clare’s fiction world. The creature was a demon, and the tattoos were runes. Jake had read those books a few weeks earlier. ’Jake, where would she hide the door in her world?’ ’I think I have an idea; Henry’s the best inventor and it might be hidden in his lab.’ All night long we walked in London streets until we reached the London institute where Henry would be. They could not reveal the purpose of the door; they would have to enter the building and go through the door without getting caught. We succeeded to reach the lab and luckily, it was breakfast for the characters. We searched on every wall, but it was not there. On our way out, Jake stumbled on something on the floor, the doorknob. We heard voices coming, we did not lose time, we jumped right through the door. When we got out of the door, we were back in the room, safe. We were so relieved. We went up the stairs and we had to find the boss. At the top of the stairs, two men were holding guns in our direction. ’We’re not from fiction, we just came back’ said Jake to the guards. ’We have to bring you to the boss’ one of the guards answered. We were glad, that’s who we were looking for anyway. We took the elevator to the last floor. The guards escorted us to an office. ’Are you new?’ I asked the guards. ’We’ve been working here for 20 years’, the tallest guard answered. ’Really? Because we started the job yesterday’ Jake said. ’Not possible, we were the ones working’ one of them replied. We entered the office, and I was wondering, did we spend more time than we thought in a fiction world? We faced the boss just like the guards said, except that wasn’t our boss. We both frowned. ’You look disoriented’ the guy said. I was not sure how to call him anymore. ’Well, we went through the door yesterday’ Jake spoke, not sure. ’Sit down. We’ll figure out from which story you are from’ ’We’re from here, the real world’ I told him. He frowned. ’What are your names?’ Jake answered for both of us, ’I’m Jake Thompson, and that’s George Bowell.’ The guy searched on his computer, then looked at us. 'I am sorry guys, but you do come from a fiction world’ he said, seriously. ’You come from the story named ’The Door to Fiction’ and its world looks like ours, which might be why you are confused.’ I was amazed, was this really the real world? Then, we would have been living in a fiction world since we were born.


I had too much going on right now, but Mom could be overwhelmingly persuasive when she wanted something and today she wanted me to visit with her and Grandma. Now! I tried to talk my way out of it, but she went on about her appointment with the tax collector on Wednesday and her social club visit next week and then Bingo nights. It didn’t matter that I had finals on Thursday or two extra shifts at Lucky’s this weekend. I needed money. I needed to study. I needed extra time that I don’t have. I pulled up in the driveway to find them both scrambling onto the front porch. Great. We’re sitting outside in the 90 something degree hellscape rather than in the air-conditioned comfort of the living room. Thanks, Mom. I soaked in my car’s a/c for a few extra moments before plastering a fake smile on my face and heading up the steps. “Hey, Mom. Grandma.” I nodded at them both, acknowledging that I had made the extraordinary effort to grace them with my presence. “Honey, sit with your grandma while I finish the tea.” Mom was already being too fussy. She was patting at Grandma like she was an overgrown toddler who needed extra help finding her seat. “Leave me alone! I don’t need to pee!” Grandma viciously snapped at her and swatted her invasive hands away like they were flies buzzing around her face. Actual insects were beginning their lazy flight to investigate our dewy-skinned presence. Mom had talked about screening in that porch for years but had never done it. Something about damaging the original architecture. She was a sucker for this old Cracker home. Mom bent down and clicked on the rickety, oscillating fan by Grandma’s feet to help combat the muggy Florida humidity and a few of the gnats immediately dispersed to find less challenging prey. “I said ‘TEA,’ Mom! I’m getting us some TEA!” As Mom yelled, she spoke slowly as if Grandma were also dumb as well as deaf. She wasn’t truly deaf, just incredibly hard of hearing and, being the most stubborn one between the three of us, she flat out refused to get hearing aids. She simply didn’t trust doctors which is ironic considering she was a nurse for 50 years. Or maybe there is no irony in that at all. Mom sighed and disappeared into the house. “Your mom sucks at making tea. She doesn’t use enough sugar and, back in my day, you let it sit in the sun until it was brewed just right. She takes short cuts. Always has.” Grandma crossed her arms and sat up straighter. Her way was the right way. Our ways were cheaper, artificial, wrong. I turned my head. “Well, maybe you should make your own damned tea.” I muttered it half to myself. I was tired and irritable. I really shouldn’t be here. “Well maybe you should watch your damned mouth when you speak to your elders, you little brat!” I snapped my head around and Grandma was glaring at me with a look so cold it would freeze your bones. “Grandma! How did you hear that? I thought you couldn’t hear…I mean, I’m sorry. I didn’t…I’m just sorry.” My face was flushed and I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. This woman changed my diapers and let me sleep over when I was little. She tucked me in and read only the best stories. She held me when I was scared of a bad storm or a nonexistent boogie man. She was everything. “I can hear just fine, pumpkin. I allow certain people to think I can’t hear so they’ll shut the hell up. Otherwise, they’d talk my dang head off all day long about crap I don’t care about. Who gives a rip about American Idol at my age? Do you know who Suzy at the drugstore is dating now? Do you know who doesn’t ever want to know? ME!” She grimaced with a look of disgust. Suzy did date a lot. I mean, everyone knew that. Personally, I didn’t think it was anyone’s business. “But, what? Grandma, I can’t let you. I mean, how can you?” I was flabbergasted. This woman always amazed me with her knowledge and wit, her strength and compassion. Yet here she was living a lie because my mother was too chatty and a bit of a gossip? Faking a disability? I mean, she was never officially diagnosed so I guess it wasn’t truly a disability if it never received a medical seal of approval. She sank back into her wicker chair and gazed out across the lawn. “Shh, sweetie. Listen. Just take a moment to listen.” I stopped and settled into my own chair, shutting my eyes and opening my ears. I heard mom clanking around in the kitchen at the back of the house, the wood floor creaking with each step. I heard the motor of the fan whirling at Grandma’s feet and the click each time it changed direction from left to right and back again. I could feel and hear the breeze as it tickled the branches of the large oak that grew in the center of the yard, leaves rustling and chattering to themselves, challenging each other to hang tight and grab the sunlight that was beginning to fade into the late afternoon. The birds voiced their own opinion of events as the neighbor’s wind chimes settled into a few sweet, ringing notes to punctuate the moment. It was beautiful. It was a symphony of peacefulness. My stresses were suddenly distant and less important than the moment in front of me. Grandma sighed. “Do you understand? I don’t have a lot of days left, sweetie. I just want to see, hear, taste, and smell the beauty of my world. I want to soak up every bit until I have my fill. I don’t need to talk about things anymore. Life is too short for that. Talking is just noise. The rest, well, that is life’s background music.” I grabbed her hand. “I love you. I do want you to hear that.” She smiled. “You know I love you. You have always known.” She squeezed my one hand inside both of hers. “This is our secret, right?” She shifted her gaze to the screen door. Mom’s steps were approaching down the hall. I winked at her. “Your secret is safe with me.” The door banged open and mom presented three huge glasses of sweet, iced tea on a platter with some steaming banana bread sliced on a plate. It was my absolute favorite. “Here you go ladies! Fresh out of the oven. Well, fresh but cooled a bit. I wasn’t going to burn my fingers off cutting it. I put extra sugar in the tea for Mom, but seriously, I can’t imagine why she likes it so danged sweet! I mean, diabetes is a thing you know. In fact, did you hear that George down at the hardware store just found out he has the diabetes? I can’t believe it. Shirley is just so distraught. I did tell her years ago that George was putting on too much weight, you know, getting a little thick around the middle. He was always so fit in high school. Running back, I think he was. Bless his heart. Now he must take those shots, that insulin. Not even the pills. I thought they always started them off on the pills. Do you know anything about that, honey?” She was looking at me. “Mom, I’m in school for marketing, not medicine. I bet Grandma would know, but it would take too long to try and tell her everything you just said. I’m sure his doctor did the right thing. Don’t worry, Mom. George and Shirley will figure it out together.” I glanced at Grandma and her eyes were shut, but a grin was playing at the corners of her mouth and her left eyebrow was cocked up like she was silently asking me, “Do you see what I mean?” I completely understand, Grandma. Enjoy your peace.


Start your story with one character setting up a romantic dinner, and end it with them looking at a framed wedding photo. Their culture it was dinner, marriage and forever. There wasnt any room for negotiation, other then the alternative shame. Shame for them, their family and her future husband as well as his family. Most woman in her village waited for this moment rejoiced in it, she didnt. Infact she spent the last three months trying to think of a way out of it without destroying her family. Ananya wasnt sure why she wasnt like other girls in her village, but she couldnt help who she was. She dreamed of being more then a wife and a mother, sure she wanted those things but she wanted more. The main reason why she was going along with this dinner was because her intended was in America and thats where she wanted to go.

Naveen had no interest in a wedding, a wife or any other plans his family had for him, and he intended to inform them of his decision at dinner. From the time he was little he always just assumed he would marry a nice Indian woman and live in India, but after 4 years in America everything had changed.

The whole four years Naveen didnt give into the pleasures of the flesh, but worse he let his mind. Still in his country woman had a certain amount of serbiant additude, sure they were great mothers and wifes but why did that have to be all they were? He wasnt so much worried about a physical attraction that had never been a problem with woman in his village they were attractive enough but he wanted more. He wanted a woman he could talk to, listen to, and dare he wish for someone to laugh with.

Ananya and her family flew out to New York where her intended would be, her mom talking the whole time about a life with her new husband. To her relief Naveens family had gone the day before, to prepare for her and her families arrival.

Naveens mom had spent all day in the kitchen cooking while Naveen sat the table, because he insisted on helping though that wasnt a mans place. His dad had sat on the couch trying to figure out his smart tv for the entire day, they had yet to upgrade at home. The time was approaching and he was nervous for the knock on the door that envitably came. He opened the door and was blown away with the sight of Ananyas beauty, He hadnt expected her to be so beautiful and he was taken off guard as his mother, and her mother did the introductions. He was staring even as they were seated, she didnt seem to notice because her eyes were anywhere but his.

Despite being attracted to her, he still didnt want to marry her. He could barely hold the news in as his mother served everyone and they started to eat. Well everyone but Ananya was eating her eyes were looking out the window at the New York skyline she clumsily dropped a piece of brocoli as she was eating. "Ananya a lady focuses on her food not anything trivial outside" Ananyas mother said.

"Its beautiful" Ananya said softly but did turn her attention to her food, she was thinking she would run away now that she was here. She hoped her parents would think something bad happened to her versus running away, though for her the outcome was the same shed be free. Her mother and Naveens mother were talking about the two moving back to india after the wedding, they were just happily chattering away. The happy chattering stopped when Naveen dropped his fork to his plate with a clatter everyone stopped talking and Ananya even looked to him. "Im sorry but I m not marrying you" Naveen said to Ananya then added over his parents and her parents objections "or anyone yet. " He looked to Ananya not sure what he expected but when he seen a smile he was very shocked. Naveens eyes stayed on hers even as their parents started arguing till Ananya got up and walked to the windows to look out. Her mother then tried to get her to leave but she wouldnt she stayed put and her parents continued to argue. Basically her parents were upset they came all the way here for nothing and his parents were insisting that he would marry her. His curiosity got the best of him so he joined Ananya by the windows she looked at him with a smile.

"Thank you, this way i dont have to be the one to ruin my family" she said clearly a joke, he laughed softly.

"you didnt want to" he asked wondering if she had wanted to get married. "No I wanted to be here in America Im not going back" she said even softer.

"Want to get out of here" he motioned to a side doorway, she nodded eagerly and they quickly made their way out. She followed him down a fire escape to the busy street, this time of evening the sidewalks were sparse with people though. "They are going to be very upset we left" he said looking up the fire escape.

"I been upsetting my mom since I was born, she wanted a boy" Ananya said but her eyes were focusing on the world around her. "Didnt your mother teach you its rude not to look at someone while talking to them" he asked though he wasnt upset about her lack of attention.

"Im sorry its just to beautiful, I always wanted to see New York, California, florida, Austrailia, Spain" she said then continued to ramble. From the places she wanted to see to random facts about the places she wanted to visit. Even woman he had met in America didnt ramble like that not ot mention the twinkle she seemed to have in her eye when she spoke, such exuberance she seemed to have. After rambling for several minutes she stopped and seemed to redden embarrased then said, "sorry."

"What do you think about technology" he asked and she looked at him with a confused look.

"Overused but a great addition to life" she said the thought that came to mind.

"What about cleaning" he asked. "I have to have a clean place I like everything in order" she said, he had her full attention. "and cooking" he asked. "If you're interviewing me dont bother I couldnt cook to save my life, i have no desire to become a live in maid for you and your children" she said despite herself. At first she didnt mind the questions, she even appreciated them it made it seem like he was interested in what she had to say. Then it felt like he wanted to know what she could offer him, still she hadnt meant to burst out with her anger all at once. She always said what she thought or felt but she prefered to keep her calm composure, and now she briefly lost it. He started laughing immediately after the words came out of her mouth, he liked the fiestyness. She put her hands on her hips because now his laughing had angered her, she was totally taken off guard when he leaned down to kiss her.

Naveen hadnt known why he kissed her, he had thought about it while she was rambling, while she was giving her opinion and even while he was yelling at her. To act on it however was impulsive, and he was rarely impulsive. The explosion of passion was intense for both so when he pulled away all she could do was stare at him. "We could go tell our parents we are getting married" he said after a few minutes of silence.

"Im going to be more then your wife and the mother of your children" she said poking him in the chest. "Good" he responded, they walked together around the building to go in the front enterance to tell their parents. The downside was their parents were extremely happy for the change but the upside was that was the day they started a life together.

They were married days later though they still had alot to learn about each other. It had its challenges she was very stubborn and headstrong while he was infuratingly calm. They struggled with where to live, what careers they would take and many other things but they struggled together. The one thing they didnt struggle with was the honeymoon that turned into a year long trip around the world. They finally settled on living home in India at least till there first child was born.

Naveen had been at work all day while Ananya unpacked their belongings and decorated, she wasnt very far along in her pregnancy so she got around with ease. She was hanging pictures as Naveen got off work and had just put up thier wedding photo when he opened the door. She stepped off the stool she had been on and looked back at her, he walked to her side putting his arm around her waist and both looked at the framed picture. "Next year our childs will have a photo next to ours" he said and she smiled looking at him then back at their wedding photo.

"Still not going to be just your wife and his mother" she said the stubborn side of her coming out, that he loved.


I was woken from my mid-day nap by the most unearthly of screams. I had been sitting amongst my fellow stuffed animal co-workers when I heard the cry. It was high, savage, and terrifying enough to send the bravest of men running, but I am not the bravest of men. It was a scream of loss; I could tell by the slight tremor in it. It was a female human. Female, because there were only females in the vicinity and human, for almost the same reason, though I supposed it could've been the cat Sprinkles. She was notoriously known for the screeching of the most abnormal sounds. But I knew it wasn't Sprinkles, because she was next to me, utterly panicking at the demonic shriek. I knew for a fact that it was human because I knew very well the human who was uttering such a noise. Lillie Anthony rushed into the room, sobbing with the familiar hysteria of a four-year-old. She flopped upon the bed pounding her fists into the flowery comforter and kicking all the stuffed animals behind her. Poor stuffed animals. She was a storm of emotion. There were evident tears and redness on her face. There was anger, yes, but I also noticed the despair of her sobs. Whatever was going on, too, Lillie it was the end of the world. Then again Lillie thought the world was ending if she didn't get dinosaur chicken nuggets. While I saw the disappointment she faced in that matter, I had yet to discover what it was about those nuggets that made them so addicting. I waited for the child to calm herself down. She was on the tail end of the tantrum, the sniffle, and the frown phase. She lifted her head off the bed. "Detective Snuffles, I'm in need of your special set of skills," she said very neatly and precisely. She sat up onto her knees and looked hard at me. "Detective Snuffles, Laylay is missing!”

I would've gasped if I could. Professionally, gasping was looked down upon. But a missing Laylay was no laughing matter.

"Laylay is missing! Gone! Stolen! Dead! Murdered!" Lillie was now going into dramatics. I didn't pay that much attention. Laylay could have been misplaced. Perhaps gone? Stolen maybe, but by who? Dead; very unlikely. Murdered; even farther from possible, but I had seen stranger in my years in the field. "Detective Snuffles, you are the best bear detective in the whole house, will you help me?" Again, if it had been professional, I would've blushed, but then I remembered that I was the only detective, bear or otherwise, in the house. But altogether I was still touched. I would certainly help Lillie. As her trusted detective I couldn't let her down. She picked me up and held me inches from her face. I could smell the PB&J on her breath.

"Will you help me?" She shook me slightly, then squealed. She pulled me into a stuffing crushing hug. "Oh, thank you! Thank you, Detective Snuffles!" It was undignified and she was rumpling my clothes, but I let her hug me. A missing Laylay called for hugs and much more. But it was time to get down to brass tacks, or whatever tacks are made from these days. "Okay, okay, the missing is a four-year-old, soft, green, blanket, last seen in the kitchen at snack time." Good information, but I needed more. "I'll go get my hat!" cried Lillie abruptly. She leaped up, throwing me back onto the bed. To my annoyance, she had sticky fingers and I could tell that there was some unknown substance on my back. I would have to live with this annoyance. I was on a case. Lillie's exit gave me ample time to question the other animals on their knowledge of Laylay. First, I examined Zipper, one of Lillie's oldest friends and by association Laylay's. Zipper was one of those earlier faders, his original black stripes were now grey, and his pink muzzle was speckled and bumpy. Next to Zipper was Sammy the seal, a newer addition, but who had spent many a night tucked up beside Laylay. Either of them might have an idea where Laylay was. But I wondered if either happened to have a grudge against Laylay. It wasn't hard to have a grudge on an original love. Lillie loved everyone, but she loved Laylay more. The only one out of all the bed residents that might have one such grudge was Floppise, the bunny blanket. Floppise was always second best to Laylay. I didn't know why it was. Maybe it was because Laylay was older. Maybe it was due to Laylay being far softer. But Laylay had always had the favor of Lillie. I looked around and found Floppise at the end of the bed, caught between the crack and the bedding. I was about to ask Floppise where she was during snack when Lillie whirled in. She was wearing her detective hat which was several sizes too large for her. It was rather ridiculous and amateurish, but she always needed it on cases like this.

"Detective Snuffles, quickly to the living room a suspect has been spotted!"

A suspect! She hadn't told me there was a suspect. She really needed to work on telling me the important details first. We rushed to the living room. Lillie was quick and spry, climbing over the couch and leaping into a half-full laundry hamper making it slide across the floor. She jumped out and landed in front of the tv. There, was our suspect, fast asleep.

"Cookie, you are under arrest for the kidnapping of Laylay," Lille said pointing defiantly at the fluffy border collie. Oh, she had so much to learn. Cookie looked up, blinking away sleep. Her tail began to wag though when she noticed Lillie. Cookie wasn’t my idea of a likely suspect. At least not a willful or premeditative crime. She was all slobber and play, but she hadn’t much interest in Lillie’s things. Even if she had, the evidence of her crimes would have either been strewn about the living room like blood spatter or thrown up in the middle of the room. This didn’t stop Lillie from fiercely interrogating. She was all demands and bad cop, which was hilarious since she was anything but the bad cop in looks. It could’ve worked if she had let me at least play good cop.

“Cookie, where were you at snack time!?” Nothing.

“I know you did it, Cookie.” Cookie just wagged her tail more. "Have you seen the missing green blanket?" More wagging and more silence. “Cookie, what is your ali-bi-bi?” she said, stuttering over ‘alibi’, which threw off any intimidation she had acquired. Frustrated she stomped her foot. “Tell me where Laylay is!”  Cookie proceeded to roll onto her back and expose her belly. Even the toughest of bad cops couldn’t have resisted her. Lillie obviously couldn’t. She knelt and began the pet Cookie’s plush belly. Dogs, I have observed, can either win over the owners through pure intelligence or utter charm. Cookie was all charm. But this distraction couldn’t last long, we were losing valuable time to find any evidence of Laylay’s location. As I was beginning to look around Cookie’s bed for clues, I was knocked out of Lillie’s hand by Cookie jumping on Lillie to lick her sticky, kiddy, hands. The world was spinning, and I didn’t know when the dizziness was going to end. I landed with a thunk on the threshold of the laundry room. The smell of detergent and musty socks wafted in the air. The laundry room was home to copious amounts of Lillie's dirty clothes, from dresses to winter jackets. Most were covered in a variety of stains. The place wasn't empty either. Mom was standing folding some of Lillie's things. She seemed to be completely unaware of her daughter's investigations. To give her credit though, the dryer was running, and Lillie's little investigations were something she had gotten used to. She was one of those mothers who let their children create their own worlds. I had deduced over the years of watching her and Lillie that she had most likely had a stifled childhood, not that I'm an expert or anything. She was folding the clothes with excellent precision and the skill of a well-tried habit. I could still hear Lillie giggling and questioning Cookie in the living room. She sounded like she was having a grand but unproductive time. Having a feeling I would be stuck in the laundry room for some time, I began to inspect the room more carefully. I had solved many a lost sock case in the place as well as the mystery of the new detergent smell. The socks had mostly been located behind the door, while the detergent was a lavender lemon. It was far from my favorite room in the house. The raucous sound of the washing and drying machines was a constant roar. I saw nothing out of the ordinary clutter and spaghetti stained shirts. I went back to watch Mom fold. She was shaking out a blanket. An old blanket. An old, soft, blanket. An old, soft, green, blanket. I had located Laylay. Just then Lillie walked into the room. "There you are Detective Snuffles! The suspect knew nothing," she said, picking me up. "Who was the suspect hunny?" Ask Mom turning around from her work.

"Cookie." "Ah, well Cookie is a hard nut to crack." Mom smiled at her, then noticed me. "Hunny, you've got jam all over Detective Snuffles." I realized horrified, that she was right. Like blood oozing from a gunshot, there was strawberry jam all on me. I hadn't even noticed; I had been so wrapped up in the case. "Let me see him so I can get him washed up," she said, and I had to stifle a shudder. Washed up. Washed up as in washed in the washing machine. That dreaded contraption. I had known so many who had entered the belly of that beast and not returned. So many stuffed animals, so many socks. Lillie pulled me close and said, "But Mommy I need Detective Snuffles!" "Hunny, he's all gross, don't you want him clean? I’m sure he wants to be clean." I sure didn't, I would've rather accumulated all that Lillie could put on me than face that dark spinning madness full of water and cleaner. I felt safe though, in Lillie's arms. She wouldn't let go of me without a fight. Mom wouldn't want a tantrum on her hands. "Mommy I need him to solve the case!" "What case hunny?" "The case of the missing Laylay!" Lillie said desperately. There were tears back in her eyes. The tantrum was on its way. My safety was almost secured. "Laylay's right here," Mom said holding up the fresh green blanket, "I had to wash Laylay after you got PB&J on it." I remembered Laylay. I remembered that Laylay had gone missing after snack. I remembered that smell of peanut butter that had overpowered me when Lillie had first come to me. Then there had been the sticky fingers and the laundry basket in the living room. The clues had all been there. How stupid I was. But at least Lillie would now have her Laylay.

"Laylay!" Lillie squealed, reaching out for the blanket, but her mother put out her hand stopping her.

"Are your hands clean?" "Cookie cleaned them," she replied, showing a clean hand. "Of course, she did," Mom said with a slight laugh. Lillie once again waited to get Laylay back. I, too, was waiting. I didn't understand why mom didn't just hand it over. There was a growing feeling of an actual hostage situation.

"Can I have Laylay?" asked Lillie finally. "You can have Laylay, if, you give me Detective Snuffles." Those were high demands. I felt terror creep through me. But Lillie wouldn't give me up. Not that easily at least. I was sure that some classic arguing was about to take place. If I was lucky, a meltdown would end with Lillie getting both me and Laylay. Then I would be safe. I couldn't face the wash. I just couldn't. The cold was too much. The dark too unforgiving. But Lillie wouldn't let me down. "Okay!" Lillie agreed. I had been betrayed. She traded me off for her beloved blanket. She did it without a second thought. I was put in the washing machine and began to suffocate amongst the clothes and towels. I could just make out Lillie hugging Laylay. She looked at me, trapped in the machine of doom. "I'm sorry Detective Snuffles." Then the first of many spin cycles started and I was lost in the flood of clammy water.


Laurel doesn’t eat anything. This used to terrify me when we first started living together. Her dinners would consist of instant ramen and a single egg. Soft, small bowls of pasta with canned tomato sauce. Frozen ravioli. Peanut butter and jelly. These meals were put on repeat. I watched them, day after day, mildly appalled but still too shy to offer her my own cooking, feeling that any criticism of her diet would be presumptuous, and not wanting to make her uncomfortable in having to refuse anything she didn’t like. I didn’t really know what she liked yet.

Over time, she began to have stomach problems. She had problems with eating food and with her appetite. Anxiety roared in my chest, I seethed with worry. I felt self-righteous and overwhelmingly protective. Immediately, I began to connive a plan. I would do what I could. I started cooking again, I finally started cooking. Weaponizing my concern, I was able to learn what she liked by asking her, bulldozing through my previous anxiety with this new, more powerful one. This illness (which is still unresolved, much to Laurel’s consternation and my red-hot fury) is what led to me cooking for everyone from time to time. And from time to time, the others cook too. This is how I discovered what they like.

Laurel likes pasta and bread, potatoes and rice. She likes salted butter and scrambled eggs. She will eat meat, if it is presented to her in small pieces. When she is feeling sick, fruit is easiest for her to eat, and she has only recently started liking soup. She dislikes cake and likes pie. In ice cream, she likes caramel. In tea, she likes honey. The vegetables she will eat include peas and carrots and sometimes spinach, and corn and I can’t remember what else. She doesn’t eat pork. Sometimes, when she is feeling ill, she finds it easier to eat if she doesn’t prepare the food herself.

Amy came next. She is Vietnamese and American and so she eats like any non-American does. In other words, she eats wonderfully. Her parents (by which she means, and so I mean, her Mom and her Aunt) collectively provide for her. Her aunt cooks for her, having a long history of cooking, and her Mom drives food down for her every other weekend. Tupperwares filled with brilliant red, creamy chicken curry, with potatoes that starch up wonderfully, soaking up the broth. Caramelized pork that we eat with bananas and rice and soy sauce. Chicken and green beans and long, thin noodles with tiny quail eggs and quivering curls of pink shrimp. There is often fruit too, a grocery bag heavy with a dozen plums, or a package of lychee, artfully demure and royal red.

I used to be unspeakably jealous of this display of riches. What struck me most was the orange juice. Her parents would, sometimes, provide her with a plastic water bottle filled with freshly squeezed orange juice. The pulp would separate from the liquid as it sat in the fridge, a brilliant, bouncing orange on the bottom, languorous and half-clear on top. The first time they brought it, a well of emotion rose inside of me. I almost cried. They would have had to juice oranges, probably four or five or maybe more, because oranges don’t actually have that much juice. They'd have had to save a water bottle, keep it for this purpose. They’d have had to use a little cup, or a spout, to pour the juice into the water bottle. They would have had to clean up the pulp and the rinds and the bits of spattered juice. Then drive with it for two hours. For their daughter to have a bottle of fresh orange juice.

Growing up, I was the one who cooked for, and not the one who was cooked for. I thought I had let bygones be bygones, but when I saw that orange juice, I realized that I had not. Even now, as I write about that orange juice, I grow a little sad.

But I am proud to say I am no longer nearly as jealous of Amy as I once was. Envy being one of my most prevalent vices, I would call this a remarkable accomplishment. It is no small feat for someone who has always adored food to not be jealous of a friend provided with copious amounts of skilled cooking on a biweekly basis. It also helps that Amy shares, easily and graciously. But I am steering us too much in my direction.

Amy likes salty foods. Her snack of choice is a little metallic pack of dried seaweed; she likes shrimp chips and crackers, olives and fries. She likes large amounts of garlic, and sweet and salty things, like chocolate covered pretzels. She drinks coffee, but only sometimes. She would like to know more about tea, and drinks it whenever it is offered. While she is sustained by the tupperwares of her aunt’s cooking, she loves being at home and eating it fresh off the pan, or out of the pot, or from the oven. I cannot think of anything she will not eat. That doesn’t mean that she eats everything, but it does mean that she eats most things. This is a trait I find most congenial in a friend. Some of Amy’s friends are also Vietnamese and American. They also eat wonderfully, and it is nice having them around when there is food involved.

Audrey was the last arrival in our apartment. I knew Laurel’s taste first, and then I met Amy’s, and finally I met hers. My taste bears some similarity to all of theirs, in various ways, but I think Audrey’s is the closest to mine. This is because she cooks, and cooked before coming to live with us (Laurel cooks too, but she started after). There is a special place in my heart for people who cook.

One of the first things Audrey made for us was a chicken chili, with beans and green peppers and sour cream. It was thick with flavor, rich with cream, substantial, skilled, and delicious. I was touched, and it is difficult to explain why. On the surface level, she had made dinner after we had all agreed to take turns making dinner. She was simply fulfilling this quota. But below the waters, my heart stirred. Laurel’s cooking, tentative and new, that was fulfilling the quota. Audrey’s cooking had heart, history, and interest. Growing up, no one had ever cooked for me in this way. It is the same way I cook. Audrey is allergic to nuts. She likes her tea plain, like cheese pizza, with no toppings (hold the milk and sugar). Her favorite foods are lasagna and chicken pot pie. She taught me to like spam. When she shops at Trader Joes, she buys the coconut macarons, and eats them two or three at a time. She makes sandwiches for lunch, grilled cheeses with American and ham, or toasted bread with turkey and lettuce and tomato and mayo. She makes these sandwiches for me, sometimes. I have always held packaged, sliced bread under heavy disdain, because the European in me does not trust bread with distant expiration dates. But I like her sandwiches, questionable preservatives and all.

When I cook for my roommates, I plate the food before putting it on the table. To a casual observer, it may simply look as though I am putting equal amounts of food into four bowls and setting them in front of each person’s seat without discernment. But I will let you in on a secret, since you have graduated to not-so-casual observer. You can’t split a meal perfectly into four parts. So the bowl in which there are a few extra chunks of chicken – I’ll set that in front of the person who has an exam tomorrow, who’s going out later tonight, who had the most classes that day. The bowl into which a few more green beans happen to slip in won’t go to Laurel, she doesn’t like green beans that much. The sandwich that’s a little crispier, that’ll go to Amy. I couldn’t tell you why. The prettiest looking plate usually goes to Audrey, because she gives me compliments on my cooking the most reliably, and flattery will get you everywhere. Of course, I’m not a saint, sometimes I take the biggest portion for myself because I made it and I’m hungry, goddammit. But I do what I can. I’m wrong sometimes. Even now, I’m still trying to puzzle out what they like.