That? That's the castle of the Snow Queen. And what’s that look for? Ah! You must know one of THOSE tales. Never believe a tale, young man. If only my throat weren't so dry, the stories I could tell...Mm…My thanks, traveler! This story begins here, with Kay, the clockmaker's son, and Gerda, the weaver's daughter. They grew up together; born next door to one another, walked to school together as children, and learned their trades side-by-side as youths. Gerda’s journey weaver’s project was a cloak of the softest green wool for Kay: carded, spun, and woven with love in every strand and stitch. Kay made her a present in return: a shiny clockwork flower, no bigger than Gerda's hand, which opened to the sun every morning and closed as twilight fell at night. For his mother, there was a clockwork teapot that poured itself, and for his father a cunning little gadget that would polish the man's spectacles. Gerda knew that Kay was never happier than when he was inventing new and better clockwork marvels, and she knew that her clockwork flower was a true token of Kay's love. Gerda was sitting in a corner, silently watching Kay work, when the shushing of sleigh runners stopped in front of the clock shop door and the woman came in. She was very different from Gerda and the other women in the village. The woman was tall where Gerda was small, willowy where Gerda was plump, and pale as moonlight where Gerda was rosy-cheeked. She walked straight to the front of the shop and stood before the counter and waited while Kay stayed bent over his jeweler's glass, tweezing a cog just so into place, bending a wire around in this way, and soldering with the tiniest dab of heat. After several long, silent minutes, he raised his head. “Thank you for waiting,” Kay said, “What can I do for you?” The woman's voice was soft and lilting. “On my mountain the cold is fierce, and the clocks run slow. My clockwork servants creak and groan and will soon stop if I cannot find a way to protect them from the elements. I have heard of your genius with clockwork even in the palace. Can you help me?” “She calls it ‘her’ mountain?” Gerda thought, “Oh, no! This must be the Snow Queen!” Gerda had heard the stories, perhaps the same stories that you have heard, traveler, and she knew in her heart that the woman had come to take away her Kay, her love. Kay, however, was oblivious to Gerda's fear and worry. “I do not know how to protect the metal gears and cogs from the cold,” he said, “But I will think on it. Give me three days, and I will, perhaps, have a course of action when you return. However, I think I ought to see your clockwork servants and experiment to find a solution.” “Very well,” said the Snow Queen, “I will return in three days. Then, if you would like, I will take you to the palace, but it will be a journey of several days.” “I will have my tools and supplies ready, in the case that I must go.” “In three days, then,” the Snow Queen said as she left the shop. Before the doorbell had stilled, Gerda burst out, “Kay, you must not go!” “Hmm...?” Kay did not even seem to be listening. Gerda put her hand on his arm. “Do you know who that is? The mountain, the palace...she must be the Snow Queen. Her magical ice will blind your eyes to the people of the village. She will freeze your heart in your chest! You will become ensorcelled by her until you grow cold and unfeeling, and care only about the Snow Queen and your work. You will wither and die!” Gerda was panting at the end of her impassioned plea. “Do not worry so, Gerda. She is just a person. Yes, she is rich and lives in a palace, but she has a problem that needs a solution, just like anyone else. And what a fascinating problem! How to keep the gears from becoming brittle in the cold...” Kay turned away from Gerda and pulled a book from his shelf. “Listen to me, Kay! Please!” Gerda's eyes filled with tears, “She will take you away to her palace and never let you go. I cannot bear to lose you, Kay, I love you!” Kay turned back to Gerda and was quiet for a moment. Gerda held her breath. She knew that this what she had dreamed of: when Kay would see her love shining in her eyes and take her in his arms at last. She just knew this moment would come! Yes, well, 17-year-old girls know a lot of things. When you're my age, traveler, you’ll understand just how little you really know. Kay put his hands gently over hers, but his eyes slid away. “I love you, too, Gerda.” he said softly, “But not that way. You are my dearest friend—for all our lives—but I don't feel like...that...about you. I hope we can keep being good friends...” “Oh, no!” said Gerda, “She has already taken your heart!” “No! I do not feel that way about her, either. I do not feel that way about anyone. Honestly, I do not think that I can. I am happy to spend time with my family, and you, and the others in the village, but I have never been comfortable with thoughts of romance, or kisses, or...well, anything of that sort.” “I will save you.” Tears streamed down her cheeks as Gerda grabbed Kay's shoulders and pulled him down to her. “I will not let her freeze your heart!” Gerda pressed her lips to Kay's, imagining her love flowing into him and melting the shard of ice that had taken over his heart. She had imagined this moment so many times, her first kiss with her beloved, but it did not seem quite...right. Kay's lips were dry and cool, and his eyes bulged open. His hands were on her arms, but they seemed to be pushing her away, not pulling her close. She let go and stumbled back a step. Kay put the back of his hand against his lips and shook his head. “Gerda, I am sorry; the fault is not with you, but I cannot be with you the way that you want...” Gerda was mortified, and her tears fell harder and faster. She turned and ran out the door, across the street, and into her house. She threw herself across her bed and soaked her pillow with her tears for hours before she finally fell asleep. After all that crying, she must've been as parched as a desert when she woke up, eh? I know just how she felt...Oh, another ale? How kind! For the next three days, Gerda watched the clock shop from her window. Kay arrived early and didn’t leave until late. He turned the sign on the door to “closed” and did not let anyone in. Then, finally, the afternoon of the third day, Gerda heard the jingle of bells and saw four reindeer pull a glittering white sleigh to a stop in front of the shop. The Snow Queen pulled aside the white fur across her knees and stepped out into the street. Kay opened the door before the woman even had a chance to knock and motioned her inside. Gerda waited for the Snow Queen to leave—hoped for the Snow Queen to leave—for so long that she must have fallen asleep because it was dark when she was woken by the sound of bells. She lifted her head just in time to see the sleigh and its two passengers leave. “Wait, two passengers?” Gerda thought as she ran down the stairs and out into the night. On the front door of the clock shop, there was a sign: Closed. Out of town for three weeks. Gerda knew right away what she must do. She gathered up her warmest clothing and assembled a pack with bread, cheese, and sausages. If the trip was several days by sleigh, she knew she would be traveling for more than a week, perhaps a little less if the magical white bear found her sooner. Ah! I see you've heard the story with the bear, traveler. Well, there aren't any bears in this story, no matter what you and Gerda think you know. Gerda set out that very night. Resolutely, she took her first steps onto the mountain. The road was wide, but the firs were thick and tall, and no sun reached the packed snow where Gerda walked. For days she trudged ever upward, stopping only to wrap herself in her damp cloak and close her eyes when it became too dark to see where she was going. At first, she imagined her reunion with her love and practiced what she would do and say to win him. As the days passed, Gerda began looking for the magical white bear that she knew would come to carry her to confront the Snow Queen. Her feet ached, and then grew numb in the cold and wet, and she daydreamed about riding with her toes buried in the warm fur of the bear. As she climbed, the trees grew farther and farther apart and finally ended altogether, and the wind grew fiercer and more biting. It took everything she had for Gerda to continue. She forgot to look for the bear, she forgot her speech to the Snow Queen, she forgot to eat. At the last, she even forgot Kay. She simply trudged forward, head down, eyes on the road in front of her, one foot and then the other. She cried, and the tears froze to her face. She wanted more than anything to sit and sleep. She might have done just that, and then the story would have ended here, but the Snow Queen's gamekeeper was riding down the mountain just in time to catch sight as Gerda finally collapsed in the middle of the road. When she woke, Gerda found herself nestled in warm fur. Her limbs burned as the feeling returned, and she gasped. “Oh, it looks like the poor dear is awake!” an echoing voice called, and then there was a buzz and a clank and a whirr, and a shiny copper clockwork woman trundled over to Gerda and peered into her face with bright, mirrored eyes. “How are we feeling?” “Is this the palace? Is Kay here? Where is he? Where is the Snow Queen?” Gerda struggled to sit up. “Now, dear,” said the clockwork maid, “If you mean M'Lady, she is at supper just across the hall, and she does have a guest, but...” “I must find Kay! I must save him!” Gerda pushed her way out of the chair where she had been sitting and almost knocked the clockwork maid down as she stumbled to the door. She could hear silverware clinking on china and feel the warmth of a fire as she pushed open the heavy door, but all she could see was Kay, drinking from a golden goblet and smiling up at the Snow Queen. “She cannot have you!” Gerda shouted as she flung herself at Kay. She knocked him out of his chair and onto a plush carpet behind the table. She wrapped her arms around him, buried her face in his neck, and waited for the trials that she knew would soon begin. Yes, traveler, the trials. I see that face! It looks like you know the same stories that Gerda knew. The room was silent for ten long heartbeats. “Gerda?” Kay asked from below her on the floor. “Is that you? What are you doing here? What are you doing?!?” Gerda heard a soft, low laugh from the table. “I think she is waiting for him to turn into a snake.” That voice was the Snow Queen, “Or perhaps a pillar of fire? I have heard those stories, too.” “Gerda,” Kay whispered in her ear. “I think you have the wrong idea. Please let me up, so I can explain...and introduce you to my new friend.” Gerda rolled off of Kay and tucked her knees under her on the floor, but she did not look up. “Is this your friend that you told me about, Kay? She looks famished. Let the introductions wait until the two of you have eaten, and perhaps talked. I will wait for you to join me in the library for dessert.” The Snow Queen held out her hand to Gerda. “You, dear girl, must decide for yourself who you will trust: your stories or your friend.” At a loss for anything else to do, Gerda let herself be lifted to her feet and guided to a chair. But she could not seem to raise her eyes, even when she heard the Snow Queen leaving and knew that she was alone at the table with Kay. “Gerda...” Kay began. “I have just made a fool of myself and embarrassed you. There is no enchanted ice, is there? You are not being held captive, your heart is not freezing, and you are not slowly wasting away and dying. You simply do not love me.” “Gerda...” He started again. “Gerda, I do love you, but not for the reasons that you want me to. I love you because you are kind and generous and intelligent and hard working. I love you because you pushed me into the lake when we were children and helped me study Latin when we were at school. I love you because you are my friend, and that is more important and more necessary to me than anything. Please do not leave me because I cannot be what you want me to be.” “Can you not?” Gerda took a roll from the table and started to shred it in her fingers but had to stop. The bread was pale cream, light and fluffy, and still warm from the oven. It was nothing like the heavy, dark bread that she had brought from the village. “When she looks at you and says that you can solve all of her problems, that she needs you and depends on you, does your heart not beat faster then? In the dark of night, do you not think of her pale skin and long white hair lying next to you in your bed?” “Oh, Gerda. No, I do not.” The tremble in Kay’s voice made Gerda look up. “I have never thought about anyone in that way. I have never longed for someone or daydreamed about kisses in the dark. I do not think that I ever will; that desire is simply not in me. I am never as fully alive as I am when I am immersed in creativity, when the idea of a new invention sweeps me away. The touch of my muse is more glorious than the touch of any human love.” Gerda breathed shallowly so that her sobs would not break free. “I cannot love you in the way that you need me to, Gerda, but I hope you will let me continue to love you in my own way, as my closest, dearest friend. Please do not push me away over something that I cannot control and cannot change. Can you love me anyway, broken as I am?” Gerda looked into Kay's face and saw her own tears mirrored in his eyes. “I have hurt him,” she thought. “I have been impulsive and thoughtless...and so selfish, and I have hurt him.” “Oh, Kay, I am so, so very sorry. We are the very best of friends, now and forever. You are not broken, you are my Kay, my friend, and you always will be. Forgive me for pressing you, and following you, and...” Gerda's eyes widened and her face grew red, “What have I done? I have come here and...and in front of the Snow Queen! At her home! Oh, Kay, what must she think of me? I'm so sorry, I've embarrassed you, and now I know she will throw us out of her palace into the dark forest where we will be at the mercy of the beasts! Or, worse, she will lock us away in her dungeon, I just know it...” “Gerda!” Kay was laughing as he interrupted her panicked tirade. “Gerda, you are doing it again. Take a deep breath and let us go actually speak to your 'Snow Queen' before you can think of anything else that you 'just know.' Her name is Elfrida, and I think that she will like you...Or at least be amused.” So Gerda followed her Kay into the library, met the Snow Queen (who was, indeed, amused), and then returned to the village where they lived happily—well, happily enough. Nor the story you were expecting, eh, traveler? There's no spells, or magic bears, or pillars of fire, just a silly girl too caught up in what she knows to see what is. Now? Kay's retired but still living above the clock shop; he never married or had children, but passed the business on to a cousin who had the knack. See that giant wagon being pulled up the mountain on the thick cable? That's his newest invention, and it means Elfrida can visit the village even now that her bones aren't what they used to be. And Gerda? Gerda still has tea with Kay once a week, but she married the innkeeper's son. They had five children and twenty-two grandchildren, and now they take care of her, so she has nothing better to do with her time than sit in sun outside the inn cozening drinks from passing strangers in exchange for a story. Another? Why, thank you, traveler, I don't mind if I do.


The True Meaning of Autumn

By: Haripriya

By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. I couldn’t believe the beauty of the golden shimmers, decorating the floor, with its bright, vivid colors. In multiple shades of yellow, orange, red, green, and dusk brown, there it was, making the ground more colorful. It really was

that  time of year, wasn’t it? The season had changed from summer, now to fall. The weather, and the climate had also changed. The chilly breeze, yet so pleasant. The cool wind slips pass your hair, making you feel ever so slightly joyful. Every time you sniff, the smell of fresh blossom came to you. I lifted my head up and saw the gorgeous sky. With tones of lavender, peacock blue, sunflower, and rose red. The sky had lit up, filled with colorful beams.

If I carefully squint my eyes, I could spot many little robins. They flew in flocks, to the south, looking like little winged angels soaring through the sky.

I had thought to myself, “ Fly little birdies, fly! Soar through the breeze, and the touch the sky!”

I glanced down, to my watch. It had read 6:00 pm. Realizing that I had just came to reality. This wasn’t good. I was late, again! I can’t believe this had happened I even promised I would come back early, now I had betrayed her trust

again . What a “lovely” daughter I must be.

I scoffed and murmured to myself, “It’s fine. I guess... I was out for my school project. I can say to my mother that I was trying to get some fresh air, and at the same time, trying to answer the essay question. ”

I tried my best to calm myself, to reassure that there was nothing to worry about, but deep down, I knew I was going to get in trouble. But, worrying about getting in trouble wasn’t going to help me at all, so I devised a little plan. I would finish my essay while walking through the woods. After all, Autumn is around me! All I had to do was open my eyes and see the beauty of nature. Once I reach home, I would just explain that I needed to be inspired by the nature around me, which is why I reached late. For now, that sounded like a good plan. There was no more time to waste. I picked up my bag, held my notebook tightly around my cold hands, and sharpened my pencil. Slowly, I started to walk.

“ Remember to use your 5 senses to come up with the best essay. Something descriptive, and yet simple. That is the challenge for today students, and you have until Friday morning to draft and revise your essay. Good luck!”

I recollected what my teacher had told me.

“Hmmm... 5 senses you say, huh? The first one is sight. Well, I see... leaves. All around me, falling. I notice that each of them has different colors and different patterns. I also spot little squirrels... and rabbits hopping here and there. The sky looks amazing, with all the beautiful streaks of color, and I notice birds migrating. I guess this all I got for what I see.” I concluded.

It took me a little time to draft the first paragraph, but I finished it. Now, it was time for the next sense, touch.

“ What do I feel?”  I thought to myself.

Suddenly, I tripped on a branch and fell flat on a blanket of more leaves. “AHA!” I shrieked, like a mad scientist. I didn’t realize how loud I had shouted it for all the squirrels and bunnies had leapt with fear.

I held a leaf in my hand and wrote what I felt when touching it. “It feels a little rough and bumpy in the middle. Almost like I am touching the road. But, as I move my hand to the bottom of the leaf, it feels very soft, and smooth. Also, a little fragile. If I accidentally bent it a little too hard, it would break easily into 2 uneven pieces. But that was just one leaf. When I hold multiple leaves in my hands, they feel like tiny pieces of the clouds, up above, were raining on me.”

I carefully wrote the second paragraph of my essay. I guess this won’t be as hard as I thought it was. I could easily write more paragraphs! Besides, this was very fun! I frolicked along the forest, feeling glee.

“Now I have to write about what I smell. This might a little hard though...” I pondered deeply as I walked along.

“Well, I do smell the musky-sweet aroma from the pile of leaves up ahead. I guess I could write that. Autumn makes me think about harvest, and earthly smells. A kind of melancholy hint in the air today. The smell of cinnamon, something sweet, like a treat! I might be going somewhere in this essay! I get a whiff of the leaves, saying their last goodbyes, while purifying the air...” I talked to myself, brainstorming

quietly  this time to not scare away the poor animals.

I could feel each time, getting closer and closer as I reach the end of my essay. I was delighted to show this to my mom. I didn’t want to get distracted again like last time, so I brought my focus back to the next sense.

“Crooo!! Crooo!!” I heard the little birds' call.

“Yes! This is perfect for the next one, what I hear. The sweet little bird calls. Warning each other and preparing for their migration. Trying to find as much food as they can. The flock of birds, making a V shape, and now were all calling, filling the atmosphere with a hint of a gorgeous melody. Their songs were very beautiful, as it they were nature’s lullabies. I could their echoes, now getting a little softer, each time they fly farther and farther into the distance.” I wrote.

This was the final one. What do I taste? When I think of Autumn, what does my stomach growl for?

I thought a lot harder about this when I realized I had almost reached home. I decided that I would take a little break right now and come back to my essay later. Afterall, my legs were getting tired of walking for almost 30 minutes, and my hands were getting a little sore, for holding my pencil in that awkward position for a long time. I quickly ran very fast, until I saw that big banyan tree, surrounding my house. I would know that I have reached my house when I spot the banyan tree, hanging low, with it’s almost bare branches. The entire ground was yet again filled with numerous amounts of leaves, which were scattered everywhere randomly. It was like many toddlers had threw the leaves here and there, playing with it. I decided to leave my backpack, my notebook, and my pencil on the bench right next to the door. I was going to come back for it anyways.

I got ready to knock. My stomach was twisting, and my hands were reluctant to get close to the wooden door. I gulped very hard, and I saw my legs shaking and trembling from fear.

But how else was I going to get in?  I gathered up my courage, took a few deep breaths, closed my eyes and knocked, hoping for the best.

At first, I didn’t hear the noise of the doorknob rattling, so I decided to knock again, and this time... well, she did open the door.

“It’s explaining time... where were you for such a long time?” my mother asked me, looking very worried.

“I was taking a stroll through the woods, to get an idea of what exactly I wanted to write for my essay. It was about Autumn, and I had to get inspired from the season to write it as if every word came from my heart. But the good news is that I drafted my 4 paragraphs for what I am going to include in the essay, and I just need to write one more paragraph!” I exclaimed, trying to change my mom’s mood.

“Fine, but quickly get in, it is getting darker outside and a lot colder.” my mother replied.

I did as my mother instructed me to do. I slowly, brushed my feet against the hard-wooden plank floor, and remembered to take my backpack and my other supplies with me as I entered. My body had felt a severe difference between the climate outside and inside the house. Cool and breezy outside. Hot and humid inside. I slowly, but carefully unzipped my jacket and hung it in the coat rack. I finally took a seat on the dining table as I continued to think about the last part of my essay – taste.

I thought about the smell of cinnamon, I could almost taste it in my tongue. I quickly tried to write. Also, I thought about pumpkins, since they were kind of like the ‘mascot’ of October and fall in general. I thought of drinks, like hot chocolate my mom makes and there is only one word to describe them: delicious. Nutmeg, and clover, maybe even ginger! I thought of caramel... and even fresh sliced apples my mother was cutting for me right now! I jotted all my ideas and tried to make it a paragraph. I was done with my essay.

Autumn for Me:

What does Autumn mean to you? Write a multi-paragraph essay about what Autumn means to you. Try to use descriptive words,

show not tell

methods, and the 5 senses for you to come up with a good essay.

Autumn to me means new beginnings. A new season. A new segment of our year. Autumn means nature slowly changing throughout time. Autumn, or fall as many people say, is the time of year when leaves fall, and animals migrate. It is the time of year when the weather starts changing, and the days start getting shorter. It is when our morning walks start to become even more gorgeous than before. For the leaves shed, and the tree branches become bare.

I spot leaves all around me, creating a rather scattered arrangement of colors. Looking like abstract art. I see many animals such as squirrels and rabbits, hopping by here and there to gather and store food for the winter. As for the sky, painted with different tones and shades of blues, purples, pinks, reds, oranges, yellows, blending across the sky. As if someone had done finger painting and beautifully blended all the colors into one. I notice the birds, gracefully flying towards the south, for they were setting their own “camp”.

Soft bits of leaves, falling on my forehead, swirling here and there, as the cool breeze moved them swiftly and gently. I held a leaf in my hand, and felt the roughness of its veins, as it created a beautiful pattern across the leaf. As I got to the end of the leaf though, it felt very smooth. I felt as if I was touching a piece of a soft, fluffy cloud. When I lost grip of the leaf though, as it went flying, my hair also was moving to the pleasant wind. I felt very relaxed and peaceful.

I gently sniffed, to smell the earth and the beauty of mother nature. The leaves were making everything around me smell a bit musky. As if the leaves were the ones, who were purifying the air, and making it smell like this. If I was concentrating, I could even smell the wind past me. The cool, crisp air, making me feel so calm and peaceful. As I looked up above, I could see the grey clouds. They weren’t too grey, but enough so that many could spot it from a far distance. I could sense the smell of a fresh drizzle.

That was when I heard the most amazing melody, a familiar one, yet a different tune. Of course! The birds were singing to each other. Keeping one another busy while they were working for traveling to the southern hemisphere! Some songs would go like this, “ Tweet...Tweet...”  and some others would sound like this, “ Crooo....Crooo...”  Yet, all the sounds were sweet to my ears. I could hear the soft movement of the leaves as they were being picked up by the gentle air.

Mmm... I smelled something so sweet, something like a treat. Whenever I think of Autumn, my stomach always craves for a hot drink, like the hot cocoa my mother makes for me. It was simply delicious! A hot drink was always nice for such a pleasant weather. I also instantly think of pumpkins when fall comes. Nutmegs, clovers, cinnamon, ginger, all these unique flavors, blending to make any sweet dish more spectacular! I could also think of freshly cut apple slices, and berries such as cranberries!

Autumn means all these things to me and even more. In fact, my favorite season is fall. I love looking outside and marveling at the changes of nature. Like the other three seasons, when Autumn occurs, the temperature drops, and the days are shorter. But, the best part of Autumn will have to be the amazing color palette of leaves. The gorgeous way it brightens up every step we take when we walk. Whenever we go outside, that melancholy feeling, that is the true meaning of Autumn.

~The End~


Claire Nelson stood, waiting, on the edge of the mulch filled box; a few pieces fell onto her tattered white tennis shoes as she pressed her toes onto the side of the rotting, wooden edge. From the looks of it, this place hadn’t been touched since she’d last been here, almost 10 years ago to the day. The once proud and shining metal frame was now coated in rust, no glint of light echoed off the loaming poles, even on a night like this, the moon nearly full and no cloud in sight. The thick chains attaching the swings to the structure carried the rust downwards, stopping at the worn through leather seats. One of the two swings swayed in the gentle, crisp, breeze; a small squeak emitting from the hinges connecting the chains to the poles as it reached the top of its range and fell back down. The other hung firm, weighed down by the stoic person occupying it.

The two girls simply stared at each other. Claire's was a look of disbelief and mild shock, the other girl’s was a knowing stare, and something Claire couldn’t quite place - like resentment,

but with a twinge of longing.

“What are you doing here?” Claire managed to get out, her firm voice not reflecting the inter turmoil she was feeling at the moment.

“Waiting for you, apparently” the girl replied curtly.

It had been 10 years since the girls had last seen each other. The pair had, at one time, been inseparable. From the moment Claire had moved next door in the second grade, the two spent nearly every waking moment together. In a town as small as theirs, it was hard to find something to do everyday. So when the Mayor was finally convinced to put in a swing set, barely a five minute bike ride from their adjoining houses, the girls made it their place. They came here nearly every day after school, riding their bikes in a frenzy out the school yard, and swung and talked till the sun fell behind the ebbing surface of the nearby pond.

“Are you gonna keep standing there and gawking at me, or are you gonna sit down?” the girl threw at her with piercing sharpness.

Claire took a tentative step, the brittle mulch crunching beneath her shoe. She took another, more confident step towards the empty swing. Within a few more strides Claire found herself turning to sit down onto the familiar leather seat. As they sat in the same exact swings that they had seen each other last, it was like those 10 years in between were nothing but a mere facade. Looking at the girl's face, Claire almost believed that they were just that.

She was remarkably unchanged. Her short black hair moved slightly along with the chill breeze, in stark contrast to Claire’s curly, pale blonde hair. The girl’s face was devoid of any sort of lines, but it was the emotion behind it that gave away her age. The sort of emotionless emotion that could only be found on those who had lived to see the consequences of their adolescence. Not that they had changed at all, but the curve of her mouth no longer ran effortlessly upwards. Her eyes, which followed her lips downwards, no longer held that once ever present mischievous glint of curiosity. Though, Claire supposed, those changes had occurred long before that night. The girl turned her head and looked Claire over, as well.

“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost” the girl chuckled darkly. “Bet you never thought you’d see me again, much less here”.

“Can you blame me?” Claire let out softly. “This is the first time I’ve come back here after-” she paused cautiously “-after that night, and you’re sitting here, waiting for me”.

“I know” was all the girl said in response.

“You know what?” Claire pressed.

“I know this is the first time you’ve been back here” the girl let out, almost agitatedly. “I know you’ve stayed away since that night because this place scares you now.” The girl turned her whole body in her seat to face Claire.

“What I don’t know is what you’re doing here now. Why now ?” the girl emphasized.

Claire turned away from the girl’s blazing stare to the pond, which lay less than a 100 feet in front of them. She recalled the two of them sitting on these swings everyday after school, talking about what life would be like when they were finally old enough to leave this town. They’d move to the city and get an apartment together. Claire would work at that flower shop she had visited when she was five and had fallen in love with, the girl never knew what she’d be.

“Out of here” the girl would always say, laughing. “Out of this town, away from my dad - that's really all that matters”.

Everyone in the town knew the girl's dad. Back then he hardly ever left the town bar, racking up a tab he could never afford to pay. When he did manage to get home he could be heard up and down the street, hurling words Claire refused to repeat even now. Claire never asked the girl what her dad did to her, neither did anyone, really. In a town like theirs, where everyone’s business was on display, there was no need too. The bruises on her face, the slight limp she wore, that she claimed came from an accidental fall down the stairs when she was eight, was enough said.

Even if Claire did ask, the girl would never say anything. She’d just stare off at that pond, her eyes suddenly weighing her down, broadcasting the feelings she refused to put into words. Truth be told, Claire knew from a young age that the girl loved it here so much because here, her life was normal. She had a friend, someone who cared about her, and for the present, that was all that mattered.

Claire turned her face downwards to the dirt she had kicked up from underneath the mulch at her feet. “I guess I wanted to come and apologize,” she said, her voice slightly cracking.

“Apologize for what” the girl responded, her tone neutral and detached.

Claire kept her head turned down to her feet. “I’m sorry for that night, and I’m sorry for saying what I did” she swallowed. “I didn’t know that you felt that way”.

“Yes you did” the girl said, emotionless. “You knew I had no one. ” It was the girls turn for her voice to crack. “You heard the way people talked about me, and you did nothing. You sat around and just watched” she threw out with such venom Claire shuddered.

“It killed me, you know” the girl went on. “Seeing you with all your new friends” the girl turned herself back towards the pond. “I always knew you’d make some new friends, especially when we got to high school. I just thought- I just always thought you’d take me with you” she managed to finish.

Claire rubbed the stinging sensation from her eyes. She didn’t go into high school with the intention of getting new friends; but when their schedules made it so they never saw each other during the day, save for lunch, Claire had no choice but to make new ones. In the beginning they all ate lunch together, the girl, Claire, and Claire’s new friends. The girl never brought anyone to lunch, and Claire never really thought much about it, preoccupied with the excitement of meeting new people.

After a while, Claire stopped coming by the swing set after school most days, her new friends kept making up excuse after excuse.

“But we need to stop by the mall after school,” they whined.

“There’s this new CD out we have to listen too” they would chirp. Eventually, Claire stopped coming by the swing set altogether. She recalled that one weekend the bar was closed for repairs, and the girl’s dad was home all day. She couldn’t keep the sound of the yelling out no matter how hard she tried. The pillow over her ears made no difference, the screaming, the crashing, the police sirens all made their way through. The girl didn’t come to school that week. Or the week after.

“That poor girl” she heard her parents say one night. “Foster care at this age, it's a wonder it took this long”.

When she finally came back to school the girl's face was painted yellow and blue, remnants of that weekend two weeks prior. The school whispered with what happened to her. Claire’s friends were at the forefront of them.

“I heard she ran into a pole,” one of her friends said sarcastically. “Too bad it couldn’t rearrange that lump on her face while it was at it” another replied, giggling. Claire didn’t say anything. She didn’t say anything when her friends told the girl that there was no more room at their table for her. She didn’t say anything when she saw the girl turn and walk away, tears silently cascading down her face. She didn’t even say anything when the girl walked up to her afterwards in the hallway and asked her to meet her at the swing set after school, walking away before Claire had a chance to tell her an excuse as to why she couldn’t come.

Claire wasn’t going to go to the swing set after school originally; but as she laid in her bed, the day turning to night, she felt a twang of guilt hit her. When she eventually made her way over to the swing set that night she found the girl still waiting for her.

“I thought you weren’t gonna show up” the girl had said to her as she approached. Claire stopped at the edge of the box, her toes resting on the side of the solid wood. The light of the almost full moon glittered off the frame of the set, not a cloud in sight to subdue the reflection.

“What do you want” Claire has responded to her, no hint of emotion behind that voice.

“Are you gonna sit?” The girl had asked shyly, gesturing toward the empty set beside her.

As Claire hesitantly made her way over to the seat that night she recalled what her friends had said earlier that day. “I don’t know why she just doesn’t go away already, it's not like anyone would miss her”.

“How are you?” the girl asked her once she sat down.

“What do you want” Claire retorted quickly. “It’s cold, and I have to be home soon”.

The girl had dropped her face to her shoes. “I just - I just wanted to tell you that I’m thinking about leaving” she stuttered. “I’m thinking about leaving”, she repeated more confidently, turning her head up to face Claire. Claire had looked her in the eyes for a second before turning her face to look out at the pond. “Where too?” she eventually asked after a brief pause.

“I don’t know, the city maybe”. The girl paused a second before continuing “We could go together”.

Claire was silent.

“You could work in that flower shop, like you always wanted,” the girl prodded cautiously.

At that Claire whipped her head back towards her. “Why would I do that?” Claire threw at her callously. The girl turned back to face Claire, a line of tears forming on her waterline. “If you want to leave, go ahead. But leave me out of it” Claire rose from her seat harshly, the chains holding the seat rattling with the sudden effort.

Tears fell down the girls face, clinging to it as they marked paths down her cheeks and engraved themselves on the girl's light gray sweatshirt. “I, just” the girl uttered faintly.

Claire interrupted “go where you want, it's not like anyone would miss you”. She didn’t stay to watch as she heard the girl started sobbing behind her, the sound fading as Claire made her way across the field, and walked home.

• • •

“I thought you’d take me with you” the girl repeated, soft sobs following.

Claire looked up at the girl, tears falling silently from her own eyes. “I- I wanted too” she let out. “I’m sorry”.

The girl’s sobs fell silent, her chest continuing to fall and rise with the efforts. “So, you’ve come to apologize now, after all these years”.

“I’m moving to the city tomorrow” Claire said softly as she turned her face back towards the pond. “Near that floral shop we used to talk about”.

“I’m taking you with me, Mara” Claire produced a laminated card from her pocket, she looked it over once before reaching her arm out to show it to the girl.

Mara turned her head to look at the card, quietly taking it in .“That's the photo they used. I hate that photo, I look constipated”. Mara and Claire broke into laughter at the same time, the latter pulling the card back in front of her, softening her laugh and smiling quietly.

Her smile faded as she said, still looking at the card “The morning after you left, after that night, I was the one to find you.” She put the card back into her pocket. “I came back here to tell you-

to say sorry. But you had already left” Claire covered her mouth as deep sobs forced their way through her chest.

“You were just, over there-” “floating”, Mara uttered softly, interrupting Claire. They both looked over at that pond, the calm, eerie, surface seeming to acknowledge both of their stares.

“I remember”, she went on. “I remember seeing you come back, I remember you screaming and running away, I remember you getting help. I don’t remember actually - doing it”. She gestured, laughing softly “maybe that's for the best”.

“I’m so sorry, Mara. I’m so sorry, for everything”.

Mara turned her head to the sky. Eyes closed she inhaled the cold air deeply “I know” she said, exhaling. “Thank you”.

Claire turned to look at her.

“Thank you for taking me with you” Mara clarified, gesturing to the photo Claire held. “Thank you for taking me out of here”.

Claire turned her head back to look out at the pond in silent acknowledgement. The reflection of the moon rippled in distortion on the surface of the pond as the night air picked up. A sudden chill ripped through Claire’s body as the hinges connecting the chains to the top of the frame of the now empty seat beside her let out a small squeak, as the seat pushed upwards and fell back down. Claire’s seat hung firm. She looked over at the now empty seat, only for a moment, to take it all in one last time.

Claire Nelson inhaled deeply and got up from the familiar leather seat, exhaling as she made her way back across the field, the sound of the two empty seats squeaking in unison fading as she walked back towards home.


It is not surprising that the best gossip is often conveyed in management memos like the one I wish to tell you all about.

Headly Images is a rather over-staffed enterprise where former college art majors gather to ply their talents in graphic art projects. I, of course, use the word “talent” ever cautiously since most of the artists do not have a clear sense of what artistic actually encompasses. My name is Henry Pasternick and I work in the corner office.

In viewing the pecking order of Headly Images, you will find me clinging to the bottom rung of the corporate ladder.

Before being hired by Mr. Roener, my office was the broom closet which should give you some idea of why after five or so years, I am still clinging to the bottom rung.

One of the advantages of being in the corner office is my total anonymity and invisibility in dealing with management.

I like it that way.

Granted, I do not often get the credit I deserve on some of the projects I have worked on, but the tradeoff is just fine with me.

I come to work each morning at the exact same time, I work on a project and I go home.

Nothing is expected of me since technically by management standards I do not exist.

I am a blank page with nothing noteworthy written on it.

I’ve seen what they do to worker-bees who dare to rise above their station.

They are quietly moved to the curb.

The void they leave behind is quickly filled by someone who has no idea of what transpired before they arrived. I keep quiet.

There is plenty of gossip circulating, but my lips are sealed. Or they were sealed until we got a memo from management sent to our overloaded email inbox. It read:

To All Employees of Headly Images: Male employees are no longer to use the restroom facilities until further notice. I heard voices of discontent coming down the hall, all of them from male employees.

Perhaps this would be a good juncture to better explain the situation.

For the fifty plus employees on the ground floor, there is but one bathroom that serves both sexes.

There is a bright red sign on the door labeled, “Restroom.”

Occupancy is one since there is but one toilet.

The door is locked by whomever is using the facility at the time and while I am sure it is not in keeping with current restroom requirements, it is what it is until we got the memo.

Orlin Sanders was in the breakroom fuming when I happened to walk in.

Frederick Marks was discussing the nature of the email. “What the hell!” Sanders slapped the break table with his open palm nearly spilling Marks’ coffee that he had just received from the vending machine. “This is an outrage.” “What are we going to do?” Marks was wiping up the coffee that did manage to escape from his styrofoam cup. “I am going to the labor board on this.” Orlin declared as I put my money in a vending machine to get myself a Pepsi. “Is there even such a thing?” Frederick pondered. “Must be.” He fumed.

“We have the bathroom upstairs.” Frederick shrugged. Turning to me, Frederick smiled, “Hey Benny, how’s it going?” “It’s Henry, sir.” I sat next to him. “Right.” He pointed a finger at me, “Right you are.”

“Did you hear me, Frederick?” Orlin held out his hands. “We males have to go upstairs to take care of our needs.”

“It’s a few extra steps.” Frederick sighed hoping to end the conversation.

“It’s just the start.” Orlin waved a finger in Frederick’s face. The next day I saw Orlin Sanders cleaning out his desk.

His supervisor Mr. Chapelle was watching him, “You know Orlin, going to Mr. Young was not a very smart thing to do, right?” “I guess.” He mumbled. “People gotta learn that going off like that will only get you terminated.” He shook his head as he stood up, “I guess you figured that out.”

“Sure did.” He shoved his art supplies into a plastic Alberston’s bag. “Careful, some of those things belong to Headly.” Mr. Chapelle picked out a couple of mechanical pencils from the bag.

“It’s a damn disgrace.” Orlin waved his finger at Mr. Chapelle. “That memo was uncalled for.”

“I dunno, someone has been wee-weeing all over the floor in there.” He yanked his thumb over his shoulder toward the clearly marked restroom that was now off limits to male staff.

Orlin would have to worry about it anymore since he was headed out the door.

“I heard it was Maynard O’Dell who was doing it.” Phil Renke stated at lunch as he ate his baloney sandwich like he did for the past sixteen years at the company.

There were five other employees gathered in the breakroom for lunch, all male. “I put in a complaint.” “I think we should have a petition.” Thomas Grange pounded his fist on the table nearly upsetting Mr. Marks’ coffee. “Great idea.” One of the newbees concurred. “Now hold on a minute, they just let Orlin Sanders go this morning for raising a stink in Mr. Young’s office yesterday afternoon.

Old Man Young was in a private conference with Miss Sheila Overton.” Mr. Goodrich raised his hand as he spoke.

“That explains it.” Phil spoke through his clenched teeth. “This whole thing is a powder keg, ya know.” Mr. Goodrich shook his head. “I don’t get it.” Phil Renke pounded the table with his fist. “It’s those damn women taken over.” “Careful.” Frederick Marks held up his finger to interject. “This could be a serious matter.”

“It. Already. Is.” Phil Renke leaned in to speak into Frederick’s ear as if it was a microphone.

Pausing between each word for emphasis, Phil made sure the older man got his point.

“Some of us have a lot of time invested in this company and I feel it would be imprudent to turn this matter into an ultimatum.

We all saw what happened to Orlin.” Frederick shook his head, “What makes you think the same thing won’t happen to you?”

“We are the talent.” Phil growled

“Mr. Young needs us.” “Like hell he does.” Frederick smiled and shook his head. “We are a dime a dozen.

Management upstairs doesn’t even know most of your names. They will put you all out on the street and in the morning hire your replacements.

Talent is cheap, I’m telling you.”

“Whose side are you on?” Phil appeared as if he wanted to start something right there. “My side.” Frederick stood up to look Phil in the eye.

His dark eyes pooled Phil’s reflection. Swallowing hard, Phil wisely sat down in a chair around the table.

That afternoon after lunch, the parade of male employees began to walk up the stairs to the restroom on the next floor.

I joined in their exodus since my bladder was feeling kind of full.

The uneasy stalemate continued for another week as Phil Renke collected signatures of male employees who were angry about the memo.

“Are you going to sign, Postman?” Phil asked me edging into my tiny office. “It’s Pasternick, Mr. Renke.” I corrected him. “Yeah, yeah, are you going to sign this, Pastergren?” He put the petition on my desk.

Picking up the document stating that the rights of the male employees had been violated, I began to feel like that cartoon where the devil is sitting on one shoulder and an angel is sitting on the other.

“I don’t rightly know.” I shook my head. “Well it’s time to poop or get off the pot.” His jaw was tight and his eyes were trying to burn a hole in my head.

“My feelings are that if I sign this thing, I will be shown the door.”

“I can show you the door right now, Paster-punk.” He leaned a little too close to me for my liking.

“I am not going to sign that petition.” I shook my head. “You are a spineless punk, do you know that?” He snarled menacingly.

“No, but if you sing a couple of bars, I’m sure I can dance to it.”

I snapped my fingers. “You are a good-for-nothing punk.” He slapped my desk with his open palm before turning on his heel and walking out. Things were getting tense, but that was just the start. A new memo was sent out through our email: To All Employees of Headly Images: Male employees are no longer able to use the restroom facilities on the second floor.

Instead we have contracted a company to provide a Port-a-Potty outside the building in the fenced in holding area. “Are you kidding me?” I muttered to myself.

Finding the energy to leave my office, I went to check out this new device.

Just beyond the back door was a port-a-potty. “Good going.” Phil pushed past me and became the first person to use the new port-a-potty.

I could hear him declare, “It stinks in here.”

Thus a new stage in the war was opened with management firing the first salvo. What I had not figured in was the gossip factor that was to follow, but I soon found this to be the cruelest turn of all. When I got back to my desk, I saw a new email had been sent to me by Mr. Obberhoffman, Mr. Young’s able assistant.

It was a simple request that I come up to his office at my earliest convenience.

I figured my earliest convenience was right at this very moment. I knocked on his closed door. “Come in.” A pleasant voice responded. I opened the door and saw Otto Obberhoffman sitting staring at his laptop. When he looked up and saw me, a smile dashed on his face, “Mr. Pasternick, please have a seat.”

“Thank you sir.” I nodded as I sat in the empty chair in front of his modest desk. “What can I do for you?”

“It is a very delicate matter, I’m afraid.” He folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “And what might that be?” I was puzzled as he hesitated. “It seems that we have been having problems in the lavatory.” He put his hand to his mouth and coughed. He then tilted his head as if to change the angle of his view of me.

“So I’ve gathered.”

“And I have two written complaints that you are the one causing these indiscretions.” He tilted his head the other way to again change his viewing angle.

“Me?”

The weight of what he had said finally hit me full force. “Yes, it appears you are the one who has left these unsightly puddles behind when you urinate.” He swallowed the last word as if it was distasteful to say out loud.

“No, I am not the one peeing on the floor.” I said trying to keep a hold of my quick temper, but like a man with a dog on a leash, the power of the mighty predator became a challenge to control. “I am just informing you that two employees have filed a complaint.” He could not look me in the eye as he spoke. “May I ask who filed the complaints?” I asked, flabbergasted. “No you may not.” He shook his head. “So now what?” I could feel my grip weaken on the leash.

With a couple more insinuations, my furious dog would break free.

“There is nothing you can do.” He shrugged, “Do you wish to make a statement?” I did. “I’m sorry Mr. Pasternick, I am not allowed to write such words in your statement.” His face did not change expression. “I could put explicitive in the place of the words you used provided you sign the statement.”

“Give me a pen.” Gossip is like a virus often producing the same results.

My privacy and anonymity had been forever shattered.

I now felt as if I was walking down the runway of a fashion show as people would peer over their cubicles at me as if I was the star. “Ladies and gentlemen, for your entertainment we are presenting Mr. Pasternick, the man who because of his carelessness using the company restroom has ruined the privilege for all male employees in Headly Images.

Let’s hear it for him.”

Applause echoes in my head. Sitting in the sanctuary of my office, I can feel people looking at me as they pass.

When I do feel the pressure of nature’s call, I slide out as quietly as I can.

Like a reclusive spy trying to avoid detection, I slither out the back and enter a plastic room that smells foul upon entering and has all the amenities of a hillbilly outhouse.

Someone has kindly left a newspaper tucked in a small hidey-hole. “Did you leave your usual calling card?” Phil asked me as I came in the door.

I did not say anything, but then sometimes silence can be very incriminating.

From my perspective, things were getting quite unbearable as rumors and innuendos seemed to be flying everywhere with my name attached to these bits of idle gossip.

The only positive spin in the whole affair was that at least people were beginning to remember my name.

I was no longer the nobody occupying the ex-broom closet at the end of the hallway, but my new found notoriety was not helping my career either.

“I have an idea.” I felt emboldened to raise my hand at a production meeting.

The other associates turned their heads and pretended as if I was an uninvited ghost.

Each time I attempted to interject some of my ideas, they all pressed on as if I had not said anything.

Before at previous production meetings, I sat there daring not to speak for fear I would not be taken seriously, but now I was just being ignored because of something I had been rumored to have done.

Honestly, I’m not sure which of the two options is worse. “I wish to change my statement.” I told Mr. Obberhoffman. “You can’t do that.” His dull dishwater eyes opened wide.

His facial expression revealed that what I was asking was impossible.

“Why not?” I asked. “Because, because…because it’s part of the permanent record…is why.” He stuttered as he spoke.

Some people are like that.

They begin to stutter when the truth is difficult to say.

Or they can’t think up a lie quick enough.

It was darn easy to see which was the case.

I chose the latter.

“I believe the truth is best served in my recantination.” I could see how my phrasing was confusing to him.

More stuttering, but this time quite incoherent.

“In careful consideration, I believe that I am guilty of soiling the floor as stated in the management memo dated three weeks ago.

It was at that time management imposed an across the board banishment of all male personnel from the restroom.

Despite its sexist stance on this matter, I am willing to come forward and make my claim since I have already been accused and found guilty by company gossip.”

“You can’t say that.” Obberhoffman said in a shallow voice.

“Why not, it’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” I put the typed document on his desk. “You make some allegations that are not necessarily fact.” He picked up the document, adjusted his horned rimmed glasses and pretended to read it.

“How so?

I have lived the past week in my office and have been subjected to allegations and eye witness accounts that I am the one with the poor aim…as it were.” I folded my arms across my chest.

“This is…is…putting us in a bad light.” He managed to squeak out. “And this is my resignation letter.

You are not at liberty to change a single word since I have signed it.” I put the letter on his desk.

I will save you the trouble of Obberhoffman’s reaction to my letter, so I will just present it as written:

To whom it may concern,

I, Henry Pasternick, have loyally served Headly Images Inc. for over five years and in that time, I have been both design artist and company scapegoat.

In the first capacity, I contributed very little since those project managers did not value either my ideas or my creative inspiration.

While I am not taking issue with the rejection of my professional abilities, it was not until I became the company scapegoat when I gained a certain amount of notoriety. As the company's unwitting scapegoat, it is my hope that I managed to serve the company very well. Through the gossip channels, of which I became the main topic of discussion,

I am led to believe I served honorably and managed to gain some opprobrium for my tenure as scapegoat. In this capacity,

I am glad I could be of service.

To be remembered as the employee whose aim was lacking, I do take pride in my meager accomplishments.

It is for the reasons I have stated that I am tendering my resignation.

Not for the injustice of being falsely accused through gossip, rather that like all scapegoats before me, the penalty far outweighed the offense.

It is when we build cages and exclude people from our perfect societies based on principles we assume are just, we discover as time washes away the intent, it leaves only with the weight of our miscalculations and hasty conclusions and the victims.

I hope my letter will serve as a warning and a lesson for the future of the company. Wishing for best possible future,

Henry Pasternick


This was the last place I had seen her. You have no idea how long I've tried to come back to her. The lengths I've gone to find a way. The sacrifices. The deaths. The deck rocks beneath my feet and blood still stains the corners of my fingernails. My cheek throbs with pain but as much as I want to press my hands on it, I know any other movement would result in another strike to my face. The thin shirt and pants useless against the crisp ocean wind biting at my skin. The air tastes more than just salt now. It carries the stench of rotting fish with it. They’re taking me in the right direction. The boat we’re on is big, able to carry about twenty-five crew members and even then it looked undermanned. It didn’t look like it was a fishing boat. It had towers and antennas that these foreigners took great care of. But it was certainly old. The engine had coughed and sputtered before rumbling to life. Paint chipped everywhere, and what exposed metal there was had rusted a deep scratchy orange. A tattered red flag hung from the top of the tallest tower, a single, sloppily painted black star in the middle. The one new thing on it was the metal plating welded to the floor where we stood, all eight of us. The only ones native to these waters. Chained to the damn floor. Years had passed since calamity struck. With the drastic changing weather patterns and rise in volcanic activity, you would have thought that that was how the world would end. For most people, it was. Volcanic Eruptions from the Pacific Ring of Fire had set off an eight-year winter, with temperatures reaching so low it was near ice-age levels. What life that survived those first years had then been subjected to the famine left by the continuous acid rains and the blazing sun and scorching earth. Only a handful of countries were able to stand strong against the elements, and soon, only a few cities as the civilizations were ripped apart from the inside. But for us, it ended earlier than that. Instead, my world ended the day our birthright was signed in exchange for empty promises. It ended when the wants of the few looked at the needs of the many and offered them a poisoned drink. When the promise of change came at the cost of our very souls and we were too late to stop it. It ended the day I was ripped from her, on a boat much like this one, and a sky alive with harsh lights and the sound of wailing in the air. We weren’t the only ones separated from each other. Friends and families, husbands and wives, parents and even children . Taken, sorted, and herded to somewhere they would never be able to hear their mother’s song or their father’s embrace or their lover’s voice. Forced to forget everything about home or be branded a heretic. To work and live in an unfamiliar place as the payment owed by our so-called “countrymen.” Abandoned and forgotten while they continued to squander all they had among themselves and their new, so-called “Mainlander” masters. She would have raged if she learned what they did to the children. Razed their whole cult to the ground. As if selling them to the outsiders weren’t enough, they had been stripped of their identity, their history . She was a teacher, you know... She was always so kind to the little ones, so sweet. She taught them all the colors our world had to offer. Showed them the joy and freedom of the open water. Let them have the tastiest fruits and unafraid to give them bitter ones so they could grow strong. They loved it when I talked about her, how beautiful she was, dressed in blues and greens with the most beautiful dark skin I had ever seen. I told them she wore all the colors of the rainbow once and I would give anything to have a picture of how their eyes lit up. Years ago, I said that I had never seen anything as beautiful as her, but now… God… The children looked so much like her. Beautiful and good and pure. They were what I held on to, even as the earth rumbled and the world turned gray with ash around us when we escaped the compound. Pulled them close like she would have as we struggled to survive the freezing cold and the passing searchlights. Telling them stories of good times, better times, to help them sleep as tainted snow falls outside the window of our abandoned building, scattered cans of food surrounding us. Keeping them all safe and clean while blood stains my own, a man’s vacant eyes staring up at me from where he fell. My knife still embedded on the black star tattooed on his neck. The foreigners chatter among themselves when we pass another marker. The boat jumps from a high wave, staying in the air for a second, before slamming back down to the growing turbulent waters. Icy water splashes over everyone on deck. It’s colder here near the equator, with the typhoon season usually scheduled to happen this time of the year. Even without being bound to the floor, I’m able to keep my feet steady under me. Petty as it is, I take in a small victory as one of the Mainlanders slips and lands on his ass. His friends laugh at him. The man chained behind me snickers. They punch him in the gut in return. The one on my right glares at another, keeping his hands close to his side and nursing a large bruise on his side as best as he can. His split lip now caked with blood. ‘I spoke.’ He had told me hours ago, gesturing to the large patch of blue and purple skin. ‘I spoke and they didn’t like it.’ The split lip he got only a few minutes ago, from telling me his name. Andre. He has fire in him. A passion and drive that burned in his eyes as his gaze flitted from one foreigner to another. He still wanted to fight, to keep screaming, ‘You will not take my soul! It is mine until my final breath leaves me, or yours leaves you.’ I want to smile. He’s the same as her. Even here, on this rusting, alien boat. Surrounded by the same people that caused our suffering. Someone’s like her. I thought about her every day. She knew, I don’t know how or why but she knew . From the moment those strange hands grabbed at me from the darkness, she knew that we would never see each other again. And if we did… we never would have been the same. I still remember my last moments with her, how my clothes stuck to my skin from the summer rain, how the air had smelled fresh and her touch warm. Large clouds overhead parting when she kissed my cheek.

God, I missed her so much. I missed how warm she was, the softest brush on my cheeks as she woke me with the sunrise, no matter how much I protested. Willing me to come to breakfast, chiding at times, but always gentle. I missed how calm she was when I needed her most. Holding me in her arms, whispering to me, telling me everything would turn out alright in the dead of the night. Running her fingers through my hair as the moon rose and the stars blinked down on us. I even miss how furious she would get. How few those moments were didn't dismiss how terrifying she could be. I don't even care to admit that with most of our fights, I am the one to blame. I didn't listen. When she was mad, truly mad, she made sure everyone knew, huffing and puffing, loud and violent. She made sure I listened, made sure I learned. And I did, mind you. It was the other people that didn’t, not always. But she was forgiving. I could count the times she did me wrong with one hand, the times I did her wrong were as many as the stars in the sky or the sand that slipped through my toes. She was too good to me. God, I… I don’t even know what happened to her… She fought, I know she did. We had heard about the riots in the compounds, the threat of civil war and martial law still sent a chill down our bones even when we were a thousand kilometers away. Some of us were terrified, would we be forced to fight for these strange men with their strange ways. Would we be forced to fight our fathers? Mothers? But whatever order that was supposed to pit brother against brother was stalled when the earthquakes happened. And the First Explosion followed. One month. Three volcanoes. The capital was gone in days. News had covered the evacuation efforts. Shaky footages of the sky growing dark. Of people screaming. Running away from the dark clouds and falling ash and carrying all that they could. Other countries rushed to aid what was left of ours before their own volcanoes followed. The Third had mattered most though. It made us drifters. It made us lose our home. Made me lose her. I… I want her to know that I tried. To come back to her earlier. To find a way to her when the cold froze my fingers and when the heat scorched my back. That I did my best to protect what was left of us when we were found. That I fought and clawed as hands grabbed my neck, my feet slipping on blood and mud. That I kept their attention on me while the others disappeared into the ruins they started to see as home, my own vision going hazy. The faint shadow of a black star is the last thing I remember before waking up bound and in rags. A lightning bolt flashes across the sky. The captain shouts behind us but he is drowned out by a rumble of thunder. The boat slows… Somewhere, I hear the muffled sound of clanking chains. Tears fill my eyes. I see her. I finally see her. My god, what have they done to her? There is nothing on her. The sea around her has gone and turned into a mix of a disgusting, pale green and smog-like grey. The foam that kisses her shore is bone white. Her earth is bare, a sickly, dry brown streaked with long rivers of lahar. Stripped clean of everything green and good and left to rot with nothing but the rags that these barbarians didn’t even care to give her. I see no colors. No movement. No life. My heart breaks and I bite my lip in anguish. They laugh and point at my tears. The captain shouts again and the men on the boat begin to move. I watch as they unlock the shackles of the first of us, taking him right to the edge of the boat. A man carrying a red book and a star tattooed on his neck approaches him, their Priest. He reads aloud from the crackling pages while the rest of them chain a solid metal weight to his feet. I can only make out words from the harsh dialect, but just the book alone lets the rest of us know what this was. Our last rites. As soon as the last word leaves the Mainlander’s mouth, they shove him off. The man barely has any time to scream before the loud splash overpowers him and his voice turns to a quick gurgle. Drowning. Death by ball and chain. An old-world punishment for old-world people. They called this refined. Elegant. Bloodless. Hypocrites. They do this with the rest of us. One by one, they remove our bindings from the floor. Two fight the hands that seized them. Another speaks in their tongue, pleading and trying to barter with the captain for mercy. One cursed and raged, screaming so much they had to gag him before they even put the weight on and let the water silence him for them. Andre tries to run and his lip splits open again when they slam him to the floor. He had to be restrained by four of them before they tossed him into the water. The one lame man - an ex-lawyer, I think - they carry, letting him sit right on the edge. Our eyes meet while the Priest reads and the other Mainlanders chain the weight to his feet. As if he even needed that to sink. The lawyer shares my sentiments with a cock of his brow. Another small victory at our captors' idiocy. Yet for that, the weight was suddenly kicked off the edge. The Priest grinning down madly at him as his hands flew to grab on to anything in a moment of panic. He had hung for a second, lips moving silently while his hands gripped the railing. Then, gravity pulled him to the rolling waves below. The splash was quiet. Wordless. And now, it was my turn. I resist more on the fact that they have to turn me away from her to get to the execution spot. A foreigner orders me to stand at the railing with a version of my own language, broken and butchered. The man beside him gives a laugh, words pass through his lips and the three surrounding me laugh at his joke. 'What?' he mocked, 'turning into one of them now?' The boat rocks harshly to the side for a moment and my foot slips through air. I rush to grab on to the coarse railing for balance. Already the metal clamp chaining me to the weight is enough to make my steps heavier. I grip the railing, pulling myself away from the edge as another wave crashes harshly against the boat, spraying biting water at my face. The ocean looked cold and hard, as though it was broken glass that wanted nothing more than to shred the hull and rip us to pieces. The foreigners bark again behind me. One of them goes to grab me. To pull me away from the side so the man with the book can start reading. I turn to look at her one last time, and my breath catches. There she was. Silhouetted against the sunset I could just see the barest shadow of mountains and hills, and the faint outline of green further inland. Light brushes over the clouds, giving her a halo of pink and orange curls, making her skin glow and look like molten gold. Seafoam turned to pearls, lining the hem of a dark blue dress that shined with the faintest red every time a wave rolled and kissed the air. "Hey there." I whisper. I push and let go. The men scream. One even tries to pull me back. The weight yanks me down. Cool water screams with joy in my ears, and a familiar feeling brushes through my hair. I swear something warm brushes my cheek.  "I'm back.”


Valentines Day, New York City, 1990 Quentin was desperate to make the rent. The superintendent had rapped on his door that morning with a message from the landlord: pay up or get out. It was a tiny studio in a crumbling 5 story walk-up on East 93 rd St. near 1 st Avenue. Quentin felt lucky to have it. After an unpromising job interview in the West Village, he saw a Help Wanted sign in the window of the Duane Reade drug store on Sixth Avenue. This Duane Reade grew like a split-level tumor out of the West 4 th Street Subway Station. Inside the store looked like may have been dropped there from a great height, like Dorothy’s house in Oz, and never settled itself. Its main entrance smelled of piss and was haunted by a scrawny crackhead who shook an angry cup at you when you entered. A layer of dust and grime covered the narrow aisles and sparsely stocked shelves and dust balls roamed the floors. The cashier, Prudence Pinderloo, (her name tag said), glared at him and summoned the manager, Nigel Pinderloo, a short, stout brown man, who glared at him as well and asked him a few terse questions. He was hired. When he reported for duty the next morning Quentin was planted at the high impact, temperamental register after a brief, brusque lesson from Prudence. He struggled to master its complicated keyboard and wondered if the thorny Pinderloos had designed it themselves. The pharmacy in the basement was run by Nigel’s brother, Trevor Pinderloo, and his daughter, Cecily. Hostility seeped like poison gas from the Pinderloos and filled every dirty crevice of the store. For the Pinderloos, the customer was the enemy and there were several shouting matches a day. They were from Guyana and Quentin suspected it was French Guyana where they had managed the Duane Reade on Devil’s Island. Nigel’s mother, Priti Pinderloo, worked at the store part-time. She was a tiny woman with a sweet round face and wore her gray hair in a ponytail over a foot long. Priti spent her time humming while she dreamily tickled the empty shelves with a feather duster. When Quentin carried some boxes to the storage room, he bumped into her and knocked her glasses off her face. They fell onto the floor and he, unwittingly, stepped on them. After that none of the Pinderloos spoke to him. After he punched in, he went directly to the register where he remained until one of his two fifteen-minute breaks or his half hour lunch. The Pinderloos had found a way to bark at him without looking at him and every day he asked himself, Am I here?

 Quentin found that, despite the nonstop volume, he liked dealing with the customers. They were mostly sturdy Greenwich Village regulars, sophisticated lifelong New Yorkers, bohemians! There were always some actors he recognized from television but couldn’t name including the guy who played Mr. Whipple in the Charmin commercials. Every once in a while someone asked him to squeeze the Charmin and took a picture with him. Dazed painters and sculptors in splattered sweatshirts on a break from their masterpieces bought cigarettes, Slim Jims, and paper towels. Interwoven among them all were the neighborhood psychos who were just trying to get warm or cool while they shoplifted. He liked it when the kids got out of school at 3pm and poured into the store to buy candy, soda, and chips. They were loud and out of control, but Quentin enjoyed their energy as the well-behaved ones tried to get the most for their money and the shady ones with wily, innocent faces, bought the cheapest thing, and stuffed their pockets with as much swag as they could fit. Though he wasn’t the most efficient cashier and could never figure out coupons and returns, the customers preferred him to the Pinderloos, of course.  One regular asked, “How can you stand them?” Though he hated the exhausting job, he was able to make the rent that month.  On Valentine’s Day, he was on duty for eight hours when every last-minute shopper below 14 th Street jammed the store to buy last-minute heart-shaped boxes of Russell Stover’s discounted, thoughtless candy, thoughtless cards, and faded red roses for their beloveds. If he loved someone, he would be embarrassed to hand them these shoddy love tokens on this manufactured Hallmark holiday. Looking at the tense, unhappy faces at his register, he imagined the disappointed ones who would be presented with these inconsiderate trinkets. His register jammed several times and Nigel angrily fixed it without even looking at him. The lines of last-minute lovers snaked through the tight aisles and thrummed with anger and frustration. Everyone was making New York Minute calculations about each other as time stood still in the pitiless fluorescent light. The thrumming was punctuated by incongruous, peppy computerized voices promoting Valentine specials and flu shots. The smell of the cheap chocolate oozed from the bright red, heart-shaped boxes and gave him a headache. When he got a short bathroom break, he went to the pain reliever aisle, but the shelves were empty. Mother Pinderloo was dreamily massaging them with her feather duster. After five hours of his eight-hour shift, red hearts swam before his eyes, and he began to hallucinate. He thought of Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s poem, A Coney Island of the Mind. He seemed to have fallen into a Duane Reade Of The Soul, an existential sinkhole where everything is advertised but nothing is available on the dusty, puke green shelves. A place where kindness shriveled like the ancient roses, where the Pinderloos snapped at you without looking at you. and dignity was impossible without a fight. He was ashamed of himself for having this miserable, minimum wage job, being bad at it, and for having no Valentine on this idiotic, manipulative holiday. He was drenched in flop sweat and feared that either he or the store would implode, collapsing onto the subway tracks below. He punched out after 10pm and crawled into bed where he hid the whole next day. When Nigel called to find out where he was, he quit.            “I knew you were a pussy,” Nigel said.                                                #


When a 'lardy dah' French restaurant appeared on the scene, Mick knew that Pam would insist on going there to celebrate their wedding anniversary, and like any man who cherished marital harmony, he would do whatever it took to appease his wife -happy wife, happy life - the man's mantra. So there they stood at 8pm on a drizzly Tuesday evening, on Pratt's Bottom Highstreet pavement, holding hands and looking at the venue they'd be dining at. Pam lovingly looked at Mick, beamed a smile at him, and declared, "it look's soo romantic, Mick, I love you," squeezing his arm and resting her head on his shoulder. Mick said nothing but just nodded and feigned a smile back. He would have been quite happy to have a pasty and pint at their local, being a basic man, with basic needs, he never felt comfortable in spaces of pomp and pretentiousness. Le Petit Chateau seemed rather fancy, too fancy, and Mick scrutinised the shop's front with a detectives' squint. He disliked the name La Petit Chateau which was lit up with red spot lights, and he disliked the fancy cursive writing the signage was formed in, and he didn't see the point in having chairs and tables for the diners outside. Who would fancy eating their meal with all this noise and the stench and suffocation of car emissions? It had glittering reviews from a few hundred people who declared it as a 'transformative experience' and 'a slice of French heaven', and some even proclaimed the 'chef was an artist, and food is his palette. He knew he was going to hate it but Pam, who liked to say," Nobody does romance better than the French do," liked it, So that was that and he reluctantly lead Pam over the road, and escorted her in. As they entered through the door, quiet, classical music and the gentle murmur of many conversations of diners could be heard. Various eyes met them as they stood uncomfortably waiting until they were greeted by a well-dressed lady who smiled at them and asked them for their reservation in a thick, French accent. Mick announced to her,"we 'ave a reservation for Pam, table for two," to which the lady searched her screen, muttered unintelligible things to herself, then said something back in French, and escorted them to their seats. When they sat down, Pam leant in and told Mick, "int French such a beautiful language, Mick?" I wish you would speak French to me tonight, to make me feel special." Mick looked at her uneasily, but rolled his eyes upwards, trying to conjure what French he could remember from school, and remarkably found something he used to use on the girls in the school playground. Clearing his throat, he stuttered some words out, "petit croissant s'il vous plaît," to which Pam melted like a camembert. Women and French he thought, madness. While they waited for service, they made small talk to each other about the long stint of their marriage, saying banal things between moments of comfortable, long silences , "Thirty whole years, where did time go?" They'd tell each other marital anecdotes and reminisce of how they first met, whilst they held hands across the table, and gazed into each others faces illuminated by the table's candlelight. Mick's doubts about the French and the perceived pomposity of the venue, were beginning to subside, and he was now taking a liking to the place, but after sitting patiently for twenty minutes, he was getting a tad annoyed. Nobody had attended to them to offer a drinks menu or even really seemed to notice them, and Mick being the male, had the duty to catch the eyes of waiters and waitresses, who zoomed by to tend to others - but non made eye contact and non came. It was truly uncomfortable for a quiet and polite couple, who were used to service being given, not asked for. Mick tried to lighten the mood with one of his one liners, "they call 'em waiters for a reason - they make you wait," pam giggled politely to the joke she'd heard a thousand times already, and then looked around herself to see if a waiter could be communicated with through subtle eye contact. Eventually, she caught the eye of a butch, suited man with a thin moustache who hastened over and dropped an expensive wine list into their hands. As they both scanned the menu which happened to all be in French, their garcon, who introduced himself as Louis, produced a polite smile and began explaining what the house wine was, what its bouquet was, and what one would taste on the tongue. Seeing the bewildered and uncultured facial expressions on his diner's faces, appeared to irk him somewhat. They looked at him, then each other, and then back at him, as if slightly out of their depth, and seeking sympathy and help at the confusing list of words presented to them. Seeing the man was wholly unhelpful, Mick plucked up the courage to politely ask," Is there a beer menu? I am a beer man missen," laughing to himself. To which the waiter guffawed and sibilated, "Sacre bleu," throwing his hand in the air in dismay, and accidentally knocking Mick's menu to the floor. He picked up the menu, looked at Mick somewhat exasperated and protested, "Monsieur, why would you have Bier with fine French cuisine? This is not some cafe-brasserie, this is restaurant is about the gastronomique experience." The man then turned his head toward the general direction of the other staff, said something in French along the lines of 'barbare,' and all the staff laughed and looked at them in unison. Mick was an easy man to annoy and like some visual indicator of his internal anger state, his bald head and whole face would noticeably increase in redness, to alert others of his current state of mind. Pam would tell people Mick's anger states, or redness states, could be categorised like the incremental REDCON states of the US military; a scarlet would be 'he's mildly annoyed, a Rossa Corsa shade meant 'approach with ease or soon to blow', and a burgundy suggested an 'imminent physical outburst - basically someone was going to get nutted. The ridicule and public shaming of them for their devotion to beer, and their uncertainty and unknowing of the wine world, wound Mick right up, and his face and whole bald, head transitioned to scarlet. Once the laughter subsided, the waiter disappeared, and came back pouring wine into their glasses. He'd made a choice for them and started to inform them," This is the 'ouse wine, it has some vanilla notes in the bouquet, and it comes from the region of Bordeaux, where my family have been drinking this wine since they were babies." He then gestured a ceremony of pomposity for them. He, pretending to hold a glass of wine himself, began miming himself picking up a glass, rotating it under his nose, gently inhaling, then taking, short aggressive nasal intakes, before pretending to sip, gargle, and swallow his imaginary wine. He then pointed to them, and looked at them to say, 'now you do it' and they did. The waiter did a little condescending clap to them, said, "parfait,," gleefully, then dashed away to return with a food menu, which was also in French. Being British and all, and generally being too stubborn to learn another language, the menu may as well have been in hieroglyphics. They both pretended to read, giving tout the odd false, "hmm," of contemplation while Louis waited and watched them, with a smirk of knowing. They peeked to each other over the tops of their menus, shrugged their shoulders to each other, until Mick decided he should make the first move, and did what every British tourist did in foreign territory; he tilted the menu towards the waiter, pointed at the first item in the starters section and asked,"wossat?" To which the waiter frowned, squinted and then replied, "you no speak français?," he knew they didn't but wanted to hear the defeat in their voices, and Mick gave a nervous, "no French, to which Louis irritatingly raged, "Sacre Bleu," shaking his left fist into the air and storming into the kitchen. They both shrugged it off, looking forward to the authentic French dining experience coming their way, and slurped their wines waiting to see what would happen next. What happened next was the eruption of a loud rant emanating from the kitchen, "They come to French restaurant and do not speak French, it is disrespectful. If I came to chippy or burger van, and I ordered in French, they would tell me to learn English or go back to my own country, why they disrespect us like this?" This was followed by some minutes of silence apart from he usual clanks of kitchenware, and they began to wonder if the man had quit in a rage. Unfortunately, Louis eventually came back looking visibly sweatier, and began to inform them in a calmer voice," My apologies dear guests for my outburst, Louis will take care of you better this evening, and I will order for you on this special evening. I wish for you to have the real French experience tasting menu, and I have handpicked course which mean a lot to me and my heritage, and I think you will like. Please also have another bottle of the 'ouse wine on me, Madame and Monsieur." Pam and Mick were quite taken aback by the transformation of behaviour from loony French man to French gentleman, but it was appreciated and they began to relax a bit more. The first course came out and Louis placed the plate bowls in front of them. It looked like some buttery, herby soup with a meat that they were unfamiliar with. They both sniffed it and enjoyed the herby, garlic, and buttery smells coming from the dish, giving utterances of, "Mm," to show their pleasure to the waiter. Louis announced the dish, "Madame and Monsieur, this is my favourite childhood dish, escargots à la bourguignonne please enjoy," then walked away and watched eagerly from the side. They took a few tentative sips of the buttery sauce from their spoons before slurping in and chewing the pile of meat pieces stewed in the sauce. Pam's face twisted and wrinkled up as she chewed the strange meat in her mouth, forcing a swallow of each morsel down with a guzzle of wine. The meat was foul, rubbery, and unpleasant but they ate as much as they could out of politeness for Louis' beloved meal, before the lingering taste became too much to handle in their mouths, gulping more and more wine to help cleanse their palettes. Louis swooped in with a mischievous smile to ask them how it was. They said nothing, but smiled and nodded, and he took the plates away smiling to himself like a villain performing some dastardly deed. The next course that arrived was a bit more recognisable, and looked like a meat platter, which came with frites, helpings of buttered bread, and dipping sauces. Mick sat up and rubbed his hands together to say 'this is more like it,' being a typical meat-obsessed man and all. Louis smiled at him and announced, "Madame and Monsieur, another dish that I fondly remember from my child hood: here are some Couilles De Mouton, Cerveaux, Les Cuisses De Gernouille, and Pieds De Porc, accompanied with machine cut Frites, and sauces. Please enjoy." At closer inspection, the meats on offer here were not the shapes and cuts of meat that Pam and Mick were used to seeing in British cuisine, but being polite, subjugated, British characters, they didn't want to ask what they were, and kept their mouths shut and tucked in. They devoured the selection of meats and found them more palatable than the first course - whatever that was. Though Mick encountered some quirky new textures and flavours of meats, unfamiliar to his previous eating experiences thus far, which he attributed to the breeding and husbandry of the animals being different over there in France. The spherical, ball-like meats were quite tough and chewy, one was stringy, soft, and fatty, and the last one he tried was somewhat sour and wet from being boiled. The flavour attributes varied from quite muttony or gamey to salty or umami. A real taste experience, Mick thought, though he wasn't sure if it was an enjoyable or an unpleasant one. Again they slurped the wine down and cleansed their fragile, British palettes, ready for the dessert course, which appeared in white ramekins. "Ahhh, Creme Brulee," Mick said to himself whilst smiling at both Pam and Louis. He cracked the caramelised sugar with his spoon before diving into the soft, creamy, yellow custard and spooning out a perfectly held, yet wobbly heap of it into his mouth. The feeling of the silky mass melting on his tongue, intoxicated his taste buds, blissfully. His eyes rolled back into his head and he audibly emitted pleasure sounds to himself - he was having his first foodgasm - which was interrupted by a tapping on his shoulder, "Monsieur." Mick like coming out of a dream, turned to look at Louis wondering why he was being interrupted during the only enjoyable course, and his food climax. It was simply the business of receiving the bill, which could have waited, and he was handed the bill folder that enclosed the cost of the evening, which he placed on the table in front of him. Louis asked that they call him when they are ready to pay, and walked away to wait and watch for the man's reaction. This was his finale, the moment he contrived with artifice and deceit. After they ate their final delectable bites of the divine crème brulee, Mick opened up the bill and saw a collection of numbers, which gave him sudden, heart palpitations. The cost of the 'authentic French experience' was quite staggering, and Mick now wished he'd had the unauthentic experience. It was an enormous sum for a car mechanic and secretary- an I won't eat for the rest of the week bill. Mick began to connect some dots, and felt like their suddenly friendly garcon, had plotted this, causing anger tor begin swelling up within him at the realisation of what, Louis, their Jekyll and Hyde waiter had really been up to. It angered Mick so much so, that his whole head colour escalated to tier 2 -Rossa Corsa. It appeared that their rude then suddenly polite and well-mannered waiter, had ordered them the most expensive items on the menu, including the extravagant wine that Louis was bottle-fed as a baby, presumably by his aristocrat parents at these prices. Pam seeing Mick's distress, asked to see the Bill and Mick saw her eyes widen and and a hand cover her mouth to cover a gasp of shock. Of course people like to splurge on special occasions, but this was too much, they couldn't really afford a splurge like this. Red-headed Mick waved Louis over to pay the bill. Rather than saying anything and giving the French man any joy he wanted from inflicting his foul acts upon them, Mick kept quiet, and held in any anger boiling within him. It was his wedding anniversary after all, he didn't want to ruin it. Louis asked, "If everything was to their satisfaction Madame and Monsieur?" to which Mick and Pam responded with polite, "yes, thankyou, Monsieur Louis," veiling their discontent expertly. The French man feeling somewhat robbed, had one final trick up his sleeve, and told them, "one moment, I have a gift," and rushed into the kitchen to fetch something. He came back as Mick and Pam were slipping on their coats to leave, and handed Pam the folded piece of paper, again smiling, before informing them that he'd translated the menu for them, so they would know what to try next time they came. He nodded and pointed to indicate they should look now, so Pam did. She unfolded the paper and Mick watched his wife of thirty years quickly transition from a happy wife, sufficiently romanced and well-fed, become a sobbing mess of a women. He snatched the paper from her hand and began to read the paper, turning redder and redder as his eyes worked their way through the list of courses: Escargots à la bourguignonne - Burgundy Snails baked in garlic and butter Couilles De Mouton - Sheep balls Cerveaux - Cow's brain Cuisses De Gernouille - Fried frogs legs Pieds De Porc - Pig trotters Crème Brulee - French custard better than British slop, you barbare Pam still sobbing, pointed to Mick and whimpered, "Redness state Burgundy." She was right, his head resembled that of a beetroot, and someone was about to get butted. The foul-minded Frenchman had ruined Pam's special night, and nobody ruins Pam's special, romantic, once a year, night. Mick grappled the Frenchman by his cravat, scrumpled and shoved the paper of into his mouth, and head butted the man, causing him to collapse like a sack of Pomme de Terre. Other waiters came to assist their colleague, who lay on the floor dazed and confused. Mick grabbed Pam's hand, and they left, swiftly. There are times when nothing needs to be said and after the horrific dining experience they had, and the terrible things they chewed, sucked and swallowed through their innocent mouths.  They did what most polite, British people did, they bottled it up, to release later, away from the public sphere. Friends and family would hear of this tale for weeks to come, but first, Mick had a public duty to carry out as a devout online reviewer. Never had the keyboard felt his burgundy-headed wrath like it did tonight - tip-tap, tip-tap - Trip advisor.com. selected one star, starts typing' ...Sacre Bleu....what an offal evening.' The End