“Rufus! Come in. We loved your latest piece on the migrant situation in the Mediterranean. You’re really broadening the horizons of the readers of the Post.”

             “Our readers already have pretty broad horizons.”              “Of course they do. They read the Post!”              Rufus sat in a windowless room, empty apart from the plastic chair that he sat on, opposite a man in a white polo shirt and khaki pants. The man wore a lanyard with an empty transparent I.D. wallet and a pen hanging from it. Rufus lived for information, and had almost none. Introductions seemed to be the place to start.              “I’m Rufus Kenton from the Washington Post, and you are?”              “Yes! I am. And you are too, Rufus. Both of us present here today. Thank you for coming along. We love your work and we were very keen that it be you who got access to our facility.”              “Ok. Who’s we ? I’m going to assume you’re an agent. May I record this?”              “Record away, Rufus.” The voice was avuncular Texan. The speaker, tightly bald and leather cheeked, leant forward to rest his elbows on his knees. His pen swung on its lanyard and clicked against the cheap plastic seat. Had muscle gone to fat, or was it just undercover? Either way, the man was two of Rufus.              “C.I.A?” said Rufus, keeping his words to a minimum and letting his eyebrows do the heavy lifting.

             “I used to be in the C.I.A.,” said the man. The crows feet at his eyes went up a shoe size. “Still am. But I used to be too!” he sat back in his chair grinning. It creaked as he folded livestock arms.              “And you’ve invited me here to work on your tight five-minute stand-up set?” said Rufus, clicking his own pen and opening his note book.              “Relax, Rufus. We love journalists these days, we brought you here so we can work together. We’re on the same side.”              “I’m an independent journalist. I’m on the side of truth.”              “And justice and the American way?” said the agent with a gentle frown of sincerity.              “Sure, but truth comes first. So, what is this place?”              “This, Rufus, is the most secure lab in the world. A football field of razor wire in every direction, anti-drone fields, automated sniper turrets. This place has its own F35 guard dog on round-the-clock standby. It has a bunker from the nineteen fifties which has been pimped with some tech which is still going to look pretty damned impressive in the twenty fifties.”              “Why?”              “Exactly! I knew we had the right man for the job. Anybody in their right mind would ask why, and you, Rufus, are going to tell them.”              “I’m going to tell them the truth.”              “Of course you are. That’s your job. Which theory of truth do you currently subscribe to?”              “Truth, reality, I’m going to tell people what I find here today.”              “Oh, we’re counting on it. Now, I’m a plain old correspondence theory man myself. The truth arises from the correspondence of language, thought and such like, to a mind-independent world. Seems like our world is more mind-independent than ever! Am I right? Ha! Nah, Veritas est adaequatio rei et intellectus - Truth is the adequation of things and intellect; Isaac Israeli via Aquinas.”              “Nice to know they’re teaching Latin at Langley.”              “Surprised? You don’t think they keep me round just ‘cos I can kill a guy with a pen, do you?”              Against his better judgement, Rufus liked the guy. So what if he really could kill him without breaking a sweat? Rufus was not octagon material; it was not that impressive a boast. But Rufus was no coward, so it was not much use as a threat either, if that’s what it was, and not just another joke, not that the two things were mutually exclusive. In conclusion, Rufus just shifted uncomfortably in his chair and looked down at his notepad. “Relax! I’m only joking,” said the man. “I wouldn’t need a pen. Are you ready to take a look around?” Rufus had had a bag over his head since he got in a chopper of the roof of the building he’d been told to report to. It had not been removed until he stood outside the room he was now in and he had no idea how much time had elapsed, how far he had travelled or in what direction. He could have been in one of half a dozen states, maybe seven, maybe eight or nine if you counted irritation and confusion, states he seemed to visit with increasing regularity. He was ready to take a look around. “Let’s go.” The corridor outside the room was lit by a thin arboreal glow of emergency lighting. The agent walked ahead of him, fleetingly green as they passed under the long passage’s evenly spaced exit signs. After what Rufus judged to have been about a minute, time measured by his unacknowledged humming of The Fugs’ C.I.A. Man , they reached an unmarked door. To Rufus’s left a dark space with a tiny exit sign floating in it, marking the invisible length of a perpendicular corridor. The agent saw Rufus looking to his left at the tiny eye-test of an exit sign. “No, it’s in here,” said the agent, opening the door and disappearing through it. Rufus followed him into a room which was industrially dark. “So, you promise to write about what you find here?” asked the agent. “Certainly,” said Rufus. “Good! We need it out there. We need the internet full of it. We need…” “You’re going to get the truth, whether it’s what you need or not. But I guess it would be easy enough for you to silence me if you wanted to? You could do it here and now, with your pen,” said Rufus to a black absence where he imagined the agent might be standing. “No! No, no, no, Rufus.” The voice came from the opposite direction to the one in which Rufus had pointlessly turned his head. “It’s not like that at all. And anyway, like I said.” The voice now came from behind him. “I wouldn’t need a pen.” Rufus peered into the black, trying to breathe steadily and control a heartrate that evolution was attempting to increase with every second spent in the vulnerability of sightlessness. “Now, Rufus, write the truth if you want, but please try and appreciate that in my business it’s really the value of information that matters, regardless of whether it can be proven to be true or not.” “Surely information is more valuable if it’s true? We have to confirm if things are true.” “Well, ah, Rufus. So, y’know Socrates, right?” “I know of him.” “Well one day one of Socrates’ buddies runs up to him and…” “Ah Jesus, come on, man.” “One of his buddies runs up and says, ‘ You’ll never guess what I heard about Diogenes.’ ” “Just turn the lights on.” "’ Whoa!’ Socrates replies, ‘You gotta pass the Triple Filter Test first,’ and his buddy’s like ‘Triple filter?’ and Socrates is like, ‘I’m going to filter what you say. The first filter is truth. Are you absolutely sure that what you are about to say is true?’ and his buddy’s like, ‘Maybe, dunno, just heard it.’ And then Socrates is like, ‘Ok, possibly not true, so filter two, the goodness filter. Is what you are about to tell me something good?’ and his buddy gets a bit flustered and he’s like, ‘Nah, pretty bad actually.’ And so, Socrates is like ‘Mmhmm, third test; is this information going to be useful to me?’ and his buddy’s pretty embarrassed by now and he’s like, ‘Well, no, not really.’ So, Socrates is like, ‘So you were going to tell me something that might not have been true, good, or useful. Why tell me or anyone else such a thing?’ and the guy’s feeling pretty bad and he realises this must be how come they say Socrates is so wise…" “And it also explains why Socrates never found out that Diogenes was banging his wife.” “You heard it! Ha! You do understand.” “Just turn the lights on.” “If I do, you’ll see the truth, but not the value. We need you to create the value, Rufus. That’s what you’re here for. We need information out there. Lots of it. Generated from this beautiful big resource magnet of a lab. It doesn’t have to be true, it doesn’t have to be good, but whatever it is, it’ll be useful and it’ll be ours. And it’ll be a good reason for all of our less enthusiastic supporters to keep their eyes on this place, instead of anywhere less convenient.” “Please just turn the lights on.” “This room is completely empty, Rufus. I can leave the lights off so you can’t see anything, or I can turn them on, so you can see nothing. Either way, you’re reporting the same truth. You want ‘em on?” “Please.” “Happy writing, Rufus.” An analogue clunk announced a staccato strobe and the room bounced in and out of existence before settling into its vast reality. Rufus stood alone in an echo-ready hall. It was completely empty.


For some reason, they always knew she would let them in. And for some reason, she always did. They would turn up with the face of someone who looked familiar, but not, like a memory distorted. They smelled of fresh leaves and musty fungus. They had glittering obsidian eyes, and ragged, patchy hair. They always wore red. They would come to Eve’s home, and once they were installed she almost never saw them. Merely upon waking she would notice a lamp had disappeared or a rug replaced by woven winter moss. Dozens of smaller changes she only wondered about. (Had the aloe been turned, just so?) One night she returned home to find the fridge unplugged and in the direct center of the kitchen. The next day, her sink was filled to the brim with ice, which she chose to take as an apology.

Certainly, everything was as she chose to take it. These silent creatures, often unseen but felt, never speaking a word. How to take it when her mirrors were all covered with thin, rough sheets? What was meant when her books were all turned spine in, or when her apartment had smelled like apples for four days? Then abruptly one day she would wake and again the birds would be singing, and the air would be light and free. She knew when she opened the door to the spare room, a mound of sticks and twigs in the bed would be all that remained of her elusive guest. And she would tidy it and then close the door again, to await the next visit. Today, she heard the knock on her front door once again, a soft little pat-pat-pat against the door. She opened it and there stood someone new looking like someone else, in a berry-red cloak like Little Red Riding Hood. Its eyes shined a deep black, peeking through brown straw hair. Eve stood aside and the creature crossed the threshold. A quiet stretched from it to engulf the whole of the house. She led the way to the guest room and stood at the doorway as it advanced past her. The click of the door was inaudible. Eve looked up. She was sitting on her couch, but the light had changed. It was almost evening. She remembered letting in her neighbour… no. But it had looked so much like her. Then, what next? She remembered the scent of old, rotting logs and petrichor. She needed to clear her head. She left her apartment, and immediately the noise of the world resumed. The hum of the lights, the distant clanking of the elevator. It was easy to forget how loud even a quiet hallway was in modern life. It was like stepping from the inside of a book out into a busy, bustling existence she couldn’t have guessed was out there. Not just any book, but a thick old tome that closed with a SLAP. That had always been the weight of the silence in her home while her guests remained, and if anything, this time she felt it all the more intensely. Eve wandered over to the market and bought a container of prepared soup. She trailed through the streets near her home like a tourist, admiring the small park and its fountain, the little stores closed, but with colourful window displays. She idled, drinking her soup and staring at the moonless, starry sky. Eventually she had to go home. She unlocked her door and stepped back into the pressure of the quiet. The old woman, for she was old, older than she had initially appeared, sat on the couch. She was still, so still and unmoving, like a shadow frozen and flat. The details of her hair and clothes were hard to discern, and after a moment Eve turned and went into her own room. She slept peacefully, deep and without dreams. The days rolled past, similar but strange. The rest of the world knew to leave her alone during these times. Her phone ceased to ring, and her friends declined to visit. The world knew when her house was occupied, and knew better than to disturb her. Eve left her home less and less, cocooning in her room, in part because time slipped away so quickly. She woke with the sun, but blinked and it seemed to be setting. She didn’t remember eating, but she never felt hungry. The only thing she missed was the sky, and sometimes this yearning drove her out from her den, to wander the dark streets as she stared at the stars. One such night she came home to find another creature in her house, this one a tiny writhing infant set carefully upon her coffee table. The hush pressed against her ears, the force of it made her head hurt. The table itself seemed different, darker, a slab of rough grey stone. Eve’s vision blurred, and the infant doubled, tripled, then melded back into one. It had ceased its movement and stared back at her, black eyes wide and unblinking. Eve backed away, the ground soft and giving beneath her feet. She returned to her room, the silence pulsing, the scent of rain and rot pervasive even in her bed. As she lay there, the covers themselves seemed to tighten around her, pulling her down, down through her bed and into a cavern of darkness she’d always known. She closed her eyes, willing time to pass, waiting for that bright sunny morning, to hear the birds once more. This time when she slept, her dreams were full of shadows and the creaking of ancient trees, their deep roots fed by sacrifice. She was in the centre of the world, and the eternal tree stretched its limbs far past the limits of the sky, reaching to the heavens and beyond. She was the centre, the roots speared her body and fed, fed, fed with an unquenched hunger. She heard a cry, the wail of an infant, and then she fell. Eve opened her eyes. A robin twittered from her windowsill, and Eve could hear the faint, forgotten sound of traffic. She pushed back her rumpled covers, moving slowly, feeling an ache deep in her bones. She shuffled down the hallway, and rested her hand on the cool doorknob of the guest room. But, for the first time, she was afraid of what she would find there.


Dear Diary, Have you ever had to grieve the loss of something you never had? I’ve been trying to. For months now. I’ve been so caught up in this loss of mine that I’ve never truly experienced before, it's finally driven my roommate, Georgia insane. She bought me one of those small, spiral bound legal pads from Food Lion and told me to write my crap out so I could finally put it somewhere that wasn’t the air. So, this is it. These are letters to Sam. Things I’ll never say to him. Things I wish I had. Dear Diary Sam, The first time you kissed me was July 18. It was dark in your apartment; a movie was playing in the background. I could feel you looking at me. Last time I was with you, you looked at me that same way. I looked away, then, because I wanted you to kiss me so badly, I was sure you could hear it in my thoughts. This time I didn’t look away. Dear Diary,     Here is a picture of Sam. There is a weight behind his eyes that presses down on me when he catches my eye. Actually, that isn’t entirely true. I can feel it anytime he looks at me. It’s not an unpleasant weight that burns the muscles and pulls you through the floor. It’s not dragging or even heavy per se. It’s just noticeably present. I can feel it, wrapping around me tight like an embrace he’d given me once. It’s a feeling I like, being looked at by him. It’s laced in his gaze, in the crinkles by his eyes and the hints of brown caught in the blue. I have been looked at before, but never has someone’s eyes caught me off guard like his. I want him to look at me forever. I don’t know how to ask. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make my eyes speak the same language as his. I can’t make them say what I think. That I think he’s beautiful. That I see the way he holds himself, so still, so carefully. That I see the hesitation in his stance and the careful way he laughs. I see you ; I think. I don’t say it out loud.

Dear Sam, The fourth time you kissed me was on March 1. I didn’t think that would be the last time. Dear Sam,     “Look at me,” I say, because you won’t. “Do you see me?” I ask. “I see you, but I don’t think you see me.” Dear Sam, Remember how we used to argue, speaking paragraphs of words but actually talking in circles?     “It seems to me that you’re more focused on the later than what was happening right in front of you,” I say, with more heat behind it than I mean. You say nothing back.

Dear Diary, He didn’t leave me. I never had him to begin with. Dear Sam,     I don’t know what it is. It’s a knot or a lump or something round, I don’t know. I can’t properly describe it. But there is something lodged in my chest, behind my sternum, between my lungs. It’s hard and solid, and I can’t make it move. It hurts. Dear God, it hurts and sometimes the pain goes away and I forget about it. I forget it’s there through distractions and noise and people talking at me but when I’m alone, I can feel it. I can feel it burrowing inside of me and it won’t go away. You put it there. I helped you do it. I don’t know how to remove it and I want it gone so badly that it makes my eyes burn. I felt it on the bus, with my headphones in and a game on my phone, failing to hold my attention. I felt it in my shower, turning the water as hot as it could go. Because I couldn’t stop shivering. I felt it when I tried to go to sleep last night, pulling me awake and reminding me that it was there because of me. I can’t get rid of it. Getting rid of it would mean getting rid of you. And I don’t want to do that. I foolishly can’t. But this thing lodged in my chest, it hurts me. Dear Diary, Lonely people find lonelier people and then they eat pasta together and tell ghost stories of past experiences that don’t let them sleep. But these relationships never work out because in reality both parties are just using each other, so really, they were better off alone. Dear Diary,     Here is a scenario: He walks up to her front door. The porch light is flickering, because no one’s bothered to change it. He raises a fist to knock, but he hesitates. All the lights are off in the apartment except for the glow of a lamp. He knows exactly which. It’s the little yellow one on the end table next to the couch. She always leaves it on at night because she doesn’t like the dark. He knocks. Footsteps rattle the walls from the inside and the door opens. She has been crying, a balled-up tissue in her right hand. She looks surprised. She didn’t expect this. It wasn’t like him to show up without warning. “Hi,” she says, and her voice is thick and slightly nasal. “Hey, are you okay?” he asks. He takes a step through the doorway, and she backs up to let him in. It’s familiar, the process. “Uh, I’m fine. You know, sad movie.” She wipes her eyes with the tissue and quickly throws it away in the too full trashcan in the kitchen. He takes off his jacket and hangs it on mix-matched hooks by the door that are already weighed down with coats, rain jackets, and two umbrellas. She goes to turn on the other lamp in the corner, while he leaves his shoes by the door. It was a habit he learned from watching her at his place. She hated when people wore their shoes in the house, but she would never ask people to take theirs off. She wasn’t the type to ask for things. Favors, love, food. She was a giver who hated to take. “Everything alright?” she asks. She has already sat down on the couch. The couch has witnessed them in their entirety. There are some things that it hasn’t seen, the sweetest parts in particular, but it has watched. It has seen them laugh a lot, but it also saw the time he made her cry for hours, days, weeks. The couch is wary, yet it welcomes him as she did. He wedges himself into the corner closest to the yellow lamp. He wants to hold onto one of the cushions bunched up behind him, but he resists, choosing to cross, uncross, and cross his arms again. “Are you okay?” she asks, resisting the urge to reach out and touch his arm. He sees the twitching of her fingers, knows that she is holding herself back. She always tries to hold herself back. He doesn’t say anything. Not at first. He just looks at her. For a moment he allows himself to look, to really look at her and take in every aspect of her face. The shape, the moles and freckles, the tiny creases by her eyes from smiling, the twitching corners of her mouth. Her eyes. Her big, searching eyes that seem to look into him and through him at the same time. He’s startled out of his staring by her blinking and looking away. She does that sometimes, breaking eye contact that she herself starts. But she has too. Because if she looks at him for too long, she feels a pain start to rise up inside of her chest and settle between her lungs. “What?” she asks, looking back at him. “Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. It’s a lie, and they both know it. His head is so full that he fears the weight of it will crush him. She can see that weight and how it has settled into his shoulders and seeped into his bones. She’s pointed it out to him before. How she could see this weight holding down his very soul. It scared him that she could see it when he himself had tried so hard to pretend it wasn’t there. He avoided her for a bit after that. Right now, she could see he was being weighed down by words he couldn’t bring himself to say. She wants to reach out to him but again, she stops herself. There were many conversations they never had. The ghosts of them hung in the air around their heads, teasing their minds with the possibility of events that couldn’t or wouldn’t occur. Both of them were too incapable of using the words that they had to say, what they were truly thinking. To themselves—in the privacy of their own minds—they could guess, or make things up, but the silence, that constant thing that sat between them on the couch, that watched them, mouth open and ready to drown them out with its screams. The silence was deafening. It drowned them. She felt like it was suffocating her. He felt like it was boiling him from the inside. “Please,” she says, forcing herself to smile, hoping he will read it as teasing. The ‘please’ says much more than one word can. It says, “talk to me,” and “I don’t understand you,” and “I think I love you.” He doesn’t hear any of it. “It’s nothing,” he says, smiling back, but he can see through the cracks of her face that she’s begging, that she needs him to talk. But he can’t. So, he doesn’t. He misses the whispering of the words not said as they brush past his ears, completely unaware yet still, somehow, feeling their loss. He feels it in his chest, a pain that is familiar, that originally came from a different source. He doesn’t recognize it as heartbreak this time so that isn’t what he thinks it is. Still, he rubs at his chest and waves off the question he knew she was about to ask. “We always do this,” she says, leaning away from him to put some distance between them, because being this close to him makes her skin ache in a way that reminds her of being ill. “I know, you’re right.” And he laughs, because it is funny, but it’s only funny because it’s sad. He’ll leave her soon. And when he does, he will be weighed down further with the regret of not saying any of the things he planned to. And she will turn off the lights and lay in the dark. And she will cry, because that’s the only way she can empty herself of the feelings that he creates inside of her. Neither of them is aware of what the other is feeling. Neither of them will ever know. Dear Sam, I wrote this when I was twenty and so desperate for you to look at me the way you did the first, second, and third time you kissed me. There was something about your eyes then, that made me believe you would look at me forever. I wanted you to. Now the memories are fading, and I can’t remember what your hand felt like in mine or how the timid way you kissed me felt. I can’t remember your laugh or how you lit up over a topic that interested you. The fading of these memories does not dull the pain of losing you. It only makes it sharper. I imagined saying goodbye to you a thousand and one ways. I knew it would come, sooner rather than later. I had to leave, and you had to stay but this was going to be more than your standard moving away goodbye. The permanence of it was on the tip of my tongue. I was afraid to do it, but it had to be done. Not for your sake, but my own. You see, I thought if I said goodbye it would add a period, a proper “The End” to our story. Let’s face it, everything is a metaphor to me. It’s the way I understand the world around me. I needed to finish you in order to begin a much happier sequel. I imagined phone calls where you would answer the phone all surprised to hear from me. You would say, “Hey! How are you?” And I would pause to collect myself because hearing your voice would make me feel like I was about to cross the ocean in a canoe. I would fail to fake the composure I needed, and I would blurt out, “I’m leaving.” And I would start to cry. Softly. You wouldn’t notice. Or you would, but you wouldn’t mention it. Because you were decent like that. “When?” You would ask, bewildered because you weren’t expecting that. Of all the things—me asking you to dinner, again, or just wanting to say ‘hi’— ‘goodbye’ would leave you floored. “Tomorrow,” I would say, having to wipe my nose with my sleeve. It runs easily, you would know, in theory. I could’ve called you sooner, but I wait until the day before to shock you. To make you panic. To force you to realize what you’re about to lose. And all you would say is, “Oh.” Because you don’t use your words. You lock them inside of your brain and you don’t share them with anyone. Me, my words spill out of me so much that I have to keep diaries and journals and Word Documents to collect the ones that escape. I used to say I spoke enough for the both of us. You prove that is still true. We would be silent for a moment, waiting for the other to speak. I would, taking my cue, say, “I just wanted to say goodbye, if that’s alright.” I don’t know what you would say back. I’ve made up scenarios to help me sleep at night. But they are wildly inauthentic. Because they aren’t really coming from you. And if they aren’t coming from you then what’s the point? I’m deceiving myself. That’s the point. I’m pulling at loose threads, searching for something deep down I know isn’t there. Hoping, praying, begging—mutely, silent. Because these are all the words I never said. Couldn’t say. Because I had no right to. And I wouldn’t force that on you. I don’t ask for things. It’s a well-known characteristic of mine. I love you, but I will never tell you. I need you, but I will never ask you to ask me stay. I want you, but I know you’ll never chose me. So, I’ll save us both the embarrassment by keeping my mouth shut. Dear Diary, It starts to hurt less, after a while. The pain. It dulls from a throb, to an ache, to a soft pulse. It’s still there; but don’t think it will just leave one day. Don’t think that you’ll wake up free. No. It will just hurt less. Dear Diary Sometimes, things just don’t go according to plan. Mistakes are made. Things are done with good intentions, or bad. There are misunderstandings the size of mountains and words said without any meaning behind them—these can be good and bad as well, based solely on context and whether or not you’re actually paying attention when they are said. Feelings are hurt. No one apologizes when they should, even when asked. People are left behind—usually in pieces. You grieve. You grieve for however long it takes. You don’t eat. You don’t sleep. You call your best friend and cry because your body can’t produce the right string of words to describe how that knot in your chest won’t go away. How it throbs at night when you’re all alone—so, so alone. You take long showers—sitting down—that eventually go cold. You smile like everything is just fine when you are around people who don’t know. Who were never informed. Who you will never explain anything to because of the overwhelming shame of your own stupidity. Internally, you’re screaming. You’re screaming so much it becomes its own form of white noise in your mind. Every moment of your passing days begins to resemble a checklist. Don’t snooze your alarm. Brush your teeth. Think about eating breakfast. Settle for coffee. Make it strong. Get dressed. Catch the bus if you have to. Thank the driver when you get on and off.            Go to class. Or work. Or wherever it is you need to be. It doesn’t matter what it is, just get there. Think about eating lunch. Drink water and have some yogurt instead. Go home. Cook dinner. Even if it’s instant mac n’ cheese. Talk to a friend if you can. Cry. Cry and cry and cry. Watch something that you enjoy. Something on YouTube or TV or Netflix. Anything that you can draw some kind of joy from. Go to bed. Even if you’re just lying there in the dark for hours until the sun starts to come back up again. Repeat the list until it becomes a habit. And don’t be mad at yourself if it takes “too long.” There’s no such thing as taking too long to heal. A wound is a wound is a wound. Sometimes you have a good wallow for a day. Or two. Or five. Other times you go to dive bars with friends to watch them sing karaoke while you struggle to drink a beer you don’t even like. That knot in your chest, that all over pain that seems to be holding you down against the floor, it will fade. Slowly. Count the days until it does if you have to. Mine took 119.


The Fire of Miss Moffat By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. A steady stream of burnt oranges and fiery reds; just the ticket to brighten my mood. I reflected on my sleepy surroundings. It must have been where Sleepford got its name with endless rows of trees enclosing the town, only there was a clearing where the branches were thinner, showing the pale patterned bark of the branches. I paused to take a peek at my reflection in a puddle amongst the leaves. I am still sixteen year old Will Kahn. I still have deep olive skin, short charcoal hair, a flat nose and keen yellow eyes, overshadowed by thick dark brows.

My face emitted rays as I thought about my old-fashioned hometown with its thoughtful, troubled trees that trembled the leaves to the ground; an echo of my troubled mind before I stepped outside and found Autumn waiting for me. I'm still the high school loser, getting pushed around all of the time, yet out here, under the autumnal sky, I could be anything, maybe even a superhero. Autumn with its crisp chill but with enough warmth from a sliver of sun to warm you through and cheer your heart, made me feel I could skip about; there is something about the briskness of nature at this season that gives me a rush like nothing else. My favourite tree of the oak variety stood tall and faithful on one side of the path I had walked on many times; even from this distance, I could make out where I had engraved my name coupled with a girl's with a heart above, in hopes it would bring us together one day. A red squirrel crossed my path, and as I watched it taking up an acorn on the other side of the path, then scurry into the bushes, Lucy Moffat came to my mind, whose long auburn locks and sea green eyes earned her the title of school beauty; she was the most popular girl in school. I wondered what she would do if she found out I was a nature freak, and then there was the child genius/concert pianist angle I wouldn't wish to go down; so it seemed like I had no chance of winning the girl I had dreamed of since nursery, who would probably laugh in my face at the very idea. My classical music background that saw my Japanese mother become a pro cellist and my Asian father play concert piano on t.v. had always remained a secret to my other life, in high school; it wasn't exactly what the cool kids boasted about and their hostile behaviour would be more humiliating than I could bear. In between the musings of my mind, I could hear the distant sounds of a violin concerto, as if by magic the wind read my thoughts and carried it to me to soothe away the problems Monday morning would bring with it. A sudden u bend in the road forced me to do a sharp turn and what my eyes beheld when the road straightened out again, filled me with a trembling beyond all control; there was Miss Moffat a few feet ahead of me in all her glory, under an arch of trees highlighted by a fire of reds, oranges and browns, matching the tones of her hair where the rays of sun shone from above in a halo of light. Is it possible she needs a place to escape on a Sunday afternoon as well? After watching her with a gaping mouth, I allowed my eyes to rest on her hands and what they contained. She held a violin and better still, strummed it skillfully sounding out the concerto I'd heard in the distance; I stared with eyes that appeared far away until her hands rested from the crystal clear sound of her piece. Before I could tell what possessed me, my hands came together in a loud applause and she pivoted fast, her hair plummeting over her shoulders. She asked what I was doing there and I answered in a firm voice that surprised even me, that I was probably doing the same as her. "I doubt that. This is my secret place," she replied, her voice as sweet as the music from her violin. "Mine as well. My favourite row of trees. I could play the same concerto on my piano." "You can't drag it out here." "I would try, for you." "Do you want to bet?" My finger hovered over my lips. "We can make like a secret pact." "Well, if you promise not to tell, I won't tell on you, either." "It's a deal." We edged closer to each other, meeting in the middle of the archway, our faces searching each others. "You're not like the rest of them. I'm the popular girl, but this would ruin everything." She lifted the violin with one hand. "I have dreams of being a concert pianist someday, but find opposite reasons to keep it private." She tilted her head on one side the way she always did when speaking that drove me crazy. "How's that?" "You might have noticed popularity is not my problem. If they found out I was a child prodigy, I'd be utterly ruined." "Being popular isn't as spellbinding as you might assume; there are rules of coolness that need to be met to keep the status." "We're better matched than we seem." My voice trailed away and I glanced at her cherry red lips. "Not so different," she whispered. We rushed at one another, holding a strong embrace. The kiss was firm and loving. The fire of Miss Moffat ignited my bones in a way nature never could; she reminded me how important just being yourself is, taking whatever chances life throws at you and always fulfilling your dreams; how different life would be with her by my side. Fall will always have a special place in my heart, but when the fire of the leaves dies down, and the season we will always enjoy together is no more, Miss Moffat will still be there to lift my spirit and brighten any season.


Trigger Warning: self harm, and suicide. There she lies. In a bathtub, with red water. An empty bottle of pills, and a red, blood stained blade falling out of her hands, onto the bathroom floor. It was over, Her body had reached the limit. Her emotional, state had reached the limit. This is how it ended. In a few hours, her mother would come home from her late shift at work, and wonder why her own child didnt come to greet her at the front door like she usually did. The house was silent. When her mother got home, she waited for Leslie to walk out with a faint smile, and welcome her home. Leslie always made her mother a warm cup of Chai tea. But the counter, was the same as how she left it. Dirty dishes everywhere, and no warm cup of tea with a spoon and honey by its side, waiting. She wondered if Leslie was just tired. Leslies mother called for her, however she did not answer, or come walking out. Leslies mother was getting worried, but still tried to look on the positive side. She turned on the burner of the stove and placed the tea pot on the warm, friendly flame. She got a coffee cup from the cabinet, and a tea bag from the jar on the counter. She grabbed a spoon from the lower cabinet, and the jar of smooth honey. She walked into the dark hallway, only lit up from the soft purple lights from Leslies room, under the crack of her door. Leslies mother knocked on the door and called out, “Leslie? Honey are you in there? Can I come in?” No reply. She slowly turned the nob on the door. When she walked in, and didnt see Leslie. Her worry grew. She checked under the blankets, under her bed, and around the rest of the room. Nothing. Nobody. Did she sneak out? No. Leslie would never do that. Leslie was a good kid, she never did anything bad in school, and tried her best. Her worry grew. This was not like Leslie. Wait! You didnt check the bathroom. She thought, turning to the door. She quickly walked over to the bathroom, calling out Leslies name. Her mind started racing, with different things that could have happened. Was she sick? Was she having a rough time? Or maybe- Leslies mother pushed the bad thought out of her head. She knocked. ”Leslie are you in there?“ No reply. “Leslie please answer me. It’s your mom. Leslie? Leslie!” She opened the door, with worry in her eyes. She let out a cry. There she lay, how her mother found her. Leslie Myers, dead in the bathtub.. full of blood stained water, cuts and scars up and down her body. She looked around, terrified. Then she saw it— A note. She snatched the note from Leslies cold, stiff hand. She opened it with tears rolling down her face. Just as she thought. The note she never wanted to get from Leslie. “Dear Mom, Im sorry I ended it this way. I never wanted you to go through pain like this, but I couldn’t take it anymore. This isn’t your fault. I dont want to blame anyone for this. This was my choice. I dont want you to be Sade, I want you to be glad for the time I stayed. I hope to see you one day in heaven mom. <3. -Your daughter, Leslie Myers.” The crying stopped. She wasnt going to cry over this. Leslie wouldn’t want her to cry. She wouldn’t want her mother to be sad. Not every story ends with something happy. When did this all start? Why did this all start. Who brought this upon her? There never will be a true answer. She had done this every night. She would cry, and cry every night.. along with running a blade across her arms and legs until they were numb. She needed desperately to talk to someone. Someone who she could trust. Someone who wouldnt walk out on her life. Someone who cared. She had nobody. Her trust issues had pushed everyone away. Her arms weren’t always like this though, before boys called her names like “fatty”, and “sick girl”. She was quiet, before this. With only one good friend. Her name was Kylie. Kylie Smith. Kylie and Leslie. Best friends until the 7th grade. That was until Kylie turned into a total bitch. Yes, its true that 7th grade turns a lot of girls into sneaky little bitches. But not all. Leslie kept to herself, she ate lunch in the library or bathroom, she read at recess, and she never spoke in class. Kylie knew everything about Leslie, she knew about her father abusing her and then hanging himself when she was only in the 4th grade. Kylie told her “new friends” everything. That’s when it started, the bullying began. They harassed her every. Single. Day. They would call her names from across the hall, and hit her. They would taunt her as if they were using a air blade and cutting there arms. She tried so hard to ignore these girls, but she just couldn’t take it anymore. She had “accomplished” so much during the 7th grade. She lost her best, and only friend. She ate in the bathroom to avoid the bullying, and she Started to think that she wasn’t worth it. She was ”to fat”. She wasnt “pretty enough”. The list went on, on. In the begging of 7th grade, she thought this was going to be the year, the year she gets more friends, the year she has her glow up. She didnt want to wait though. Sometimes Leslie would go for days without eating, to make herself skinnier. She tried makeup so many times, it just wasnt right looking. Soon enough she was so skinny you could see her ribs. Her arms were so thing, she could wrap her hand around them. Easily. She was weak. In gym she fell, and she could barely walk up stairs without running out of breath. Her teachers didnt notice. She wore baggy clothes. Her mother worker so much, to support her and Leslie that she was always gone until late at night. Leslie was starved of help. She needed to talk to someone. All she needed was a hug, and a simple “It’s going to be ok Leslie..”. That never happened. The people who could help her were to late. They waited to long to help her. They lost their only chanced to keep her on this earth. Her calls for help were never answered.


Somewhere under Tim's floppy brown hair, behind his liquid pale blue eyes, buried deep inside his cavernous gut, two words remained submerged under a lifetime of wrong turns and inevitable misfortunes. He could see them in his mind, feel them hanging on the tip of his tongue; he could use them as a whisper when he nuzzled his face into Carlie, the brown dachshund that seemed to be the only living mammal that understood him; he could feel them like a silent warmth crawling up his spine. But saying them aloud to Maureen? Fuck no. Saying 'thank you' wasn't an option. Maybe if they were back in that tiny apartment on Hereford Avenue, where their mother would cook runny eggs while smoking Marlboro Lights and their Dad would saunter in wearing his blue rumpled uniform smelling like gasoline, Jim Beam and Molly Lynch's perfume, he could find a way. Molly lived three floors above the O'Connell family, which would explain why neighbors wondered why Mickey was heading down in the elevator several times a week. But never on Sunday. On the seventh day, Tim would clip on his little red and blue striped tie, Maureen would lace up her frilly pink dress, their Dad would comb his hair straight back, and Eileen, well, on Sundays, she smelled like cigarettes and Jim Beam, and everyone at St. Ignatius got a whiff as she received Communion. As mom and daughter received Communion. The O'Connell men left as spectators at the pew. Tim couldn't remember a time when Maureen wasn't leading the way, her brown pigtails bouncing ahead of him as she marched through life with unshakeable confidence. Two years younger, yet she'd always been the one to grab his hand when crossing the street, or to speak up when the lunch lady short-changed him, or to stand between him and their father's bourbon-fueled rages. Tim wanted to be the Big Brother, the prodigal son guiding his family out from the shadows. But he couldn't. Not really. Not the way she could. By the time Maureen was ten, she was balancing their mother's checkbook. At twelve, she was negotiating with bill collectors. At fourteen, she had broken many hearts, including Joe Flaherty's, Tim's best friend. And then there was the internship she turned into a VP role at the bank. It grated on him, this relentless competence. Each of Maureen's successes felt like a personal affront, small attacks, reminders that Tim was born under an unlucky star. He was supposed to be the protector, the one with all the answers. Instead, he was perpetually stumbling in his little sister's wake, struggling to keep up with her effortless stride through life. And now, at thirty-seven, with Maureen yet again coming to his rescue—this time with a spare room in her sleek downtown apartment after his latest job loss—Tim felt that familiar resentment bubbling up. It mixed toxically with the grudging gratitude he couldn't bring himself to voice, creating a cocktail of emotions that threatened to choke him every time he looked at her. How do you thank someone for saving your life when you resent them for having to do it in the first place? Their recent routine found Tim in the kitchen, stitching together some protein and starch; the least he could do was get dinner together before Maureen arrived home from work. As he cut the potatoes and browned the ground beef, he couldn't help but chuckle--he was only a head of cabbage away from recreating a staple from their childhood. Paper plates set on the table. Lids on the pots to keep the food warm. Pitcher of water filled to the brim.

Tim put on the TV and waited for his sister to arrive. An episode and a half of Six Feet Under later, and still no Maureen. Hungry and annoyed, Tim made a lukewarm plate and retreated back to the couch. It was unlike her not to be in touch over the past few weeks, even on the nights she was clearly overworked and underwhelmed with her job. Did she tell him about some forced corporate dinner that he forgot about? Maybe a hair appointment or something? He had noticed the wings of her wispy hair turning gray. Tim passed out and dreamed his usual dream. The one where a man with big muscular arms was attacking his dad. It was always an unprovoked attack, and it always ended the same way: Tim's tiny fists feeling like flea bites on the back of the man who wished ill will on his dad. Or sometimes, the stab of a knife or shot from a gun is laughed off by the unknown assailant. Maureen was there, always. But she would be going about her business, oblivious to the ruckus the O'Connell men were embroiled in. It was 2:43am when the cell phone woke him. The hospital said something about an accident. Next thing Tim knew, he was standing in the waiting room at Bingham General clutching a paper cup filled with cold coffee.

A doctor approaches wearing a grave expression, explaining that Maureen has been in a serious car accident. She's in rough shape but expected to recover fully. The gravity of it all crashes down on Tim. He internally commits to be there for it all. Cooking dinners, doing the laundry, driving Maureen to physical therapy, whatever she needs, he will do. Using actions instead of words to solve problems has always been the O'Connell way. But when Tim enters Maureen's hospital room and sees her lying there full of tubes; dried blood in her ponytail; a small, crooked apologetic smile on her face, he loses all control. It's not a sob, it's a hysterical cry, his body convulsing under the weight of decades of missed expectations. Yet he's grateful. So grateful. Maureen is alive. And the realization is piercing. Maureen is the one who kept him alive. He steadies his legs as he approaches the bed and sits on a small stool. Gently grabbing her cold, fragile hand, Tim says: "Thank you. For everything. You saved me." Her hand tightens around his as tears stream down her cheeks.


First Day at School

I kept telling myself to be brave but it wasn’t working. In fact, I was shaking in my shoes as I watched the scruffy looking kid with dirty blonde hair and a snotty nose get ever closer. I’d been watching him for more than a minute, making his way along the queue of primary school students, many of them first-timers, like me. He looked mean and, by the way he shouted at the other kids and roughed up the smaller ones, I could tell he was a nasty piece of work. I was petrified. It was a quarter to nine and there must have been well over a hundred kids all in various degrees of slouch as they waited in an untidy line for access into the playground of St. Joseph’s Primary School. Some bounced balls against the black stone wall, a couple of girls played hop scotch and others raced around playing tag. Most just stood around chattering noisily and eyeing off the newcomers, those for whom this was a painful first day at school. I watched nervously as Snotty Nose grabbed a younger kid by the shirt front and demanded he hand over any sweets he had. The kid protested saying he had none and got a rough slap across the ears for his trouble. I could feel my knees tremble as the bully drew level and turned his sneering face towards me. Although I wasn’t aware of it at the time, I was probably an outstanding target for anyone wanting to vent their spleen on a lesser mortal. With scrawny body and skinny legs to match, I was wearing a maroon beret than mum insisted made me look ‘intelligent.’ My white, matchstick legs poked out of grey flannel shorts and ended in black wooden clogs which, when I walked,  gave the impression that they were about to pull my poor legs from their sockets! “Gimme yer chewy,” he demanded, seeing that I had chewing gum in my mouth and that I was chomping on it vigorously to alleviate my nerves. As a six year old in a new country, I was totally in awe of all the older local kids. My family had arrived in Northern England just two weeks before Christmas and we were living with my grandma and grandad, mum’s parents. Today was to be my first day of schools after the Christmas break. Everything was so strange apart from the lousy weather which was depressingly similar to what we’d left behind in County Mayo! The bully had me completely frozen with fear as he was bigger and older than me and pushed his ugly face into mine, demanding a response. I opened my mouth to say something but could scarcely form the words. When I did manage to babble something about not having any more chewing gum, he erupted in a scream of derision. “Hahaha, we got a bloody foreigner ‘ere – can’t even speak proper English, he can’t. Say that again, kid! Where you from, you bloody foreigner?” I could understand his heavy Lancashire accent no better than he could understand my thick Irish brogue and that wasn’t going to be any help in this situation. I tried to say something again but found myself blabbering incoherently. Then, to my horror, the bully reached into his trouser pocket and produced a shiny red pocket knife which he proceeded to open with a flourish. I almost wet myself! “You’re probably hiding a packet of chewy under that stupid looking beret,” he sneered and reached out, grabbing the little wick on top of my beret between the thumb and finger of one hand while he deftly sliced it off with the penknife in the other! “OK, that’s enough!” The girl’s voice was strong and harsh and I recognised it immediately. Moira, my older sister, stepped in from behind me and gave Snotty Nose a rough push in the chest which was strong enough to send him staggering backwards. A cheer went up from all the kids standing close by. Moira was 3 years older than me, about the same age as my assailant, but she was tall for her age. “You leave my brother alone or you’ll have me to deal with!” I could hardly believe my ears but here was my big brave sister sticking up for me in front of the whole school! The bully’s face turned scarlet with rage and embarrassment – embarrassment at being humiliated by a mere girl! He regained his balance and made a lunge at Moira but was stopped in his tracks as she swung her school satchel in a wide arc and caught him fair across the face. That blow sent him flat on his back and he was obviously seeing stars. Just then the school bell rang and the sea of kids surged forward through the gate and headed for their classes. Talk about ‘Saved by the bell…’ Moira turned briefly towards me and gave me a wink. “See you at lunch time kid,” was all she said and disappeared into the crowd. I shuffled along with a score or more other first timers towards the principal’s office, as previously instructed, and it was here that we were given the induction speech by a bespectacled Mr. Grimsby, a large, imposing man in a grey double breasted suit. The speech basically consisted of a list of does and don’ts and the corresponding punishments for anyone foolish enough to disregard them. We were then marched down the corridor to our new classroom where we were introduced to Miss Snape, the teacher charged with our education for the next twelve months. Miss Snape reminded me of a stork with wire rimmed spectacles on the end of its beak. She walked like a stork, too, seeming to be pulled along by an invisible string attached to the end of her long beaky nose. Our new teacher allocated us seats at the old oak desks which smelled of plasticine and glue. Next came her little speech which was almost a repeat of Grimsby’s but with a few embellishments. The message was the same though – do as you’re told, don’t step out of line, talk out of turn or think outside the box. That was how things were done in 1950. The first lesson of the day and for countless days hence, was Religious Instruction. It was through these classes that we learnt of the omnipotence of the Holy Roman Catholic Church, the mystery of three gods in one – Father, Son and Holy Ghost and how god the father sent his only son to redeem us, the wicked, evil human race from our sins and the power of Satan. At least RI wasn’t too taxing on the brain since we weren’t expected to understand these holy mysteries – we just had to accept them as true and without question. The next lesson, Maths or Arithmetic as it was called then, was all together different. We were actually expected to learn something and come up with answers which were either right or wrong – no ‘maybes’ where numbers were concerned. I hated this subject and never did well in it though a good memory came to my rescue on many occasions. It was towards the much-anticipated end of the Arithmetic lesson that Miss Snape, preceded by her beak, made a beeline towards where I was sitting. “Stand up child,” she spat. Already traumatised by the events earlier that morning, I could scarcely believe that I was in the firing line again. ‘ This is really not my day ,’ was the thought that shot through my mind as I squirmed up from my seat. “Am I mistaken or are you actually chewing gum in my class?” she demanded.    “Ye-yes, miss,” I stammered. “Get out here in front of the class,” she ordered “and throw that filthy gum in the waste basket!” I did as instructed. “What’s your name, boy?” “Kevin Hogan, Miss,” “Well, Kevin Hogan,” – she mouthed my name as if she were eating a turd – “the next time I catch you with gum or anything else in your mouth, you’ll get six of the best. And that goes for the rest of you lot,” she whirled around pointing the ruler she was wielding at the class who sat there wide-eyed in terror. I started to edge my way back to the relative safety of my desk when she turned on me again. “Where do you think you’re going?” The bespectacled beak stabbed the air in my direction then, before I could muster an answer, “Get into the corner behind the blackboard and put your hands on your head. You can stay there for the rest of the lesson.” For the next forty minutes I endured the discomfort of having to keep my hands clasped on my head but I smiled to myself at having escaped the greater torture of unfathomable numbers. Finally, the school bell rang to herald the midday lunch break. Having learnt my lesson, I stayed put until the stork gave me permission to join the other students exiting the classroom. Once in the playground, we all congregated on a low stone wall under an old sycamore tree and unpacked our lunches. Mum had done corned beef and mustard pickle which she knew I liked and, as a special treat, a slice of Christmas cake that had survived the Festive Season. I was chuffed to realise that my run-in with Miss Snape had conferred something of a badge of honour on me: the first kid to cop a punishment in the new term and I wallowed in the notoriety. But at the same time, I was as nervous as a bandit in a barroom and kept my eyes peeled for the snot-nosed bully in case he came looking for me. I breathed a silent sigh of relief when I noticed my brave sister Moira just a few yards away chatting and laughing with her own classmates and knew she was keeping an eye out for me.

Though not completely unscathed, I had survived my first morning at school. Then the bell rang again signalling the end of lunch recess. As we traipsed back to class I wondered, what would the afternoon bring?


 Perched on the sofa in his darkly lit apartment, Joseph took a swig of his cold beer. Observing her dance today had opened his eyes once again, peering back into the several memories of just him and her. He hated it. Despised that it was a part of his past, a piece of him he would never get back.

She was incessantly burned into his brain. Her doe brown eyes shone with excitement and she twirled around in the studio, her dress trailing behind her. Tendrils of her lush hair framed her face, and Joseph’s thoughts wandered away. A beautiful smile graced her face. She was bent gracefully into her plié, jumping onto her toes. As she twirled, her eyes caught Joseph’s, and her brows settled into a gentle frown. Their eyes were set on one another as she tilted into an arabesque, sweat forming on her forehead. She seemed close to losing control, her legs shaking as she jumped into a rélévé. Strangely, that made Joesph break into a smile. He still had an effect on her.

Glancing away, she continued. Joseph’s heart was in his throat as he looked down, his smile evaporating.

He couldn’t gaze at her any longer. How could he, when she pretended like he didn’t exist? Yet, he looked. And she had gone off again, running into a pirouette, her back arching. Joseph could hear the intake of breath from the dancers around him as she sprang into a jété. His heart hammered as he watched on. She was radiant; a light in his life and the flame that made him brought him back to life.

Which had now been extinguished. She leapt and landed in another plié, ending her routine. Applause rang through the air as she bowed, the top of her head nearly touching the floor. Joseph glanced at Madame Bangère, an unusual smile forming on her face. Cordelia rose from her stance. And Joseph, unable to regard any longer, strode to the nearest exit and left. He could feel Cordelia’s eyes burn into the back of his skull, yet he couldn’t get himself to turn around.

Rushing out of the building, he fisted his hands into his trousers. The facade of cool indifference and arrogance had long dissipated from his face, abandoning him to his thoughts.

He had to get away.

Staying anywhere closer to her would resurrect all those memories he spent months trying to push down. Push until they wouldn’t agonise him anymore. He couldn’t bear the heartache. So he left, rushing to the nearest bar. Pacing into Joe’s Gift, he perched on the seat at the counter, head in his hands. All the memories were rushing back, and he had no clue how he would stop it. Ordering a drink, he gazed at the room, staring at the people. How were they able to let go of their lives so easily, not caring about the world as they drank themselves to sleep?

Rolling his eyes, he banged his head across the surface, unaware of the curious looks towards him. With shaky hands, he accepted his drink. He didn’t want to look at the bartender. Didn’t want to wither under her pitiful gaze. So he downed his drink in long gulps, hoping to eradicate himself from all thoughts. Cordelia. Cordelia. The memory of her encompassed him entirely. He knew he would never forget her face. And how could he, when they used to mean so much to each other?

Running his fingers through his hair, he asked for another drink. Beside him, a woman abruptly coughed. He twisted his head, only to meet coffee brown eyes. They were lined with black, just how Cordelia did hers when she would prepare for a dance. She adorned herself with gold jewellery and a beautiful silk dress that hugged her body. She was beautiful, Joseph realised, but she was dull compared to Cordelia.

Even so, they significantly resembled each other. The woman smiled and, unsure, Joseph smiled back. She raised her eyebrow and asked, “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Lost for words, Joseph kept quiet. Carefully, she scooted closer to him. Her eyes sparkled. Yet the uncanny similarity to Cordelia’s caused Joesph’s heart rate to increase. How long had it been since he had talked to another woman? Pretending as if he and Cordelia were only enemies had made Joseph weary, and he had lost all interest in anything other than dancing and keeping up the façade. He’d no longer wanted her; their relationship pushed him to his boundaries. Maybe he was unfair, or perhaps too insensitive. Yet the definition of their love was somehow lost in their desire to keep everything a secret.

He didn’t think he would ever forget the cruel words they had aimed at each other. They scarred him like any other wound, pushing further, deeper into his skin. He had lost her; lost one of the most important people in his life because he couldn’t handle his emotions. It angered him. It angered him more than he cared to admit.

He was pulled out of his reverie when the woman snapped her fingers, her gentle smile replaced with a scowl. Running his fingers through his hair, he grabbed his drink, pushing himself away from her. He realised he couldn’t do this.

He couldn’t betray Cordelia like this. He wouldn’t. Even if he could never have her again, it wasn’t fair to use his love and hatred for her as a motive to like someone else. He couldn’t do it when she was all he could think about. Because, after all this time, she still meant more to him than he cared to admit. Betraying her was the last thing he could do. He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t ruin any chance he had of making her smile again.

His eyes burned, tears falling down his cheeks. Closing his eyes, he inhaled slowly. Cordelia would never exit his mind, and Joesph had to accept that. He had to accept everything that was coming to him. Because he knew he deserved it. Shaking his head, he chugged his last drink and left the bar.


“Arlow, I got something to ask you. Wait, maybe I shouldn’t ask you. What do you think, Arlow? Should I ask you?” “I don’t know, Lance.” Arlow locked the club room, tucking the key into his bag.

The season had turned fairly cold, and the few students milling around the university campus were bundled in woolen hats and thick coats, a few with twined hands and smitten expressions.

Every year Arlow would often ignore the fact that it was Valentine's day. It was a sickly sweet holiday that often had him gagging as soon as he stepped out the door to red colourful billboards. But this year, gazing at the couples made him feel even colder. He knew he’d be staying late for practice, but had still forgotten to bring his scarf. The harsh chill bit into his neck. Even he could be a bit of an idiot sometimes. Then again, the reason he was always staying late for practice was the idiot standing in front of him, hemming and hawing loudly.

“I guess it’s okay,” Lance said finally, two decibels too loud, “Because I always ask you things. Say, Arlow, what’s the coolest way to confess to someone?” “Confess what?” “You know! That you like someone.” Arlow stared politely at him, letting his breath fog in a thin stream, and then walked off towards the school gates.

Perhaps Lance had accidentally watched a romantic movie. Or one of their friends had set him off in some vindictive text. It was the season of course.

Not that Arlow followed Lance’s love life closely. Though, recently he did have a personal interest. “It should be exciting, right?” Lance hummed to himself in deep thought, arms crossed. Even in his winter jacket, his sleeves were still slightly pushed up. His obnoxious resolution to the chill only made Arlow feel colder. “In what way, Lance,” he said politely. “Like what if I was in a volleyball game! Nationals! And I was smashing down this killer straight! Then I yell out, I like you!” Lance imitated the straight a few times, as if he hadn’t already practiced for an hour. “I don’t know who would hate you more,” Arlow said thoughtfully, “Our team or the other team.” “What?” Lance staggered back, shocked, but quickly jogged to catch up. “What if it was a killer cross?” “The move isn’t the problem, Lance.” “Killer feint?” “Why would you think that’s different?” They walked in almost silence for a while, broken occasionally by Lance’s groans at some thought or another. He wondered if Lance actually did have something in mind.

No, that would be absurd. Lance only had volleyball on his mind. But perhaps Arlow had been conceited in this assurance. He had always let his feelings rest within him, quiet and unbidden. “What about a killer cut shot?” Lance said, thumping his fist into his hand triumphantly. “Perhaps,” Arlow said, reluctant, “you should consider the classics.” Lance tilted his head to the side. “What makes a good confession.” Arlow rubbed the joint of his index finger. “The purpose of a confession”. “You’re right, Arlow!” Lance’s yell attracted some stares of passing students. Arlow tucked his head down further into his collar, the material bunching up black curls around the nape of his neck. They moved steadily towards the station. Flyers with hearts stared back at him with their crossed T’s and dotted I’s. Arlow’s nose scrunched and his eyes crinkled at the sides. It felt like everything about today was mocking him.

There were more pedestrians now, though he didn’t fear losing Lance in a crowd. The twin tufts of his ochre hair stuck out from the crowd, but he could always follow Lance’s outraged hollering if need be.

“I think the coolest confession would make their hearts skip a beat,” Lance decided. “Heart palpitations are a serious medical occurrence.” “Arlow! Listen, what if it’s not about how loud you yell it, but what you say.” Lance’s forehead knitted itself into knots. “A clever way of saying it!” “For example?” “Like if I said to you, give me all your tosses.” Lance grinned, crossing his arms over his chest. He was practically sparkling under the station lights, enamored by his own genius. “That would be very annoying. For another thing, it’s impractical. Have you forgotten about your teammates? Think about the other team, as well. They would—” “I get it! Geez!” Lance closed his eyes, grimacing. Even the ends of his spiky hair seemed to be drooping. Arlow withheld a sigh, a mixture of annoyance and a little bit, just the tiniest bit, of exasperated affection. “But it’s not a bad idea,” he finally said. “Speaking about something only the two of you know is romantic.” “Right? Right?” Lance opened his eyes, grin returned. “A secret code! Like a cool confession in Latin!” “Well,” Arlow said, ignoring the stupider parts of the statement, “A love letter is also classic.” “Love letter!” This time, the yell certainly did attract the attention of the people on the platform. But the train pulled up in a loud grumble, leaving Lance to mull as they entered. There was only one seat left, which Arlow took. This already happened once or twice, and Lance always vehemently insisted that Arlow take it. Given how loudly Lance squabbled, Arlow conceded without much resistance. Besides, he did like their quiet times. Lance stood in front of him, withstanding the train’s lull. When Lance was quiet, he could be quite handsome. He had a somber silhouette and a serious composure, face strict lines and eyes bright on an unmovable point. Annoyingly, though, Arlow also missed the loud Lance at these times. It was strange not to see him yelling, his eyebrows quirking. He was someone always in motion. Arlow looked down, tracing the line of his pinky finger. It was all Lance’s fault, him and his strange conversation, which made him think about these things. He should stop thinking about it. He wondered if this hypothetical person who deserved all these confessions even knew about this side of Lance. “A love letter,” Lance said somberly, “is like a gift, isn’t it? Then isn’t the more the better? Wouldn’t your heart skip a beat if someone confessed to you with a love letter and ten dozen roses and a coupon to the sports store and maybe that cool t-shirt in that store we saw the other day?” “That’s called a bribe, Lance.” “That’s fine, isn’t it?” His annoyed sigh must have convinced Lance back into grumbling thought.  Night had already touched down on the outside world, brushing over the buildings. The lights in the buildings flickered on, though they were only vague pulses from the faster train. In the opposite window’s reflection, he could see Lance’s broad back and his own face, subtle with an expression he couldn’t place. He lowered his eyes to the bag in his lap, following where the strap dangled over the seat. When they exited the train, the air had only gotten colder and Arlow blew on his fingers, mildly annoyed. Under the station lights, he could see the redness over his pale fingertips. A sudden warmth wrapped around his neck, and when he looked up, Lance was draping his gray scarf on Arlow’s shoulders. “Thank you, Lance.” He watched quietly as Lance tied the scarf.

“You’re choking me, Lance.” He watched quietly as Lance untied the scarf. “I guess,” Lance said, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I could say what I liked about them! During the confession. What do you think?” Arlow thought the scarf smelled like Lance, and that he didn’t dislike that. He allowed himself to touch at the fringes, guilty for some reason he couldn’t compose. “What would you say?” he asked instead. “I don’t know! I guess I’d say, you know. You know. With the you know!” “Ah.” “Don’t sound so judgmental, Arlow! You know I’m not good at this stuff!” Lance ruffled his hair in anguish. He was making some gibberish noises with his throat. “It’d be nice,” Lance said, “if after you confessed your super cool confession, they’d go out with you. Right?” “You’re not expecting that?”. “I didn’t realize it until now! I mean, it makes things a lot easier if you think about it that way. That a confession is just the start of something new.” Lance grinned, eyes glinting under the street lamp. “So you have someone in mind,” Arlow finally hedged. He turned slightly away, almost like he examining the concrete walls along the street. Lance always had good night vision. He might be able to see any suspicious flush on his face. “Hey, what’s your idea of the best confession?” Lance asked, completely ignoring him. Arlow sighed, curling his fingers around each other. “I don’t have a preference.” “Really? What would you want the person to say?” They stopped in front of Arlow’s house. Lance’s bright eyes peered at him, watching intently. It was quiet around them. Lance’s house was further away. There was a shortcut from the station, but Lance always insisted to walk together. Arlow ran his fingers along the bumps of his knuckles. He could imagine himself saying it in the heat of the moment. He could be bold and say something charming. It doesn’t matter as long as it was you, Lance. The thought made a sick feeling rise from stomach to throat. It sounded just like something those valentines flyers at the station would have written across them.

Confessions were heavy. They weighed like stones on his heart, and it would be a burden on Lance. They were constantly together, a part of each other's daily routine. It would be irresponsible and irrational for him to confess.

He ran simulations in his head, imagining his confession in a whisper to a shout, but the best outcomes were nothing but fragmented wishes. This was silly. Lance was just talking about a hypothetical situation. But the words still tingled on the tip of his tongue. At that moment, he could say it. Instead, he tightened his grip on his shoulder strap. “Isn’t it getting late?” he tried. “Come on, Arlow. Come on, tell me. Arlow, tell me. You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone else! Tell me—” “It doesn’t have to be said,” Arlow finally muttered. “You want someone to text it to you? Great idea! I found a great picture of a cat that’d fit perfectly.” “Not exactly,” Arlow said, cutting off the cat picture speech, “But sometimes, you can tell someone loves you by the things they do, and not just the things they say.” He pulled the scarf up higher against Lance’s gaze. Lance’s mouth had dropped open slightly, surprise written all over his face. He was obviously impressed by Arlow, and Arlow looked away to his house nameplate. His cheeks felt warm.

“Well, a spoken confession is better,” Arlow said, straightening his shoulders. “If I really had to say, I’d like a confession that gave me time to respond.” “I don’t get it,” Lance said with confidence. “Sometimes I’m told my expressions are difficult to read.” Arlow shrugged. “I’d just like a chance to explain myself in return, so they don’t misunderstand my expression.” “Really? But I like your expressions, Arlow. Every time you look at me, I fall in love with you all over again.” Arlow stared at the wall. “Jeez! It’s late! When did it get this late! Why didn’t you say it was this late!” Lance glared at the night sky, kicking at the pebbles in the road. “I was going to do stuff tonight, too.” “I… did tell you. Lance.” His words sounded stiff, but Lance apparently didn’t notice, groaning to himself. “What? Well, whatever. Get to bed early, that’s an order, Arlow!” Lance waved, walking off down the street. Arlow opened his mouth, but he couldn’t even consider what he was trying to say. He hadn’t misheard. The words rang distinctly in his ears. He was having heart palpitations. He was an idiot. He was an absolute idiot to be so swept up in such stupid words. Lance hadn’t even realized it, but here he was, heart beating in his ears and face definitely redder than any reasonable excuse in the cold. He leaned against the wall, pressing a cool hand against his forehead. But Lance had definitely said love. He said love. He was in love with him. This entire stupid time, he’d been trying to stupidly research the best way to say it. Lance was an idiot. He was an idiot.

His thoughts were fluttering around him, and he wound the fringe of the scarf around his fingers tightly. The heat flamed up from inside him. He had buried something deep within himself with an impractical carelessness. Someday, he always told himself, but that someday was here, and he could feel it grow inside of him, warm and happy. Happy. He was happy. He could indistinctly hear rapid footsteps approaching him. Someone in a remarkably fast run. Finally, he looked up to see Lance flying at him in a flurry of kicked-up snow, face a matching flush. “Arlow!” he yelled. “I messed up! Wait, forget about that! It slipped out! Arlow! I was going to do it during a killer joust! Arlow! Let me do it again! Hold on! I’ll do a better confession! Arlow!”. Arlow turned away, pressing the scarf to his face to hide his expression. He supposed they could be idiots together. “Hey,” he finally said, cutting off Lance’s frantic squawks, “What do you think is the coolest way of telling someone that you like them too?”.


Chapter 1: Alex's Growing Unease Alex walked to the backdoor of the community hall, his eyes scanning over the wedding preparations. It had been a long day in the fields, and he wiped the caked dirt off his clothes. The pristine white tablecloths, neatly arranged floral centerpieces, and gleaming silverware should have filled him with anticipation. Instead, a knot formed in his stomach. Leah glided over, her steps deliberate. "There ya are, Alex. What d'ya think of the decorations? Our families worked so hard on 'em." He conjured a grin. "They're... nice." "Jus' nice?" Leah's brow furrowed. "The elders spent hours makin' sure everythin' was perfect." Alex nodded, searching for the right words. "Of course. It's all very proper." "As it should be," Leah's tone measured. "Our union will set an example for the younger ones." Their eyes met, but Alex felt no spark, no warmth. They were both under a lot of pressure, he assumed. The conversation flowed like a well-rehearsed play. "Have ya finished your vows?" Leah asked, smoothing her dress. "Almost," Alex lied, guilt gnawin' at him. Leah patted his arm. "You'll do fine. Remember, it's all 'bout honorin' our families and community." Alex swallowed hard. He looked at Leah, searchin' for any sign of worry in her eyes, but found only calm. "I have to go see about the napkins. Make sure we have enough." As Leah walked away, Alex's stomach churned. The pristine decorations felt suffocatin', a physical manifestation of expectations closin' in. He tugged at his collar, desperate for air. He heard raised voices from the community office window. "The arrangement was made a long time ago. There isn't a problem, is there?" That had to be David Miller's voice. Leah's father. "There's no problem with Alex. He just had a long day in the sun is all." That voice sounded a lot like his dad, George. Alex had to get away. That conversation wasn't for his ears. He wondered what they could be talking about. Were they talking about me and Leah? Alex slipped away further from the community hall and into the cool evenin'. The voices from the heated conversation still echoed in his mind, mixin' with the soft hum of cicadas. He needed to clear his head before returning home. He took a deep breath, but the air did little to calm his racing thoughts. As he walked down the path, Leah appeared out of the gloom, her steps light and steady. "Alex, wait up!" she called out, falling into step beside him. Alex forced a smile, trying to mask his turmoil. "Leah. Didn’t see you comin'." "We're ok for the napkins." Leah studied him with concern. "Is somethin' wrong? You seem a bit off." He shook his head, trying to sound casual. "Just needed some fresh air. Been a long day." Leah nodded, though her eyes remained skeptical. "Well, if there's anythin' you need to talk about, I'm here. We should be enjoyin' this, not worryin' ourselves sick." Alex offered another forced grin. "I appreciate that. Just got a lot on my mind, I s'pose." They walked in silence for a while, the tension between them palpable. Leah’s presence, though comforting, did little to ease Alex’s growing anxiety. "Well, here we are," Leah said as they reached his doorstep. "Try to relax, okay? We’ll sort through everything together." "Yeah, sure," Alex replied, managing a more genuine smile. "Thanks, Leah." As Leah walked away, Alex entered his home and slumped into the worn chair at his desk. His fingers trembled as he opened his journal. The leather-bound book creaked softly, a familiar sound that usually brought him comfort. He put pen to paper, his usually neat handwriting now marred by the slight shake in his hand. Journal Entry: "What am I doin'? This ain't right. Leah deserves better than a husband who can't even look her in the eye on her weddin' day. And me? I deserve... what? Freedom? That ain't somethin' folks 'round here talk about." Alex paused, chewing on the end of his pen. His gaze drifted to the window, where the moon hung low over the hills. "Maybe I could just pack a bag and disappear into the night. But where would I go? I don't even know the name of the next town over. And what about Leah? She seems content with all this, but is she really? Or is she just better at hidin' it?" He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "If I stay, I’m lockin' us both into a loveless marriage. If I go, I’m leavin' her to deal with the mess alone. There ain’t no easy way out of this, and no matter which path I take, I’ll be breaking something that can’t be mended." Chapter 2: Discovery of the Arrangement Alex's heart raced as he crept towards his parents' study. He had to find out more about what he’d overheard. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet, each sound amplified in the quiet house. He paused, listenin' for any sign of movement, but the farmhouse remained still. The study door loomed before him, a barrier between Alex and the truth he sought. He reached for the knob and turned it slowly. The door swung open with a soft groan. Moonlight filtered through the window, castin' long shadows across the cluttered room. Alex's eyes darted from the bookshelves to the desk, unsure where to begin. He moved cautiously, careful not to disturb anything. At the desk, he pulled open the top drawer. Papers rustled as he rifled through them, searchin' for anything related to the "arrangement" he’d overheard. His fingers brushed against a thick folder tucked beneath a stack of bills. Alex's breath caught in his throat as he pulled it out. The label read "Simmons-Miller Union." His and Leah's last names. With shakin' hands, he opened the folder, revealin' a stack of documents inside. As he read, his eyes widened. The truth was there, hidden in black and white. Alex's hands trembled as he leafed through the documents. His eyes darted across the pages. The papers were yellowed with age, some datin' back to when he was just a boy. One letter caught his attention. It was from his father to Leah's, written nearly two decades ago. "The union of our families through Alex and Leah will strengthen our community and preserve our ways." Alex's stomach churned. He read on, discoverin' more letters and agreements. Each one laid out plans for his and Leah's future, decidin' their fate long before they had any say in it. A document titled "Marriage Arrangement" bore both sets of parents' signatures. The date showed Alex had been only eight years old when it was signed. He found detailed plans for their education, courtship, and even the number of children they were expected to have. Every aspect of their lives had been arranged. Alex's mind reeled, makin' it hard to breathe. His entire life, his relationship with Leah, it had all been orchestrated from the start. The next mornin', Alex's hands shook as he clutched the folder of documents. He found his parents in the kitchen, the scent of fresh coffee fillin' the air. "Ma, Pa, we need to talk," Alex said, his voice barely above a whisper. His father looked up from his newspaper, brow furrowed. "What's troublin' ya, son?" Alex set the folder down on the table. "I found these in your study. About me and Leah." His mother's face paled as she recognized the documents. "Alex..." Alex interrupted, his voice crackin'. "Why'd you plan our whole lives without tellin' us?" His father sighed, puttin' down his coffee cup. "Son, you have to understand. This marriage, it's more than just about you and Leah." "It's a strategic move," his mother added quietly. "To combine our resources with the Millers, to strengthen our position in the community." Alex's chest tightened. "So we're just followin' orders our whole lives?" His father leaned forward, eyes stern. "This isn't a game, Alex. It's about preservin' our ways, our values. The community needs strong families like ours to lead by example." Alex's head spun as his parents continued to justify their actions. They talked about him and Leah as if they were farm animals they owned. Just then, a knock at the door interrupted their heated discussion. Elder Jonathan Blake and Elder Samuel Greene stepped into the kitchen, their presence fillin' the room with an air of authority. "We just wanted to come by and see how y'all were doin'. The big day is comin' up," Elder Jon said, his friendliness barely maskin' his stern aura. He smiled despite the obvious tension. Alex's father nodded, gesturin' to the documents on the table. "Alex found out about the arrangement." Elder Sam's eyes softened as he looked at Alex. "Son, this union is blessed by the church. It's for the good of all." As Alex listened to the elders speak, his gaze drifted to the living room where Ethan sat, readin' a book. His breathin' mask was strapped to his face. A thought struck him like a bolt of lightnin'. "What about Ethan?" Alex asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Was he ever part of any plan?" The room fell silent. His parents exchanged uncomfortable glances. Elder Jon cleared his throat. "Your brother's... condition made him unsuitable for such arrangements." The realization hit Alex hard. While he'd been groomed for a predetermined life, Ethan had been left out entirely. The unfairness of it all made his stomach churn. Chapter 3: Alex’s Choice Alex's heart pounded as he entered the Community Church. The familiar scent of wood polish and old hymnals did little to calm his nerves. His parents, Leah, her folks, and the elders were already seated in a semi-circle near the altar. "Alex, come join us," Elder Jonathan called, his voice echoin' off the high ceilings. Alex took a deep breath and stepped forward. The weight of his newfound knowledge pressed down on him like a physical burden. "Before we start," Alex said, his voice shakin' slightly, "I need to say somethin'." All eyes turned to him. Leah's brow furrowed in confusion. "I know about the arrangement," Alex continued, his words gainin' strength. "I found the documents. This marriage, our whole lives, it's all been planned out since we were kids." A heavy silence fell over the group. His father's face hardened, while his mother looked away. Leah's eyes widened in shock. "You've all been decidin' our futures without even askin' us," Alex said, his voice risin'. "Did anyone ever think about what we might want?" Elder Samuel leaned forward, his expression stern. "Alex, you need to understand-" "No," Alex interrupted, surprisin' himself with his boldness. "I understand plenty. What I don't get is how y'all thought this was right." Alex's gaze swept across the faces before him, a mix of shock, disappointment, and anger starin' back. His hands trembled, but he clenched them into fists, steadyin' himself. "Why?" he demanded, his voice echoin' through the church. "Why'd you decide our lives before we could even speak for ourselves?" Elder Jonathan cleared his throat. "Alex, this is about more than just you and Leah. It's about the community, our way of life-" "Our way of life?" Alex scoffed. "You mean controllin' every aspect of our lives?" "Alex, stop." Leah's voice quaked slightly. Her eyes looked down at her hands. The elders exchanged glances, their faces growin' stern. Elder Samuel leaned forward, his voice low and menacin'. "Think carefully about what you're doin', boy," he warned. "Defyin' the community has consequences. You'd be turnin' your back on everything and everyone you've ever known." Alex felt a chill run down his spine, but he stood his ground. "And if I do? What then?" "Then you'll be cast out," Elder Jonathan said, his voice heavy with finality. "No family, no friends, no support. Is that what you want?" Alex's heart raced as he looked around the church, takin' in the faces of those who'd shaped his entire life.

He thought about the safety of the path laid out before him - the familiar routines, the community support, the life he'd always known. But with that safety came an invisible cage, one that had been slowly closin' in on him since birth. The uncertainty of the unknown loomed large in his mind. What would life be like outside the Appalachia? How would he survive without the only support system he'd ever known? Alex's gaze fell on Leah, her eyes wide with confusion and hurt. He felt a pang of guilt, knowin' his decision would affect her too. But as he looked at her, he realized they were both victims of others' choices. In that moment, somethin' inside Alex snapped. The fear and doubt melted away. "No," he said, his voice steady and clear. "I won't do it. I won't marry Leah, and I won't let you control my life no more." Alex stood tall, his resolve strengthenin' with each passin' moment. The weight of expectation that had burdened him for so long began to lift, replaced by a newfound sense of freedom. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice steady. "But I can't live my life based on your plans. I need to find my own way." Elder Jonathan's face reddened. "You're throwin' away everything we've built for you!" Alex shook his head. "No, I'm choosin' to build somethin' for myself." He turned to Leah, her eyes red. "I'm sorry, Leah. You deserve better than this, too." With a deep breath, Alex turned and walked down the aisle. The heavy wooden doors of the church creaked as he pushed them open, steppin' out into the warm sunlight. He paused on the church steps, the world suddenly seemin' both vast and unknown. Fear and uncertainty swirled in his gut, but underneath it all, a spark of excitement flickered to life. Alex took his first step away from the church, away from the life that had been planned for him. He didn't know where he was goin' or what lay ahead, but for the first time in his life, the choice was his to make.