Chapter 1 Harriet Olson was a stellar pixie. She loved looking up at the stars at night. They were particularly beautiful tonight. They were her ancestors and she loved them with all her heart. They told her, everything would be ok, if she just followed her destiny. But Harriet didn’t know what her destiny was yet. One day her friend Takeshi Trescothik, came with grave news. Takeshi was an elf and Harriet’s best and only friend. He was blonde and loved archery. He was also in Harriet’s opinion not all that bad looking. “The troll king had declared war on the stellar pixies” he told her. Why you may ask? Because he looked directly at the sun and was now blind. (Trolls are very sensitive to daylight you see, that’s why they live under bridges). Harriet was scared. The trolls were one of the toughest of all creatures and if they wanted to start a war with the stellar pixies, Harriet was in BIG trouble. She had previously escaped from the troll kings’ dungeons. Where they had forced her to clean the troll kings’ lavatory After that she had to change her name and looks. She didn’t want to go back ever! Noticing the horrified look on Harriet’s face an idea stuck him. “Why not come to my place? I have a spare room that you might be able to hide in at the back of the house. No one ever really goes down that end so you won’t be found,” he suggested. Harriet wasn’t sure, Takeshi liked having parties and if she was spotted it would be back to the troll kings’ dungeons for her. The troll king would probably have Takeshi executed for hiding an undesirable. Harriet did not want that to happen. Not to her best friend. Not to anyone. “no, it’s okay Takeshi you don’t need to go into all that trouble. I will be perfectly fine. You go home and forget you ever knew me. I don’t want you getting killed,” Harriet All of a sudden there was a thunderous knock on the door. “it’s the trolls. They’ve come to take me away. You must go. Forget you ever met me. Go now before they see you.” But Takeshi did not leave. “if we go down then we go down together. None of this go and forget you rubbish. That’s the last thing I want.” Harriet looked down sheepishly. She didn’t know what to do say. Takeshi gave Harriet a look she didn’t quite understand. It was angry yet there was a hidden softness in his gaze. Gazing in his eyes Harriet’s resolve melted away. “Oi! Open this bloody door now or someone is going to get hurt.” Harriet almost jumped out of her skin. She had completely forgotten about their unwanted visitor. “Okay, no need to get your knickers in a knot,” replied Takeshi. “Quick go hide in the backyard and I will come get you when their gone” he whispered to her and kissed her on the cheek. Harriet stopped. A thousand feelings running through her mind at once. Why did he do that? Does he like her? Her mind ran alongside her body.  “You have until the count of three.” Went the troll at the door. “Go, now.” Harriet looked into his eyes one last time and the turned. Why did he look so sad? Was there something he wasn’t telling her? “One,” Harriet ran out the back door. It didn’t feel right leaving Takeshi behind. Lost in her thoughts and oblivious to her surroundings, she ran into something. She was thrown back onto the pebble path, leading to the garden shed. Lights popped behind her eyelids. Slowly she raised herself up to look at what it was that knocked her over. As soon as she opened them she wished she didn’t. right there in front of her was the very thing she was trying to run away from. A troll. 6-foot tall and smelling of manure. This was one of the many devils of earth. Looking around Harriet saw that there was 3 of them. The one she bumped into was leaning forward, reaching out to grab her with its’ enormous hand Harriet tried to scream but it was as though something was tightening around her neck, cutting off her air. As she was lifted from the ground she finally managed to make an ear splitting scream. Startled by the sudden noise, the troll dropped her and she fell on her ankle. “ahhhhh!” she screamed. It felt as though someone had shoved a red hot dagger through her foot. The troll had already recovered from the noise and was advancing on Harriet. “You hurt my ears. You’re a horrid little pixie,” said the one nearest to her “I’m gonna enjoy ripping off those scrawny little arms of yours.” Panicking Harriet tried to run away but her ankle would not hold her weight. she collapsed and with more jeers from the trolls, was swept from the ground. She bit the hand holding her and She was flung backwards into the garden shed, once again there were lights popping behind her eyes. She felt a trickle of blood drip from her nose Chapter 2 “TAKESHI,” she screamed. “Takeshi, he…” but she didn’t have the energy to finish. She was fighting to stay conscious. There was a loud crash from the house and out came Takeshi with a long silver sword. “Get the fuck away from her or I will make you wish you were never goddamn born.” The trolls looked at each other and laughed. “Aww does the ity bity elfie wants to fight all the big bad trolls?” Harriet tried to stand up and help Takeshi but the pain was unbearable. She let out a moan. Attracting the attention of her dear friend. “What the fuck did you do to her?” he asked the trolls. No one said a thing. “I said what did you do to her! Someone better start talking or you will all be in a lot of pain.” Takeshi was madder than Harriet had ever seen him. How had the trolls not sensed it yet? “Why does it matter? Buzz off and mind your own business.” She had said the wrong thing. (Harriet knew that this one was a female because its’ voice was higher pitched). Like a bolt of lightning Takeshi swung his sword and sliced open its’ leg. “AAARRGGHH. MY LEG YOU LITTLE FUCKING ASSHOLE.” The two other trolls turned their attention to their injured comrade. In the commotion Takeshi managed to sneak over to the garden shed and tried to get Harriet to stand “Come on. we need to get moving. They won’t stay sympathetic it each other for long and trust me you don’t want to be around a troll on a search for revenge.” He tried to help Harriet up but as soon as she put pressure on her foot she collapsed in a heap on the ground, moaning in pain. “I can’t stand. I think I might have broken it when one of them dropped me.” Harriet wiped her nose with the sleeve of her sweater, for a moment she was surprised to see blood, then she remembered. “oh yeah, and then I was thrown into the side of the shed. I think I might have hit my head or something. I dunno can’t really remember.” She said looking up at her friend and saviour his outline blurred. “Ugh I think I’m gonna puke,” and then she emptied her stomach onto the stones. “delicious” she said sarcastically with a look of pure disgust on her face. “Okay, put your arm around my neck and I’ll help you up.” So with a little help from her friend Harriet finally managed to get up. White faced and stony, Harriet and Takeshi sneak through the back gate and into the dark woods beyond. After 2 hours of walking Harriet began to get light headed. “I need to stop Takeshi. I can’t keep walking,” “Please Harriet there isn’t too far left to go. I’ve been here before, there’s a cave just up ahead.” Harriet tried to nod her head but just a small movement sent her whole head spinning. After another five minutes though it was nightfall and not even takeshi wanted Harriet to keep walking. She was unstable and kept tripping over roots and branches. “Let’s just rest here for now.” Glad for the rest Harriet laid on the ground next to where her friend was sitting. Harriet lay gazing at Takeshi. He was sitting there not saying a word. After a while Harriet broke the silence. “come lay down,” she said pushing herself up onto her elbows. “you need to rest. Please?” With a small smile he laid down and put his arm under Harriet’s head. She laid back down and he wrapped his other arm around her waist. A feeling of comfort spread through Harriet, she knew as long as she was with Takeshi everything would be okay. As she lay she looked up at the stars. The really were beautiful.


She woke up, in the middle of the night. She slowly reached out her hand to his side of the bed. His side was empty, and cold.

I want to wake up and feel his warmth, and listen to his slow, regular breathing. Now there is silence, horrible, cold silence. I had hoped it was just a bad dream, but now I know it really has happened, and that I am now truly on my own. He used to say that rest is almost as good as sleep, so at least lying awake now will not make me feel too tired in the morning. He used to tell me such interesting things, and funny stories about other people.

She felt a tear on her cheek.

We had been so careful. We always wore our face masks when we went outdoors, and we only went outdoors when we really needed to. We had both developed the coronavirus cough, an unusual, dry cough. I had got over mine but his became worse, and he had difficulty breathing. Then he had to go into hospital, then he was in intensive care, and then the hospital telephoned. We had always known that, somehow or other, the dreadful day of parting would come, but nothing prepares you for when it actually happens.

She tried to remember the good times.

We were lucky with our children. They have all turned out well, and they often come to visit. Now I will need them more than ever. Our grandchildren are either at university or starting their careers, but there are no great grandchildren, yet. We worked hard with our children. Some people say that raising a family is twenty years of hard work and worry. I would say it is more like twenty five, but it is still worth it. Seeing our children develop into good, responsible adults always made us proud, and also made us feel that we had at last earned our place in society, where we were no longer taking, but somehow we were now giving something back.

He had taught me that if you want to influence people, you have to encourage them in anything they want to do. This is because people always have doubts about doing anything new or different, and they will listen to whatever you say, and it is so useful to have this communication. We found that this is especially important with teenagers. He used to say that where youth sees opportunities, experience sees dangers, but it is no use telling teenagers what they should do, or not do, it just makes them more determined to do what they want. However, when they hear your encouragement, they will also listen when you ask, "Have you considered what will happen if..." and then they will realise possible dangers, and make changes which they think are their own ideas.

We were late teenagers when we met, and how we talked. I felt as if we had known each other all our lives, and yet we still had so many interesting things to say. What a thrill it is to discover how someone else thinks. Afterwards I felt as if I were dancing on air. I would remember all the things both of us had said. Then I would think where we would go and what we would do next time, and what we would talk about. I spent hours imagining what I would tell him, and then what he would say to me. I would day dream, a young woman's simple ideas of marriage, a home, and children calling him Daddy. I would idly write his name, drawing pictures with his initials, and then join them to mine. I practiced writing what my married name would be. I would keep looking at the clock, unable to wait to see him next. Sometimes we would meet somewhere and be some distance apart, separated by many other people, and we would slowly look towards each other, and then suddenly turn away, with a big smile, when we saw that we were both looking at each other. Ha, that was such fun. I was in love, and I knew for sure that it really was love.

We waited to get married until he had received his engineering degree. He later told me that when he first saw me, he knew that I would be his future wife. There were many temptations before we were married, but I am glad that neither of us had ever practised before our wedding night. It was so good, learning together, and putting it in its proper place by calling it "the pleasures of marriage". And what pleasure it was, when we both agreed, taking our time, each waiting until the other was ready, then watching him fall asleep afterwards, and laughing at how hungry it had made us both feel. We were free to do whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted and however we wanted. And also wherever we wanted, sometimes outdoors in the sun, or on a deserted beach, in a field or by a stream, and then lying together, naked, in the warm sunshine afterwards. That gave us a feeling of triumph, that somehow we had gained some advantage over the rest of the world. Of course, over the years, our desires faded a little. My female hormones had been telling me to, "Have a child", but after three children the calling was less. I know that the male hormones are completely different. They continually say, "Strengthen the species through genetic variety." This makes the man subconsciously think, "That means mating with as many different women as possible." It was inevitable that he would meet other women, and compare them with me, especially if they were single, younger and perhaps more physically attractive. He told me about one women who had said, "Divorce your wife and marry me". He said he had realised that things would be different, but not necessarily better, and that leaving me would make me very unhappy, and if I were unhappy, our children would be unhappy, and so for him it would simply never be worth it.

If we had divorced I would have to raise the children on my own, but it is not like a cat bringing up kittens. Humans have a complication. A girl needs a mother as a role model, and a father to show her what to look for in the man who will be the father of her children. She wants to have good babies, so she needs a good man to be the father. But how can she tell if a man is good or not ? Just because he looks like a pop star or has lots of money is no help. She needs to compare him with a man she knows, and the man she knows best is the one she has seen all her life, her father. She knows the good things about her father, especially how he treats his wife, and can use this for comparison. But without knowing her father, she cannot make any comparisons, and a few hours every other weekend, away from her mother, is hardly enough. If I were head of the government I would make a law that people could not divorce if there were children, under 18's, involved. Also, often a girl who has been raised without a father, will fall for the first man she meets, to get what she missed by not having a father to look up to. But people who marry to get something, rather than for giving or sharing, are rarely happy. This is why children of divorced parents often end up getting divorced themselves, and how divorce seems to go from one generation to the next. Similarly a boy needs a mother to see the sort of woman to marry, and a father as a role model. A boy raised without a father may find male leadership in a gang, where the gang leader takes the place of the father he should have been looking up to. A gang can be attractive for teaching a boy qualities such as loyalty and a code of honour, but which we women rarely feel as being important. If I were a single parent I could make sure that the children brushed their teeth and did their homework, but this hardly prepares them to become emotionally stable adults. All children need the security of their parents' marriage, and to know that their mother and father will always stay together.

"We did well," she thought, "but I am going to miss him so much." We tried to avoid talking about one day being parted, although we gradually made plans, like arranging things in joint names. I was never as strong as him, and I told him that if he were left on his own, I would want him to marry again, as I didn't want him to be lonely for the rest of his life. Now it will be me who will miss the laughter, the jokes and the old songs we used to sing together. Our lives had become so joined together, mainly because of the children, and running the home. We still liked doing some things together, like holidays, but we had also developed our own separate interests. Yet we also depended on each other, more and more as the years went by. We had discovered who was best at doing what, just as I had seen with my parents. We assumed that we could always rely on each other to do these things. We shared our things, even our shoes, which were the same size, and our money of course, although most of that went into paying the bills and the mortgage. Will he and I meet again ? If you go to church you are supposed to believe that we will all be reunited in Heaven, but the priest at the graveside didn't sound as if he believed it. Churches have changed. People used to say that churches were unfriendly, just you and God, but in those days you could at least go there, take part in the service, and leave without anyone bothering you. Now they all try to be so friendly, and you have to endure everyone welcoming each other. But it isn't friendly at all. "Lovely to meet you. What's your name ? Where do you live ? What does your husband do ?" All they really want is to make sure that they are socially superior. Such hypocrites. "... and everyone please stay behind after the service for tea and biscuits." More probing questions. If I go to church I want answers, not questions.

She finally fell asleep.

In the morning she woke, and she felt the warm sun on her face.


A fictional story unfortunately based on real people.

All men are carsalesmen, and it is only a matter of time before you find out he sold you a lemon. -Ana Raymond was a man, and an arrogant one at that. He was the type of man that was sure of himself, a man who possessed that perverse, yet often quite comical, faux self-awareness of the many gifts he had to offer to the world. And by the world, I mean to half of the world’s population, and by half of the world’s population, I mean the feminine half. Yes, Raymond was one of those infallible men who believed himself to be a gift given directly from the Universe itself to the women of the world.         	Yes, Raymond was a rather handsome man. Being the ripe age of thirty-three, he had a full head of dark brown hair that he kept cut short and combed over with two bright emeralds for eyes that often wandered from lady to lady. He kept himself in relative shape, disciplining himself to stay on a strict bicep-curl regiment three days a week, and Raymond was relatively tall, but the type of tall that didn’t make one think he was tall, just that he wasn’t short.         	All his life, Raymond had it easy with women; approaching them, talking to them, loving them, and most importantly, leaving them. That was what he was best at. It could almost be seen as a sort of twisted talent how easily he could abandon those he persuaded to sleep with him. No, a woman could never satisfy Raymond for long, and it was no fault of their own. How could it be? It was simply in his very nature to leave. You wouldn’t fault a polar bear for his hunting of a helpless penguin would you?

As a polar bear is indifferent to the penguin’s life story, its family, or stories of its mundane job, Raymond couldn’t be bothered to care less about the women of the world. The amount of knowledge he had on each one he seduced was their hair color and maybe a name, if he even bothered to remember, but other than that, Raymond had no desire in learning about these people. Why should he? They were women, they had nothing to offer worth mentioning anyhow. From his angle, he was blessing these lowly women with his presence, his look a generous gift, his touch a miracle from God.

With false promises of passion and romance, he’d shower las mujeres in compliments, praising their beauty and bodies, relentless in his pursuit of the diamond in their muff, until at last, he would finally have them. Always telling them he’s only passing through for one night, Raymond would take them to a random hotel on the outskirts of town, fuck them all night long, and in the morning, they would awake to a pre-typed note always beginning with, “Hey You,” saying how he regrets he couldn’t stay longer, that before he left he stopped and stared at them as they slept, thinking how beautiful it would be to wake up that face every morning. But Raymond was already back home in his own bed, sleeping soundly well into the afternoon before his next night time excursion.

Raymond sat at the bar, taking long sips from a strong cocktail, his eyes wandering around, drifting out into the restaurant before him. The restaurant, a small, intimate supper club he frequented most weekends, always reminded him of when he was a boy gazing up into the night sky in the midst of summer; a thick darkness with the tiny flickering of candles on each table twinkling, dancing, like little stars far away. In the back of the room lay the stage where four men in black suits played together in chaotic harmony. Horns blared and competed and synchronized as the drums and bass maintained the rhythm. Their faces were the only ones visible throughout the jazz supper club, each one of them glistening with sweat from the heat under the focused stage light. As he looked around the joint, he couldn’t see any of the faces of the patrons, all black shapes with no features; silhouettes that occasionally caught the flicker of the candle, revealing a small glimpse of a woman or a thinly mustached man, but for the most part, each person might as well have been a shadow. While the main dining room lay in darkness, the bar where Raymond sat every Saturday night remained relatively lit, allowing himself the pleasure of observing the multitude of people who occupied the barstools each week. Yet there was something different about this week. Raymond had seen the usual crowd, the typical Saturday night clientel wearing overly elegant clothing and too much lipstick. He had trained his eyes to see through their off-brand Gucci dresses and eau de parfum, but something peculiar stuck out to him that night. Something sitting at the end of the bar.  One of the light fixtures above the bar had busted, and, instead of pointing off-center, was fixated on a single stool at the end of the bar, and in said stool a woman sat. Not just any woman, but a woman the likes he had never seen before, a woman who immediately drew his gaze with her ebony hair that shone like black silk in the yellow glow. Her face golden, serene, her body wrapped tightly in a white dress that was reminiscent of a Michelangelo sculpture. She sat with a friend, a thicker woman with a rambunctious laugh that bothered Raymond twenty feet away.

The cheerleader effect, he thought, taking another sip, eyes locked on her like a starving wolf. She brings the fatty to make herself look better. I see your game, girl. You’ll be something else once Fatty leaves. As if the larger woman heard him, she got up, giving the white-dress woman a kiss on the cheek, and left. Wait a moment, thought Raymond. This woman in the white dress. Nothing was changing about her. She was just as beautiful now as she was with the fatty next to her. All those years of studying Barney Stinson’s philosophy on women and finally, something contradicted what Raymond had always believed to be fact. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen; at least top ten in his list of women slept with, but before he could rank her, she would have to first be on the list. He finished his drink, stood up, adjusted his tie and pressed his pants, and Raymond, with all the confidence in the world, approached the white-dressed woman.

Ana was a woman, a very smart one at that. I met her long ago, and such an impression did she leave on me at first glance that I had to know her story. So I, like Raymond, approached her one summer day in the middle of a park and asked for her name.

Born in a Cali, una ciudad caliente del sur de Colombia. Con un ritmo delicado pero fuerte al caminar, casi parecía que diera minúsculos pasos de baile, pero era el compás de su origen, inconfundible. De pelo negro largo, abundate

y aletiado, como si hubiera dejado que el viento lo hubiera estilizado durante el dia. Ojos oscuros, intensos, fijos, amables y coquetos. Pero definitivamente su sonrisa era la que inundaba el salón

con aura de alegría, el tipo de sonrisa que hace olvidar el correr del tiempo y recuerda vivir en el instante.

 Since then, she has become both my closest friend and wisest teacher. She taught me the most valuable lesson of how to be a real man, and she told this through a story she began with a man named Raymond approaching her in a dimly lit restaurant as trumpets played far away.

“Hey there,” said Raymond, sitting next to Ana. “How’s it going?” Ana said nothing, fixed her focus on the four men in black suits playing on the stage.

“Buy you a drink?” “No,” said Ana, taking a sip from a golden-yellow glass of something Raymond could not pronounce. He always had trouble saying non-American words, but never cared enough to learn. “I’m all set.” “I see that.” Raymond called the bartender over who had been polishing the same tumbler glass for the last hour. “Two of whatever she’s drinking.” “ Veuve Clicquot, sir?” the bartender confirmed, lazily lost in work autopilot. “In American, thank you.” The bartender sighed and shook his head. “Bubbles.”

He snapped his fingers, like a Hollywood douchebag might snap his fingers when he says “What’s up, big man,” cause he couldn’t care to remember your name.

“Thanks, big man.” Raymond turned to Ana who seemed to be pretending he wasn't there. She wished he’d just buy the drink and go, but oh no. He would persist.

“I haven’t seen you here before, miss?”

“Maybe you just didn’t see me.”

“So what’s your name?”

“Ana.” “Ana. That’s a pretty name.” “My mother thought so, too.” The drinks finally were poured. Raymond slid two single dollar bills to the bartender, who looked at them with utter disdan in his hands. What an asshole. He pocketed the cash and resumed his detailed polishing. Raymond on the other hand thought himself a good dude for helping out the little guy. Drinks in hand, he returned to Ana, who had since turned back around as the band had paused. “Bubbles?” He set the glass down in front of her. She glanced at the glass and pushed it to the side. “I’m good, thanks.”

Why doesn’t she want the drink? They usually don’t mind the drink. Even if they walk off, they always take the drink. “I’m sorry, Ana,” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend.” “It’s alright. Thank you for the offer.” She turned back to face the stage as the band started back up. “It’s just I was sitting over there and I saw you under that light, and I thought you just might be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” She stopped and turned to face him, looking into his sickly, greedy green eyes.

Not just the tongue of snake, but the eyes of one, too, Ana thought. It was in this moment that Ana knew the man called Raymond would not leave her alone. All the signs were there: she had yet to engage in conversation, denied his already purchased drink, and had barely even looked at him till then. He was either really stupid or extremely persistent, either option unappealing.

Ana knew Raymond’s words rang hollow in his presumably empty head, words that he had probably heard Ben Affleck give in some ridiculous movie, and that he never really knew what power those words, albeit generally shallow, had. Before she made any decisions, she had to confirm something. “You say that to all the girls I bet,” Ana said, playing along. “Not all of them,” Raymond said, feeling his ego throb, his certainty of having sex with Ana solidified in his monkey head. “Only you.” He stood closer to her, softening his voice and slightly raising his eyebrows. But that confirmed what she had known all along: the man called Raymond was an asshole, and she had known too many like him before. She was tired and relatively bored, so Ana decided to have some fun that night “Alright -Raymond, was it- I’ll play along,” she said, flashing a pretty white smile and crossing her legs. “But I want a gin and soda.” Raymond snapped his fingers. “Coming right away. Bartender! A gin and soda please.” His phone rang. “One sec.” He answered. “Robbie! You sonuvabitch, how the hell are you?” He put one hand to the phone, “Excuse me, Ana.” Raymond stepped off towards the bathroom.

Ana motioned to the bartender who was just starting to grab the bottle of gin. “Hey,” she whispered. “How often is that guy here?”

“Every Saturday.” A two dollar tip doesn’t cover loyalty.

“Mhm, and does he usually talk to women like this?” “Yeah. Most of them ignore him, but by the end of the night, he'll usually leave with one.” “I see. Tell you what,

I’ll give you twenty bucks if you give me water and lime all night instead of liquor.” Ana pulled a twenty from her pocket and slid it across the sticky bartop. The bartender nodded and took the wet money and set a glass of water before her just as Raymond was coming back from the bathroom.

“Sorry about that, Miss Ana,” he said, sitting arrogantly close to her. “Quick business call.” She smiled, took the water glass and drained it in one go, feigning the bite of alcohol on her face. “Buisness at this hour? You must be pretty important.” Raymond grinned deviously, his excitement pounding in his chest like the drums on stage.

He drained the bubbles in his glass. “Ah, you know. I just do what I gotta do, you know?”

“I don’t think so,” Ana said, holding up two fingers to the bartender. “You’re gonna have to show me.” The lazy and annoyed bartender set down two shot glasses filled to the brim.

“Shots, huh?” Raymond laughed. What was seemingly not going his way was now falling into his lap. God, he was good. “I like your style, Ana.”

Ana smiled, raising the shot. “ Salud.” Raymond followed suit. “Salute.” They threw the glasses back and for the next thirty minutes, Ana bought them each a round, hers pure, wonderfully refreshing water, and his, well, smelt like gasoline and might as well have come out of a bottle labeled, “XXX.”

He began with sweet nothings, empty and shallow compliments that he could recycle over and over again with a different woman’s name each time. No originality, nothing new or special that pertained strictly to Ana, only meaningless words he memorized as part of his act, his role as a stand-up man. Raymond showered her with niceties addressing her beauty, her hair, her accent, the latter being rather offensive, and was relentless in his pursuit of her. Ana knew the man called Raymond was bullshitting from the get, but even still, some part of her wished that he wasn’t. She wished she could believe he wasn’t lying to her just to get in her pants, that he really held the conviction he saw the most beautiful woman in the room right in front of him and was compelled by something greater than himself to talk to her. But she didn’t. She had believed them before. She wouldn't again. Pretty soon, Ana was listening to Raymond give a slurred-speeched recounting of the most recent J.R.E. episode followed by why The Godfather showed the plight of "true Americans." “Have you even ever seen The Godfather ?” Raymond asked through belches and hiccups. Ana smiled and shook her head, even though she had been watching American cinema long before she lived there. Why do men always assume any one who speaks with an accent have no clue about anything American, and why, of all movies, they haven’t seen The Godfather ?

“Well,” he continued, “the point is--”

“Raymond?” Ana interrupted, unable to endure another second of his drunken babbel, “What say we go back to your place, huh?” Raymond smiled and snaped his fingers. She grabbed his hand and, helping him to his feet, led him out the front door. Dealing with drunk people when you aren’t drunk is already terrible enough as it is, but holding one steady on a dirty sidewalk at midnight waiting for your Uber to arrive, trying to tune out the bullshit being spewn in your ear, half unintelligible, the other half slightly racist, you tend to wonder what you did to deserve such a fate.

Ana sat him down on the ground and he took a quick powernap after throwing up a little bit between his legs. His phone slid out of his pocket and onto the cold, wet street. Ana picked it up, brushing the dirt from the screen. It began to ring. The caller I.D. read, “Baby.” A photo of Baby came up when she called, and Ana thought how absolutely gorgeous she was, how sorry she was to have to be with the man called Raymond. Her peaceful blue eyes were tired with dark circles underneath. They looked just like Ana’s mother’s had in the photos taken after Ana was born.

When the Uber pulled up, Ana swung the rear door open and shoved Raymond in, indifferent to the fact she slammed his head into the roof by accident. “Ow, shit!” Raymond cried as he threw himself head-first into the back seat. “That hurt, man.” “Sorry,” Ana said, getting in next to him. “Get up.” Raymond drunkenly gyrated till he was right side-up, and Ana closed the door. The driver slammed his foot on the gas and away they went down the empty street.

“Where are we going again?” Raymond slurred, his eyelids heavy with drunken weariness.

“You’ll see,” she said having dropped the sultry tone of voice and pleasant demeanor. She was tired, so tired. The uber continued to speed on until they had passed the city limits. Ana smiled as she rested her head on the chilled window, looking out into the city, remembering her mother.

By this point, Raymond had no clue where they were going. He closed his eyes to rest up for the long, five-minute session of dispassionate love-making ahead, expecting to be woken up when they got back to his place. But Raymond was wrong.

He awoke to a pair of soft, sweet smelling hands grabbing his shoulders softly, ever so gently, before yanking him onto the hard asphalt. Raymond tried to raise himself but could not, instead laying there silently holding his hand up, breathlessly calling for them to come back before throwing up and succumbing to sleep.


From the producers of the show Love’s Second Chance, comes the new show Lovely Reality. A reality show where we see which couple’s love will get them to the $50,000 cash prize. So, do you think your love is strong enough to win?. To apply, visit www.lovelyreality/my love is strong.com

        Less than a minute after seeing the commercial, Sara’s best friend Carter called her. “Did you see it?”          She rolled her eyes even though he couldn’t see her. “Of course, I saw it. It another one of those stupid reality shows. Remember when we watched the last show, Love’s Second Chance, one of the couples didn’t even appear on the show.”          Carter laughed. “Yeah, but this is different. Did you hear that they are giving a $50,000 cash prize? Do you know what we could do with that money?”          Sara shook her head, nearly knocking the phone out of her hand. “No, Carter. We are not going on the show.”          “Why not,” Carter asked.          Sarcasm played into Sara’s voice. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s the fact that we aren’t dating.”          “We could be,” he teased. “But seriously, you and I have both taken acting classes. We can simply act.”          “We took one acting class because it was free. We hardly belong on Broadway. Besides, there is no way we could convince them that we are dating.” But as she thought about it, she realized that the idea held merit. They were best friends and knew everything about each other. Surely, they could pretend that they were lovebirds. Plus, with that much money, she could buy a new car and he could put it toward the business he wanted to start. They had nothing to lose, except a bit of time, but so much to gain.          Carter must have noticed the moment that she started considering the idea because he asked, “Are you ready to sign up?”          She smiled. Somehow Carter always managed to convince her to do these types of things. “Yep, where do we sign up?” ***          Carter and Sara stood along with the five other couples at the house used for the filming of the show, Lovely Reality. Sara was surprised that they had been accepted on the show, but she was happy nonetheless. The only thing that bothered her that day was the fact that they were perpetrating a lie. They, unlike the other couples, were not a real couple. But, no one knew that, she reminded herself. They just had to be convincing enough.          Carter grabbed her hand and squeezed it. She almost pulled her hand away, but then she remembered. So, they were starting their act already. She turned and sent him what she hoped looked like a loving smile. He grimaced and whispered in her ear, “If you keep looking at me like that, everyone will believe you are repulsed by me. Try to look happy.”          “I am trying,” she whispered back.          “Well, then maybe try a bit less. Just act as you act when we are normally together. Oh, but maybe add a bit more affection.”          She nodded, but didn’t try to smile again.          A moment later, the host of the show walked in along with the camera man. “Welcome, couples, to Lovely Reality. I will explain the show to you and then we will introduce all the couples.”          Everyone nodded.          The host motioned to the camera man. “Hello and welcome to Lovely Reality. I’m your host Todd Blanker. On this show, our six couples will have to battle it out to see which couple has the strongest love. Each week, our couples will face a challenge together or apart, some challenges will be to earn special privileges, others will end with an elimination. Today, our challenge will be an icebreaker challenge and no one will be going home today. But before we begin our challenge, let’s introduce our couples. We will go left to right. Say your names, how long you have known each other and how long you have been dating.”          A tall man with bright red hair and a nearly as tall and slender woman spoke first. “We are John and Monica. We have known each other for five years and have been dating for three of those years.”          A brawny man with black as night hair and a petite blonde went next. “We are Peter and Lisa. We have known each other for seven years and have dated for one year.” Lisa continued talking. “We met back in school and it was love at first sight, well at least for me. It took Peter a bit more time to come to that conclusion, but he did. We started officially dating on…”          Todd Blanker cut her off. “Thank you. Next couple please.”          Carter and Sara went next. “We are Carter and Sara. We have known each other almost all our life and we have been dating for…” They both trailed off and looked at each other in alarm. They had never considered what their story was supposed to be. Carter laughed a little. “Why it has been so long that I hardly know when we started dating. What would you say, sweetheart, about five years or was it six?”          Sara nodded, grateful for his quick thinking. “Yes, I would say that it has been around five or six years.”          Todd Blanker nodded and motioned to the next couple.          The last three couples were Ron and Cynthia, James and Alexa, and Christopher, who insisted on being called Chris, and Mary.          After they had all been introduced, Todd Blanker explained the first challenge. “You will be doing a which couple knows each other better challenge. I will take each of you aside and ask you the same questions, then we will all return and answer the questions. The winning couple will get a romantic dinner on the rooftop tonight.”          The couples all exclaimed over the idea of a rooftop date. Carter and Sara exclaimed too, but not because they were excited for the possibility of a date, but because all the other couples were doing it.          They traded a smile. Unlike most of the other couples who had only known each other for a few years, Carter and Sara had known each other almost since birth, so they knew everything about each other.          Six people walked out of one of the rooms and came up to each one of the ladies. Todd explained, “They will ask you ladies questions first, then they will come out and ask the men.”          Sara and the other ladies nodded. Then they were each led to a separate room. Sara sat down and answered the questioned asked. Questions such as, what is your favorite food? What is a color you would never wear? What is your biggest pet peeve? And so on.          As she answered the question, she thought not only of her own answers, but also the answers that Carter would give. After about half an hour, everyone had answered the questions and they were regathered in the living room.          The room was different now, for during the time they had been answering questions, someone had arranged the couches so that they now faced three chairs. Presumably, one for the host and the other two for the couple on their turn.          The first couple took their place in the chairs and answered their questions. Their combine score equaled to 10/20. The next group got 14/20. It went so on until Carter and Sara’s turn.          “Sara, your last question is what are the three things Carter would bring if he were on a deserted island?”          Sara smiled. She knew this one just as much as she knew all the other ones. She winked at Carter and then turned back to the host. “Carter would bring me, food, and a private jet.” The other couples laughed at this thinking that she was joking.          Todd Blanker turned to Carter. “Now tell me, Carter, what were your answers?”          “I would bring Sara, food, and a private jet, in that order.” Carter’s interviewer nodded to confirm his answers.          Everyone including the host looked surprised. Todd stood. “Well it looks like we have a winner for today’s episode. Carter and Sara with a perfect score of 20/20. Well, get ready because in half in hour you will have your rooftop date.”          Everyone left the room, and Sara and Carter both took the time to get ready for their “date.” At exactly 8:30, they went up to the rooftop followed by the camera crew for their rooftop date.          Sara walked up and gasped. The roof looked beautiful. Candles lined the floor in a path that led to the linen covered table. Flower petals littered the floor and got swept up in the breeze. And even though, they were not actually dating, Sara couldn’t help feeling like it was a real date.          They sat down to a dinner, or dessert rather, of molten lava cake and ice cream, which the camera crew filmed. But once, they were done eating, the camera crew left them alone to talk.          Carter smiled at her. “See, I told you it would be that bad.”          “You were right. Now all we have to pass the next round.” Since they were on a reality show and had no idea where cameras might be lurking, they made sure to avoid mentioning their fake relationship.          Carter grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “We will pass it and then…well you’ll just have to wait until the next episode to find out.”


The sun burned down on my sweat-streaked face as I sprinted around the corner and began the last lap up the mountain. The boy beside me was clearly as tired as myself; his face was flushed dark red and he was breathing heavily, yet he kept on with the same determination. Darn it, would he ever fall behind? All the other kids had dropped out long ago, yet this one kept on. This could present a problem. I put on an extra burst of speed, although all my muscles seem to shriek in protest. I was gasping with the effort now, sweat pouring down my face, heart pounding wildly...I didn’t think I could maintain this pace that long - if only the other boy would drop behind! I risked a glance behind me, and to my utter frustration, the other boy had also increased his speed and was slowly gaining on me. I grit my teeth and forced the last little bit of energy out of my aching legs, but it was no use. He was again in line with me, racing neck-in-neck for the finish line. A shadow fell across my burning face, and I looked up to see that we were passing under a rocky overhang. For a moment, I only thought of how wonderful the momentary shade felt to my aching body, but then another thought entered my mind. This was probably the one spot on the entire mountain where the judges could not see the contestants. I mentally shook myself at the sudden thoughts that rushed into my head. No, a thousand times no, I would not cheat, I would win by my efforts, and my own efforts alone, I didn’t need that, I would do it myself… I glanced across at my companion and realized with a sick feeling in my stomach that he was not slowing down; on the contrary, he seemed to be speeding up.

At that my limbs faltered slightly. I could not go any faster, could not force another iota of strength from my burning legs. My throat ached with thirst, my face was on fire, sticky rivers of sweat were pouring down the back of my neck… The temptations came crowding back into my mind thick and fast. It would be so simple, just one little motion, and my competitor would be sprawling in the dust, giving me the few extra moments I needed to pull ahead. Again I resisted. I couldn’t do this, it wasn’t like me, it was wrong, but my leg twitched in spite of myself.

I glanced over at my companion and caught the look of determination in his eyes. It was that look more than anything else that made my unconscious decision. This was a boy who intended to win. Almost before my mind was aware that my body was doing anything, I felt my foot reaching out through the suddenly still air, coming in contact with his unprotected leg… He stumbled suddenly, lurching forward, yet even as I began to pass him, he tripped on a large stone, jerked sideways, and plummeted off the edge of the cliff. I came to a complete halt, suddenly incredibly sick. My mind seemed to burst open as the sudden realization of what I had done hit home: I was a murderer. On legs that had suddenly turned to water, I stumbled over to the edge of the cliff and willed myself to look over. I didn’t want to know what had happened, didn’t want to maybe see his crushed and mangled body on the rocks below...My heart was pounding again, but not from running. I looked over, and felt myself suddenly go limp with relief. The boy was not dead; he had miraculously landed on a small ledge just over the edge of the cliff.

“Hey, um, you alright?” I heard myself asking, my voice loud in my own ears. The boy looked up. “Yeah, I’m ok, but I don’t think I can climb back up alone.” “No problem. Here, give me your hand.” In a few moments, I had drawn him back onto the cliff and we stood there looking at each other, panting with the recent exertion. I didn’t know what to say; what could you say to someone you had almost killed? I was so wrapped up in my own guilty thoughts that I didn’t realize I was crying until my mouth suddenly stung with something hot and salty.

I desperately tried to wipe away my tears before the boy noticed, but I could already feel another one slipping down my cheek. “I’m sorry,” I gasped, completely starting to lose it, “I don’t know what came over me. I’m never like that, I-” Just then a thought flashed through my head, shocking me with its implications. Of course, it was the only right thing to do...But did I have the strength to do it? Taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and said in a mostly steady voice, “I know that no amount of apologies will ever make up for almost killing you, but I just wanted to say, you can go first.” The boy looked back at me, and I suddenly realized that he was crying too. He cleared his throat twice, trying to speak, and finally managed,

“I just had to say, I’m sorry too.” I stared at him, not comprehending. “What?” “I’m sorry. I almost did the same thing to you.”

As I looked into his eyes, I felt something lifting inside me. It was not my fault entirely. I was not the sole cause of a near tragedy; he could have done the same thing. The boy must have seen some of the relief on my face because he smiled suddenly.

“So, you see, I don’t really deserve to go first.” I shook my head. “No, I’m not going to go first. You might have considered it, but I actually did it.” The boy looked puzzled for a moment, but then said, “Ok, let’s go together.” The judges had probably never seen such a strange finish to a race, but I didn’t care. As we trooped across the finish line in perfect synchronization, I realized that this was probably the first race I had ever lost. And yet, it somehow didn’t matter; something had changed for me at the edge of that cliff .

The delicate thread that holds life and body together had almost snapped in my hands, and forced me to comprehend its value. It had forced me to weigh the importance of my own decisions over the value of another life, shaking my world to pieces in the matter of a few moments. I knew I would never race, would never make any decision in quite the same way again; death had brushed too close for me to ever consider myself in the same selfish way. As I was leaving the racing grounds with my family, I glanced once more at the boy, who was also preparing to leave. Once he became aware of my gaze, he looked up suddenly and gave me a quick half-smile. Yet there was something in his face that seemed different from before….Was it only my imagination, or had the experience so gravely shaken him as well? I tore my gaze away and looked off broodingly into the distance.


Mikel stood on the rooftop, chest heaving as he realized there was nowhere else to go. Overhead, the fireworks lit the sky up in a series of magnificent colors. Shades of blue and red and green seemed to add millions of sparkling new stars to the sky. Past the celebration, Mikel could hear the screams and mad rush of people as the city panicked. Listening further, he could hear the pounding feet of his assailants as they raced up the stairs after him. Any minute now and they’d be upon him. For the hundredth time Mikel pondered if he had done the right thing. He wracked his brain for all the possible choices and all the potential outcomes. Maybe he should have said something. Maybe he should have told Darius he knew where the blast would come from. Maybe then the Baron would still be alive, and the city wouldn’t be burning while it celebrated. The pounding was closer now. Any second Darius himself would be up those stairs, Kull and Sarina flanking him. Bartholomew would come soon after. Mikel would try to explain it to them, that he believed he made the right choice. He doubted they would hear him though. Blood had been spilt, and some things aren’t so easily forgiven. So Mikel prepared for a fight. He drew his sword with his right hand and concentrated his magic through the rune symbols etched on his left. His last rune mark began to glow just as they arrived. Darius was first, followed by Kull and Sarina. They were panting from hunting him across the city. Blades had been drawn a long time ago, their rune arms primed and enchanted. All of them were killers and fighters who knew the business well. Mikel considered trying to strike before they could catch their breath. In the end he decided against it, needing them to try and listen. He thought about his choice again. He needed it to be the right one. Darius and Mikel locked eyes, Darius’s own glowing bright like the moon. Mikel saw fury there, but also to his surprise a deep sadness likely stemming from betrayal. Mikel tried to steel himself from it. He couldn’t block it all though, and Mikel’s heart grew heavier still. Mikel started to open his mouth but found it drier than anticipated. He tried to clear his throat so he could speak, but before he could get a word out Darius beat him to it. “How long did you know?” He leveled the question with venom, not caring to mince words. “Does it matter?” Mikel asked. Darius glared his answer, and Mikel sighed heavily. “Since last week.” Darius fumed. He gripped his sword tighter. “Why? Why let that bomb go off?” The silence stretched for an eternity. Mikel found himself asking that same question, wondering why he’d let everything change. He decided to go with the simple answer. “He was a tyrant Darius.” “HE WAS KEEPING THE PEACE!” Darius bellowed as a massive firework brought a red dragon to life in the sky. Only Darius seemed more bristled with rage. “He needed to die.” Mikel said the words softly, seeming to almost be trying to convince himself as much as the three in front of him. “And my brother…did he need to die?” Sarina leveled the question with a cold fury poorly hidden behind chopped purple hair. Mikel had never seen her angry before. Now he saw nothing but hate in her eyes, and it made him shudder. “I tried to warn Daniel. I tried to tell him to get away before-” “But you didn’t.” She cut him off, not wanting to hear anymore. “He’s dead.” Mikel paused, his face failing to mask the pain and guilt he felt. “I’m sorry Sarina. I really am.” “Sorry doesn’t bring him back.” There was nothing for a long moment other than their furious stares. Fireworks exploded overhead. They painted the rooftop in celebratory colors before fading and becoming washed with the dark. City lights extended long shadows, Mikel’s being the longest of all. “You ready?” Darius growled. Mikel met the gaze of his once dear friend with red rimmed eyes. He was already so tired in every facet of the word. He thought again, as he would for his remainder, if he should have said something, should have stopped the Red Sons from killing the Baron and all his men. He could have saved Daniel. He would still be able to call those in front of him his companions, his family. But it was too late, and now he could only hope that there would be some better future from the chaos and flames below. Another firework. Another brilliant flash. Mikel’s runes glowed. “No. But let’s do this anyway,” He muttered sadly. His three assailants’ runes glowed ready. Their feet pivoted and tensed. A barrage of distant screams signaled the start of the show’s finale. And then they were off. The trio burned towards Mikel faster than possible. Mikel was faster. A flash of purple and a flick of his rune arm sent needle crystals so dark they were almost night itself towards the three killers. Darius turned them to dust and Kull slid under. Sarina was not as quick, and caught several to her side. Her veins glowed purple all the way to her eyes, and she crumbled to the ground. Darius heard her screams all the way to Mikel. Their blades moved so fast it could be lost in the mirage of colors exploding in the sky. They were perfectly matched, even with Darius’s moon eyes seeing everything and predicting Mikel’s every move. Neither were better enough to score a blow.

The fireball from Kull threw Mikel off enough for Darius to land the first cut to Mikel’s cheek. Mikel recovered a second later only for Kull to continue his barrage. The masked, silent man whipped knives at Mikel so fast they streaked beams of light behind them as they went. Mikel knocked Darius back with a gust of wind and parried all but the last knife, which sunk deep into his side. He had time to flinch, but nothing more. A half second later Kull was on Mikel, swinging with precision and fighting like a rabid dog. More than anyone on that roof Kull was a killer, hallow dark eyes staring unblinking from behind a crudely painted skull mask. Kull whipped his short sword with an expert ruggedness. He had no proper training, no real finesse, and yet Mikel still struggled all the same. Kull even used his magic crudely. An icicle formed in his rune hand, aimed for Mikel’s throat. Mikel side stepped roughly back, so Kull whipped the icicle at blinding speed low to Mikel’s calf. Mikel shifted his leg just in time to avoid being impaled. He barely righted himself before Kull and Darius were on him again. Swords swung and magic slanged at desperate speed, each of the men trying their utmost best to kill one another.

As Mikel back stepped, Darius made his first off footed move with an overextended thrust. He tried to correct, but it was too late. Mikel slashed Darius’s left arm’s outer tendon, and his sword clattered to the ground. Kull tried to correct the loss, throwing fire at close range. But Mikel deflected, and the fire swung onto Darius’s face. Darius howled in pain. The left half of his face instantly blistered, one glowing eye already damaged to a crisp as it was lost to the inferno. Mikel focused all his energy on Kull whose dark eyes continued to remain ever stagnant. Kull slung more ice and fire Mikel’s way, but the shifting purple field around Mikel’s runes consumed it all. Their blades danced a moment longer until Mikel threw the field like a net, catching and paralyzing Kull’s left side. A few swipes later, and Kull’s sword lay on the ground and he was on his knees with a slash across his chest. There was a measure of stillness just before Kull collapsed bleeding onto the rooftop. Those dark eyes never betrayed a thing, and he didn’t make a sound as he lay dying. Mikel turned when he felt something slash his back and his whole body screamed misery. He found Sarina free of the crystals and whipping a purple tendril at him for a second time. It connected and Mikel’s shoulder exploded in pain. He barely got his rune hand up in time to block the third strike as Darius barreled into him from the side and knocked Mikel to the ground. Howling like a mad man, Darius began to beat Mikel. Blow after blow came to Mikel’s head and body, and his world began to fade to black. Darius only paused when Sarina arrived to take Mikel’s head. She hefted her sword. For a moment Mikel thought this was fate. He deserved to die. He was a traitor. He’d allowed many to die. He’d killed many more with his own hands. He knew Sarina deserved her revenge. And still his guilt piled higher as his rune hand glowed and his paralyzing aura expanded and launched Darius and Sarina back with a furious yell. The fireworks were gone. Mikel lay there crying while the other two just lay still, frozen by the pain of the magic. Mikel was so spent and so tired, but he knew he had to keep moving. He crawled to a rise, hobbling over to his sword and stooping to pick it up while his thundering head clouded the world. Mikel looked at the two assailants struggling to untangle themselves from the magic. He knew he’d have to kill them. The road he now walked deemed it so. He tried to convince himself he could let them live, but in his mind he knew it couldn’t be. Maybe in another life , he concluded. Mikel took three steps toward his a dark fate, and that’s when Bartholomew crashed down from the sky. Mikel turned as the roof shook, trying to stand as tall as he could against the imposing figure before him. Bartholomew’s snow white wings folded back behind his midnight black garb. He stared Mikel down, golden spear in hand. Then Bartholomew looked past Mikel to his fallen companions, and a calm fury rested in his eyes. “All this blood…was it worth it Mikel?” “I didn’t want this part. I didn’t want to fight them.” “And yet here we are and here they lie.” The roof was silent aside from a slight gust of the wind and the distant sounds of the riots below. “Did you not think this chaos would happen?” Bartholomew accused rather than asked. “I saw it as necessary.” Bartholomew leveled a hard look. “Necessary? Daniel is dead. The Baron is dead. People are savaging each other in this chaos.” Mikel tried to level a hard look. “I did what I had to.” Bartholomew for a moment revealed a pensive sadness before hiding himself before Mikel. “Then those deaths and the ones happening now are on you.” Mikel grew into a rage at the arrogance of the words, of the judgement Bartholomew leveled down from his high seat heading the Agency. Mikel’s rune hand pulsed, and with a roar he tossed a mass of chaotic magic at his former mentor and friend. Bartholomew caught it as easy as if it were a child’s toy. The magic that had so easily bound and tortured Mikel’s other three assailants slid gently off Bartholomew’s hand and fell to the ground were it burned with a purple haze. As he watched in a mixture of sadness and horror, Mikel finally accepted he was going to die. The spear came so fast that even if Mikel had tried to react it would have been fruitless. The force was so great it carried him over the roof and he began to fall to the ground below, spear pushing him the whole way. He thought for the thousandth time if he’d made the right choice not telling Darius of the Red Sons’ plot. A single tear came to his eye as he began to grasp all the death he had caused to end one life. He wasn’t sure if he could lie to himself anymore. He hoped he would be forgiven. He knew deep down he would not. Bartholomew got to edge of the roof to see Mikel impaled on the ground below. All around him people fought and looted and burned the city to the ground. The Duke was dead and the Red Sons had gotten what they wanted. Now it was Bartholomew’s turn to wonder what could have been different. Maybe he could have prepared Mikel better, could have guarded the boy’s heart further. He sighed deep and choked back the well of emotions. Now wasn’t the time. There was no going back. He looked to his other students as they slowly unwound the magic from their bodies. Then Bartholomew spread his wings and descended into the abyss.


The scent of a fresh dryer sheet fills my nostrils as I reach into the machine and wrestle out an armload of warm clothing. I plop it on the counter and start to fold.

Those are Dad’s nice pants, they have to go on their separate pile because they get hung up.

Here is Mom’s hoodie that she stole from Phil; which pile can I put it on and not be accused for favouritism? I deliberate for a minute, the go with Mom, because Phil can’t do anything to me. Mom can.

And those— those are my brother’s work jeans that should not have been in the same load as the other clothes. Here is the dress I wore on Sunday. Just past the knees, flaring skirt; it’s perfect for church. My hair looked really nice that day too, and I had bothered to put on makeup. Whenever I was playing piano, I endeavoured to look nice.

There is another pair of Alex’s work jeans. These are stained with dirt as well as paint. He wore these when we were trying to get the roots of an obnoxious little tree that kept growing in our flowerbed. Dad had pulled out most of it with a chain attached to the tractor, but he moved on to bigger and better while Alex and I worked for another hour with shovels, pocket knives, hammer and chisel, you name it, to get those little pieces out. I tell you, that was a resilient tree. It will probably come up again this spring.

Savana’s dress is so yellow. It’s got a big tropical print on it, and contrasts nicely with the tanned skin she has that I try not to be envious of. She wore it for our family pictures.

Here is my Mario t-shirt. It used to be Alex’s, but his arms got too big, so he handed it down to me. Imagine getting hand-me-downs from your little brother! Of course, it is reasonable when your little brother is also half a foot taller than you and probably that much more muscular. It’s my favourite shirt for off days during the week. Coincidentally, its the shirt I wore when I broke up with the only boyfriend I ever officially had. He said he was convinced, but I was not. I had hated myself for not being able to love him, but the feelings simply weren’t there, so I ended it before it got to far. I lived on pure prayer during that time. It was hard. But I’im still here, and so is that t-shirt. We’re both better for it: I’m happier and wiser, and the t-shirt is softer and stretched out but still not faded. I smile as I fold it. He is now engaged to a girl much better for him. Another one of Mom’s hoodies is in the stack. She seriously wears them every chance she can. She used to have three, each different brand and different styles, but all the exact same shade of pink. Tyler’s Batman t-shirt, and another one. The kid has never seen a superhero movie in his life, but he has an imagination to rival most directors, I am certain. He can play for hours by himself, making the most amazing / crazy / realistic / hilarious sound effects while flying from one couch to another.

Here is a shirt that Phil almost never wears! It looks so nice on him. He’s tanned too, and the peach button up looks so classy.

I honestly don’t know how Tyler manages to tear holes in all his pants. It’s not like he runs across a long floor, throws himself to his knees, and slides on the polished wood like my brothers and I did when we were younger. Although Phil only ever wore through one knee. We never did figure out how that worked.

There is a black tank top. An item I hail as the most versatile piece in my closet. The most pleasant memory I have with that article is in the garden with Mom. The ground was slightly damp, not muddy, and felt cool and soft beneath my feet. It smelt amazing. The tomatoes were just beginning to ripen, and every so often I would pop one Ito my mouth, savouring the sweet, sun-warmed goodness. Dirt was under my fingernails. The sun was pleasantly warm. A cool breeze played with the strands of my hair that had escaped from its braid. It was a perfect afternoon. Mom was teasing me about a guy that came to camp that year, and I was blushing because I was now of an age when I was allowed to think of such things. That is years ago now.

These jeans are mine too. They have a stain on the right thigh because I was babysitting, and little Noah reached up to get my attention with a hand full of mud from the sandbox. I have some super cute pictures of him and his brother that day.

Here is an apron. It came out remarkably clean, considering what it is used for on a daily basis. I got a cookbook for Christmas with all kinds of amazing recipes: like lasagna soup and buffalo chicken quesadillas and sticky pork bowls and shrimp scampi roll ups and funnel cake. Everyone is reaping the benefits of that gift!

There’s something in the pocket of these jeans. They’re Mom’s. It’s Kleenex, of course. Hopefully she’s not getting allergies again.

Aha! There are my leggings! I knew that someone had them, and here they are. Well, they are going back in my stack now.

A door shuts outside. The Armada is back. Voices spill into the foyer, then spread over the rest of the house. My peace and quiet is over. Tyler comes into the kitchen first. I ruffle his hair. “We’re bringing pizza,” he announces.

“Cool!” He peeks over my shoulder to my laptop. “Did you get lots of writing done?” “Yes, I did. Do you want me to read it to you?” “Yeah. But later. I’m hungry. The teacher made us do lots of laps today.” Savana comes in then. “We’re bringing pizza.” “I know.” I smirk. She groans. “How do you always know stuff?” “I have my ways… Shall we set the table?” We do, and Mom enters, carrying the things the kids have dropped. The other boys are just behind her, carrying pizza boxes. I hear a door outside again and look out the kitchen window. Dad just got home from work.

“Did you fold the laundry?” Mom asks. I stand still for a moment. My eyes widen. “I completely forgot; I’m sorry, Mom, I totally meant to.” “Oh, Keri—“ “But I wrote a whole story about it?” I give her my best innocent smile. She grins too. My forgetfulness is well known, and well acknowledged. I just get to fold laundry later.

“Let’s eat.”


There are few places Belinda Blackwell likes to lay down to rest more than upon her husband’s chest.

He hadn’t been expecting her. Belinda hadn’t been expecting to be home so soon, either– what with the unpredictability of her father’s illness demanding open schedules from his children, someone on-call at all times lest the old man die without one of them there to hold his hand. When Oscar had come to join them a week early— something about a case closing timely and a stiffening in his shoulders when Belinda enquired about her sister-in-law— she pounced on the opportunity to bid her brother and father adieu and return early to the husband she so desperately missed.

Finding Etienne still tangled in their bed covers, she had stripped down to her chemise and crawled atop him slowly. He had thrashed hard upon stirring and finding her there, his eyes foggy with confusion and fright, but she had kissed his face and rubbed his arms, whispering “It’s me, it’s only me” until he relaxed back into the sheets.

Now they rest quietly, teetering on the line between half-asleep and half-awake, Belinda’s ear pressed to Etienne’s chest to hear the steady thump, thump, thump of his heart.

“Well, I’m glad Oscar will be with him,” Etienne says appeasingly, having listened in silence to her stories from London.

“Mmm. I think it will do him as much good as father. He seemed like he could use some time away.” “Away from what?” “I’m not sure…” Belinda plays with a loose thread on Etienne’s nightshirt. “I feel bad saying away from his wife, but all signs point to it being the truth. He seemed uncomfortable when I brought her up, but he wouldn’t tell me anything specific.”

Etienne’s hand tightens where it rests on the nape of her neck. “Then I hope that time will serve them both well.”

“I do, too.” She tilts her head to observe the strong profile of her husband’s nose. “And you?” she teases, “Has time away from me served you well?” “All I managed to accomplish was missing my wife.” He tucks his chin to look down at her. “Though I have been doing some research in your absence.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed.” The entire walk to their chambers was an obstacle course of books and journals on every table top and cast aside in the middle of the hallway like he had thrown them down as he was walking. And before that, there was the cook coming to greet her in the foyer with concerns of her husband’s increasingly strange demands while Belinda was away– his supposed need for rabbit hearts and pitchers of salt water, bunches of fresh rosemary left to dry on the windowsill for exactly thirty six hours and demands of her and the housemaid to not disturb him when his doors are closed, certain tasks he’d undertaken where it was vital he not be interrupted.

For the sake of goodwill, she gave them both the rest of the morning off.

Belinda knows of her husband’s beliefs— glimpses into a world of ritual and wardship, studies of augury and communion and necromancy that he prefers she not get too close to. Etienne shifts underneath her, and she reads discomfort in his movements. She strokes a hand down his cheek so he knows not to be ashamed of it all on her behalf. “What has prompted it? Have I come to see you while I was gone?”

He’s told her, too, of the spirit that haunts him– the one that looks just like her, that follows him around the house and watches him from doorways and windows and stares at him unblinking, stares at him like he’s done something unforgivable. Belinda has never seen herself, and Etienne claims the spirit has never appeared while she’s in the house.

She fretted for days over having to leave him when word of her father’s illness arrived, knowing what it might invite back into Etienne’s life, but there was no getting around the trip and besides, Etienne had sworn his confidence that that time was behind them.

It would appear that he’d spoken too soon.

His eyebrows tick up at the middle, like he’s attempting to contain his emotion. “I thought it was over,” he whispers. “It’s been so long. I feel like a fool, letting my guard down as I have been.”

A deep ache swells behind Belinda’s ribcage. She squeezes Etienne tighter. “You’ve been happy. It’s not foolish to hope. What have you found?”

“There is a ritual. One for banishment. I have been completing the prerequisite steps over the past week.”

“Oh?” Belinda struggles to understand.

“Yes. There is only one step left to do. It won’t be easy.” His fingers flex against her back, a signal that he is thinking hard. He seems to choose his words carefully. “The act won’t be physically challenging, but I fear the toll it will have on my heart and constitution.”

Belinda frowns. “It sounds taxing. Are you sure this is the only way?”

She considers not for the first time bringing up the possibility of relocation– abandoning this home that torments him so in favor of a fresh start, a life away from paranoia and body doubles she can’t see. Before she can muster up the right words, he’s saying, “It will be worth it. I want to do it. I want my Belinda to be the only Belinda in my life.”

She smothers a grin against the column of his throat. “I’d quite like that as well.”

Etienne is quiet for a long moment before speaking again. “I won’t pretend it isn’t terrible. But it is necessary, too. I want my wife to have a good life, and I need to be better to give one to her. I need to be rid of this.”

A strong rush of affection surges through Belinda. Oh, she loves this man something awful. She’d follow him into Hell. “Then you will be brave. And you will be successful.”

She rises and falls with the depth of Etienne’s answering sigh. “You sound so much like her,” he mutters.

“Like who?” she asks. “Like Belinda.”

Belinda’s thumb falters where it was rubbing a soothing path along his collarbone. “What?” A giggle bubbles out of her, confusion mingling with sleepy amusement.

“It’s uncanny. You’ve never been this good before.” He doesn’t seem to register her stiffening, or he does and ignores it. “You’ve never come to me like this, lay upon me like this. You must know what I’m going to do.”

“Etienne–” “It won’t work.” Etienne raises his voice, speaking over her. “I won’t let it.” Belinda lifts her head to look her husband in the eyes. A coldness cracks through her when she sees the resolution in his face.

“Etienne, I don’t…” Her voice breaks off into a scared whisper. “It’s me.”

He shakes his head. “My wife knows me better than this. She tells me when to expect her. You’ve misjudged. I know you’re not really her this time.”

Belinda curses her attempt at being romantic. He thinks she's haunting him, not surprising him. She's never been so near him when he's in the middle of one of these supposed spectral visits. It's sobering. It's frightening. She tries to sit up, and grunts when Etienne uses his hand on her neck to ease her back down again. His hold is strong– not enough to hurt, but in her shock, she goes easy.

Etienne’s mouth is at her ear. “My wife is not to be home for a few days yet. By then, all of this will be dealt with and done. It will be like it never happened. She won’t have any part of it. She will not have such a weak, nervous husband.” His voice shakes. “I will keep her safe.” It’s all the warning Belinda gets before the knife is plunged into her back.

She jerks violently. Pain whips through her, fast and brutal.

It’s like someone has dumped a full basin of water over her.

No. No, the sensation is real and it’s not water, it’s blood, hot and wet and slick and spreading fast, sticking her chemise to her skin. She frantically shoves herself up, grappling for a place on her back she can’t reach, too low for the arm she stretches over her shoulder, too high for the one she stretches under. She arches, incapacitated by the pain, her mouth opening and closing like a fish thrown onto rocks, gasping into air that isn’t helping her situation, feeling inches from death. The knife digs into her shifting skin– or is her skin digging into the knife?– the awful, writhing, sawing sensation ripping through her. She's never been stabbed before, but this cannot be normal. Flashes of rabbit hearts and salt come to her, and no, of course this isn't normal. Not by Etienne's design.

She hunches, trying to scramble away from the pain, but there’s nowhere to go that it doesn’t follow. She shoves her face into the pillow beside her husband’s stunned face, her hands fisting at the sheets.

Etienne grips her hips tight. “...Belinda?”

She can only answer with a whimper. She’s trembling so hard she can barely open her mouth anymore for how hard her teeth chatter.

“No.” Etienne pushes against her shoulders. She doesn’t understand what he wants. She doesn’t understand what’s happening. “Dear God, no.” His touch moves to her face, and he wrenches her head back with his hands shoved up into her hair. “Belinda.” He jams his fingers under her jaw, ignoring her choking, feeling for something. Upon finding it, his face goes white. “Belinda.” Again, more urgently, wrestling to sit them both upright. “ Belinda.”

It’s all coming to her in flashes– the horrible red smear on Etienne’s cheek, the wetness that’s dripping down the back of her legs, the sudden realization that she can’t support herself. She slumps against Etienne.

Dazedly, she thinks of her parents, of all the men they’d wanted her to marry. A parade of surgeons and doctors with their deep pockets and upturned noses. Professionals who would know what to do with a gaping wound, professionals she had rejected for the love of a poet, her poet, who had nothing to offer but a quiet life and endless adoration.

Etienne cradles her against him, rocking them back and forth. He's sobbing. “Why are you here? You weren’t supposed to be here. I thought you were the specter. Please believe me. Oh God, please forgive me.”

He sounds wrecked. Belinda wants to comfort him, but she can’t pick her head up.

Then darkness clouds her vision, and she can’t do anything at all anymore.

— — — Belinda blinks awake.

The ground is uncomfortable beneath her back. What is she doing on the ground?

Etienne is kneeling by her side, head in his hands. There’s something red all over his hands. Belinda pushes herself up, reaching out to touch Etienne’s knee.

He jolts at the barest brush of her fingers. “Belinda.” He sounds relieved. He yanks her forward and she goes crashing against his chest.

Why is his heart beating so fast? That red substance on his hands is getting all over her now, staining her crisp white chemise. Why does it smell so strongly of metal? Her head feels fuzzy.

Really, why is she on the ground? A moment ago, she was laying in bed, gossiping with Etienne about her brother’s marriage. Did she fall out of bed? Did she hit her head? Is that why everything feels so… Off?

“I’m sorry…” she murmurs slowly. “I'm not sure what happened. Did I fall?” “You…” Etienne is shaking. She must have really scared him. “I fixed it. It’s alright.”

“Fixed what? How long was I out?”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re alright. It’s all alright now.”

Belinda frowns. “Etienne, is my head bleeding?”

He winces. “What? Why are you asking me that?”

“Blood.” She can’t think of anything else to say. She should get a cloth, something to clean him with.

She pushes away from him, bracing against the edge of the mattress to stand. Her hand sinks into something cold and wet.

Before she can search for the source of it, Etienne pitches forward, grabbing her by the cheeks and pulling her to look back at him. It makes her head spin.

“Don’t look,” he says. He sounds gravely serious.

Belinda’s heart stutters. “What?”

“Don’t look.”

Like a petulant child, Belinda can’t stop herself. She’s wriggling out of his grip before he can stop her again, ignoring his cry, turning to look at herself laying dead in a mess of blood on the bed.

Herself. On the bed. Blood.

All air leaves her.

She jerks to her feet, stumbling backwards. She can’t look away. She’s just laying there– her hair stuck to her forehead and her chemise soaked through with red. Her eyes are still open.

Behind her, Etienne remains on the ground. His voice is low, thick with grief. “There was an accident. I did what I had to. To fix it.”

“What…” Her voice sounds like it’s coming from miles away. She doesn’t even know what to ask. She can’t look away.

“I didn’t know if it would work. I had only read about the ritual. I’ve never attempted it. But the journals said I could comb through time, and bring something back with me." He looks up. "I brought you.”

Belinda’s stomach turns. Etienne's face is wet with tears. Where is she? “You brought me… From the past?”

“From before the accident. Yes. It was the only way. You were already gone—” his voice breaks, and he hangs his head. His shoulders are shaking.

Belinda looks at him. She looks at herself. “But… What of the Etienne in the past? Are you the same as him?”

“Our paths have diverged,” he says gravely. “Well. Then. What of that Etienne? Is he all alone now? How must he feel, having just had his wife taken from him?”

Etienne shudders, his eyes darkening. “I know how he feels.”

For some reason, that’s what does Belinda in. Her stomach lurches and she stumbles to the lavatory, shoving the door closed behind her before retching into the sink. Nothing comes up. It makes her feel worse.

She looks up into the mirror. Yes, that’s her face staring back at her with wide eyes and tangled hair. But yes, that was her face, too, staring back at her from the bed. It feels like dying just to think of it. She can’t imagine what dying must really feel like, can’t imagine how anything can be worse than this terror that’s seizing her insides.

Etienne’s voice comes from the other side of the door, muffled and pleading. “Please. I didn’t want this. All I wanted was you.”

He nudges at the door, like a dog desperate to get in.

She staggers over to open it. Etienne is still on his knees, still on the ground. When the door is open wide enough, he drags himself forward with his fingernails digging into the wood floor.

He bends low to kiss her ankles. She closes her eyes tight at the sensation.

“My love. My life.” His tears drip onto her foot. “I wish I hadn’t done it. I wish I hadn’t done it.”

What did you do? A voice in her head begs her to ask. And somewhere deeper, somewhere darker, somewhere inside her that already knows— somewhere she can’t reach, is asking, Which part do you regret? — — — They bury Belinda in the garden.

Belinda watches numbly while Etienne strips that other-her from the bloody chemise, re-dressing her in something soft and clean. He gathers her hair and fastens it into a braid to keep it off her face, and his touch is so gentle and reverential that this time when Belinda excuses herself to retch into the sink, she throws up the entire contents of her stomach.

Belinda gets dressed herself, tugging on a gown, though her hands shake so hard that Etienne has to help her with the fastenings.

She follows behind Etienne and stares at her own face, lax where it rests against her husband’s— their husband’s?— shoulder as he carries her down the stairs and out the backdoor. Is that what she looks like when she sleeps?

They leave the bloody mattress as it is, for the housemaid to find.

“We’ll say you were with child,” Etienne had said, not meeting her gaze. “They won’t ask questions if they believe you lost something.” Etienne is right, as he tends to be. When Belinda retires inside hours later, the silent vigil over the little upturned patch of dirt beneath her favorite tree becoming too much for her to bear, the housemaid, Miss Clarke, is already waiting for her, wringing her hands in the hallway. All it takes is just enough performance of Belinda’s averted eyes and a hand pressed to her stomach for Miss Clarke's face to drop. She coos sympathetically, fussing over Belinda so tenderly that Belinda is weeping before she can hold herself back.

“We buried her in the garden,” Belinda croaks.

“All by yourselves, ma’am?” Miss Clarke asks, sounding surprised.

“We couldn’t bear to leave her.” Belinda says, and now she’s telling the truth. Then, she tells another. “I don’t know what happened.”

— — — Belinda looks out from their bedchamber, trying to ignore the sharp smell of vinegar and lemon, the bed stripped of its linens behind her, the way the mattress has been flipped.

She watches Etienne as the sky goes from blue to orange. Hours pass and still he remains, bent over the grave of his dead wife while his wife watches over him.

After what feels like an eternity, he rises, stretching his arms. He turns, shielding his eyes against the setting sun to look back up at the house.

Belinda tries not to notice how he flinches when he spots her, feeling like a specter in the window.


Being haunted                As my husband Ben lay on the couch, I was filled with only bitterness and anger towards him. I had watched as he fell further and further into depression. At first, I had been sympathetic, but as time went on, it got worse and worse. As far as I was concerned, he was busy ruining my life too in the process. He lay on the couch, sleeping, sad and miserable. He stopped being a husband and a father. He said things like, “Why can’t I just die?” and it would piss me off. I wanted to shake him and say, “Hey, I want to live here! Get over being depressed will you!”                So, when he complained about the demons, I was truly annoyed. Really, now, demons? It that the current excuse we are going to use here? Many nights, 3am on the dot, he would stop breathing. He would tell me a black demon was sitting on his chest trying to kill him. That there were several of them. They were black, slouched over but at least seven feet tall, with long faces, gangly arms and long talons. The talons were claws with sharp fingernails. And they had wings. And were very, very ugly. Sometimes, he would walk into the room, and they would all be there. They would look up and notice him and then disappear. They were shadowy, dark, specters that lived in our house.                “Must be having bad dreams dear” I said. Or “Guess you should start going to church with me and the kids then.”                I didn’t really believe him. Even as he began showing me the scratches. The scratches began to appear on his legs. Then his belly and arms. Long scratches that went all the way down. I reasoned, He scratched himself at night? But I wasn’t really sure.                That night was towards the end of our marriage. I was ready to pack up the kids and leave him. I couldn’t deal with the sadness anymore, the darkness that infested our home. I threw all our problems squarely on him. It was all his fault! Ben knew what I was thinking. We didn’t fight really, we just had long strings of silence with unspoken tension. He was the saddest I had ever seen him.                I felt pity for him that evening, so I sat with him on the couch and put my arm around him. I hadn’t shown affection for him in months, so he immediately responded. He hugged me and we talked about benevolent things. It was the first conversation we had in long time in which I wasn’t instantly angry with him. It was such a nice conversation that we agreed to get dressed and go out somewhere.                I went into the bedroom to get dressed when it went into me. The demon. Suddenly I wasn’t in my room anymore. I was in a deep, dark canyon in hell. The canyon was immense. So tall it seemed never ending. All around me were black lost souls of the dead. And that thing was inside me. I could feel its shape. It looked like a bald goblin, hunched over and radiating evil thoughts.

               Ben came to the room and laid his hand on my arm me. I freaked out. “Don’t touch me!” I screamed at him. “It’s in me! It’s in me! I’m in hell!” I screamed. I was in hysterics. He brought me into the living room to my chair. Bending down, he tried to try to calm me down.                Ben didn’t understand. He asked, “Um, do I call 911?”                “NO!” I screamed. “I’m in Hell! With YOUR demon! This is your fault! I hate you! I hate you!”                I was not the sort of person who screams or goes hysterics. I am usually calm and even when angry I don’t yell. But not today. All that pent-up anger and frustration, all the months of not saying how I felt, was amplified by this demon thing I now had.                Ben left me alone for a bit, as he didn’t know what to do. As I began to calm down from the initial shock, I tried to take stock of what had happened. I wasn’t hurt in any way. I was still me. But suddenly I had another intelligence living inside me, a complete mind. I knew its thoughts. It knew my thoughts. It controlled my body and actions. They were no longer mine. And somehow, I was in two worlds. I could feel my soul was in hell. But I was also sitting on a couch, in my living room.

               The demon picked up my arm amazed and looked at it. It moved my fingers staring. One, two, three, four, five. Five fingers it counted. As if it was not used to having real hands and arms. It looked at my feet and how they worked. It looked around my house as if it just now had new eyes. It blinked. Real eyes, it thought.

               It began to show me things as I sat in the chair. Mathematical equations and geometry popped up into the air, lit up with a yellow light. They were all around me. I touched one of the equations and it moved. The equation completed and I understood a scientific secret. It began another equation to be answered. It was like a 3D supercomputer. I felt the demon was searching for something. It was waking up as if from a long slumber. It wanted to understand some deep cosmic question. I was amazed. What did this mean? Finally, satisfied that it knew what to do, the demon began to talk to me.                “Oh, you poor thing!” It said to me, “I feel so sorry for you. You live in a dirty little hovel with a dirty little peasant. I am ancient god. I have been here since the beginning of all creation. I have been to marble palaces, eaten with emperors and queens, been worshiped. I’ve been dripping with gold, surrounded by beauty and culture. I am immortal. You, you have nothing but a petty little life. And it is all HIS fault. (meaning my husband). I can show you the world and its wonders, only if you leave him and let me kill him. You have to let me kill him.”                I attacked Ben then. Or the demon attacked him. I don’t really know who did the attacking actually. I flung my body at Ben, who was just standing next to the bathroom smoking a cigarette. My fingers went straight for his eyes and I tried to gauge them out.                Ben grabbed me and physically carried me into the bedroom. The demon fully manifested then, screaming, fighting, spitting, clawing at him, attacking with all its might using my body. But Ben’s physical strength and mine were very different. The demon had miscalculated in that sense. Ben was able to pin me down and hold my hands down. I could not get up.               Ben didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t let me go. He tried to talk to me, but by now the demon was fully in control of me and I couldn’t release it. He began to pray. “Jesus,” he prayed, “Jesus, please help my wife. I don’t know what to do. Please, Jesus, please help us”                The demon mocked him, “Jesus isn’t coming! He doesn’t even like you! You’re an idiot!”                Suddenly, the entire room lit up. All around the ceiling was covered with white, glowing lights that hovered and floated around the room. I could feel that these were bright souls that had come to help me. And then a man of light floated down. He was full of beauty, wearing clothing of bright light, tender eyes and face. My soul and the demon recognized him at once.                “You came!” I cried. Even the demon was overjoyed, and felt full love for this light being.                He talked to me first, “I love you so much Grace. You have a beautiful, sweet tender soul that wants to cherish and help everyone. You, however, need to love your husband. He needs you. This is why the demon has been allowed to take you. Love Ben with all your heart and stop being angry with him.”                I felt complaint rising in me. I didn’t want to love this man I married. I wanted to leave him, be free of him. I wanted to do what I wanted to do.                He had heard my thoughts. So he said it again. “This is not a request. You need to love your husband. He has been chosen for you for a reason.”                Then he spoke to the demon. “This woman is mine. She is not yours. Go back to hell where you belong.”                I could sense the demon was furious. “NO! I want her! She is mine! She is mine now and you can’t have her back!”                The man in white sighed. It was going to be a fight then. He said to me, “I am going into your husband now. I have to teach him how to fight this demon. It’s going to be a long fight.”                I watched the man in white go into my husband Ben then. It was like seeing a double person in a film, two people on top of one another. I could see Ben felt it too, for he completely changed. Now he was confident. He was no longer afraid of the demon. He spoke to it.                “In the name of Jesus and all that is holy, I order you to leave my wife and go back to the depths of hell.”                The demon tried persuasion at first. “I’ll be good. I promise. Don’t send me there. It’s dark and scary and horrible down there. I like this body. Please let me stay. I’ll be good.”                “NO!” commanded my husband. “Go to hell and be gone evil spirit. Go back to where you belong. You are evil and have been condemned.”                It fought then. It cursed. It screamed unholy screams. My body had more strength than I had ever known. And still Ben held on for dear life, commanding it. When I calmed, I confessed all the hurt and anger I felt inside. The hooks the demon had on me began to fall away.                I was incredibly thirsty because I was in hell. My body was wracked with thirst. Ben brought me water, blessed it and told me I needed the sacred living water of Jesus to refresh and cleanse me.                We fought demons for three days. As soon as one would leave, another one would enter. Each one was different, and had a different personality. All were evil manifest. We did not sleep or eat in all that time.                All demons, however, belong in hell. They are not supposed to be here on Earth. They get invited to live on Earth, however, by us. We humans have hurt feelings. We have jealousy. We have anger and bitterness and fear. Each emotion has a demon attached to it. They grab onto these hooks and drag us into hell with them. And then they get to have experiences outside of hell. They have already been condemned for the evil they have committed, so they now only want to bring as many souls with them as they can. We cannot see these hooks, however, because they are invisible. We cannot feel the hooks but we can feel the moods it makes us feel.                My demons originated by an ancient curse from my family blood line. My family was cursed from murder, suicide, ancient satanic practices, blood sacrifice. These curses had weighed upon my soul.                As all the demons left, weight from my soul left. I could feel it turn light, like the light beings floating inside my room. And then, in that dark cavern of hell, I saw the dark souls brightening. It was as though when I was fighting, the souls captured were being released by their captors. The souls floated up and I watched as they all floated to heaven. It was an amazing sight. There were thousands of them. They passed through to thank me. Thank you! They said. Jesus rescued us. You helped us. Thank you!                I was filled with love from the bright light surrounding me. It was so beautiful I could barely contain it.                When I was young, I believed in ghosts as haunting a place because they are sad. But now, I have come to realize ghosts live in a dark cavern in hell. They are waiting to be freed to be able to go to heaven.                My marriage now is in a healthy place. My husband left his depression behind and we began again our journey of life on the road again. But I will never forget the day when the demons all came to haunt me and our family.