The bell above the door tinkled as I pushed into the convenience store. I needed a few snacks and to pay for the gas. I couldn’t get over how here in the West people still had to go into the store to pay for gas. So much of this trip had felt like a step back in time. I grabbed the healthiest things I could and was surprised that there was fresh fruit in a basket. The price was nice, too. There was also a little stand of “freshly pressed” juices. How fresh could it be? But it did have a local farm sign next to it, so I grabbed a bottle. “You’ll want to grab you two of those,” called a voice from the front. “They’re that good, are they?” I called back. “Oh, yes! And Ms. Elsie don’t have much stock left.” I decided to humor the man and picked up a second bottle.

Placing my items on the counter, I told the man, “I also have the blue car at pump two.” While the old man rang up my items, he started, “Oh yes, Mrs. Elsie makes the best juices for miles and miles around. Nice and fresh. That’ll keep you cool as the day heats up. Now, I don’t think I seen you around here before. You new around here?” “Oh, I’m just passing through.” “We get a lot of that. Now did you check your oil and tires while you were here? It’s a ways to the next station unless you’re turning off somewhere soon.” “Yes, sir. I checked all my fluids and the tire pressure. My daddy drilled that in my head.” “Ooh! He raised you right!” I couldn’t help but smile at the man (Ched by the name on his shirt). He reminded me a lot of my father. He seemed genuinely interested in talking to me and sincere in his concern about my ride. “Now, you going down Highway 22 toward the Capital?” “No, just staying on Highway 74 to Café Haven.” Ched frowned. “The half-way point on the road with no end?” “Yes, sir.” Ched’s frown turned into disappointment, but all he said was, “You be safe now, you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied as I gathered my items and headed back to my car. Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again” played on the radio as I bopped along. The song had always resonated with me.

I couldn’t help but smile thinking about Ched. He seemed like a man from another time. So genuine, a genuineness that I hadn’t seen in so long I had forgotten that people could be interested in other’s existences. His frown at Café Haven, though, struck me. Surely, he saw people passing by that had found the fulfillment of their dreams, their bliss, at Café Haven.

But also, why did Café Haven look no closer on my GPS? I had been driving for hours. I lost myself in the music and tried to enjoy the landscape. The flat, dry, treeless tan that stretched as far as the eye could see was so different from the Big City; but I loved a good adventure and exploring the different, so I soaked it all in. Another hour passed and my attention started to drift. Suddenly a giant rodent…or perhaps a tumbleweed, flashed out into the road. I swerved. I hit an unseen pothole. Pop… and the steering wheel seemed to have a mind of its own. By the tug on the wheel and the noise from the road, I knew that I had a busted tire.

I pulled over to the side of the road at an intersection with a smaller highway completely prepared to put the spare on myself. As much as I could, though, I hated changing the tires on a car. I was just squatting by the rear tire, tools by my side, ready to loosen the lug nuts, when a shadow passed over me. Looking up, I saw a woman a few years older than I. Her hair was swept in a messy ponytail and her white shirt was stained. She looked like a no-nonsense person from the start. “Hi. Need a hand?” she asked, getting right down to business.

She didn’t wait for an answer but turned and waved her hand. I leaned over and saw a minivan, well-loved but not broken down, and a gangly teenage boy hop out of the passenger side.

“Give this lady a hand please,” the woman addressed the boy. He looked at me and only said, “I got this ma’am.” I was so confused by the rapid change of things that I just stood up without thinking and moved out of the way. I finally found my voice. “Oh! Well, thank you. I don’t want to trouble you though. I do know how to do this,” I finally stuttered out. “No trouble, ma’am,” was all the boy said as he got to work. I didn’t know if I should be offended that they just assumed I needed help or by him calling me ma’am so much. I was still so lost that I was startled when I felt something cold on my arm. “Oh!”

“Sorry, ma’am,” came a squeak from a younger boy who could have been the gangly teen five years earlier. “Here’s a water.” I took the water bottle and the little one scampered back to the side of the minivan. “Sorry about that, Miss,” the woman was speaking again. “I’m trying to teach him to announce his presence, but he likes sneaking up on people. I’m May. May McCardle. These are my boys, Jake and Harris.” “Hi, I’m Marielle. I really appreciate the help, but I really hope I’m not inconveniencing you. It’s really quite sweet of you all to help.”

I tried to mean the words, but I also put my hand on the small of my back as if to stretch. I surreptitiously checked that my cell phone was in my back pocket. I could run if I had to. I had never had strangers just offer to help me out for no reason. I was frightened to say the least…but also glad to not have to get greasy. The woman gave a nice laugh. “It’s okay,” and she winked at me. “You aren’t from around here.” I wasn’t sure if that was a statement or a question. I tried to laugh and keep my answer light. “What makes you think that?” She laughed again. “It’s a rental car, and you don’t seem used to Western hospitality. We don’t leave people stranded on the side of the road. It’s too remote and too hot. It’s dangerous.” “Oh!” I relaxed a little. “Yes, well, thank you again.” The gangly teen made quick work of the tire, and the woman and I had only a few minutes to chat about the area. I kept an eye on the teen to make sure he wasn’t messing up anything – accidentally or on purpose. When he was finished, I thanked them again and tried to pay the boy. His mother was adamant that I not. She believed in doing good for the sake of doing good, but she appreciated the sentiment. As we started to part ways and both boys were back in the minivan, she finally asked, “Where are you headed anyway?” “Café Haven in the middle of Highway 74.” “The road with no end?” she asked. She frowned as Ched did. “Well, okay.” May seemed as if she wanted to say something else, but then she said, “Good-bye and good luck.” With that, she turned right on the connecting highway, I continued down Highway 74. I turned back on the radio and Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again” was playing again. Man, the West sure loves it’s 80’s hair bands. For some reason I wasn’t feeling as into the song as I normally do. I changed the station and Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin’” rang out. The song selections were starting to unnerve me. I tuned the radio again and was met by some current pop hit that sounded like all the others. Good enough to shake my shoulders to as I cruised on. Hours later and the sun was moving quickly to the horizon. I checked my phone and realized I had service. I checked the GPS, but Café Haven had moved no closer to me. I messaged my friend…again. I noticed a station up ahead and decided it was time to hydrate and dehydrate and check the car. Just as I was pulling in, there was a loud clang under the hood of the car and smoke seeped from the edges.

A shout of frustration escaped my mouth. I was able to maneuver the car into an out of the way parking spot in the station’s lot. I banged my head on the steering wheel and let the tears drop into my lap. My mind filled with the stress of what waited for me back at work, the silence of my friend, the foreignness of here, the flat tire, and now the busted engine.

The tears just continued to fall. “You okay, Miss? You really shouldn’t stay in your car with it smoking like that.” I look up and into a set of beautiful hazel eyes. It was as if I was looking at a solar eclipse, a golden sunburst spreading out into an emerald ring. I quickly wiped my eyes. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you. Just having the worst luck.” The owner of the eyes seemed about my age and quite attractive. He was dusty and casual which I had discovered was typical of the locals. He held the car door open as I grabbed my bag and got out. Of course, my cell phone was no longer in service. “Do you think the station has a phone? I guess I need to call the rental company.” “Sure. Old Man Luke has one at the counter in the store. He’ll help you out.” The call to the rental company didn’t go well. I couldn’t stop the feelings of despair. I let my head fall onto my arms and concentrated on taking deep breaths. “There now, young lady. Drink this. We’ll fix you right up.” Old Man Luke had placed a steaming hot cup of something beside me. The warmth of the mug was comforting despite it being a hot day. He had a kind smile that reached his crinkly eyes behind his thick glasses. His warmth and genuineness reminded me of Ched so much I wondered if they were brothers. I picked up the cup and took a sip and was startled. “Is this orange juice?” “Freshly squeezed,” he beamed. “Better than tea or coffee. Plenty of vitamins. It’s a local favorite remedy for anything that gets you down.” I looked skeptically at the mug but took another sip. And another. Hot orange juice. Who knew? “Ah, good,” Old Man Luke seemed pleased with my sips. “Now tell me what’s going on.” “The rental agency said they would send a tow truck out and I could pick up another car. Apparently, this one was not supposed to be rented out.” “Well, that’s good!” “The tow truck can’t get here for three days,” I continued, “and the new rental is in New Hope. Where is that?” “Ah, that’s a couple hours down Highway 74.” “Well, at least that’s in the right direction, but I don’t suppose there’s a bus that runs from here to there.” Old Man Luke scratched his head and considered the situation. “No,” he said slowly. “No bus around here. The rental can stay here until the tow gets here. Getting to New Hope…” He thought some more. “Hey, Luke,” the man with the eyes had come into the convenience store. “Did you-“ He stopped short when he saw me, the mug, and, I’m sure, my tear-stained face. “Sorry, to interrupt.” “It’s fine,” I said. “I’m just taking it all in. Go ahead.” Old Man Luke’s eyes lit up. “Cort, son, aren’t you heading back to New Hope today?” Cort, as he was called, looked suspiciously at Luke.

“Yeeees,” he drew out. “Why?” “Well, this young lady needs to get there to get her a new car for her adventure.” Old Man Luke said nothing else but looked expectantly at Cort. The seconds ticked by uncomfortably.

I tried to save us both. “Oh, no, I could never impose like that. Surely there a bus or train or taxi service…” Cort looked at me. “No to all three. It’s no imposition, but I do want to leave as soon as possible if you need to grab food or use the toilet.” Cort turned to Luke, apparently assuming the deal was done. “Did you get that package I ordered?” As the two men talked, I went to the bathroom in a fog. Was I really getting into a car with a total stranger? Was a total stranger really willing just to give me a ride, a ride that would be several hours? We hadn’t even discussed how much it would cost. Was this safe? I came out of the bathroom and found Cort standing next to a truck. Just like the minivan from earlier, it looked well-used but certainly not broken down. He was looking at his phone. “You have service?” was my way of greeting him. He looked at me and grinned. “You have to be a local to get service around here.” And he winked at me. Once more I was taken aback by the ease and openness of the people. Cort opened the passenger door, but I hesitated. He smiled again. “Strangers are often taken aback by the ways of the West. We take care of people around here. We stop for people on the side of the road. We give hitchhikers a ride. We feed and comfort those who need it. I promise to get you safely to New Hope.” Oddly satisfied, I hopped in the truck. Cort closed the door and got in on the other side. Whitesnake’s “Here I go Again” came on the radio, and Cort immediately changed the station. An even older tune came on that I couldn’t quite place. We rode for a while not speaking. I watched the landscape roll by. “Life in the city must be tough,” Cort said out of the blue. “Excuse me?” What he said hadn’t quite registered. “The Big City. It doesn’t seem like people help each other much there. Seems kinda lonely.” “I can’t argue with that.” “What’s in New Hope for you?” “Oh, I’m just picking up the new rental. I’m meeting a friend at Café Haven.” “At the middle of the road with no end?” And the frown of disappointment crossed Cort’s face. “Ok,” I said. “Every time I say where I’m going people frown and look disappointed. Don’t you people want people to find their bliss?” “Well,” Cort seemed to be considering his words carefully. “Highway 74 doesn’t end.” “Yes?” “Highway 74. No end means no middle. Café Haven has always been a legend, just a dream people chase until they are crazy.” I couldn’t help it. The tears started again. I was so embarrassed. My cheeks burned from a thousand suns. The obvious reality of it all hit me hard. “I’m so stupid,” I whispered. “Chasing a dream. Of course, people just made up finding it.” I turned my face to the window trying to keep him from seeing my tears. Cort let me cry. After a few minutes, I felt a hand enclose mine. He didn’t ask, but it spilled out anyway. “I’ve heard all my life that bliss could be found at Café Haven. People returned and said they had found it. I never let myself see they were just as miserable as before. I’m so drained back home, I put everything in this trip when my friend called saying this would be exactly what I needed. Why would my friend do this to me? My friend won’t even return my messages now.” I sobbed. Cort squeezed my hand. I wiped my tears.

We changed the subject and spent the next few hours in easy conversation. We laughed. We shared deeply personal stories. We told silly anecdotes. I was surprised at how easy it was to talk to Cort, much as I was surprised by so much I had seen in the West. I was surprised at how fast the time had passed when Cort pulled into the station at New Hope where my new rental was waiting. Cort stayed with me as I got the new rental all checked out. “Are you continuing on Highway 74?” he asked. “I have to,” I shrugged. “Maybe the bliss is in the chase?” “That's lonely." Cort paused and then, "Dreams can be built with the right people.” Cort gave me a big hug. It felt so comfortable considering I had only just met the man. “Well, I’m turning here, heading into town. There is a great little diner with the best pie on Main Street that I’m going to have dinner at.”

I smiled, and he held open the car door as I climbed in, ready to keep west on Highway 74. “You know,” Cort paused before closing the door.

I buckled the seat belt and looked up into those hazel eyes. The sunbursts around his pupils were more pronounced, overtaking the emerald. “You know the thing about roads that have no end, you just have to choose to turn off them. New Hope is full of people who chose to build their dreams on a side road.” He closed the door, and I watched as he climbed into his truck. He gave a little wave as he turned south into town. I sat and sighed. I turned the car on and pulled out of the station. I looked west down Highway 74. Then I turned south into town. Pie sounded like a delicious idea.


(Implied violence) The pump is dry—or broken. It has probably been that way for a long time. It is also quite possible, the man considers with some degree of annoyance, that it has never worked at all. That it has always existed in this state. One not unlike the town of its residence, or the land surrounding; empty, restful,

wanting.

He swears under his breath. He doesn’t typically enjoy doing so where the sun can see him, but his current situation certainly warrants it. He knows his car is on its last legs. The fuel light on his dash has been worrying at his peripheral for an uncomfortably long time and this is the first small slice of civilisation in what was a half day sized cake of sweet fuck-all. He replaces the nozzle to its original position, where it will likely stay for another two or three lifetimes, until the arrival of yet another poor soul shit out of luck and unleaded who would find themselves equally as disappointed.

He wipes what is either rust-dust or red-dirt from his palm to the denim of his thigh. It’s possibly both. This specific shade of copperhead orange is a familiar sight around this part of the country. Everything here—when there was anything here at all—is either dirtied or deteriorated to the point where no other colour dare remain. And as a man of many shades of black, this and the sun make for a rather unfavourable pairing to say the least.

Finding a means of escape is imperative. He checks his phone for reception. If he can’t find fuel here, he can at least scour his map app for the closest alternative. His phone gives him nothing, not even enough bars to make an emergency call lest he be approached by a psycho with a shotgun or a cannibal from the distant hills; irony be damned.

He wields his phone to the sky, a beacon of betrayal that offers him nothing in return for his extended efforts. He will change providers—if he can ever reach a town where such a change can be provided. He lets his arm drop. “You’re in the country now, boy.” A voice calls to him, thickly accented, each word halved in size, incomprehensible if one aren’t fluent in this very particular brand of local drawl. The man feigns nescience, offering the voices wielder a leisurely wave, careful not to let his irritation show.

No shit.

He thinks but does not say.

I never would have guessed.

A secondary survey of his surroundings offers up not much more than his initial had. Beyond the functionless pump there is a functioning carpark, occupying a series of cars and carcasses whose differences are indiscernible to the naked eye. Along with this, there is a single large building that likely once operated as separate businesses but is now connected by wooden panels and rusted corrugated pieces to form a single beast of a thing that no doubt housed primarily the motel-servo monster that is this town’s only lure.

Everything is rust and ruin, dirt and detritus; ancient relics of times gone by. No wonder they didn’t have phone reception, they probably didn’t even have indoor plumbing.

In an odd way it is both charming and eery. With too much time here one could easily fall prey to red dust homey quality unique to inland towns, as inconvenient as their services might be. Withdrawn from the reach of the rest of society, townships such as this often maintained an air of timelessness. Whether it is the eighteen-hundreds, nineteen-fifties, or the same day he left the place before this one, he can’t tell. He’s unsure whether the locals would even know themselves, stuck in their perpetual state of desert-town dormancy—listless things they are. He won’t allow himself to fall into this trap. In-and-out. Fuel and finis. He will give himself twenty minutes at most.

He makes his way to what he presumes is the front door, letting himself in with a jingle and sway of waterlogged veneer. The heat of the day follows him, only to make a hasty retreat the very moment before the door clammers shut. Looking around, he can’t blame it. The scent of distilled spirits and the zestless air of dying ones is his only greeting. He knows then why vacuity is worn so boldly from pump to patio—no one would want to stay amongst this energy of the damned for long.

So many eyes, not one of them friendly. He hardly looks like anything worth such open, unmetered hostility, surely.

He smiles, inoffensive. He is good at inoffensive. It’s a trademark of his. Inoffensive and preferably invisible.

Dissolved of the heat’s company, he ventures alone, making his way past the bar’s testy occupants and through a connecting archway eloquently labelled simply as

‘STORE’.

Time continues to evade him. The classic, soulful sound of FM radio makes love to his every step; the mellow, acoustic twang of country diluted through with the gapping nothingness that is the store’s lack of patrons.

It’s been a lifetime since he’s listened to the radio.

Why would he?  It’s difficult to trust someone who enjoys midrolls in their music. Only a real weirdo vetoes Spotify in exchange for the skipless prison that is public broadcasting.

No DJ you may not spin him a pretty little number that only half the audience will actually enjoy, whilst the other half graciously suffers through it in hopes that the next song just might be their

jam.

He will play what he pleases, thank you. What would be the point of a premium subscription otherwise? Possibly this is the pitfall. The radio is fiscal liberty whose true cost lay in theft of choice. To each their own.

He approaches the counter, hands pilled with packaged foods past their expiration date, that he will not eat, but will make him look at least purposeful.

He addresses the cashier, “Are you the king of this fine establishment?”

Nothing. Silence.

Humour is lost on the sequestered. His nametag reads

Glen. “You see,

Glen . I was having a little trouble outside. Is your fuel pump—?”

“Working.” Glen amends but elaborates no further.

“Right.” “That tank’s been dry as a nun’s nasty since the yanks drained in back in forty-five.” The man didn’t believe the United States was likely to have drained this particular tank in this particular province of Nowhereland at any given point of time, but this wasn’t his problem.

“But the pump works?”

There’s a beat of nothing. Nothing but FM and smoker’s wheeze. He needs to leave. “It’s cracked. There’s a spare out back. Hand fill. Rhody will fill ‘er up. You’ll pay here.” He isn’t sure what a

Rhody  is and how it would fill his car when the pump is debunked and tank dry as a Prioress’ privates, but he’ll take what he can get.

He upturns his expired confectionary upon the counter, shuffling each item into some semblance of order more for the benefit of his own amusement then Glen’s convenience. He spots them then, the pile of newspaper’s stacked just shy of the counter’s edge. Local rags from the look of them, maybe regional, but with definitively no further reach than that. It is the front page that strikes his eye: in clear and imposing block letters.

“Terrible.” He comments, with some level of casualty, tapping a sole finger to the paper’s edge. Glen says nothing, but does with the briefest of movements, drops his eyes momentarily to the newspaper. Face-up the headline reads, ‘ANOTHER MISSING IN ONGOING DISAPPEARANCES IN REGION.’ “Coppers will sort it.”

“That they will.” The man agreed, “Do you take card?”

“Cash only.”

Smalltowners are a simple people: cash, caution, and Hits Top 100.

He slips his presumptuously attained debit card back into his wallet alongside half a dozen others, near identical in all but name. He hands Glen a hundred.

“Donate the change.” He proclaims, gesturing to the ambiguously labelled charity tin, “Can never be too charitable.”

When he re-enters the bar, not much has changed, but now he is once again invisible at least. No one turns to him as he steps back in, too intent on eying their drinks, or the TV, or each other. He is no one to them. A passer-by, a blip, a stranger. This is how the man prefers it.

He observes them: a room full of people that have probably been here since before the room was even constructed. The type of townsfolk that had fallen here as seeds—carried on the wind or shat out by a bird or propped up from the very crust of the earth itself—settling their roots exactly in place and then never budging for a lifetime. They’d all know one another. By name, by birth, by the grace of the limited available space. They are both a tragedy and an inconvenience.

He needs to

leave . Yet for now, he has no choice. Glen had mentioned around a half hour wait for

Rhody’s

fuel services and as enticing as the prospect of standing outside under the direct rays of the peak-hour sun is, he thinks he at least deserves a drink and a short reprieve.

He orders a beer. He assesses the room once more. Wariness, hostility, and flannel. There is so much flannel. There are two distinct groups of people that wear flannel in public unabashed and they are generally the same two groups that frequent establishments such as these. Sadly, neither of these groups are generally his opted choice of company.

Then he spots the girl. Tucked in the deep recesses of a corner table, curled in upon herself as if hiding or hibernating in the shadowless crevice that seems to protect her from the oppressive air of the surrounding environment.

She’s reading a tattered paperback. A strangely old-fashioned gesture for her presumed age, with a mobile phone and the endless void of social networking resting in such close proximity to her hand.

Probably dead.

He thinks.

No,

definitely

dead.

There is no flannel in sight. He approaches. He greets her with a smile: inoffensive.

She gives him her name: Toni. He gave her one of his.

She invites him to sit, having clearly assessed him against the bars other occupants and finding him to be of a more agreeable variety. It’s probably his lack of missing teeth.

They tell their stories. He, a man on his way cross-country to visit a Great Aunt on the verge of cardiac collapse. His childhood caretaker, he explained, like a mother. Though men like him didn’t often have mothers and if they did, they weren’t the good kind.

Her, a young woman on run from an unspoken responsibility like something out of a coming-of-age novella. Vague, clipped. He doesn’t prod for details.

How did you end up here? Car problems.

How long have you been here? Too long.

Though her situation is a tad more complicated as

too long

was two days rather than less than an hour, and

car problems

was that she had blown some sort of hose that fed some sort of important fluid to another sort of important mechanism that was beyond her mechanical understanding. Leaving Toni and the vehicle at a deadly ultimatum: divorce or a joint suicide. In the end the car and Toni had parted ways. The lack of a prenup and sufficient arm muscles meant that it kept all her belongings bar her phone, wallet, and a one-point-five litre bottle of Evian.

Somewhere along the line she had been whisked up from the roadside by a pair of middle-aged women who had been either cousins or a couple and had done nothing but bicker between themselves until they’d reached this point. Toni, desperate to salvage her sanity, had bailed from the vehicle with promises of safety and cell service that she had not realised to be falsehoods until long after the women were out of sight.

And here she is.

Her phone: dead.

Her book: borrowed.

Her plan: Dicey. Maybe she would come up with one tomorrow. Maybe she would finish the book first. She’ll take things as they come. What’s the rush? She has nowhere to be. And nowhere she is. “Chatty bunch, aren’t they?” He mentions partway in, two drinks down, Toni’s book forgotten by her deceased phone’s side. A crime novel. The kind that’s vivid attention to detail and vaguely concerning insider knowledge oft leaves readers unnerved enough to scour online criminal records with the authors name in mind, or at the very least leaving them questioning their sanity. They aren’t his preferred choice of reading.

With a pointed gaze towards the bar, she nods in the direction of a specific man. Long, gangly, hair the desaturated, dying yellow of the rooms artificial light, “He definitely keeps human skins in his wardrobe.”

“One for each day of the week.” He agrees.

“You would make a mighty fine Sunday best.”

This draws a hesitant laugh, “I’ll steer clear.”

“So, how long for your wait?” She is sipping a coffee. Black. Like his clothing, like their corner.

“ Rhody

has to fill me up from the tank out back. Apparently, the American’s drained the other one.” He explains. “Tale as old as time.” “Would you like a lift somewhere when I’m done?” Hesitation, justifiably. There is always hesitation. She wears it as the other’s wear their flannel: dated, with practice. The hesitation of a young woman alone, speaking to a man she does not know and can not trust. Smart girl.

“I promise to keep your skin intact.” Her expression is thoughtful. Her mind weighing the virtue of one relatively unassuming man against a room full of hostile, sentient flannel, swiftly finding one marginally preferable to the other. Not so smart after all.

“Well with an offer like that, who could refuse?”

The tank is full. The windscreen is washed. The mysterious Rhody is neigh to be seen.

They are off.

Toni does not settle immediately, though her demeanour had shifted slightly to the left of caution when she had spotted his car. Something small and Japanese. Silver. Inconspicuous, but not too inconspicuous as to become conspicuous simply by the way of human assumption. It is just a car. The type of car you would expect an older gentleman to drive on the way to visit their moribund maternal figure.

She flicks on the radio, drowning the car in sound. Yet another action odd only for her youth. He had not known this car was even tuned for the radio. The song is something crass and pop-y, strategically designed to be beloved by adolescents and algorithms alike.

“This is my jam.”

Of course, it is. God bless streaming services.

He allows her the three or so minutes of electronic mayhem, then an extra forty of equally, if not more intolerable, musical free reign. Then he pulls out the gun.

The man likes guns. They are his natural opposite. The bad cop to his good cop—or either or. Flashy where he is subdued; boisterous where he is muted. The irony of his weapon choice isn’t lost, just misplaced. It’s likely somewhere out in the desert, probably making friends with Toni’s car. The silencer brings them back to equal footing. A stabiliser that is both a precautionary measure and a modest attempt at maintaining his inoffensive image. Not that there is much of an imagine to be had. No one lives long enough to question the authenticity of his character, so he supposes it matters to none but him. This includes Toni, whose death—although not as silent as his gun’s attachment had promised—cares for nothing now as he closes the boot of the car upon her body, gagged and bound for a shallow grave somewhere amongst the barren expanse of desert and nothingness, his driving companion for just a short while more.

Much like his friend the fuel pump, he isn’t running. Running would require he believed himself to be obtainable in the first place. He is simply moving. Albeit at a faster pace to those on a different side of the law. He’s convinced himself of this, facts be damned.

He isn’t running, but he would keep moving.

And move he does.


Week 1: As Neal entered the room, she said, "Please sit wherever you are most comfortable. The chair or the sofa." He chose the chair.  "Why are you here?" Neal responded with an attitude. "You tell me."

"That's not my role. Answer the question, please." "The City put me on leave." "For…" "They say I need," he made air quotes, 'anger management.' I had a bad moment." She got up and walked to the desk. She grabbed an envelope with the return address 'City of Springfield, Department of Human Resources.' According to this, you threw coffee at a young woman." "It wasn't hot coffee." "Thankfully, but still. I'd like you to describe the incident." Neal rolled his eyes and let out a big sigh. "Our admin assistant, Zoey, asked me if I was bringing my usual brownies to the potluck." "What about that question triggered you?" He paused as if he was struggling to say the word. "Usual." "What about that word evoked your anger?" Silence.

"You know, it's dusty in here." He touched the surface of the nearby desk and then examined his hand." "Not important." "I don't make the brownies. My wife does." She let that sentence hang in the air, then said, "And…" "Look, she wasn't able to, okay?" "Why?" She said the word softly as if she knew it was dangerous.

"Because she's dead." He shouted the words. He tilted his head for emphasis.

"I'm sorry. I know it's hard, but I needed you to say it. That's all for today. I'll have homework for you each time." "Homework?" "Yes, it will help this process move along." "Well, what is it?" "Exercise. I think you have some bottled-up anger. It's understandable. Exercise will help." "I'm not much of a going to the gym kinda guy. Look at me." She saw a man of medium height and build who was neither muscular nor scrawny. "Thirty minutes of bodily movement. Anything you want. Walk, run, bike, dance, do jumping jacks. Whatever. Just get outside and move. Got it?" "We'll see." He got up and walked toward the door as if it took a herculean effort.

Week 2: Neal walked in and took the sofa this time. "Why are you here?" she asked. "Hello to you, too. Anger management." "Yes, good. Did you go outside and exercise?" "I did. One day, I washed the car. Another day, I mowed the lawn. I even took a walk around the block." "How did you feel after?" Neal shrugged. "Let's go back to the incident with Zoey. From the beginning." He sighed. She just stared and waited. "I was sitting in my cubicle doing a bank rec. I was getting close to zero, you know, completing the reconciliation. Zoey interrupted me." "Uh-huh." "She came bouncing in all happy, not a care in the world. She had this sign-up sheet for the monthly Accounting potluck to celebrate birthdays. Everyone knows I bring brownies." "People look forward to them then? Expect them?" "Yes, they're the best." Neal shifted from sitting to lying on the couch and folded his arms." "Continue." "She asked me if she could mark me down for the brownies. It triggered me somehow. I reached for my mug and threw the contents at her shirt." "You said it triggered you. What about it did?" "Zoey asked me for something I couldn't give her. My wife's brownies. It was impossible." The woman leaned in, her glasses in her hand, as if Neal was about to say something noteworthy.

"Can you describe how you felt?" "I'm not good with feelings." The woman handed him a paper from her lap. "Here's a list of feelings. Which ones were you feeling at that moment?" He took the paper and scanned the list. "How come angry isn't on this list?" "It's a secondary emotion, meaning another feeling evokes anger, like sadness, for example." "Look, angry is how I felt." "Okay, we'll circle back to the list later. Did Zoey know that your wife makes the brownies?" "I don't know." "Did she know that your wife had passed?" "No, no one knows." "No one knows? Why haven't you told people?" "Lotsa reasons." "Okay, that's a good place to pause. Your homework for next time is to tell three people." "Tell three people what?" "That your wife died." Week 3: "Why are you here?" He went straight to the couch and laid down. "Anger management and the loss of my wife." Neal was matter-of-fact. "Good. Did you do your homework? Tell three people?" "I called my sister and told her. She has a husband and son, so that's three." "How'd she take it?"

"Not well. She cried. She wants to come visit. I discouraged her." "Why?" "What good would it do? We'd just sit around being sad. Nothing good can come from that." "Well, there'd be companionship. People need people. You could talk about your wife and remember happier times, perhaps." "Yeah, well. I'd have to clean the house. It's not in great shape. Too much trouble." "Let's shift gears. Let's talk about your wife's death." The woman crossed her legs. "What about it?" "How'd your wife die?" "She got hit by a bus, an accident." "Can you describe the scene?" He sat up, incredulous, "What, you want me to describe the gory details?" "No, sorry. What happened before ?" "We were on the curb waiting to cross the street. And then the bus hit her, and she died." "Did the street sign say 'walk'?" "I wasn't looking at the street sign." He laid back down with his right arm across his eyes as if it would blind him to the memory. Tears rolled down the side of his face into his ears. "I have the police report here. Shall I read it, or will you tell me?" He was unresponsive, so she read the words. "Cause of death: suicide. Witnesses reported that the woman deliberately stepped in front of the oncoming bus." Neal curled into a ball, faced the back of the couch, and sobbed. Several minutes passed, and then they heard a scratching sound. They turned toward the closed door. They saw a cat's paw extend into the room under the door. "Okay to let the cat in?" she asked. After a moment, Neal said, "Okay." "Your homework for this week is to tell your workplace that your wife has died." A month later: A green Subaru pulled up to Neal and Abby's driveway. A man, a woman, and their son exited. The woman, Neal's sister Helen, took the lead and proceeded toward the front door. Before she could knock, something grabbed her attention. Helen heard her brother speaking as if he was on the phone because it was a one-sided conversation. Then she heard angry words followed by sobbing. Helen turned around, looked at her husband, and pointed to the car. The man nodded. They returned to the car and drove away.

Months later: "Why are you here?" she asked. He sat in the chair and leaned forward. "To ask you why you left me, Abby?" "I was depressed. You know that I've struggled with depression for years." "I know. But couldn't you stay for us, me and Shadow?" "You don't even like cats—you're allergic." "You're evading my question." Neal stared, waiting for an answer. "You may find this hard to believe, but my suicide had nothing to do with you. I was in mental hell. It was easier to step off the curb than continue. Honestly, I thought you'd be better off, eventually, without me." "It's like you shifted all that mental pain onto me." "I'm so sorry." She paused to let that sink in. "How are you doing?" "I'm angry at you. I can't forgive you for leaving us." "I know." "How are you doing?" she asked again. "It's not as bad as it was months ago. I'm actually exercising. I get out of the house a bit." "Good. I have a new homework assignment for you." "Yeah? What?" "Apologize to Zoey." Next week: "Why are you here?" she said. Neal sat on the couch. "To tell you that I apologized to Zoey." Abby smiled. "I'm glad. How did it go?" "Well, I think she's still afraid of me." "Understandable." "We were in the HR office. I was so nervous. Zoey stared in her lap. We sat across from each other. I looked her in the eye, well, where her eye would be if she were looking at me. And I said, 'I'm sorry, and that it won't happen again. It's not an excuse, but I was grieving the loss of my wife. I apologize. Please forgive me.'" "All the elements of a good apology. Well done. What did she say?" "Zoey said she understood and was sorry about my wife." "That it?" "I'm cleared to start work again." "Good. Have you forgiven me?" "Not completely." "Are you still angry with me?" "Not all of the time." "Have you thrown any more coffee?" "Definitely not." The conversation lulled. "You know," Abby said, "you really need to clean this room, vacuum, dust, etc." "You're right. I'm having a service come in to prepare for the sale." "You're moving?" "Yep, me and Shadow need a smaller place. Gardening was your thing. We want a condo where someone else does the yard work. I found a place overlooking a pool. Built-in entertainment for Shadow." "You guys seem tight." "We are. He's my cat now. Do you have homework for me?" "Yes, go live your life."


Claire woke up with a jolt, sweating and breathing heavy. Not again, she thought. The dreams haven’t happened in a long time, they were supposed to be done and gone. Claire reached over to her night stand and grabbed her water bottle taking a big gulp. Maybe it wasn’t what she thought; maybe it was just a dream. Claire closed her eyes and went back to bed hoping for a decent nights sleep. The following morning Claire woke up feeling refreshed and she pushed the dream out of her mind. It was just a dream she kept telling herself. She made breakfast and sat down to eat. Something told her to turn on the television so she did. What she saw made her spit out her coffee. Her dream wasn’t a dream after all; there before her eyes on the tv was the bus crash. Every detail was just how she dreamed it, the number of the bus, the amount of people hurt and sadly the casualties. “Oh no, oh no. Not again. Why? WHY!” She said forgetting her breakfast and running to the phone. “Wait, what am I doing? Who am I suppose to call? The accident already happened and if I call now they will think I had something to do with it. AHHH!” She screamed. She could call her friend, he always believed her. They haven’t spoken in a while though, she wondered if his number was the same. After a while she decided against it, the dream was a fluke, a coincidence. One dream didn’t mean her visions were back. No they wouldn’t, couldn’t be back. She would let it go and move on. She had to get ready for work. The week went on as normal, no other visions penetrated her subconscious. People at work were talking about the bus crash though and she would nod along whispering how sad it was. It was ruled as an accident, faulty brakes, but Claire was still certain something else happened. She was not going to dwell on it though, she was done with that. She wanted to be normal and act normal. She was humiliated enough and thrown into enough mental hospitals to last her a lifetime. The door chimed and Claire looked up from her desk, she stared shocked to see the friend she was going to call this morning. Maybe he wasn’t here to see her she thought and went back to work. Josh looked around and saw her, Claire. She was still as beautiful as he remembered. He was here to talk to her about the bus crash. He believed her when she said she had visions and thought maybe she had one about the crash that could help in his investigation. “Hey Claire, can we talk?” Josh asked approaching Claire’s desk. “Uh, what about?” Claire replied. “I think you know.” He said pointing to the tv which was playing the bus crash footage again. “Fine, but not here. I leave for my lunch break in ten minutes. I’ll meet you at the park.” She said forcing a smile. Josh nodded in understanding and walked out the door. Josh was waiting at a picnic table when he saw Claire walking towards him lunchbox in hand. He got up to greet her with a hug but stopped not sure if it would be okay. “Shall we sit and talk?” He asked. Claire nodded and sat across from him. She opened her lunchbox and took out two sandwiches and handed him one. He grinned and opened the wrapping. “So… How have you been?” He asked shyly. “Good, but let’s cut to it already. You wanna know if I saw anything about the bus crash. Yes, I did but I don’t want to dwell on it. It was considered an accident anyway.” “But it wasn’t. That’s what we told the news to draw suspicion away. Claire this is the third crash, all with the same MO.” “But… but… they said the brakes were faulty.” “No the brakes were tampered with.” “What do you mean same MO. The first crash, the driver ran into a power pole, drunk. The second crash the driver fell asleep at the wheel. Both of those involved smaller vehicles too, not a giant bus!” “You are right however the way the vehicles were tampered with was all the same. All had the brakes messed up. As for the drivers of the first two there was no evidence that either were impaired. I need your help on this one. Please.” “I will help however I can but I don’t know too much. I gotta get back to work. Meet me at my place at six and we can go over… stuff.” Claire said getting up from the table. Claire walked up her porch steps a little after six and saw Josh waiting for her, dinner in hand. She smiled and unlocked her front door. They were both silent as Josh pulled out two burgers and some fries and Claire got some napkins. “So did you see all three crashes or just the bus?” He asked. “I saw the all three but I don’t know what I can tell you. I basically saw what the news reported. I didn’t see anything before the crashes or who could be involved.”

“So all you saw was the news report than?” “It’s like I was there but the crash already happened. The police and EMTs were showing up and the some people were climbing out the bus bleeding.” “And no one stood out to you? No one watching the scene? Some criminals like to stay and watch the chaos they create.” “Not that I can think of…” She trailed off, “Wait! There was one guy who was at the other two crashes too.” “Then that is our guy. What did he look like?” Josh asked. “I don’t know. I only saw a glimpse and it was dark at this morning’s crash. Don’t look at me like that! Listen I know it’s the same guy because he always wears the same outfit and hat!” She said frustrated.

“Okay, okay. Describe what you can.” He replied and Claire told him all she could remember. “Okay so I’ll go back over the footage and see if I can find anything. Please call me if you see another one no matter what time.” He said and left. The next day Josh came back to Claire’s house to go over what he found. He brought someone with him. “Claire this is Jannie, Jannie this is Claire,” Joshed introduced them, “Jannie works for my department and is working this case with me. I told her about you.” He said smiling. “What? Why would you do that?” Claire asked shocked. “Oh! I get it, Claire as in clairvoyant, haha that’s clever.” Jannie said laughing. “What is clever about it? It’s my name, that’s all.” Claire said angrily. “Oh no mean to offend, just don’t know too many psychic’s.”

“Okay, how about we get started then?” Josh asked. Josh showed Claire the video and she was able to point out the man she saw in all three visions. Jannie worked on a sketch then put it on a flyer saying wanted for questioning. “So when did you get your first ‘vision’.” Jannie asked air quoting the word vision. “I was in high school, Josh was my only friend. I told him and he was skeptical at first then after it came true he believed me. I tried to warn others but no one believed me. Not even my parents.” Claire said. “Well yeah I get it, visions, seeing the future. Seems unreal to me, but I have an opened mind and Josh said you saw some stuff that others didn’t.” She smiled. Later that night Jannie decided to do some research on this so called psychic Claire who believed her dreams were of the future. Jannie found some interesting stuff out about Claire for instance she was in a couple mental institutions. However it took some time to uncover why Claire was admitted. Jannie found out that in high school Claire claimed the science lab was going to catch fire, it didn’t until a week later though. Although there was no proof the principal assumed Claire set it to make herself look good. Later on Claire said her aunt and uncle were going to be poisoned and a few days later they were. Suspicion was on Claire but again there was no proof she did anything. She stopped having visions after that, or at least she didn’t tell anyone again and who knew what she claimed in between the hospital visits. Jannie wondered if Claire made these past accidents happen and wondered if she was doing it again with the crashes. She needed to warn Josh, he might not know the whole story. Jannie ran to Josh’s office only to find he already left, she knew where he was going and heading towards Claire’s house. “Josh I need to talk to you NOW!” She said when she saw him on the front steps. “Uh, sure come inside and we…” “No, not in front of her.” Jannie said pointing towards the door, “Look I’ve done some research and things aren’t adding up. First there was a fire, then a poisoning, who else knows what. Josh she isn’t a psychic, she is a PSYCHO!” “No she isn’t. Come inside I will explain. She isn’t home, she went to get lunch.” Josh replied. Jannie was hesitant as first then followed Josh inside and waiting for him to speak. “Claire had her visions and some she told publicly because she feared for the lives of those people. What you don’t know is that she had other visions come true too, visions she only told me because I was the only one who believed her. The poisoning I admit was a little hard to pull off though, I had to rely on the fact that they drank wine with dinner.” Josh stopped talking to look over at Jannie who looked confused. “Oh I’m sorry I cut the main part out. See I believed Claire, I felt a pull towards her and when she made a public announcement about the fire and those people laughed at her I had to act. It was I who set the lab on fire. I made sure Claire was in another class though so she wouldn’t be suspected. Same with her aunt and uncle, she was with her parents then.” “So she isn’t psychic at all, you did all those things. Wait, does this mean you caused the crashes too?” Jannie asked panicking. “Yes, although it was harder to determine what she saw because she shut me out. We have a connection though and knew she would see me soon enough.” “This is insane. You are insane! I’m getting out of here and calling for backup.” Jannie said standing up. “Oh but you misunderstand. See Claire had another dream last night. This time it involves you Jannie and your death.” Josh said with a smirk as he shoved Jannie down the back steps. Her head cracked against the sidewalk and Josh planted evidence on her that she caused the crashes. He walked back inside and saw Claire walk in. “Claire, thank goodness. I need to call back up. Jannie showed up and… and…” He sat down and made himself sob. “She did it didn’t she? She confessed to the crashes and then she tried to run and tripped?” Claire asked walking towards the backdoor. “Yes, she hit her head. I checked her pulse and nothing. I’m sorry Claire.” He said standing up. “It’s not your fault. She was the criminal one here. I’m glad we stopped it. Thanks for believing me.” Claire said giving Josh a hug. “Of course Claire, I will always believe you.” Josh said hugging Claire back and smiling. Everything was going to be just fine.


“Excuse me Joshua but I seem to be stuck on this wall,” a voice says behind me. I look at my manuscript, now over five hundred pages long, and put down my pen. How long has it been since I’ve had a visitor? The wood floor creaks underneath me as I place two hands on my desk and push myself up. As I turn around, nobody is at my door. Am I imagining things? “Not there. Up here!” I swivel my head to the right and see that a woman’s face is, indeed, on my wall. She seems to be trapped behind glass. Is she real? I shuffle over and analyze her green eyes, which hold my eye contact. With modern technology, it’s becoming harder and harder to tell what is man made and what is real. “How do you know my name?” I spit out. “You don’t remember me?” she asks. Her eyes drop from mine and her lips contort into a frown. “No. Who are you?” “My name is Anna. Anna Patronella.” Pain shoots through my ankles and I retreat to my bed covered in grey sheets. Anna Patronella. Why does that name sound so familiar? But I would never have forgotten a name like that. In fact, I would never forget anyone. Especially not their face. ------ “Joshua, come say hello to your auntie!” my Mama yelled from a distance. I abandoned my red bike on the rough rocks and raced through the backdoor of my childhood home. The powerful stench of baking apricots roared through my nostrils as I ran through the kitchen — there were two minutes left on the oven. As I entered the living room, my mama sat with a woman who smiled at me with a golden tooth. “Oh, hi Auntie Esmerelda! How are you?” I said. My Auntie’s face twisted. “How do you know my name?” “I remember it from when you visited us!” My Mama and Auntie looked at each other, sharing a look of confusion yet fascination. “But Joshua,” my Mama stammered, “you only met your auntie at your birth”. A soft oven alarm rang through the house, but no one else seemed to notice. “Well, I don’t know what to say. I never forget a face.” Silence swallowed the room for a minute. “Joshua. Do you know who else was at your birth?” “Of course! There was Mama, Papa, Auntie Esmerelda and Sasha, Uncle Hendrik, and the nurse named Marie!”. Once again, the alarm rang in the background but now accompanied by the smell of burning. “Damn it! The apricot jam cookies are burning!” my Mama sighed as she ran to the kitchen. ------- I had the sharpest brain back then. My Mama used to say I was smarter than a jackal, more cunning than a leopard. I feel my lips rise into a smile. There is no way I could have forgotten someone—- even at this old age. “Hello? Joshua? Can you hear me?” Anna sings out. My head rises and I look at her again. “I’ve been calling your name for the past ten minutes. Are you ok?” “Yes. Perfectly fine,” I say. “Anna, where are you from?” “I’m from Bakersville, of course… just like you.” Hmmm. That is where I’m from. I guess there’s a chance she knew me from a distance and I didn’t know her. Maybe I’ll ask my son to search her up if he ever visits me. I stand up from my bed and make my way back over to my desk. Anyone from my hometown is a welcome guest in my room. “Would you like a biscuit? Some tea?” I pry open my desk drawer, where I put all the snacks visitors bring me. I reach in and find that it’s empty. How is this possible? It was full just this morning. I open every drawer in my desk and find nothing. What the hell? A dark sensation builds up in my heart until it blossoms into deep anger. Damn this nursing home. Everyone steals everything from anyone, no matter where you hide it. Eve stole it. It HAD to have been Eve. --------- Eve fixed her eyes on the TV screen in the common room. She was watching 7 De Laan, my mama’s favorite show before she passed. On her lap was an intricate tea cup with gold edges and angels holding the handle. As I sat down in the spot next to her, she shot me a glance that screamed for me to leave. “Hey, Eve! What are you drinking?” The dark liquid in the cup sloshed around. It looked like tea. She sighed and turned off the TV. Carefully, she studied me. “I’ve just realized that we haven’t really talked since you moved in here a few days ago,” she said. At least she was kind of being receptive. It was lonely in the house. Most of the residents spent each day in their rooms, and even when they left for meals, they didn’t talk. Some couldn’t anymore, some simply didn’t remember how to. “How do you deal with it? How do you not go crazy here?” I asked her. “I’ll tell you. But you have to promise you will tell no one else.” “I promise.” Eve carefully looked around the room and leaned her mouth to my ear. “You don’t. You lie to yourself that you’re fine. Never complain, and especially not to your family. The more you do, the less they visit.” She went silent before continuing, “and alcohol. Tons of it.” I pulled back from Eve. Surely it couldn’t be that bad here. She was probably lying to me. Trying to scare the newcomer. My eyes wandered back to her delicate teacup, and I took a second glance at what was inside. Looking closer, I realized that the liquid was not steaming. It was not tea. “Can I have some?” I asked. “No. I barely have enough as is.” “Come on, don’t be greedy!” “I said NO!” she yelled. I lunged toward her teacup, trying to steal it from her. She flung herself backward, holding on tight. My fingers flew over the cup and started wresting it from her. Out of nowhere, the cup flew out of both of our hands and smashed into the floor. “You DICK. That was a gift from my dead husband.” ------ “EVE YOU’RE GOING TO PAY FOR THIS!” I scream at the top of my lungs. I tear all the sheets off my bed, start stomping as loud as I can, and try to rip out the drawers in my desk. “Joshua stop! What are you doing? I don’t even want a biscuit! It’s fine I promise!” “Shut up, Anna, you don’t even know me!” “Stop saying that, Joshua. I DO know you!” I walk from my desk to where Anna stares at me from behind the glass. She’s going to understand soon that not only do I not know her, but that glass is fragile. “APRICOT COOKIES!” she screams, raising her voice. “Don’t you remember? When you brought me those burned apricot cookies all those years ago? Watching 7 De Laan with your mother and me? When I helped you with your temper tantrums? Did it mean nothing to you?” My head spins, and I crumble onto the floor. What’s happening to me? Who is this woman? How does she know I have an anger problem? “Who are you to me?” I plead. “I don’t know,” she replies. “But I know there is something connecting us. It’s like there’s a chord tied from my heart to yours, bringing together two different worlds.” I raise my eyes and look at Anna. “I’m going to break you out”. I search my room with my eyes for something to break the glass, but find nothing. By pushing against the floor, I stand up. There’s only one option. I raise my fist behind me and throw it with all the strength I can muster. It bounces against the glass but doesn’t leave a single mark. “Anna, you’re going to need to trust me.” “Always.” I push my head against the glass separating me from Anna. I look at her and swear I can feel her breath on my face. Her lips and eyes beckon me, filled with kindness. She’s breathtaking. I let my head fall behind me, and in one quick motion, slam it against the glass. Pain spreads through me, and I feel my warm blood on my hands. As my mind goes black, Anna’s in my arms. I feel safe. ---------- Voices flood into my ears. “Your grandfather has been going crazy over the past few months. We can no longer take care of him here.” “What did he do?” “He’s been extremely hostile to one of our residents, Eve, and broke one of her teacups. She says he’s been greedy with everything in the house, even if it doesn’t belong to him.” “That doesn’t surprise me. He refuses to share anything with anyone except family. Is that all?” “No. For a week, he’s been talking about a ‘woman trapped behind the glass’ on his walls. Yesterday we found him with his room destroyed, on the ground, with a broken portrait of a woman in his arms.” Both of the voices go silent until one continues, “The only portrait in there is of my grandmother, Anna Patronella, his wife. After she died a year ago, he’s been in shock. I feel guilty. I haven’t visited him since I put him here after her death.” I shift my attention away from the voices and silently roll Anna’s name on my tongue. Anna. Anna. Anna. My wife. It feels comfortable. Perfect. I sit up in my bed and look at my bedside table. It’s my manuscript. I flip through the pages, each one blank, until I get to the last one. On the bottom of the page, it reads in neat cursive: Death did not do us part. Never stop enjoying your biscuits and cookies. Love, Anna.


Jim extinguished the fire, even though the children grumbled. “Please, Papa Jim,” said a boy with dark circles around his eyes. “Just five more minutes. I’m awful cold.” He wrapped his arms around his knobbled knees and shivered as if to punctuate his point. Several of the others nodded and mumbled their concurrences. Jim sighed. His eyes darted to the ruined city skyline. Nothing but rubble and rebar. “Now, Boy—” he didn’t name them, it made it too difficult when they died “—you know I can’t do that. The spiders are attracted to the light at night, and the dark is fast approaching. I don’t want to be eaten in my sleep, and I’m sure neither do you.” Jim lowered his voice. “You know full well they digest us from the inside out. Drain us dry.” The children looked over their shoulders at the shadows that encroached. A few stretched and patted the backs of their necks, to ensure nothing crawled there. They all scooched closer together, nearer to the orange embers of the fire. Nobody had forgotten the tortured fate of Girl, only a week or so prior. “How about a story, before we all settle in for the night? I’ll even take first watch. An extra long one, so you all can get some nice shut-eye.” Boy curled up on the dirt, his head atop a smooth boulder. He smiled at Jim, eyelids heavy with sleep. “Tell us again, Papa Jim, about how the world used to be.” “Yeah!” said Girl. And then, at his look of admonishment, quieter: “Yeah.” Almost a whisper. “Tell us about the munny and the burds. Tell us about the blue skies.” “Tell us about the nice rain and the treez,” said another Boy. Papa Jim nodded and grinned. A tried and true classic. The Way Things Used to Be. “All right, all right, shh. Settle down, we don’t want them to hear us, do we?” The kids shook their heads — they did not want that. “Okay, I’ll tell you about how things were. What the world was like back when I was a boy.” Another Girl raised her hand. Jim acknowledged her question. “Is this story real, Papa Jim? Only, Boy told me—” Jim glanced at the few different Boys “—that it’s all made up. A magic world. A fantasy. For little kids. It is real, isn’t it?” Her eyes pled. “Papa Jim?” He flashed them a dangerous glare. “No, it’s not made up. It’s all real, and it all definitely happened. I wouldn’t lie to you, now, would I?” The children glanced at each other then shook their heads in denial. “Now, my memory isn’t what it used to be, and I might get a few things wrong. But — to the best of my recollections — everything I’ve told you about how things were, back in the day, is true.” Girl sat back, satisfied that he’d spin no lies. “Now, let us first start with the sky. Settle down, children. Cuddle up, ready for the night. Get close, so the spiders don’t get you.” Boys and Girls obeyed. Jim did a quick headcount, to make sure they hadn’t taken one when he’d turned his back. “Back when I was a boy, before the world was aflame, the sky was a deep, deep blue.” “Blue?” asked one of the Boys. He frowned at the darkened firmament. If it hadn’t been night, the child would have gazed up into a dusty rust-coloured murk. “No way was it ever blue!” “No, no, I promise you, it was! As blue as the ocean. I swear on my—” “Papa Jim?” A Girl. “Yes?” “What’s an oh-shun?” “Oh, um. Ah. It’s—okay. It’s a giant place filled with water. You know how sometimes, after it rains, we see puddles on the ground?” “That we try and get drinking water from?” “Yes, exactly. Well, it’s like that, only huge.” Jim extended his arms. “Massive. Bigger than the whole of this desert.” The children stared at him agape. “Full of water? To drink?” “Well, no, not exactly. It was full of salt water, so you couldn’t drink it.” Boy guffawed. “Don’t try foolin’ me, Papa Jim! No way was there ever such a place.” Jim grinned at Boy. “There sure was.” He placed a hand over his heart. “No foolin’.” The closest thing they had to an oath. “And it was full of these creatures called fish. Some were tiny.” Jim pinched his thumb and forefinger together. “And some were—” he widened his hands “—ginormous! We called the big ones whales.” “Fish,” said Girl. She rolled it around her mouth, to get the full texture of the word. “Fishhhhhh.” She looked at him and giggled. “Fishhhhhh.” “So,” Boy continued to frown, “how did all this water get in these oh-shuns?” “Well, we had a rain cycle. I’m not quite sure how it all worked, but, water evaporated from the land. You know how those puddles disappear by midmorning? Then, they got taken up by clouds. You know how grey our sky is? Well, back then, they were split up — called clouds. And they weren’t always there. Sometimes, the sky was clear. Every now and then, when there was a cloud, it’d rain. The water would trickle into the oceans, replenishing them.” “How did these fish survive in the water?” “Ah. Yes, I see the issue. Well, back when I was a boy, rain didn’t hurt. In fact, it was nice. It was clean. So, the oceans were fine to swim in.” “It didn’t hurt?” Boy grinned. “You’re making a joke, Papa Jim!” “I’m not — honest. In fact, the clouds were so nice back then, we had these creatures called birds. They flew through the skies. They had feathers and beaks, and soared through the heavens.” The children craned their necks to the sky above. Some looked enraptured. Others looked perplexed. One or two looked downright sceptical. “Nah, nothing could fly up there. It would fall down!” Boy picked a rock up and dropped it. It clattered to the ground, and Jim winced at the sound. “See?” “I don’t quite know how they did it, but they did do it. It think it was their wings.” Jim waggled his elbows. “They fluttered and flapped them like this, and somehow they flew. They were delicious. There were chickens and turkeys, and we ate them all. Much nicer than spiders’ legs.” They all looked at the flensed legs, thick as cacti — with thorned bristles to match — and repressed a shudder. “We enjoyed eating, back then. It wasn’t just something we did to stay alive. I miss birds. Did you know, they made made nests in trees?” Jim nodded at the incredulous faces. “No webs, no trapdoors beneath the earth. Nests.” “Treez?” A younger Girl yawned. “Like the things we get wood from?” “Yes, but also very different. Back when I was young, they were beautiful and brown, and stretched up into the sky. They had these green things called leaves, and sometimes they blossomed with flowers. All sorts of colours. Some even made fruit — a sweet type of food that grew from their branches. Very different to the twisted little skeletal things we have nowadays.” “Well, what happened to them?” “So, you see, back before all this.” Jim gestured across the tenebrous landscape. “Everyone was concerned with money.” A Girl threw a fist into the air. “I love hearing about munny!” She laughed. It sounded like the tinkle of a Christmas bell. “It’s so funny.” “Yes, money. These little numbers — sometimes represented by little metal coins, or sheets of paper. The more numbers you had, the more things you could get.” Boy put his hand up. “You traded numbers for things?” “Yes, we called that buying. Everyone did it.” He looked at Jim with quizzical eyes. “And how did you get these numbers?” “We worked for them. In offices, on building sites, on farms. We did all sorts of things for those numbers. The more you had, the better you life was. Some people had almost no numbers at all. And they were poor.” Jim wrinkled his nose. “And some had millions. Billions even. Those people were very special.” “All right.” Jim could tell the kid didn’t quite believe him. “So, how did those numbers make the rain burn?” “Okay. So. To make money, we had to hurt the planet.” Jim shrugged. “It’s just how things were. It’s how it worked, nobody could stop it. Nobody’s fault, really. Just how it was. More people wanted to make more money, so the planet got more and more hurt. Especially when people wanted billions of the numbers. Eventually, it came to a head. And everything kinda—” he looked out at the desolation “—exploded into flames. Some said capitalism was to blame. Said the cockroaches of society bled us dry. Ate us from the inside out. But…“ He raised his clenched fists to the scorched skies. “But at least we weren’t no damn socialists.” “Damn socialism,” said most of the children in unison. They knew to echo this chant whenever Jim uttered the magic words. Those who hadn’t repeated it were the younger ones. A few Boys and several Girls had closed their eyes. Heavy breaths and soft snores. All curled up together, pups in a litter. Safety in numbers. Safety from spiders. Jim smiled at his charges, proud. “That’s right. But—” he stretched and yawned and kicked some sand over the last of the embers “—I think that’s all for tonight. Get some sleep, Boys and Girls. Long day tomorrow, the huntsman mutations are close by.” “Night, Papa Jim.” “Nuh-night.” “Goodnight. “Guh-night, Papa Jim.” “Sweet dreams, children. And remember, if you hear the scuttling in the night, raise the alarm. Can’t let those spiders sneak up on us. At first it’ll just be one, but before you know it, we’ll be overrun.” They all confirmed they would, between yawns and sighs. “Won’t let no insects get the better of us, will we now?”


“I love the night, the night sky. It soothes the pain in my heart and the consternation in my mind.” Joe, a, mild mannered, ordinary looking man of average height and build was in anguish. He was imprisoned in a small cell; it was smaller than the bathroom in his small flat.

There was a window with bars above his head. He couldn’t see out to anything below. But he could see up to the stars and the moon. So he gazed upon the night sky and prayed. He marvelled at the magnificence of the Milky Way peeking down at him, with light streaming through the small window allowing only a shaft to illuminate a portion of the floor, and its deflection to beam upon his face.

He thanked God for the window, and the night sky.

How long he would remain incarcerated in the cell, he had no idea. They had dragged him from his one room flat at three one misty morning. They interrogated him for two hours. He knew nothing. He lost consciousness. When he woke up he saw only grey walls etched with graffiti, a grey ceiling, grey, cold floor and a window.

The heavy iron door was locked. A hatch opened in the middle for victuals to be passed through. Porridge and weak, sweet tea in the morning. Thin soup, a slice of bread and weak, sweet tea at midday, and a portion of chicken or meat bones, with potatoes and carrots at night. It was what might have been mistaken for food.

Joe ate his evening meal at sunset, rinsed his plate and mug under cold water at the chipped and cracked wash basin, and settled back on his bunk to gaze up through the window at the starry sky.

He knew a bit about astronomy and was excited to recognize a constellation.

As he scanned the squared area visible through the window, his thoughts wondered. Why was he in prison? What exactly was the charge against him? What was going to happen to him?

Several weeks, maybe months had passed. He was losing track of time. Despair welled up. He trembled with anxiety until the moon winked at him and caught his eye. How bright it was tonight! He longed to be outside. He felt claustrophobic. Was that a shooting star? The sight calmed him and he relaxed. That group of stars looked familiar, and turning his head to observe it from different angles he prompted his brain to remember.

“Looks like Leo”, he murmured as he counted the stars in the constellation, and curled his hands into a telescope”.

“That’s Meg’s voice.” In his mind he heard her say: “What’s that one called Joe? The one up there over to the left. Do you see it?”

He glanced at her pretty face, eyes wide with attention, head back as she pointed skyward and bobbed excitedly. He fell in love with her at that moment. It was a beautiful night in May, a long time ago.

“That’s Leo, the lion. Do you see those stars forming a shape, right there?” He drew his finger against the dark sky, “that’s his head, and there, under his head, that’s his body you see…” No, she did not see and did not mind. Her eyes were full of stars and she saw only her hero. She fell in love with her Joe at that moment.

With a smile on his lips, he fell peacefully asleep.

The door clanged open, they marched him to the interrogation Room. He was blinded by the spotlights.

“We will keep you here until you confess. Tell us the truth and sign your confession, and you will be free to go.” The Officer beat his fist on the desk.

The more Joe pleaded he had no idea what they were talking about, the angrier they got.

The Officer struck the desk again. “You’ve got 24 hours and then we will take stronger measures to make you talk.“ He had nothing to eat or drink that night.

The window let the moonlight sneak in. Joe turned on to his back and stared at it. It was big and round and glorious, up above the world so high. Like a diamond in the sky. He recited something aloud…

“Wait, no! That’s wrong. It’s twinkle, twinkle little star… up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky… wasn’t it? “ He couldn’t remember. It seemed so long ago. He was five or six years old; first year at school maybe. Teacher taught the class the recitation. His first introduction to rhyme.

He did well at school, went to college and graduated with a distinction in mechanical engineering.

Joe blinked at the brilliance of the moon. He turned on to his side, face toward the wall. Biting his lower lip helped him to suppress his sobs. What was happening to him? Why was he being held and interrogated? He knew nothing of importance that could be of use to the police. He prayed, looked over his shoulder through the square on the wall, at the vast expanse of indigo scattered with luminous heavenly bodies and drifted off to sleep.

His twenty four hours of grace were up. They slammed him into a chair opposite the interrogating Officer. Joe gulped, chin on his chest. He was afraid, but determined not to show it.

“Did you sleep well? Would you like coffee?” The interrogator nodded to one of his men. The man returned with hot coffee, the aroma of which enticed Joe to lurch forward eagerly and grasp the mug. He sipped the coffee, watching the Officer apprehensively over the rim of the mug. They watched him in silence while he finished his stimulating drink. He slowly placed the empty mug on the table, watching the Officer’s face. Picking up the pen next to the writing pad placed in front of him, afraid that his shaking hand would give him away, he tried to write.

“Take your time. Relax. You will be out of here in a few hours”, the Officer smiled slyly at him.

Joe scrawled, paused, pondered, wrote a few more lines, paused, prayed silently, read what he’d written, signed it and got up to leave.

One of the men pushed him back. Slamming the pad angrily on to the desk, the Officer glared at Joe.

“This is not a confession! It is a refusal to say anything at all. You are obstructing justice. Take him away! “ Joe got up from the cold, concrete cell floor and went over toward the window. He looked up at the grey sky and begged for help.

“Father in heaven, please hear my prayer. What have I done to be treated like this? Please take this away from me! Let the truth be known that I am innocent. I beg you Father, please help me! “ No food and drink. His blanket and pillow were removed from him. Joe lay on the bare mattress, curled up, shivering, trying to warm up.

Lying on his back, his eyes widened. The light shining through the window was blinding. He squinted at it and thought he saw the form of a man, and he thought he heard the sound of wings flapping. He thought he was losing his mind. He felt warm and comfortable and at peace. Meg’s precious face appeared fleetingly before him. She smiled the beautiful smile he cherished. She had been so brave. She died giving birth to their only child. Their little girl died a few days later.

Sleep swept him away from heartache. He dreamed of Meg that night. They were picnicking in a golden field on a sunny spring day. She teased him and ran away. He ran after her, caught her skirt and they tumbled down together, laughing happily. He picked a blossom in the meadow and fixed it behind her ear. She stroked his cheek tenderly with the back of her hand. He took her’s in his and kissed it warmly while gazing into her deep blue eyes.

Why did the night sky remind him so vividly of his darling Meg? “Must be its magnificence”, he mused.

The clanging of the door woke him up once again. He was marched along the long, dreary passage to the Room. He could find his way to it in his sleep, he thought wryly.

Something was different today. No blinding lights. A pot of hot coffee, two mugs and a plate of donuts waited  on the desk. No writing pad and no pen. Curious.

“They’re trying to entice me, trap me again”,

Joe thought to himself as he sat cautiously, filled with suspicion.

A uniformed man entered and sat opposite him at the desk. It was a different Officer. He smiled at Joe and told him to go ahead with coffee and a donut.

Joe shrank back hesitantly.

“Please, help yourself. Feel comfortable. We are going to talk about your situation reasonably and fairly. There has been a dreadful mistake. Let me explain… “ A mechanical engineer fitting Joe’s description had been accused of stealing valuable blueprints for a super powered racing car.

He sold them to an Italian company for a large sum of money. Before the owner could confront the engineer he had disappeared.

An important international road race was coming up with the highest stakes ever. The super car was set to win, awarding the owner a sizeable fortune. The original owner of the blueprints reported everything to the police. Scotland Yard was alerted and included in bringing the thief to justice.

They uncovered the involvement of Joe’s prior investigating Officer in the affair. He was in collaboration with the thief who happened to be a relative of his. He cunningly derived a plan to arrest someone with the same qualifications, and resembling the thief. He would wear him down in jail and coerce him into signing a confession, thereby giving his cousin time to assume a new identity and skip the country.

It happened to be poor, slow Joe who fitted the part perfectly.

A few nights earlier, before the present Officer took over, Scotland Yard had apprehended the thief. He signed his confession and was confined to prison awaiting trial. They needed Joe to testify against the corrupt police Officer who, with three accomplices, illegally held Joe in an abandoned prison in a remote part of the country.

Joe accepted and agreed to assist with the proceedings.

He breathed deeply with satisfaction as he stood proudly on the High Court steps. Sentence had been passed and Justice had been served.

Reporters crowded him, eager to record his comments.

One of them threw a question at him: “Hey Joe, describe please for the viewers, what kept you going for those months in that horrible little cell? “ Joe didn’t hesitate, “It was the one and only window above me in one wall of the cell. I could see nothing but the sky through it. I gazed at the moon and the stars each night. I recognized a few constellations. My dear wife Meg and I used to talk about them when we were young.

Each night when I looked up to the heavens I thought about those times with my beloved wife. It calmed me and gave me hope. I prayed to our Father, confident that he would hear me and help me as my words floated up to him through the window.

One night the moon and stars were so bright I couldn’t see because they blinded me. I thought I heard wings flapping at the window. There was no sign of a large bird. I pretended it was an angel. Why not? I didn’t believe in that sort of thing before. But I do now. Where would I be this day if it had not been for the window and the night sky? What I saw made me think about God. So I spoke to him. I believe he listened and answered me. He watched me through that window. “ There was a hush… Then the crowd started clapping.

Joe looked up at the sky and said softly, “Thank you Father for the window. “


Thirteen 2018: We were thirteen, just thirteen, only thirteen, Chris murmurs to herself as the silver light of dawn filtered under the hotel bedroom door. Her speech for the party is ready, she can remember it all. In her mind’s eye she sees the new girl, Liz, a delicate shy blond girl walking down the gravel path to the school entrance, May 1961. 1961: The others teased her because of her Irish accent. “Don’t mind them,” says Chris in the playground. Then she immediately became Chris’s best friend. 1962: Chris often helps her with the homework and Liz is often invited to stay. Chris’s mother Maeve often enquires how the family is settling in. She predicts that Liz would have an interesting life, but that it wouldn’t be easy. 1965: Catherine, from Upper 6 form gets expelled, there were rumors she liked a girl from a junior class a little too much. The matter was never discussed again. Were the other parents aware? Then suddenly both friends are in love with entirely unsuitable young men. The parents shouted: there were tears. Liz’s parents threatened her with boarding school. “You can always tell them you’re over at my place if you want to see him,” Chris offered. 1965: “I’m going to study medicine”, Chris says. When her exam results didn’t pan out, she became a nurse. The school was disappointed, their star pupil.  “I hate Chemistry, and I’m no good at Maths,” Chris says now. Liz remained undecided about what she wanted to do. “Supper’s ready,” her mother called up where she was pretending to study, how boring life was. “Wasn’t your class playing in a hockey match this afternoon?” Chris had told her to say it had been cancelled when in fact, the two friends had gone to hide in the sports shed and smoke. 1963: “Which of the Beatles is your favorite?” Chris asks as they walk back from school. “C’mon, you have to have one. Mine’s Paul.” Liz prefers the Rolling Stones who have just arrived on the scene. 1965: All the girls at school watch “Top of the Pops” on Thursday evenings. It is the only topic of conversation the next day. “Want to come for a sleepover and listen to records?” Chris always had the latest hits. “We could go to see David Warner in Stratford on Saturday”, she suggested on the phone, “if your parents will cough up the fare;” “Culture,” you never know, they just might.” “Stratford, on a bus with Christina” said her mother reaching for her purse. 1966: “Let’s hitch down and shop in Carnaby Street?” Chris suggested. “And maybe go dancing in one of those new clubs? We can stay up all night.” The fashion is Twiggy, Mary Quant miniskirts and false eyelashes. This is the Swinging Sixties. Chris is planning on moving down to London to study nursing, but Liz now wants to go to Paris and work in films. Why not? She says now. “Only a month to go, hope my passport arrives soon.” May 1968; She calls Chris to tell her she’s joined the student strikes in Paris. The events last almost two months. 1970: “I’m expecting, Tom and I are going to get married,” Chris writes. Liz can’t stand him: supercilious, overly sure of himself, what does she see in him? It had to be a class thing and the Park Lane apartment helped. “That’s great,” she replied, “when’s it taking place?” The rail strike would provide a good excuse for not attending, and anyhow she’s just been hired by the television company. And broken up with Claude. 1975: “Tom and I are getting a divorce.” By now there were two kids. Liz was still single and having a good time. A few months later Tom throws himself under a bus, having handed his dog to a complete stranger before taking the plunge. 1978 - 1984: This time it’s true love. Liz moves in with Bruce, he’s charming, will prove unstable, but there are a few good years. She becomes tired of his infidelities and having bailiffs at the door, but she gets to keep her two daughters. Somehow she had always felt that Chris had been skeptical about the relationship. 1988: “You really must come and stay, John and I are moving to Edinburgh, we’ll have loads of room. We’ve not seen you for ages.” Chris writes. But Liz is caught up in the everyday humdrum of schools and a full-time job. It’s a grey period. “What was it that nun, Sister Baptist used to tell us?” Chris says on the phone: “Don’t complain that the path is difficult, know that it’s the difficulties that are the path.” Liz sighs. March 1990: “Have you ever thought of coming back?” Chris asks during her weekly phone call. “You know my father could call the BBC.” “No”, Liz replies a little too sharply, “but thanks for the thought.” June 2001: Chris’s mother dies. Liz leaves immediately to be with her friend. She cries so much at the funeral she has to leave the Church for ten minutes.  She feels bereft, as though she had lost a second mother. Her own mother is suffering from dementia. September 2005. The two friends meet up for lunch in Camden: Liz has come for the day on Eurostar and Chris has flown down from Edinburgh. Suddenly Chris reaches out for her hand then bursts into tears: “Now that my brother’s dead, you’re the only witness of my childhood and teens,” she sobs. They swear they will meet more often. One month later Liz meets the man who will become her second husband. She starts a new life. Christmas 2005: Chris calls to say she’s going to be a grandmother, she’s over the moon. Liz is now living with Thierry. December 2007: suddenly it’s retirement, and time, precious time stretches ahead. Plans for a new place and travel for Liz. Chris has never enjoyed travelling and sounds very happy with her quiet life in Edinburgh. July 2018: Liz’s daughters and her husband are insistent: “Mum, it’s a big birthday, you should celebrate. We’ll even persuade Chris to come.” September 2018: Chris moves towards the middle of the Tibetan restaurant reserved for this special occasion. It’s a shame John couldn’t travel with her, especially as he’s always been so fond of Liz, but his health isn’t great nowadays. She turns to look at Liz, looking good in a bright turquoise suit, and with a smile she begins: “We were thirteen…”.


Sumathi was a neighborhood tailor. The kind you would find virtually in every street corner in India. Not the fancy boutique variety, but someone who would stitch your sari falls, alter your kurtis , hem the edges of your dupattas , stitch an emergency blouse or two – kind of tailor. It would be an understatement to say that life had not been kind to her. She had an alcoholic husband and three children in quick succession. However, the husband was a tailor and he did give her money to run their home. He was also the one who taught her tailoring. Things took a turn for the worse during COVID. Her husband contracted the illness and died. Sumathi and her children barely made it alive. The only thing going for Sumathi was that they had a home of their own. It was dark and dingy, but it was hers. With literally no work available during COVID, she and her children lived on the charity of kind souls. In the post-pandemic era, she tried her best to continue her husband’s tailoring business. But most of his regular clients had moved on to others. A few orders trickled in and Sumathi somehow had to make ends meet with those. She was completely at a loss as to how she could get more orders in. To make matters worse, a new tailor had set up shop, just opposite hers. His store was brightly lit and he blared popular Tamil movie songs, a tactic which seemed to attract many customers to his store. His little shack was buzzing with business. And he even, rather condescendingly offered her a job. But Sumathi was not comfortable with the idea when she had her sewing machine as well as the complete setup to run the business on her own. She was not ready to give up her newfound independence. Though her work did not fetch her much income, she had earned a good name among the few clients who did come to her. And they did keep coming back to her. It was enough to keep her hopes alive. One such happy customer was Agnes. A frail and lonely Anglo Indian, who lived in a pretty house a few doors away. She got her loose, flowy gowns stitched by Sumathi. Agnes was well into her 70s, and lived by herself, as her sons had settled in Australia. Often, she sat on a rickety stool in Sumathi’s dingy home and watched as she ran her machine and earnestly did the little work that came her way. Their conversation was mostly one-sided as Agnes spoke only in English – a language Sumathi did not understand. But she listened and just allowed Agnes to be. Some days Agnes would be quiet and simply watch her with rheumy eyes. Then Sumathi filled the companionable silence with her own life stories. Agnes listened with rapt attention – though she understood nothing because Sumathi could only speak in the local Tamil language. Their friendship defied logic. It broke barriers of caste, social standing, language and age. It was incomprehensible to others around. The men in the opposite tailor shop smirked and cracked mean jokes every time Agnes tottered her way into Sumathi’s home. Here comes Sumathi’s only customer, they booed. This one has one foot in the grave, when she dies, Sumathi’s business will die too. They taunted. All of Australia going to copy her fashion, they laughed. None of it, however, deterred their friendship. One day, close to Christmas, Agnes walked in with a lovely silk material. She wanted Sumathi to stitch her the most beautiful gown. She had cut out patterns from Vogue magazine and shared them – giving Sumathi detailed instructions on how she wanted the gown to be. Sumathi was nervous. She had never worked with such expensive material. She did not want to mess it up. But she did as she was told and got the gown ready. When Agnes tried out the new gown, her joy knew no bounds. She looked angelic! Both the women were so ecstatic they danced and pranced and giggled all afternoon. Later, Agnes left for her home with a big, contented smile. The next day Agnes did not turn up at her usual hour. Sumathi was filled with a sense of foreboding. She locked up her home and went looking for Agnes. Her door was locked from inside and Sumathi’s insistent knocks got no response. In the end, fearing the worst, she called the police. They had to break open her door. They found her lying in her bed wearing her new gown and an angelic smile. Her frail body barely took up any space in the large four-poster bed. An Ambulance was called and the medics declared her dead. Sumathi broke down and cried inconsolably. Her sons turned up from Australia to perform the final rites. Sumathi sat limply at home, unable to do any work. Missing her friend dearly and wondering how she could go on without Agnes’ comforting presence. One evening, a week later, a young man turned up at Sumathi’s door. He introduced himself as David - Agnes’ youngest son. Sumathi was startled to see how much like Agnes he looked! He had the same smile and the same kind voice. She teared up as he thanked her for giving his mother the companionship that she had yearned for all her life. He shared that during his phone conversations with his mother, she often told him about her friendship with Sumathi. For a while, they both reminisced about the woman they loved. When David got up to go, he pulled out a small bag that he had been holding and handed it to Sumathi. Mother wanted you to have this, he told her. When Sumathi opened the bag she saw a string of fairy lights inside and a tiny effigy of an Angel. David explained that his mother thought of her as an angel friend. And she always worried that Sumathi would ruin her eyes stitching in the dark. This is her love and good wishes for you, said David as he left her home. Sumathi was really touched by the gesture. She immediately set up the fairy lights around her workspace. And placed the Angel figurine carefully alongside her other Hindu God images. She was happy to have something that would remind her constantly of Agnes. The next morning, Sumathi sent her children to school as usual. Then she prayed to her Gods and bowed before the angel figurine. She switched on the fairy lights. And to her utter amazement, it brightened up her whole workspace. It was like a zillion-watt bulb! That day and in the days that followed, a steady stream of customers walked in on their own accord. The tailor opposite had too many orders and could not accommodate theirs – owing to the festive season rush. And when they turned to go, the lights in Sumathi’s home drew them in. Work poured in for Sumathi. The new customers stayed on. The angel figurine looked upon her with a beatific smile. And the fairy lights shined on upon her.


The term had finally come to an end. Jane was all packed and ready to go home. A home where she hadn't been to in years, since her grandma had passed away. She rushed out of the dorm in a hurry to catch the last bus for the day. Well you see, she was running a bit late. "Nevermind" she said, she took out her list and crossed all the points she had made. "Ah! Keys, here they are."And she was good to go. She gave her mom a call before she boarded the bus. "Have fun, sweetie!" said mom. "I think there's more cleaning to do than having fun." Jane grumbled to herself, sitting in her seat. She was very tired as she had to pack her own things, recheck on the main items. It was a task which her mother always used to do for her. Her mind was racing with thoughts of the town. Five years had passed by so fast, now Jane was a beautiful nineteen year old college sophomore. After moving from the town to the city so many things had changed. It was a busy life for Jane, thankfully her first year had passed by quickly. Finally vacation had started and she had found time for herself amidst this short trip. Jane sure had regrets, she wanted to return to being her old self but she never found time. Living in the city had worn her out, now she only wished to breathe in fresh air of the town. Soon, in no time the bus journey had come to an end. "Finally I'm back in the town", said Jane. She could smell the fresh air, the early morning mist hid the sun away. Though she had just arrived at the bus stop, she felt like she was home. She sniffed in the fresh air which had a slight fragrance of the flowers that surrounded the path as she walked her way up to the cottage, it was a mere five minute walk for her. As she was getting near to the gate, all the old memories were running in her mind. "Right!"She said. "I've got lots to do in this place." Jane had practically made a list of things she would do in the next ten days. She had obviously planned to meet her old besties and catch up with them. The cottage from the outside looked just as beautiful as it has been five years back. To Jane it felt like déjà vu. Someone had been looking after all the lovely plants in her grandma's dream garden she though to herself. Jane was now opening the lock. Just as she opened the door, a cloud of dust brushed past her face. (Coughing)"Oh boy! That's a lot more dust than I imagined", said Jane. As soon as she got in, she started with the cleaning business. In no time was she almost done. "Just the bookshelf is left",she said to herself. The bookshelf was one fun place where Jane and grandma would love to hang out, the memories returned. Jane was now getting all emotional thinking of those silly adventures she used to have with grandma. "Alright, it's okay!" Jane comforted herself. She soon got back to cleaning. Jane dusted the books one by one, in the process she found a few pictures of hers that grandma had sneaked between the books. "Oh! Silly me", Jane was now caught up in the old memories. She knew exactly when and where those pictures were taken. As she was looking through the old pictures one book out of the lot caught Jane's attention, she soon picked it up and flipped through the pages. The book title was pretty peculiar, "strange!"Said Jane. The book was called"Ask away and I'll take you there!" Well you see, Jane was one of those who loved experimenting with things. So,she soon got to do what she was best at. Thinking from the book's point of view, Jane wrote -take me to a place where the sunrise is the most beautiful. "Aha! Nothing changed. The book is just a bluff! "Said Jane. Little did she realize that she had been teleported to a tree house somewhere in the hills. "Why are the lights suddenly off, where am I? Why is there just that book in my hand? Where's the table? "Jane was all confused. -turn around, replied the book. The words were shining like they were written using gold, soon they faded into the dark. Jane was in shock, she couldn't imagine what had happened. "Oh my! A book with glowing letters, that just disappeared poof! I'm surely dreaming ain't I?" Grumbled Jane. Mumbling on, she turned around. The next thing she said was"oh!this should be real, it's the best thing that has happened to me." What Jane had witnessed was the best sunrise, she could never have even imagined of something more spectacular. The sunrise had taken away all the gloominess from Jane's beautiful face. The first light of the day was shining on her, Jane was smiling ear to ear. All of a sudden Jane felt energetic again, her past worries and regrets were all gone. Jane spent some time in the tree house, she used most of it by writing the day's experience in the empty pages. She concluded by saying,"now I believe in miracles". The next thing she wrote was -take me home. And she was back in the room where it all had started. That day ,she had quite an adventure. She wondered what all places her grandma might have travelled using the book as a magic portal because she had found a few of her notes in the book. Grandma was someone Jane thought she knew well, but now Jane had seen a new perspective of her through the book. "Well! "Said Jane, "I've got time and time to know more about grandma and her magical secrets hidden in this house." "For now I must recharge my energy so that I can meet up with tomorrow's plans", said Jane. She soon went to bed wondering what other surprises she awaited in the mysterious cottage.