    	Superb ! This new motorbike is so much better than the old one, more power and more responsive, and today is ideal for a bike ride, cloudy but dry. See how easy it is to overtake this lorry, and get back into my lane well before the top of the hill.

"Oh, no !" I shout, braking hard, "Get out of the way !"     Blackness. Silence.     Now I’m back on the road, on a different motorbike, and this road is different, in a different countryside, and now the weather is sunny. No other traffic either. I come to a town and see a man waiting by the road. I stop.

    "Where am I," I ask.     "This is Bugle Four," he replies and then asks, "What time do you have ?" I look at the watch on my wrist, "Ten past three."

    He doesn’t seem interested in my reply and I notice that his own watch shows a very different time. I wonder what sort of place would have a town called Bugle Four. He looks towards the distant mountains and says, "There’s a bad storm up there now."     "Really, the weather up there looks the same as here."     "Not a weather storm," he says, "a time storm."     He pauses and suggests, "If you are thirsty there is a restaurant on the other side of the road."     I enter the restaurant. I feel some coins in my pocket and join the short queue. The man in front gets a drink. "Same again," I order, for fear of not knowing what the drink might be called.

    "That’ll be fourteen (somethings), sir," says the waiter.     I don’t catch the word so I take all the coins from my pocket and hold them out in my hand. "I hope this is enough."     The lady in the queue behind me smiles and asks, "Can I help ?" I look at her imploringly and she takes three of the coins and hands them to the waiter saying, "Me too," and then to me, "would you like to join me ?"     We sit at a table. She says, "I have been away from Bugle Four for a while and just got back today. I’m waiting for my friend. You seem to be a stranger here. Where are you staying ?"     "I don’t have anywhere arranged yet."     "Then stay with me. I live on my own and I’m sure you have some interesting tales you can tell me."     "But, I don’t know you, and you’re a woman and I’m a man."     "Don’t worry," she says, laughing, "I see from your watch that we’re not at all compatible, so the chances of anything happening are very remote."     Someone turns up the sound of the television in the corner of the room. "Here is the time forecast." Everyone is silent and turns towards the screen. "The general situation. The low over the mountains will gradually fill and move away to the North East. This will leave an area of relative calm and steady time except that locally around Bugle Four there may be some isolated time storms." Time storms ? What can they be ?

    My new friend pulls a calculator from her handbag and furiously does some calculations. "Oh, no. That means that my tax form for next year was due last week !" She explains, "This is what happens when you travel as much as I do. Look, I’m awfully sorry, but I really must go and get this thing done. Ah, here comes my friend, Lumaga, perhaps you can stay with her."     Lumaga takes her place. There is an embarrassing silence. I lamely say, "The weather is very nice here today."     "The weather ? Oh yes, it's nice, well, it’s always nice of course. If it rains it’s nice, if there is a breeze it’s nice. What time do you have ?"

    "It must be four o’clock by now," I say. She seems excited by this and then asks, "Did you see that programme on television about parallel universes ?" I shake my head.

    "It was so interesting. A lady scientist said that there could be other universes parallel to ours where things could be slightly different, and other universes which could be so different that we would not recognise anything. She said there might be a universe like ours but where time is the same everywhere and progresses at a steady rate, and it is the weather which is so variable, and needs forecasting."

Well, she got that right - that’s my universe, with weather forecasts and steady time, and clearly not what they have here, where I am now.

    As Lumaga and I go to her place I notice she keeps trying to read my watch. When we get there she grabs my wrist and carefully compares my watch with hers. "So close," she says. "Actually you are the person with the closest time I have ever met, except for someone I met once with exactly the same time as me, but she was a Christian lady from the first century and had moved twenty centuries forward. Can you imagine, twenty whole centuries ? That’s very rare of course and she was gone in a moment."

    She looks again, "Even the dates are the same."

    "You look confused," she continues, "Time varies from place to place. Once I was in the next town and I telephoned my mother, and she was angry at me for waking her. It was two o’clock in the morning for her. I must have made a wrong calculation. Also time varies generally, that’s why the time forecasts are so important. In a town like Bugle Four the time will be more or less the same everywhere within it, but there will be local variations in people’s homes, although it will be fairly constant among the family members if they always live there, and of course everyone has their own individual time which their watch shows, and I’m so excited that ours are so similar."     "Is there a danger of, um, you-know-what ?"     "Falling in love ?" she laughs, "Oh, yes. We seem to like each other, because our times are so nearly coincident and I have been noticing that your time seems to be keeping pace with mine. This means we could be coincident for a long time."     "So if our times are the same and they stay in step we could be good friends for ever," I suggest, "like two hearts beating together."     "Yes, but we will have to wait until the morning," Lumaga continues, "to see how close our time rates are and then I can calculate how long our friendship will last. The calculator will show how long it will be before we get so out of step that we lose interest in each other."     Like getting bio-rhythms in step. Perhaps this explains how people fall in and out of love - very interesting.

    "I think you had better sleep in the spare room," she laughs, "just in case our times really are in step."     After breakfast next morning she compares our times, which by now are slightly different. "I calculate that we will be close friends for the next five years," she says, "that’s very good."     "What happens after that ?"     "After a further five years we are merely acquaintances, and after a further twelve years we will be completely out of step and have nothing in common at all – strangers."

    Like marriage and then divorce in my universe ? I change the subject. "You mentioned someone from the first century. Is that like time travel ?"     "In a way, but that lady did not travel through time from the first to the twenty first century, but it was rather that time and everything around her was changing, and at different rates. Also it was not her choice, it just happened to her."     Lumaga looks out of the window. "It’s a lovely day, of course," she says, "although perhaps a bit warmer than yesterday. Can we use your motorbike to go into the country for a picnic ?"     She tells me the way, and we leave the motorbike and walk through some fields. Eventually we sit down under a tree. After we eat she seems very excited and says, "There is no-one else here and I want to do something for you, but you must promise you will stay sitting down and not get up or try to touch me."

    "Okay," I agree, wondering what she has planned.     She fiddles around with the cassette recorder which she has brought and explains, "I have been practising this for some time, waiting for someone who’s time is the same as mine. I want to do a strip tease for you."     "Oh, yes !" I exclaim, and then ask, "but what music will you use ?"     "I’ve got Beethoven’s third symphony."     "A symphony, Beethoven’s Eroica, for a strip tease ? All of it ?" I ask incredulously.     "No, just the second movement, the first part of it - you’ll see when I’ve finished," she laughs, "but you must remember your promise."     She puts the cassette recorder down on the grass, away from me and starts the music. Then she moves some way farther and starts to dance. She dances gracefully, perfectly in time with the music. She flings off her scarf and starts to unbutton her blouse. I notice that she is dancing faster, faster than the music. Now she is dancing so quickly that she cannot undo the next button, and she cries, "A time storm !"

    Lumaga falls to the ground. Now the music speeds up. There is a pause. The second movement has finished and the third starts, playing even faster.     Now the time storm must be at the cassette recorder. Perhaps it’s like a very small black hole, distorting time locally, but without gravity having any other effect. Perhaps all the matter here has negative mass. No, that can’t be right, otherwise the black hole would repel it. Maybe the matter here has zero mass and so it is not attracted to the black hole. I think that the time storm is moving towards me. I notice that the leaves on the tree are turning orange, then brown, then they start to fall off. I see that Lumaga is moving very slowly now and hear that the music is also playing very slowly. The time storm must be on me now, speeding me up and making everything around me appear so slow. The time around me seems to be getting faster and faster.

    Blackness. Silence.     "Where am I now ?"     "Now, indeed ?" says a young woman with a lilting Irish accent. "And where else would you be but in hospital, in ward C4 to be precise."     I open my eyes and see a nurse. She says, "I’m glad you’re awake now. You had an accident on your motor cycle and you have been unconscious for nearly three hours. We were quite worried about you at first, but then the instruments told us you would eventually be okay."

    I love the accent. "I had a wonderful dream, so real."     "Huh, was it dreaming you were ?"     Lumaga, Lumaga.


                                         Saved                                                                    John Meiners, Jr.      The next morning Clarice rises early, makes coffee, and sits down. She is deep in thought, but surprised she slept as well as she did after last night’s bombshell. Clarice’s mind races as she reconciles the reasons Stefan kept his true identity from her. They met when they were 27. If you meet and fall in love, do you tell someone something so unbelievable that it sends them reeling and running away from you? Even now it’s too difficult to believe, and part of her still refuses to accept it even after Pamela changed into a deer before her very eyes. If Stefan had changed to God knows what to prove he came from another world, would she have accepted him? Maybe it was better not to know. Stefan protected her from something she couldn’t have handled and in the process filled her life with love. Shouldn’t she consider herself lucky?      Pamela walks in. “May I join you?”      “Of course. I’ll get you some coffee.”      “No, no… I’ll get it.” Pamela pours a cup while she watches Clarice. “Listen, I’m sorry I shocked you last night. I hope you’ll forgive me. What I had to say… I can’t blame you for not believing me. If I were you, I wouldn’t have. I thought it the fastest way.”      “You’re right. If you hadn’t turned into a… deer… You could have tried to convince me all night long, and I would probably have pretended to humor you then waited for my chance to slip away, thinking you all are insane, but actually seeing you change with my own eyes... well, pretty hard to ignore that. You have nothing to be sorry for. It sounds as though you saved Stefan years ago along with many others before your planet was destroyed. I should thank you. It’s…it’s just so hard to believe. I have never been a fan of sci fi, and now I find myself in a sci fi world.”      “I understand, as well as I can. I’m surprised you didn’t slip away after I changed.”      “I thought about it.”      “Really?”      “No…”      Pamela and Clarice share a small laugh for the first time.      Clarice is no longer angry and wants to learn more about how it affected Stefan. To say she is curious is an understatement. Clarice asks, “What was it like… when you left your planet?  Stefan was too young to remember, wasn’t he?”      Pamela tells her, “Probably… He knows what Bob has told him… I believe when he boarded the ship, Stefan probably was the youngest boy ever to witness the destruction of a world… and live, but I can’t say how it affected him.”      Clarice sees the melancholy on Pamela’s face and the sadness for her lost world, but she sees also her joy in discovering Stefan is alive. Clarice reminds herself that Pamela learned of this only days ago.      Stefan comes downstairs, followed by Bob just a few steps behind him. They both take a deep breath when they see Clarice and Pamela sitting having coffee, looking rather comfortable.  They seem much calmer now compared to the shock of last night’s revelations.

     Stefan prays, “Please let this tranquility continue.” He could use some tranquility.

     Cautiously Bob and Stefan pour themselves a cup of coffee, sit down, and they all begin to plan their day even though the ‘elephant is in the room.’

     Bob thinks if someone overheard their conversation this morning, they’re never guess what happened last night. He suggests, “Let’s go to the River Walk.  We’re visiting, and that is what visitors do in San Antonio. Lunch on the river will be fun.”      “You two go get ready,” urges Pamela. “Clarice and I will clean up down here.”

     Bob realizes Pamela wants to talk to Clarice without them so he and Stefan finish their coffee and go upstairs.      Pamela and Clarice wait until Bob and Stefan are out of ear shot then Clarice turns to Pamela and asks, “Please tell me how Stefan came here. What was it like for Stefan?”      “I brought Stefan to this world, but it was Bob who saved his life. If it were not for Bob, Stefan would never have been on board.”      “Yes, Stefan told me. He told me he was on the only ship that left the planet. Why didn’t more leave?”      “Alerts went out continuously. ‘Our world is ending! It is the apocalypse!’ The news went out constantly, but by the time it was supposed to happen, much like news on this planet, the sensationalism just wore off. Politicians slandered other politicians and ridiculed their warnings. Other stories though meaningless and not nearly as important, were given precedence. Accusations went back and forth. What was really happening? No one seemed to know.  People gave up on learning any reliable information from the news, and what warnings they heard, fell on deaf ears.   Then suddenly it was too late. The time remaining had been miscalculated. This news was devastating. An asteroid was headed toward our planet, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.  Our world was in denial; they’d lost belief in their government’s ability to save them. Lost belief in the leaders themselves. It’s a shame because so many more could have been saved. My father as a government official was able to commandeer a spacecraft with me in charge.  I tried to save as many as I could. Bob got Stefan on board. It was at that moment Stefan was given a chance to live. Bob and Stefan were both unknown to me. Bob really is the one who has all the information concerning Stefan and his upbringing. I know only what Bob told me on our trip here. My link to Stefan, as I mentioned last night, was Stefan’s mother. She was my dearest friend, and I was heartsick when I couldn’t reach her to save both her, her husband, and Stefan. We’d lost contact almost a year before.  My father was a government scientist, and he always knew the asteroid was on its way, but no one would take his warnings seriously enough. Suddenly in the last five months, the asteroid’s speed increased. New calculations predicted collision and destruction a good year earlier than was previously anticipated. There was no time for the mass evacuation that officials had considered. Clarice, I have lived for 60 years with the regret of not being able to save Stefan, and he has been alive and well all this time. You have had 34 years with him. He is the man you fell in love with and married, and he is truly part of this world…your world.”      Clarice nods and asks, “Your parents?”      Pamela shakes her head. “No… all gone.”      Stefan and Bob join them. While waiting on Pamela and Clarice to get ready, Bob looks out the front window. It’s a perfect San Antonio day for the River Walk. The sun is shining, it’s not too cold, and no chance of rain. Suddenly Bob notices a grey car driving by rather slowly with two men inside. The passenger looks carefully at their car. Bob calls to Stefan, “See that grey car? Have you seen it before? Maybe it’s one of your neighbor’s cars?”

     As Stefan looks, the car picks up speed and drives off down the street. “No, I don’t recognize it. Not one of our neighbors.”      Bob doesn’t want to jump to conclusions but the old adage ‘Better safe than sorry’ applies here. “Let’s keep this to ourselves. After all, they could have been looking at houses. It could have been as simple as they like the car or possible are looking at addresses trying to find a friend’s house. You all have Ring or some type of security cameras, right?”       Stefan nods. “Yes, but they could also be waiting for us to leave the house so they can follow us. What do you suppose they want? Worries me, but Clarice already has been shocked, and just when she may be coming ‘back to earth’, the last thing I want to do is tell her unsavory characters are checking out our house.”

          Arriving at the River Walk, they park on the street across from the stairs leading down to the water. As soon as they reach the river, Bob realizes dark clouds have come in. “Looks like rain after all,” says Bob. “I’m going to get my umbrella from the car.”      Stefan points at a bistro on the river, “We’ll get a table and meet you over there.”

     Bob thinks, ‘It looks like a good place to relax and enjoy a margherita.’ He goes back up to the street, pausing at the top to peer through the thick shrubbery overhanging the top of the stairs. Before going to his car, he checks the street for anything suspicious like the car he saw drive by this morning. ‘I’m probably overreacting,’ he thinks, but when you’re dealing with unscrupulous people who would just as soon see you dead, you just can’t be too careful.’ He worries mainly about Pamela Lawton. She’s such a well-known figure in Community and has a wealth of knowledge about serums and drugs such as Doesonear which facilitate the change in aliens. No doubt those behind the kidnappings and experimentations in their hometown of Community would like to pick her brain. If they try, they will pay with their life, promises Bob. He watches for one more moment, then satisfied that no one followed them, he starts toward his car. Suddenly he freezes as a grey car passes moving slowly. Bob steps back out of sight, watches and waits for them to make another pass to validate his suspicion. They do.  He takes out his phone, “Stefan, you know that grey car we saw drive by this morning?”                                                                                The End


12:23. My watch face blinks up at me in flashes of green that feel out of place amongst the golden lamplight around me. When had it gotten so late? Glancing up at the massive main clock, mounted on the far wall at the other end of the library, I was surprised to read that it displayed the same time. It ticked morosely. Leaning back in my chair, I stifled a sneeze - reluctant to disturb the titanic quiescence consuming the library - and removed my glasses to rub at my eyes. The thick Neuroscience encyclopedia on the desk in front of me that had consumed my attention for the past hours now seemed to be a leather-bound mockery of my destructive studying habits: the test that I was studying for only called for knowledge on a few topics about the brain, but somehow I’d gotten sidetracked and been reading about a menagerie of interesting concepts and hypotheses that wouldn’t be in my exam.

Down the road of knowledge I’d ventured, taking my curiosity for a walk as though it were a dog, letting it lead me so far from my initial spot that I’d forgotten what I came here to study for.

The grand clock ticked, echoes like calls reminding me of how late it was.

The library was empty, and I suddenly felt isolation press onto me with a thousand icy fingers. I remembered the librarian having left a while ago, and the other inhabitants of the building leaving much earlier than that. I rested my head on the desk before me, tuning my ears into the reassuringly stable percussion of the clock- “You should go home.” I leapt to my feet. I looked around. Carefully, I peered into each shadow for a figure, a source for the male-sounding voice that I’d heard, all the while my breaths quivering.

Nothing. Nothing but tall wooden bookshelves and empty desks and the clock and me in the room. Had I imagined it? My mouth opened instinctively to call out ‘hello’ then snapped shut as my grandmother’s face appeared in my mind’s eye.

‘Never reply to a spirit,’ she dictated, sapphire orbs glittering, ‘you don’t know what could happen. I don’t want my granddaughter stolen by some duppy,’ She kissed her teeth. Shaking my head, I forced a chuckle. I was clearly overreacting - like my grandmother always did. I was in an old library, it was past midnight, I was alone and I was tired. Understandably, my imagination was on overdrive.

“Maybe I should go home, ha,” I joked to myself, picking up my books and stuffing them into my slate shoulder bag. Carefully, I placed my fountain pens and ink into the deep pockets of my nude trench coat, pulled on my plaid gloves and made my way over to the librarian’s deserted desk.

I hoped to borrow a few books, so I decided to try to navigate the library computer system myself.

I jiggled the mouse and the bulky, old-fashioned grey monitor flickered to life. It immediately displayed a password prompt and I groaned slightly. Of course - I didn’t know the password. I became acutely aware that the ticking of the grand clock was suddenly absent.

Should I just borrow the books without adding them to the catalog? I bit my lip. A faint whiff of cinnamon wafted past my nose. After a moment, I began to scour the desk drawers for any sign of a post-it note or a notepad with the password on it. Then a frigid spark snaked down my spine. The cinnamon scent intensified. I was no longer alone. “Didn’t I tell you to go home?” _________ My stomach dropped. My mouth tried to formulate words but I found myself unable to breathe. “A-ah-” “Shut up,” the voice was definitely male, and right behind me now. My blood chilled and willed me not to move, but I forced myself to turn around.

My eyes met with a pair of dark ones. Dark, slightly irritated ones. There was a guy standing in front of me, wearing a plain white shirt and dark trousers.

But below the trousers was empty space. He had no feet - his body simply faded into nothing. I could almost see through him. I laughed.

“Ha. Ha!” I pointed at him and giggled, “Y-you’ve g-got no feet! Ha!”

The spirit’s expression grew stormy, but I couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop laughing.

Snorting, I cackled, “I- I had too much c-coffee this morning… ha… who k-knew coffee w-was a hallucinogenic-” Bonk! A fist hit my head. “Idiot,” the spirit intoned without contempt or disdain, as though he was simply stating a fact.

“I- ow,” this sobered me, and I murmured “I don’t care if you’re a spirit or whatever, don’t bonk me, alright?” The spirit raised his eyebrow. After a pause, he replied, “Fine. The computer password is g-m-u-x-1-4-8-6.” Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows, “T-thank you?” He rolled his eyes again, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Just take your books and get out of my way.” I stared, heart pounding, not moving. I couldn’t help it. He was captivating. He was tall, but not quite taller than me, and slim, probably around my age. His skin was pale and his features sharp like the edges of paper, but contrasted his hair - dark and messy and seeming to defy gravity in spikes around his head.

From what I could tell, he was worlds apart from the multiple-limbed, many-mouthed and upside-down beings that my grandmother had always told me stories of.

“Hey… stop staring.” he intoned, averting his eyes and scratching the back of his neck defensively, “...Just take your books and leave.” “I-” I tried to reply but my throat closed up as the reality of the situation crashed down on me, and I was once again stricken with anxiety. Deciding that it was best to obey him lest he do… something to me, I typed the password that he’d told me into the computer, not taking my eyes off the gloomy spirit whose eyes followed my every move. An aura of deep-rooted dissatisfaction seemed to surround him, and I could almost feel it seeping into me.

Hands shaking, I scanned the barcodes on my books and authorised my borrowing them in the system. All the while, he watched me, deathly still.

“Good,” he intoned flatly when I was done, “Now… go.” I nodded and glanced up at him. That was a mistake - once again I found myself fixated. After a moment or two, he glared at me. “Why are you staring? Shouldn’t you be desperate to leave?” “What does it matter to you?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. The spirit’s eyes narrowed. “I - don’t you want to get away from me?” he said, voice rising in volume. “I… I do.” I replied truthfully, but my body was rooted to the spot in awe of what I was seeing. “Then leave. Just… stop staring at me! It’s weird.” he growled. His cheeks flushed. My heart thundered, but my curiosity had already peaked, “Are you self-conscious? About being a spirit?” “I… Shut up. This is stupid. I don’t have time to talk to you.” “Then why did you come to speak to me?” “Because I need you to leave.” He began to drift away from me, across the hall. “Why?”

“Because,” he growled, “when midnight comes, this is my library. It’s the only time I can read without being seen or heard.” He turned to me, glaring daggers. But although my legs shook, my voice disobeyed all logic and didn’t cease speaking. “So… you normally like to read alone, but today you’re lonely, and that’s why you approached me?” “What?” he hissed, exasperated, “That’s not what I’m... just shut up and leave.” He glanced away. “And stop staring,” he emphasized. “Okay.” Finally, I managed to tear my eyes from him and made my way towards the wooden, ornate double-doors of the library. But something weighed down in my chest, a sympathy for this miserable, solitary spirit, a sentiment that I needed to spit out, “Y-you know, I come to this library most Saturdays.

“I don’t usually stay this late, but… I can stay until midnight next week, if you want… instead of being all alone in here...” He stared at me, mouth slightly open, for one shocked moment. Then his expression became guarded once more, and he turned away from me and picked a book from the nearest bookshelf, flipping it open, “Whatever.” Feeling a strange disappointment, I lingered beside the door for a moment in case he changed his mind. But he seemed engrossed in his book and uninterested in me, so I opened the door and stepped out of the library.

And that is the story of my encounter with a library spirit. A cold, unfriendly, antisocial ghost who just wanted to read in peace.

But there’s one part of this story that I’ve never told.

Because as I left the library, pulling my coat tightly around me and stepping into the rain, I felt a cold shiver snake down my spine, and caught the scent of cinnamon. “Next Saturday. Midnight. Come alone. I’ll be waiting.”

I turned towards the voice, but the library spirit was gone.


Before the sun rises, Natalia bathes in the dark with cold water. She dresses in silence. All her clothes are plain-black pants and blouses, grey turtlenecks in the winter. Her father buys her clothes. Natalia has no time to pick them out herself.

She doesn’t mind. She and her father are, after all, still in mourning. And this way, she can dress in the dark without risking a fashion disaster.

Today, however, she left her clothes out hanging on the wardrobe door. Today she wants to wear a dress.

Natalia gets ready and does her chores in the dark, with her eyes closed. She started to pretend she was was blind when she was five, maybe a week after her mother died and her father lost his eyesight in the fire. She can find her way around now, almost as well as the legally blind. At least in her house. She does it better than her father, who almost never leaves the study.

So. She puts her room in order, first. Then she folds the clothes she left in a pile last night and washes the dishes from her father’s dinner-he always goes to sleep so late. Lastly, as the sun starts to rise gray behind her eyelids, she makes omelettes for breakfast.

Natalia opens her eyes to use the stove. She left the stove on once, when she was five. She’d gone down in the middle of the night to warm some milk for herself. She left it there by accident, and it boiled over. Her mother was upstairs. When her father arrived home late and turned on the hallway light, the house exploded. Natalia still isn’t sure how she survived.

So Natalia always opens her eyes to use the stove.

Her father pads downstairs, waving his cane. Natalia kisses him goodbye before skipping out the door.

The school day seems to crawl by. Natalia does her best to focus only on her studies, not on her classmates or her friends, and definitely not on the tall new boy with the wide, toothy grin sitting two seats behind her.

Recess finally rolls around, and Gino-because that’s his name, the new boy’s name-takes her hand as soon as the bell rings, like he’s been waiting three periods to do it.

Natalia grins.

They walk together to the benches outside the lunch room, their linked hands swinging between them. Natalia left her red hair loose for him today, just as she wears her knee-length dress.

Yesterday, Gino asked her to be his girlfriend. Natalia said yes; she hasn’t said a word to her father about it.

“You don’t have time for a boyfriend, Natalia.” He would say. “Focus on your studies, then come home to your chores. There’s too much to do.” It’s true. Since her mother died, Natalia has to do everything she left behind-it’s only fair.

But Natalia will make the time. She’ll see her boyfriend during recess. Gino seems ok with it.

“Why do you always wear black?” Gino asks, tugging on her dress sleeve.

Natalia lives in a small town-she’s never had to explain herself to anyone, they all know what happened. She’s surprised to find she doesn’t want to answer Gino’s question.

No, that’s not true. She does want to answer his question. She wants to lie to him.

“I’m inspired by you.” She deadpans.

Gino laughs. He kisses her, and sparks run down Natalia’s skin.

That’s the thing about Gino-everything makes him laugh, even the things he takes seriously. And she likes the way he kisses her. Other boys have tried to kiss Natalia, hesitant boys or eager, pushy boys. She never liked the idea.

But Gino’s kisses are like lightning. There and gone like a really, really good secret.

“Tell me the truth, Talia.” Talia. No one calls her that but him.

“That is the truth.” She swats his hand away, the one still fiddling with her sleeve. “Just not the answer to your question.” “You look good in black.” He says-a compliment for a compliment, that’s the game they play. He’s good at it, too. He’s never let a single of her compliments fly by unanswered, and his are always crazy original, are always about her.

So Natalia tries every day to find more things she likes about Gino. She’s going to be as good as he is at this game; better, if she can.

“I know.” She smiles.

Gino wiggles his eyebrows. “You’re not going to tell me, are you.” “Not today, boyfriend .” She laughs, and swings their linked hands again.

After school she goes straight home, washes dishes, makes lunch, washes again, sweeps, mops, and cleans the windows, because it’s Monday. Then she settles down to homework, but Gino stays in her mind, like an annoying little firefly on a still, dark night.

She stays up with her father for a while, tells him about her day while he smiles and takes tea.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go back to work, father?” Her father had made a fortune when he was young, but he enjoyed working in the coffee shop by the public library, so that’s what he had done-until the fire.

The owner of the coffee shop, Calpurnia, had expressly asked Natalia to persuade her father to return.

“I miss his humor. My new boy is wonderful, but he’s rather quiet.” She elbowed Gino and winked at Natalia; because Gino works in Calpurnia’s shop. And she can see him every time she buys coffee for her father.

“No, thank you, Natalia. I’m quite happy where I am.” Her father lied pleasantly. “Besides, I would drop and spill everything, likely-bump into everyone. Calpurnia would be upset with me.” “She would not.” Natalia laughs. “Father-“ she hesitates. Then she bites her lip and says it anyway. “Calpurnia thinks you’re ‘quite the gentleman’. “ Natalia’s father stiffens. Then he laughs nervously and says. “I hear there’s a new boy in your school; a young man from the city.“ her father raised an eyebrow. “What’s he like?” “I wouldn’t know.” Natalia hears herself say. She stands up and takes the empty cup from her father. “His name is Gino...” she looks at his milky eyes, at the sad, serious lines on his face. She can’t tell him; he’ll hate it, he’s just too old-fashioned. He’ll think she’s irresponsible, too young to date and kiss boys and be away from home. He’ll feel lonely.

“He doesn’t talk much.” She kisses her father’s cheek and turns out the lights. “Good night, father.”


There they go again , Lance thinks to himself. The empty but giant halls of the massive house echoes his steps from all sides, walking in a slow pace, seemingly all by himself as the other occupants are nowhere to be found. The question of “where are they?” doesn’t leave his lips.

He has only been a resident for a month. A full month since his adoption, since the wealthiest family in the city took one look at him and said “Yes, you’ll do nicely.” Clad in all black when they stood on the doors of the orphanage, he briefly questions if they just got back from a funeral. He doesn’t know what to feel when they merely laughed when he asked.

“You are something else, Lance.” They said, he caught a glint in their eyes that he can’t explain but startled him enough for him to take a small step back.

“Would you like to go home with us?” They have said, warm expressions in contrast to their cold demeanor. Lance hesitated, a tingling in his neck when he saw the outstretched hand covered in a black glove that waited for his. But wracking through his mind of how his days go, he decided it’s better to go than to stay in a place where everything is awful. The orphanage treated him kindly, does not mean the people did.

It didn’t take long for him to pack a bag and got in a black car that took all of them to a place outside city limits.

“You’ll love it there, Lance.” The man said, a warm smile on his face that definitely didn’t creep him out. Maybe he should be calling him dad now? They took him to a mansion, a manor as they called it on the way, surrounded by electric fences and a giant stonewall. Lance jokingly wonders what they have to hide from that elicited a wall that rivaled the Great Wall of China.

Lance doesn’t know how to describe it properly; the manor has a gothic feel to it, come to consider that it’s been around since Queen Victoria reigned the country, the architecture and the overall structure screams old. The inside doesn’t look better. There’s a touch of modernism, but parts of it are still kept traditional. An odd mix if you were to ask him.

The particular thing that catches his eyes is the giant staircase in the middle of the room. He doesn’t understand why that would excite him, amaze him.

Lance briefly considers asking if the manor is haunted, but he doesn’t want to get sent back to the orphanage any time soon.

His brand new father and mother introduced him to his “siblings” and other occupants on the estate when they arrived. Three older brothers, a younger sister, two cousins who live there now, and one maid and a butler.

“This is Lance. He’s your new brother.” The woman, mother, introduced.

They seemed nice , Lance had thought, when his “siblings” all group hugged him to welcome him to the manor and to the family. His new sister gripped his hand tightly in hers, eager to be the one to give him the tour around the manor and the forest behind it while his new brothers followed closely behind them. His sister talked his ear off, Lance listened intently to everything she said.

“The house is built on a hill, there’s a nice forest outside.” Lance laughed at her words, “Yeah, I figured.” They gave him the room next to all of theirs, insisting that their sister likes to keep her brothers at arms length, and helped him unpack the few things he does have. He liked it.

“Welcome to the family.” said the eldest brother, before they are all due to their rooms for sleep. They are the only two in the hall where all their rooms are, theirs are next to each other. The eldest pats him in the back, giving him a smile, “Try not to get lost.”

The first week went along swimmingly.

He was always woken up by his new parents, pushing him to the shower so he could join them for breakfast. They would have breakfast together out in the gardens, Lance feels underdressed in his simple shirt when they all look like they are ready to have tea with the Queen, talking about plans and gossip of the week. Lance tried to be silent during them but it’s hard when they try to include him in everything he doesn’t know. Eventually, he lets loose with a few stories of his, he’s encouraged even more when they become engaged in what he’s saying. Some left before they could even finish their meals, with a solemn nod at one another, but Lance would be too wrapped up in a story about a thing he did back at the orphanage or a book he liked to notice. Or he did, but doesn’t mention it. Then they would spend the afternoon together as well, they’d read books from the massive library in the manor, watch movies in the movie room they had, all kinds of things in a matter of one week. They'd sit on the staircase and talk. They’d do all kinds of things in the garden, but never out in the woods. If it all goes well, maybe Lance could suggest they do some fun activities in the forest, it looked like a good place for hide and seek.

Dinner is chaotic, but Lance liked it. It’s the first time he has witnessed the dynamic between this powerful family. He has witnessed first hand how they’re like a normal family, one that teases and mocks each other and still stays together. It’s like they never shut up and always had something to say about each other. There are some topics he didn’t understand, but he ignored it and continued with his own meal.

And, at the end of the day, everyone retreats to their respective rooms and, one thing that he notices is that they basically lock themselves in there. But then again, with a family chaotic as them and a room as big as theirs, who wouldn’t? It was a very memorable week. A great first week with his new family. He likes this family, he likes to think that he’s starting to find a place in it--and it hasn’t been that long. Lance likes to think that this is it , they’re the ones he’s looking for.

That is, until the second week mark hits and Lance can no longer deny the little things he’s starting to notice.

Breakfast used to consist of all them, but his “foster” parents are nowhere to be found anymore. When asked, they tell him that they are off to work in the mornings.

“They didn’t look like they were going to work last week.” He said. “Of course,” The eldest brother said, “They wanted to be here for you, so they took a week off.” “One that they need if you were to ask me.” The second eldest said. Which is fair. “Have to make a living for the family. Keep the business alive.”

And he understands that. He’s seen the family’s massive empire in tabloids and news before, he understands. They would come home in the middle of the afternoon and he would welcome them as they hugged him. It’s when he would notice the faint smell of dirt on their clothes and glove-covered hands. He asks himself, “Does their office have a garden?” but smacks himself when he realizes that, duh, of course they don’t. He doesn’t have an answer for that. He lets it pass.

With the parents retiring to the room after they come home, afternoons are now spent with the cousins, his new siblings are nowhere to be found. He’d search for them at first, the cousins telling him they went out.

“I didn’t see them leave,” he’d told them. “Where would they go?” “They were in a hurry.” The cousins would reason. “They’ll be back.” And they did, and when they did, he’d ask where they went. He doesn’t ask about the wet spots in different parts of their clothing.

“To the mall. Our sister was itching to be out of the house. We’re sorry we didn’t tell you.” The second eldest brother answered. “Don’t worry, we’ll let you come with us next time” But they didn’t. They make no mention of that after. To be fair, he has forgotten the first time. But then the second time. “Our eldest needed someone to take him somewhere, his license was revoked. We all decided to tag along.” The third eldest explained, “You were busy with the cousins, so we didn’t ask. That was our mistake.” It’s a different excuse every time. Lance lets it past, but doesn’t forget. He’s suspicious, even though he doesn’t want to be, but doesn’t say anything. Again. It’s fine. He doesn’t mind afternoon with the cousins, they’re fun to be around.

Dinners are with the family, the parents and the siblings, but the cousins are apparently “busy” with their own things. They’re not around as often. Surprisingly, they don’t give him a reason as to why they are busy, they just say that they are. If that isn’t more suspicious than it already is.

“The cousins may live under our roof, but they are not entitled to leave everything out in the open. They can do what they want, let them have their own secrets.” The mother said when he asked.

Lance could list at least a hundred reasons why there’s so many things wrong with that. If he had another week, it still wouldn’t be enough.

They do come back though, in the middle of the night at least. He sees them enter through the front door, but he doesn’t leave his hiding spot.

It continues and it continues and it continues. Until he doesn’t ask anymore, he just ignores an absence. He ignores a lingering smell on their person that doesn’t make sense. He ignores the nonsensical reasons they give him.

And it’s only been a month. A month and the manor is feeling way too big for him. The halls he walks on, the giant staircase he sits on… he’s only realizing that it’s way too big. Lance thought nothing of it--not anymore--a wealthy family must equate to a busy one, right?


Avi was fed with living a dual life, and he wanted out. The stress was too much, and it was affecting his physical and mental health.

It's high time he charted out a new course for his life and made a decision soon, he thought, or it would be too late. Today he would speak to his wife Nima and confess everything. She will be shocked and hurt, but he hoped she would forgive him eventually. The phone

rang, and he snapped out of his reviree, it was his Boss. "Avi please come to my cabin with the project report." Avi picked up the file, and walked to his Boss's room. He had completed the report before the deadline and was sure his Boss would be mighty pleased about it. "May I come in Sir?" "Yes please do". Avi handed the file to  his Boss. His Boss 'Yaver, 'was a middle-aged man, and a taskmaster. "Please sit down", he said, as he went through the report. "Good work Avi, as usual you have managed to complete it before the stipulated time." "Thank you, Sir," said 'Avi.' "I have some good news for you, I'm promoting you to the post of 'Regional Head" of the northern region", said the Boss. Avi was thrilled to bits, he had been waiting for this opportunity for a long time, and couldn't hide his pleasure. "Thank you Sir. I won't disapoint you." "I know," said his Boss, it means more traveling and more responsibility, but of course with lots of perks". "I'm fully aware of what it takes to make it to the top, Sir," said Avi confidently "Good, the project will commence only next week. Why don't you take a break and enjoy some time with your family? Once the new project starts it's going to be very hectic without much free time.." said Yaver As he walked out of his Boss's cabin, Avi called his travel agent, and booked a ticket on the first available flight to Delhi. On the way home he picked up Nima's favourite chocochip cake from the bakery near his office. He remembered a phrase he had read somewhere, "killing with sweetness" but he quickly got rid of the thought. Nima was genuinely delighted to hear about his promotion. "Let's go out and celebrate in the evening", she said. "Not tonight Nima , I'm leaving for Delhi in the evening . Infact this is a long business trip and I will return only next week". Nima didn't say anything, as she was used to his erratic working schedules. Next month would be their thirteenth wedding anniversary. Everything was hunky dory with their marriage, the only flaw was that they were childless. They had tried various treatments, doctors, hospitals but no results. She wanted to adopt a baby but Avi was against it. He assured her it didn't matter to him,that she couldn't conceive, and is happy with things as they are, but in her heart of hearts she knew he was lying. Avi wondered, how she would react , once he told her about his decision, but as cruel as it may sound, he had to do it, as he couldn't think of any other option. Nima was oblivious of what was going in Avi's mind, she was busy packing his bag, and making plans to celebrate his promotion, after he returned from his business trip. Seeing her excited and animated face, Avi decided to wait, and tell her of his decision only after he returned from his trip. He landed at Delhi airport by 8pm.After hiring a cab, he settled in, for a long ride that would take him to the outskirts of the city. Two hours later, he entered a gated community which had series of row houses, a swimming pool, a club house shopping center, and a school, with top rate security at all hours. It was a very safe and secure place. He loved coming here. He stopped his cab outside a small cosy cottage surrounded by tiny creepers and plants. He paid the driver, and walked up the three steps and rang the door bell. A small girl around eight years old, opened the door. "Daddy !! " she squealed, as soon as she saw him and leapt up into his arms" . Her mother, a shy simple young lady stood behind her smiling happily. "How are you Sarita?"he looked at her lovingly. "What a grand surprise this is! " she said and hugged Avi. "My boss has granted me one week's leave, so I came here to spend with my family." He entered the tastefully decorated living room, and sat on his favorite armchair with his daughter hovering around him and regaling him with stories about her school and friends. He looked happy and contented. Finally he was home. Later that night, as they lay in bed, he shared the news if his promotion with Sarita. "I'm planning to shift here permanently, as I will have to operate from Delhi". "What about Nima?" asked Sarita with a puzzled look. "I'm going to ask her for a divorce, once I go back to Mumbai, and tell her everything" "Are you sure Avi ? I'm feeling so guilty about it". "Don't be Sarita, I will see that she  is well taken care of, and  she won't lack for anything as long as she lives. I'm also giving the house in Mumbai to her. "But Avi"... He placed a finger on her lips to quiten her. "I'm not happy being a weekend father to Kiara.She's growing up and I want to be present here all times for her and you. I have made up my mind after pondering over it for years. Sarita was elated, finally Avi will be living with Kiara and her, which she always wanted.She felt sorry for Nima ,but life can be cruel sometimes. . She had Avi met eight years ago. She used to work in a a bank those days where he had an account They would interact frequently as she was handling his account, and would solve any problems regarding his account. One day he had come to bank during the closing hours, and had offered her a lift home.She accepted readily as she knew him. On the way home, she told him a little about herself that she was an only child, her father was no more, and she was living with her old mother.informed her, that he was married. Avi was attracted to this simple yet girl with a sweet voice. He never missed an opportunity to see her whenever he visited the city. Very soon both got into a relationship which was not going to lead anywhere. Avi was aware, he was cheating on his wife Nima, who was loyal and devoted to him, he was ridden with guilt but he couldn't help himself as he had fallen deeply in love with Sarita. One day Avi got from Sarita call in his office, she was sobbing uncontrollably. "Sarita what happened ?,"he asked, his heart sinking in. "Avi I'm pregnant and I'm so scared, I will have to go in for an abortion". "No!! He practically screamed. I'm coming there, and don't do anything until I reach there". Avi took the next available flight and reached Delhi, within a few hours. She collapsed in his arms, as soon as she saw him. "Don't worry Sarita I will take care of everything" he said trying to calm her down. For years he was dying for this wonderful opportunity, he won't allow her to snuff it just like that. "Let's get married", he told her out of the blue. "But you're already married Avi" and our marriage won't be a legal one". "I'm aware of it Sarita. I want our baby, and to get married legally it will take long of time, and we don't have the time. He took her to a temple, and they got married in a simple ceremony attended by her mother and few close friends of Sarita's. Avi was over the moon, at last he would be experiencing the joys of fatherhood which seemed like a far- fetched dream a few years ago. He started visiting Sarita more often, and his happiness knew no bounds when he held his daughter in his arms for the first time, who was a replica of her mother, but had his long nose and broad forehead. They settled in life peacefully. Avi visited them at the first available opportunity. Sarita resumed her job after few months and her mother helped her to look after the baby. Life was cruising along just fine.. Sarita never complained about anything, happy with things as they were. A year ago Sarita's mother passed away, and Avi asked her to leave her job and stay at home with Kiara as he was in a position to provide for them. He purchased a house for them in a safe locality as he would be at peace, and not having to worry when he was not with them . But now more than ever he wanted to be with them, and hated to be away from his daughter. Kiara was the happiest when she was with her dad. Her chitter chatter echoed in the house which radiated happiness. The week passed very soon, they went to the movies, malls and markets with lots of shopping and gifts for Kiara and Sarita. It was time for Avi to leave, and he held them in a tight hug promising to come and stay with them permanently very soon. In Mumbai, Nima was excited, as Avi was coming home. This time around, he had been gone for many days and she missed him. She wanted to share a wonderful news with him. When the doctor called her yesterday she didn't belive him, they had been trying for thirteen years and she had practically given up. From past few days she was feeling very uneasy so she went to see the doctor.He asked her to take some tests, and finally she got the results yesterday. She was 'pregnant ', she knew Avi would be on top of the world , they had waited for so long for this precious gift.She was dying to see his face when she breaks this news to him Avi reached Mumbai around 7pm, and took a cab home, he thought of completing the unpleasant task of confessing to Nima as soon as possible before his resolve weakens, and he succumbs to his guilt. Nima welcomed him with a warm hug as always. Avi noticed a certain glow on her face and she looked very beautiful. She handed him a cup of hot coffee, and was going to the kitchen to prepare a special dinner for the double celebration. Avi felt this was the right time to tell Nima about his final decision. "Nima, please come and sit here, I want to tell you something very important". "Not now Avi, I'm preparing your favorite dishes, and will talk after dinner. I too have a surprise for you" "Nima its important , please sit down".. " You look so tensed, what's on your mind Avi?" She was worried seeing his sad expression. "Nima it may sound cruel, but I can't go on like this, it's killing my mental peace and affecting my work too, so I have taken this decision". She had never seen Avi so agitated before. "What is it Avi? Is it about your job?" "Nima, please be calm and patient and listen to me .. you would always ask me why do I go to Delhi so often". "Avi I was only teasing you .I know you go there for your official work." "Nima, apart from my work, I also have a family there, one eight year old daughter and a wife". He told her how he had met Sarita nine years ago, about their affair and how he had to marry her because of his daughter Kiara. "I'm planning to make Delhi my base and settle there. My daughter is growing up and she needs me and it's very difficult for me to be away from her. I want a divorce Nima so I can legally marry Sarita". Nima felt as though she was standing in a battle field, and the enemy was spraying her with bullets.She couldn't believe her ears.The pain in her heart was so terrible as if someone had punctured it a hundred times over. She just stared at Avi as though he was some stranger who had come home in place of her husband. "What about me Avi?" She struggled to keep her voice steady. "I'm sorry Nima but don't worry, I have made good provisions for you. There's nothing you will lack for as long as you live". You can continue living in this house as it will be in your name. Nima was blank ,she got up and went to her bedroom crying and sobbing as she lay on bed thinking of the life growing inside her. Should she tell Avi about the baby?, after all it's his baby too and he has every right to know about it. He had made his choice without giving her a second thought, cutting her out from his life as though she was some part of his body that had turned poisonous. This is all wrong she thought. She and Avi should be celebrating and rejoicing this beautiful moment, but here she was, all alone weeping and mourning . Not anymore, she had made her final decision, she stood up,wiped her tears, and went out of her bedroom to face the inevitable.


There were wolves on the train from Kildare to Kilkenny and the noise of them was driving me mad. They weren’t real wolves, of course. Real wolves would not have been as obnoxious, or as drunk, or as stupid. No, these were humans in werewolf masks and gloves, six of them in total, dressed up for some Halloween party or other, and judging by their boisterousness and how intimidating they were, they’d been ‘getting in the mood’ for quite some time. Thankfully, for now, they were halfway down the carriage and weren’t bothering me, other than with their shouting and laughing and occasional howling at the moon, which just so happened to be full, which was more than a little appropriate, considering it was the 31st of October. When I’d entered the carriage twenty minutes earlier, I’d wondered why the top half was empty, and had gladly taken a seat inside the door. Now, having listened to and observed the antics of the costumed idiots—all of whom appeared to be male—I knew exactly why it was empty. It had taken all my willpower not to get up and leave, but I was on this train for one particular reason, and the presence of these wolves seemed fortuitous. I had a writing assignment due in two days, the prompt for which was ‘journey on a train’, and having failed to come up with a workable idea, I’d decided the best thing to do was just hop on a train and see what happened. I’d brought a book to read which I’d hoped would provide inspiration, but I’d only made it through a couple of pages before being distracted by the commotion further down. This, I knew from my creative writing teacher, was a better source of material, so I set the book aside and took out my notepad, the one I kept handy for jotting down ideas and possible lines of dialogue as I heard them. At the top of a page I’d quickly written: ‘Idea – idiots on a train dressed as werewolves, on their way to a costume party. Could there be a real werewolf amongst them?’ Well, it was something. Below that I’d scribbled some of the things I heard the idiots say, things that weren’t sexual innuendos and didn’t have anything to do with how pissed they were and how much more pissed they were planning to get, like: “Why the fuck are we going to a party in the arse end of nowhere, lads, could we not have stayed home and gone to Coppers?” “There better be some decent-looking birds in this town, man, not just a bunch of bleedin’ dogs. Oh, sorry, present company excepted.” And the most recent comment, which had been voiced just seconds before: “Hey, Blevine, can I have a howl at your moon?” Okay, that last one was a sexual innuendo, but I included it anyway because of the name Blevine, which I’d never heard before and which had instantly piqued my curiosity. It was piqued even further when a female voice responded, in as dry a manner as possible: “Sure. As long as you can howl out your arse, ’cos you won’t have a mouth if you try it.” I didn’t write that down, or the muttered “watch yourself” that followed, from a deeper male voice I hadn’t heard before, because by then I’d looked up from my notepad and leaned into the aisle, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious Blevine.

I didn’t have to look hard to find her. The thin, pale-skinned and dark-haired girl in the loose-fitting cargo pants and baggy Nirvana t-shirt striding down the aisle directly towards me could only have been her, and her eyes locked onto mine as soon as she saw me. “Dickheads,” she said, reaching the end of the carriage and swinging into the empty set of seats opposite mine. She slouched back on the tacky, blue and green moquette-covered chairs, upper back and head against the window, one foot up on the seat, and continued to stare at me with amber-coloured eyes that seemed to deep-well drill into my mind. “What are you looking at?” she asked, spreading her arms as though I were checking her out. With shaggy, unkempt hair that hung to her shoulders, flat nose and thin lips, she wasn’t what you’d call beautiful in the traditional sense, but she was attractive in an earthy kind of way, and when I realised I was checking her out, I looked back down at my notes. “Nothing,” I said, waggling my pen over the page as if in preparation of writing. “Just enjoying the train ride.” “Enjoying?” she said, adopting a properly seated position in the aisle seat next to mine. “What’s to enjoy? A bunch of drunk losers in wolf masks thinking they’re off to the party of the year to get high or laid or both? I don’t think so.” Something about the way she said those last four words made me shiver and I couldn’t help but look at her again. “Really? I assumed they were off to a Halloween party, dressed like that.” “Oh, they are,” Blevine nodded, resting her forearms on her knees and placing her sharp-angled chin in her hands, so her face was mere inches from mine. Those eyes of hers, with their shimmering brightness and intensity of glare, were somehow piercing, comforting and unsettling all at the same time. “I mean, there is a party. I should know, I helped organise it, it’s just not what they think. They’re expecting a drink and drug-fuelled rave with loads of horny girls who can’t resist their ‘charms’, but they’ve overlooked the fact they were all told to dress the same way, so they’ve totally missed the point. But so what, suits me. “What are you writing?” Before I could think to ask one of my growing clutch of questions or answer hers, she’d plucked the notebook from my hand and was laughing as she read what I’d written. “‘Could there be a real werewolf amongst them?’ Some imagination! Are you writing a story? Do you believe in werewolves?” She was peering into my eyes again causing goosebumps to pucker on my skin. I shrugged, eyes flicking briefly to the moon that hung static above the treeline flashing past through the window, a moon that seemed to be watching the train with some amount of trepidation. “I wouldn’t say I believe in them,” I said, forcing my eyes back to hers, hoping she wouldn’t notice how nervous–or excited–she made me. “Not the popular fiction type anyway. But yeah, I am trying to write a story. Whether it’s going to be about werewolves or not I don’t know yet.” “Well, you’re heading in the right direction, if it is.” She said this as she placed my notepad on the table top before me and snatched up my copy of ‘Mythical Irish Beasts’, which was earmarked in places of interest. Flicking through the book, she stopped on one such page, which was heavily underlined, and read: “In his Topographia Hibernica, Gerald of Wales recounts the tale of a priest, who encountered on his travels a pair of speaking man-wolves, for whom he administered last rites. These wolves proclaimed themselves to be descendants of the Kings of Ossory, a mediaeval kingdom encompassing what is now Kilkenny and Laois, who’d been cursed by Saint Patrick for opposing his preaching of Christianity.” She paused in her reading and looked up, one eyebrow raised dramatically. “Doing your homework, I see.” “It’s kind of an interest of mine. Myths and legends, the supernatural.” She was staring again. Glaring again. Transmitting chills and half-smiling, though I wasn’t sure if it was in a mocking way or a pleasantly surprised one. “I’m impressed. You know about Ossory. Not many do. Fuck all do, to be honest. Those dickheads down there sure don’t. They think John Landis invented werewolves. John fucking Landis! Can’t even go back as far as Chaney. Think it’s all ‘body-morph transformations by the light of the silvery moon’. Dopes.” She said the word ‘dopes’ like she was spitting a slug from her mouth. “It’s cool you know the legend too,” I said, still trying to work out if I trusted this girl or was terrified of her. There was a touch of emo about her, or maybe it was grunge, I was out of the loop on subculture assignations. I also found it hard to guess her age, though she was definitely younger than me. “It’s nice to meet someone who shares the same interest.” She laughed, abruptly, startling me. “Oh, that I do! Sure, I’m from the area myself. Killeshin, in Laois. You won’t find it in your book, but local legends say it was a focal point of werewolf activity in the 13th century.” “No shit?” I said, perking up a little too enthusiastically. “Shit!” she replied, nodding eagerly and mimicking my excited tone, before glancing past me out the window, possibly to gauge where we were. “You know what? That’s where the party is. Killeshin. You know what else? It’s a werewolf-themed party. And do you know what else ? I’ve got a spare mask and I think you should come. I think you’d like it. You’d certainly appreciate it more than those chuckleheads my brother invited.” My throat was dry. My heart was thumping. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from hers. I opened my mouth and knew I was going to accept her invitation, even though I wasn’t sure I should. There was just something about her, an air of mystery, a sense of adventure, and I felt sure I’d regret it if I said no. But I never got the chance to say a thing. A hand appeared and tugged the book from her hands then he was there, one of the dickheads, the same one, I quickly established, that she’d scolded a minute before. He was wearing a t-shirt depicting an image from the film ‘An American Werewolf in London’. “What’s the story, Blev? Ditching me already? That’s not nice. What’s this shit?” Even through the latex and hair-covered head mask he wore, I could smell the alcohol on his breath, it wafted from his rubber maw to assault my senses. He was leafing through my book with the pointed, plastic fingers of his wolf-claw gloves, and I could just about see his eyes through his mask slits, shifting slowly from me to her and back again. “Nothing,” Blevine said. “Come on, we’re coming into Carlow, are you ready to get off?” “I’m definitely ready to get off, thought you’d never ask! Give us a kiss then!” He staggered forward and dropped his free hand onto her shoulder before jabbing the crumpled maw of his mask towards her face. I’m not sure what made me do it. Maybe it was a gut reaction to the abruptness of his move, maybe it was the stupid kissy noises he was making, maybe it was just the fact Blevine remained calm, staring at me past the big hairy head and pointy ear, waiting to see if I’d do something. Whatever it was, I got to my feet, curled my arm around his chest, drew him back. “Come on, man, don’t be a dick. Leave her alone.” He turned on me and lunged, dropping my book to wrap both his rubbery hands around my neck and push me back down into my seat. “Get the fuck off me, prick!” His eyes were full of rage inside his mask. He flicked his head and the tip of his maw caught my glasses, flipping them off my face. His fingers dug into my neck and he barked like a dog, moving his head closer, the smell of latex and alcohol overwhelming. I placed my hands on his chest to hold him back. “Jealous are ya, want me to yourself? Go on then, give us a kiss,” he said, and for a second he was all that existed in my world and the threat he presented was terrifying. Until it was removed, by another pair of hands that weren’t mine, big ones, with scratches and calluses on the fingers. “I told you to watch yourself,” came the same, gruff voice I’d heard before, and now I could see who it belonged to, a tall, gaunt man with sallow skin, sunken eyes, a mane of jet-black hair and bushy eyebrows. He pulled my attacker away and shoved him roughly into the door between me and Blevine. “You’ll regret that.” Fixing my glasses, my eyes were drawn back to Blevine, who remained seated a few inches away, staring at me between the two, circling her mouth with one finger. My cheeks flushed and I looked away, noticing the train had come to a halt in Carlow station while I was grappling with an idiot. His fellow idiots were lined up in the aisle behind the big guy, cans of cider and bottles of beer in their gloved hands. They were swaying from side to side, laughing and tittering, making fun of their friend. “Don’t ruin the night, Damo, ya big eejit.” “Sorry about that, lad, he gets a bit excitable when he’s out.” “Come on, what are we waitin’ for, where’s this bleedin’ party?” Blevine got to her feet and slid the door open, allowing who I assumed was her brother to shove Damo into the vestibule. “Calm down, Bleddyn!” she snapped, slapping his leather-jacketed shoulder. “No need to be so rough. This is a fun night we’re having, yeah?” The one called Bleddyn only grunted before stalking through the door after Damo, allowing the others to follow him out of the carriage in single file, bouncing and singing and whooping. When they’d all passed through, Blevine retrieved my trampled-on book from the floor and set it back on the table, leaning close to my neck as she did and seeming to sniff me. When she straightened back up, she was smiling. “Sorry about that. Like I said, dickheads. Hope my brother didn’t scare you. He can be a bit intense.” “It’s fine,” I said, with a shake of my head and a lick of my lips. “He was just looking out for you. And me, I suppose.” My face flushed with embarrassment at my failure to diffuse the situation. “Yeah, he’s grand, just doesn’t take any shit, you know? Anyway, about the party. I was wrong. You shouldn’t come. You’re one of the good ones. You wouldn’t like it, and you definitely wouldn’t fit in. Right?” “Oh. Yeah. Right.” “Yeah. For sure you wouldn’t. Just…keep doing what you’re doing. And good luck with the story. I’m sure it’ll be great. It should definitely be about werewolves.” “I think it probably will be now.” She smiled even wider and her eyes seemed to sparkle, then she patted me on the shoulder, winked at me once and was gone. From the platform outside I heard a ruckus, so I turned my head to stare out the window. The werewolves were there, jostling one another as they made their way into the small station building and struggled to get through the turnstiles. Bleddyn waited patiently at the rear until Blevine joined him, pushing herself up on her toes to whisper something in his ear. I saw him nod then enter the station, following the others into a dimly lit car park where a minibus filled with more werewolf-masked individuals was waiting. The whole encounter had left me feeling ill at ease. It wasn’t just that I’d been attacked by a guy in a werewolf mask, it was all of it, everything about it seemed off, especially Bleddyn, even Blevine. The way she’d looked at me, the things she’d said and how she’d made me feel, like I was losing control as she spoke. Had she really sniffed me? And what did she mean, I was one of the good ones? The train hissed and started to move. Blevine had followed her brother into the station. The others were boarding the bus. She was pushing her way through the turnstile. She stopped halfway through and looked back. As before, her amber eyes met mine and held my gaze, sparkling in the dull fluorescent glow of the station’s lighting. As the train slid forward and she dropped out of sight she flashed a smile, and I could have sworn her teeth looked as sharp as obsidian glass. But that had to have been my imagination. Later, when I’d have time to think clearly and investigate, I’d discover the names Blevine and Bleddyn were Welsh, and happened to mean the same thing—wolf cub. Even with that knowledge, which could only have been coincidental, even reading online about the mysterious disappearance of a number of teens on Halloween Eve a few days later, I’d never allow myself to believe what I witnessed that evening was anything other than it seemed.

Nevertheless, from that day on, my research into the legends of the Werewolves of Ossory would become nothing less than an obsession. And I was sure I’d never rest ’til I saw her again.


The first thing you notice is the sun's rays, peeking through the dusty white shutters. They don’t close all the way, and by the time the light rises into the morning, thick bars of brightness shine onto your ceiling. Your eyelids fail to block out the bright colours of the room, and when you’ve tossed and turned for half an hour in bed, you begrudgingly get up. It’s only eight-thirty-one, your clock chimes in. You think with how bright it is it must be closer to ten. The thought of getting up early on a Sunday morning makes your body sag with fatigue, though you are the one who chose to awake. There is no going back to bed once you stand, and traipse across the long browned carpet lining the floor of your bedroom. The rest of the house is already flooded with light, with your forgetting to close the shutters before bed. It highlights the dust floating through the air, though everything was still as water at midnight before you came down.

A glass of tap water soothes your dry throat, though you’re concerned about the air bubbles in the glass of water. Your mom used to tell you they were nothing to worry about, but your father's brother Fred would argue the white specks were chemicals used to clean the water. Mother would roll her eyes, and take out a plastic water bottle for him. Your mother’s mother would mutter something unintelligible under her breath, and ranted about Fred and his antics.

The kitchen where you stand was once filled with a bickering family, you think as you leave the glass on the counter. You thought it was all in good fun, but now you know the hatred ran deeper than distaste over white dots in a glass of tap water. Yet you learned to swallow the bitterness long ago, embraced the isolation that came with being caught on the wrong side of a pivotal decision. When you lose a member too soon, you’re quick to blame those who had a part to play. Your mother was always the kind one, or she was in your memories. The first to fold in on herself for others, changing her demeanour every which way if only to please others. Like origami, every time she shaped herself it left creases that would fade but never disappear. Every time another demand was made, another weight on her shoulders, an expression of defiance would flicker across her face. Despite your wish for it to remain, for her to say what she felt, her face folded back into one of a smiling, complacent housewife. It was because of her inability to refuse that you took advantage of her. Even now, looking back from the cabin she left to you in her will, you benefit from her docility. Though it has been many years since you spoke, she left you the cabin you once loved. Back when it represented a break from the rush of school, when you were showered with gifts from family not seen since summertime. The cabin was a haven tucked away from the world, but as an adult, it is nothing more than a voluntary prison. Why did you stay? You had a house in the explosion of suburbia exploding in and around Toronto. You had a stable job, made a friendly yet distant neighbour, never rude but not taking the time to learn their names.

Yet here you stand in an old, badly insulated house with a putrid-smelling bathroom and barely functioning gas fireplace. Cut off almost entirely from the outside world, the whole premise of a remote cabin smacking you directly in the face. No phone, electricity, internet, or people to talk to. It is as alone as isolation can be, and it’s thrilling. You don’t need to fake smiles or get dressed into clothes that scream careless, unrefined. Two years as an interior designer and you already learned people judge you before you walk through the door. Your jacket, two-year-old somewhat-worn boots, frizzy straight hair that is not blow-dried speak unintentional volumes to them. Why? The world is unforgiving. They don’t care if you struggle to get up in the morning, that your family has universally cut you off and hung you to dry. No, they care about their rooms, and you are nothing more than a servant to them, who doesn’t seem to have the decency to look professional. But those people don’t matter to you anymore. As you step out onto the snowy deck, your boots imprinting marks on the fresh white powder, you aren’t thinking about the people. Or what you left behind. You are not bitter about society’s inflictions, because you have peacefully detached from them and retreated.

You won’t stay here forever. You are not so withdrawn as to not need human interaction at all, no, you are just introverted enough to need a break from pretending to be an extrovert. Your mother always allowed you to hide away in your bedroom during family reunions, but you were too kind to want to disappear. Instead, you took the burden off of your mother, listening to Fred but never fully agreeing with what he said. Yet, you reminisce, he was never the one to start the big arguments. Echoes of words yelled long ago play relentlessly in the back of your mind. The cabin was an escape from one thing, but an invitation for another terror to be unearthed. Years of practice burying the bitter resentment from family were brushed away like the layer of dust on the countertops.

The small burn on the couch from Fred’s lighter. Small shards of glass still stuck under the baseboard from shattered picture frames, hastily swept up. A long-wilted pot of flowers mother never got to bring home. A reminder around every corner of the pain and ear-splitting screams of memories clawing their way out. You should let them out. Cry, throw something, uncork the glass bottle brimming with acid memories, bubbling up. You feel it, don’t you? If another were there to ask you simply if you were okay, you would likely shake your head no and collapse in a heap of tears. But you refuse, clench your fist and stand up straight, wiping away the water brimming around your eyes. You will not cry, you will not let it out. You think it makes you strong, but you are weak from running from it for so long. You are so close to getting through this phase of your past, why do you now refuse to acknowledge it? Your mother never cried in front of you. Her face would scrunch up ever so slightly, whenever emotions slammed into her at an overwhelming rate. She would just purse her lips, shake her head, and busy herself with a task. You used to admire that aspect of her, but now, as you hang your head between your arms, you wish she was there to tell you how she did it. But she is gone, and you can't help but stop the memory from flooding back, clear as freshly cleaned glass. That day the snow had piled up against the window, and we were debating staying an extra night. Everyone’s vehicles, except for Fred’s truck, were too snowed in and cold to be started. The then-working heater kept you warm inside, but after a week of already being in each other’s company, everybody was on their last leg. “Put that down!” Grandma hissed at Fred, who was jokingly trying to light your clothes on fire, enjoying how you would lurch backwards in the cruel joke of it. He would light it, bring it just close enough to your shirt to discolour it before you would turn around.

At grandma’s scolding, his mouth would turn up into a cruel smirk. “I wasn’t doing anything. Y’all shelter her too much.” You moved further away from him, spying your mother leaning on the counter. “Mom?” You asked, immediately knowing something was wrong. She didn’t look up, and you were the fastest to your feet, rushing over to her. “Are you okay?” you asked, already knowing the answer. When she shook her head lightly, a feeling of dread crept up your spine. “Mom!” You turn to your family, who were watching silently, emotionless. “Somebody help her!” You insist, fighting back hysteria. Your mother was not one for theatrics or extra attention. “She’s probably fine, just a little sick of this cabin, like the rest of us.” Fred took a sip of his beer. You stared at him for a moment, in shock at his nonchalance. “No, Em’ is right, Jenn isn’t okay.” Aunt Beatrice stands. “She needs to-” She was cut off by your mother slumping against the counter, and your diving to try and catch her before she hit the floor. Her skin pale and fingers twitching, you finally began to panic. “She needs to get to the hospital!” You cried, struggling to drag her toward the door before Beatrice began to help you. Grandma chimed in. “Fred’s truck is the best chance you got.” “Whatever, I think she’s fine. She’ll wake up in a minute and you will feel stupid for overthinking it.” Ignoring that statement, Beatrice continued your grandmother’s train of thought. “I’ve got the keys, Emily and I will go.” Fred stood, swaying slightly as he did. Pointing his finger at Beatrice, he glared. “You are not driving my truck.” “You’re drunk. You’re more likely to crash into one of the trees on the way than get Jenn help.” “You’re not driving my truck!” Fred walked up to Beatrice, staring her in the eye. “She needs help!” You cry, and Fred turns his glare to you. His breath smells of beer and tobacco. “She’s fine.” Grandma’s voice chimed in from her spot on the couch. “Fred is right, you guys are overthinking this.” You look around at their faces, and Beatrice looks defeated. “No!” you yell, “Fred how goddamn selfish are you to not-” You never get to finish the sentence before the air rushes out of your lungs. A heavy arm shoves you against the wall, and the whole room erupts in protest.

The shattering of glass pierces your ears, as Fred stumbles away from you. Beatrice drops an old picture frame, shards of glass sticking out, and rushes over to ensure you are okay. “She’s not breathing.” Your heart stops at the soft sound of your grandmother’s voice, and when you turn around you no longer see the rising and falling of your mother’s chest. “No!!” It is now that you slump against the wood siding of the house, that you sink to your knees, ignoring the wet discomfort of the snow. You cry salty tears and don’t wipe them away. The memories clawed their way out, and now fully consume you. You’re not sure how long you sit there, wallowing in your pain and self-pity, the snow soaking through your sweatpants and tears freezing on your face. The wind whistles past your ears, and eventually self-preservation wins out, and you pick yourself up. Not bothering to dust yourself off, you sprinkle snow on the already water-warped floor.

But with the feeble warmth from the gas fireplace, the cold, icy part of you that kept you emotionless and detached slowly melted away. The knot in your chest untangles. Without it, you finally felt like you could breathe. You grab the broom from the closet, the worn handle fitting nicely in your palm. The flooring groans under your feet as you approach the remains of a shattered picture frame. You sweep the glass, the splintered frame, and the faded picture across the living room floor. When it gets outside, the glass falls through the cracks in the deck, leaving only the frame. With one final push off the deck, the wood falls gently down into the snowbank below. The picture is snatched by the wind, and carried off across the yard, still moving when you go back inside.

The pot of flowers is heavy in your hands, the soil making your nose wrinkle in disgust. You walk quickly with it, and with great satisfaction, throw it off the side of the deck. Softly landing on the thick layer of snow, the once unwanted life feeding the garden you will eventually grow. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. When you are satisfied, you sit down on the weathered sofa and close your eyes. Because it’s over. Not because your family has made-up again, but because you chose it to be. You chose to not care anymore and to acknowledge the past without succumbing to it. Your mother never cared much for family gatherings, and she would prefer your shirts don’t have burn marks.

And the cottage, once coffin-like and cold, has the aura of a new beginning.


                                  SORTIE

     by                                                    Michael Parker Jack Edwards, code name ‘Ice Man’, knew this mission would be vital: destruction of the dam would shorten the war considerably. He felt confident about himself this time as the Pegasus engine of the Harrier Jump Jet wound up into a crescendo of sound. He could feel it vibrating through the control column. He completed his checks and held up the mandatory four fingers to the ground crew to declare that the ejector seat and canopy were armed. He acknowledged them as he began to taxi out on to the short runway. If he felt nervous this time, Jack didn’t want to show it. After all, he was the Ice Man. He dabbed the break pedal to check the brakes were functioning, and then made another quick scan of the cockpit instruments. He knew his fuel load, his target co-ordinates and his time over target, scribbled on his knee pad. The air traffic controller gave him clearance for take-off as he came to a halt on the very short strip of tarmac road. It was a public highway, closed now, that served as a runway at the forward position established by the allied forces. Jack brought the power up to maximum, set the nozzles at 50% and turned the water injection on. He could feel the jet straining on the leash as he held the brakes for a moment longer before lifting his foot. The Harrier leapt forward sending up clouds of dust in a vortex of wind and noise and scattering the birds from the trees.

Within seconds he was airborne, the jet’s nose dropped almost level to the ground as he raced towards the end of the short stretch of road. He touched the brake pedal to stop the wheels spinning and selected undercarriage up. He moved his eyes quickly and checked the four greens had changed to four blacks: ‘undercarriage stowed’. The trees below him almost bowed their heads in homage as the Harrier hurtled over their tops. Jack pulled back on the stick, edging it to the left and turned away from the forward airstrip. He turned up into the low cloud that hung sombrely over the dark countryside. He checked his heading. On his knee was the notepad with the estimated time over the target clearly written. It wasn’t far and he knew he would probably not experience any enemy activity on the relatively short run into their territory, which meant a clear run. He did wonder on just what his chances would be of returning safely once the dam had been breached. The target was the important thing though: the dam had to be breached. His life was no longer important, but the dam was. He had about eight minutes of relative calm and safety, and then he would fly into the mouth of Hades where one false move would pile him into the mother earth. The cloud cover above felt like a blanket as he streaked over the ground, no higher than one hundred feet, his ground warning radar switched off to avoid unexpected detection. Ice cold concentration was needed now from the Ice Man. In the distance he could see the vague shapes of the mountains: black silhouettes against a brightening, dawn sky. Jack had played the scenario repeatedly in his mind. He knew exactly where the valley began. It was not clearly visible yet, lying almost unseen beneath a ridge spanning two peaks. Once there he would be in enemy territory.

Suddenly he was hot! He heard the ‘ping’ as the enemy radar found him, but it was only a brief contact as he hurtled into the shadow of the mountains and into the valley. The Harrier fled like a bullet, wings tipping as Jack turned to follow the winding river course that had scoured the valley for millions of years. On each side the ground rose up like castle walls, hemming the sleek aircraft in, threatening to pull Jack into the forests that clung to the sides. The wind funnelled through the canyon, buffeting the Harrier. Jack fought it, letting the stick tremble gently in his hand as he steered the jet with consummate skill. Then the dam came into view: a small, almost insignificant wall that held back millions of tonnes of water. Jack selected the bombs, armed them, and levelled out as bursts of flak began to explode dangerously close. But Jack ignored the ground fire; his attention focussed on the dam wall. He dropped the Harrier to within fifty feet of the river, concentration forcing beads of sweat to burst out on his forehead. His breathing was harsh, but his determination never wavered. He flipped the trigger cover and pressed. Bombs gone! Stick back. Jack heaved, lifting the Harrier up, fleeing like a guilty child after throwing rocks at someone’s home. Over the dam and turning, stick hard over to the right. Jack watched the gravity meter, the ‘g’ force, climbing. He knew he had to turn sharply into the only valley he could use to get away. 5g! His weight was now almost 350 kilograms. His G-suit was inflating to protect him from blacking out and he could see the gauge reading going up. The pressure on his ribs would be enormous. He wanted to ease off to reduce the g-force, but the valley wall was turning sharply and Jack needed to pull the stick further back and let the gauge climb to 7g. How much more could the plane take? There was a danger he would grey out. A few more seconds and blackout would occur. He had to get the jet back on level flight before the whole thing fell apart.

He heard the explosion as his bombs hit home and the missile ‘locked’ warning almost at the same time. Jack had expected this. He focused on the valley wall, sliding past him swiftly now and hit the chaff and flare buttons. The silver foil burst from the Harrier together with the flares, absorbing the transmissions from the oncoming missile. The burning flares decoyed its seeker head. Suddenly Jack straightened and pulled the stick back, simultaneously rotating his jet nozzles. The missile streaked by and exploded against the valley wall. The valley turned left and Jack followed. Soon, very soon, he would be clear of the valley and into open country. He knew what awaited him there. As if by appointment two MIG 27’s hove into view. The sky had brightened considerably. Jack was flying with the rising sun behind him. The MIGs would not see him clearly, but their radar would be their eyes. He dropped the nose as the MIGs picked him up. They swung round in a symmetrical pattern to follow Jack down towards the ground, nap of the earth flying, reheat blowing from their tails like glowing torches. Jack’s Harrier was no match for them in pure speed, but Jack had more weapons in his armoury. More guile. He dived down to a long run of trees, hoping to confuse the radar of the MIGs, but the launch of two missiles told Jack they had him locked into their radar. He made a tight turn, dropping more chaff. He couldn’t hope to outrun the missiles, but he could hope to spook the MIG pilots. He turned tighter until he was flying straight at the two jets and skipped over the tree line. The missiles made the same turn but lost time in the turn. Jack was now heading directly towards the two fighters at a closing speed of well over a thousand miles per hour. Before the two jets could pull up, Jack tugged the stick back hard, bringing the nose up almost vertical, dropping chaff and flares at the same time. One of the missiles, confused by the different heat signals in close proximity, took out one of the MIGs, blowing it from the sky. Jack cheered noisily as the second missile whistled between him and the remaining MIG. He turned again, knowing he had a chance to make it to friendly territory, but he had to shake off the remaining jet. He knew the pilot would need just a moment to recover from seeing his wingman being shot down by his own missile, but not too long. It was enough for Jack. He went in hard and fast over the trees. This then was to be the killing ground. This was to be the place where he would be able to test his skill against that of the remaining MIG pilot. One on One! Mano a Mano! He felt a sudden thrill surge through his veins. The kill! He saw the MIG clearly. And the missile! “Jack!” He spun round in his chair. His wife was standing at the door, one hand on her hip, the other thrust against the door jamb. “If I’ve called you once, I’ve called you a dozen times. Your dinner is ready. Now switch that silly game off and come and get your dinner.” Jack sagged visibly. He looked back at the computer screen as it blossomed into an orange flame and a message flashed up. “ Sorry Jack, you lost. Better luck next time!” He switched the game off and closed his computer down. Then he picked up his walking stick and levered himself out of the chair.

“Ah well,” he muttered to himself. “Not bad for an eighty year old. I’ll get them next time.” His wife had already gone and Jack knew he had met his match in more ways than one.                              THE END

Michael Parker