A quote comes to mind during yet another night of unwelcome wakefulness. It is triggered by the view that has graced my sight from the moment I opened my unwilling eyes. "These trees are dark and old. In solitude, unified. Licking the ground, tasting the rough, cold wind, so man can breathe." It's a quote from my favorite band. My love for poetry and raw, creative expression has molded me inextricably to their art. I'm in awe of the manner with which the consistent and unchanging efforts of Gaia to sustain life are continuously being met with the cruelty of the very beings that are being sustained. I am in absolute awe of how a few poetic words can have the power to summarize happenings which began centuries ago that still thrive today. Mankind. We take so much. The wind's shrill whistle is audible despite the tightly sealed openings of my bedroom. Magnificent silhouettes of dancing foliage keeps me entranced as the meaning of the poetic words sinks in. I am forced to consider how my entire system would shut down without the tireless service of these trees, beings so friendly and wise, always subject to batter and abandon. I lay here and wonder how it ever came to be that we are so alienated from something that is such an indispensable part of our very existence.

My brief reverie gets interrupted by a sudden movement. My muscles immediately tense up. "Damn it, no," the words slip up before I have time to properly think my reaction through. My heart rate begins to speed up and a sense of dread fills me up quickly. She moves again, and I sigh. How long has it been since I could actually rest? My mind does a quick recap of my busy day of hard labor at work. I lift things. Heavy things from brick sacks to extra large geyser tanks. It takes a lot to do that kind of work, and for peanuts, too. I feel exhausted enough without having my sleep interrupted by the little human laying restlessly besides me. I shoot an annoyed glance towards the clock hung along the far side of the wall. It is exactly 2:59am. Kayla stirs again, and I curse. Shit, shit, shit! It takes a colossal amount of willpower, but I will my body up, and as the heavy blankets slide off the top of my body, a cold chill of air stings the naked flesh of my arms. A table stands at the side of my bed. Two bottles of milk, nappies, wipes, jelly and an empty cup of coffee are positioned haphazardly along the scratchy and old wooden surface. As I turn the bedside lamp on, a cigarette and lighter come to sight on the carpeted floor, triggering a sudden reaction within my body and eliciting a craving sensation that I've lived with for a decade now. I make a mental note that once I am done with Kayla, I would have a few puffs to calm my hideous mood. Taking one bottle in one hand, I turn back towards her writhing body and collect her into my arms. Cotton-clad limbs stop flailing once the rubber teat enters eager, gum less lips. My three-month old daughter is hardly coping without her mother. My jaw clenches as Claudia's face flashes across my mind's eye. A beautiful smile stretched across a bright face, full of life, hope and possibility. Kayla looks just like her. At least, she used to. Where there used to be a smile, there is now only decay. She went off exactly two months and seventeen days ago, and never returned. She was so reckless, so trusting, so damn gullible, despite my innumerable warnings about the the people of this town. Trust no one, I would tell her. If it's possible, talk to no one. Go to the shops, buy what you need, and return straight home. I told her this. I told her, the stupid girl. For lack of sensibility and prudence, she did not listen. She allowed herself to be lured in like blind prey. She stripped my daughter of a mother, and although I do grieve her, I do not feel capable of forgiving her. As I gaze down Kayla's little face in the dim light, I recall how I could not merely sit tight and let the police do their work. The worst thing that those fuckers would do is give him a few years in jail - a mere slap on the wrist compared to what he truly deserved for raping and taking the life of the mother of my child. I know this town well. I've got connections in all the right places. Eyes are everywhere and the truth always comes out if you know who to ask. He was quick and sly and almost got away with it, but this is a small town, and I've got connections. I told him that when he stared with wide-eyed shock at me, and I watched as a ghastly realization dawned in his gaze. Yes, you bastard. Now is the time that you die. You didn't expect it, did you? You didn't know that I know, or else you would not be here, in my own father's backyard, letting me into your stinking quarters and offering me a can of beer, all the while knowing that you've murdered my girlfriend. Karma has caught up faster than you thought. Rot in hell. I did not say those words aloud, but my eyes said all that needed to be said. It is true that eyes are the windows to the soul. When I wrenched that blade from deep within his gut, I saw what was in his eyes. I think he realized something as soon as it dawned on him that he has just gotten stabbed. Something that only he could see. Something that terrified him to the core. Perhaps he didn't like where he was going. Maybe the shadow people were there already, preparing to drag him to hell, where he belongs. I don't know what it's like to die when you're a bad person, but I can attest that by witnessing the sheer terror in his eyes, that it is the most terror that he's ever felt in all of his life, a life that has reached an abrupt and unexpected end, just like Claudia's. Seeing his fear gave me satisfaction. It thoroughly satisfied my thirst for vengeance, for justice. That was the first time I've ever taken a life. I feel like something within me has died along with him. I feel like my daughter is stuck with a lesser version of who I was three months ago. A sudden sob escapes my throat as a dark and suffocating cloud stifles my being. I almost want to die. Kayla is keeping me just barely afloat. "I did it for you, baby girl."

Kayla pushes the teat out of her mouth, as though to express distaste of the idea that she is the reason that a man is dead. I get it, girl. You're not the reason, I am. Claudia is. Law enforcement is. It is not fair on you to bear this guilt. Your hands are too clean, your soul too pure. All I want to do is raise you well. I don't think telling you that I killed for you sets the right example, and so I never will. But I've done it. And I'd do it again. I will destroy whoever tries to hurt you. That is my eternal promise. I gently set her back down into bed and bend down to pick up my cigarette. I feel a strong inclination to use something stronger, something that completely switches me off from my feelings, from my memories, from reality. It is within arm's reach, in my bedside drawer. All I have to do is grab my easily reachable bank note and a bank card, and sniff twice. It won't even take two minutes, and I'll be free. Free from the disaster that my foolish Claudia has left me with. Truly, I feel ever so inclined to go ahead with it, but that stuff will keep me awake. I have to get up for work tomorrow. Rest is needed. My daughter needs me to be in top shape when she wakes. A woman I've lured into my love trap has agreed to babysit her for free. These people pleasers. Drawing them in is like my super power. They bring a much needed convenience into my life. My cigarette burns slowly. I am a part of the nature outside now. Kayla is safely nestled in between thick pillows. I came out here without putting a jersey on. There is something about the cold that brings me solace. I embrace it more than I try to resist it. Out here, amid the wild gust and the enduring trees, I feel like I can breathe without feeling like I'm suffocating on reality. The moon is full and shines brightly, endowing the night with a warm glow. From out here, I look in through the window to where my baby girl is sleeping. My cigarette continues to burn. Besides the job that I don't like and the females that I can't love, Claudia is what consumes my mind. I believe in the afterworld, and I believe that she has been granted access into the light. She was an extreme people pleaser, but she was good. I doubt that I'll ever meet her in the light. I'm not exactly a good person and I believe that we all end up somewhere based on what we did here on Earth. Bye bye forever, Claudia. Your stupidity has left a mark that will endure lifetimes. As though in support of that raw truth, my cigarette burns out, offering a sense of solemn closure to my nighttime waking. You will remain in my fantasies, Claudia. I will tell Kayla all about you. I know I didn't treat you right, but I did love you. Please believe me. I amble back inside, embracing the icy batter of wind against my skin. My footsteps are heavy as I walk back to Kayla, to fatherhood, to temporary oblivion. My shoulders slump under the weight of the world, and as I slowly and quietly slide back into bed, I can almost swear that my bed might just collapse under the weight of my baggage. I sprawl a tired arm over my sleeping beauty, pulling her close, and allow myself to weep. Through the window, a murky view of shadowy foliage dances under the eager glow of lunar light, and I drift off to the image of beautiful Claudia, an image that I know is coming with me into my nightmares.


The fire crackled, releasing embers into the air. The breeze was biting, but mother and daughter didn’t notice as they huddled close together. The daughter, a seven-year-old, dark-haired with black eyes, like that of an eagle, huddled even closer to her mother. Her mother wrapped her even tighter. A fly could not survive, had it gotten in their middle. “The mosquitos are biting, mom”, the child complained, looking up to her mother.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. It will soon be over, don’t worry”, the mother crooned, stroking her daughter’s back.
“I don’t know why we had to come on this trip anyway. We could have gone anywhere else, literally, but we had to come to the woods! THE WOODS! Who still does that anyway?!”, the child exclaimed, rolling her eyes at the absurdity.
Her mother smiled. Teenagers, she thought, always so dramatic. “Well, your Dad, apparently”, she paused, “what if I read you a story? That’d be entertaining, and we could pass the time that way”
Her daughter looked at her mom like she had grown two heads, “First, no story is entertaining, EVER, and second, I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t want to hear a story!”, she said the last part with utter disbelief. It was like she couldn’t believe her mom still taught her a kid that liked stories.
The child’s mother smiled, “Fine, since you’re all grown up, how about I tell you about a Legacy?”
“A legacy. What is that? Like a really old way of saying story?”
Her mother chuckled, “No, I’m talking about a legacy of one of our greatest ancestors. My great-aunt”
Her daughter rolled her eyes, sighed heavily, like she had just been tasked to carry the weight of the world, “Sure, why not. It’s not like I have much to do around here”, she replied, looking dejected.
“Okay, but I’m actually not going to tell you. I’m going to read it you”, the mother said. She stood up, to take the book in which the Legacy was written.
The little girl looked even more chagrined at the thought of a reading. Her mother came back beside her, holding an old, very frail-looking book. Her shoulders dropped, “Great”, she muttered sarcastically. ***
I have done mother’s bidding for long enough
I will do no more.
I have done so much for her,
I do not remember what it is like to do for me.
I do not know if it is my responsibility I fulfill.
I do not know if it is respect I give.
I do not know if it is obligation I delegate.
I do not know if I am just a pawn.
I do not know anymore.
And perhaps, it is her Legacy I build.
I do not know.
What I know is,
I will do it no more.
What I will do now,
Is write my own Legacy.
After all, it is said,
What is written down shall come to pass.
So, I shall write my own down,
And it shall come to pass.
This is my Legacy.

My Legacy is of three parts.
The first I want.
The second I love.
The third I long for.
All these I pray for,
Every night, after the last of my candle flickers out,
I pray for.
The first; that which I want,
Is Love.

Love is many things.
It has been called different names.
For the believers; it is a light.
For the subjects; it is a god.
For the broken; it is a curse.
For the autonomous; it is a choice.
For the non -believers; it is a myth.
Love, a small word,
Yet a thousand names.
For me, it is a want.
I have never had it.
As such, I do not know what to call it.
All it has ever been to me, is a want.
Now either be it a light or a curse,
I want it.
I want to feel it.
I want to feel it in my heart.
I want to feel its light, hence, a believer.
I want to feel its power, subject to its sovereignty.
I want to feel its poison, and know it is a curse indeed.
I want to make the choice, if I could.
I want to know its truth, for I do not believe it is a myth.
This way, I could give it a name.
I want love.
I want that feeling of belonging to another.
And another belonging to me.
I want the companionship, the warmth.
The laughter, the burdens.
The healing that can only be found in a lover’s touch.
The conversations, gathering with friends.
The knowledge of knowing you are loved.
I want to feel this love.
And tell of it to my children.
And the children born of them. ***
The second; of which I love,
Is Passion.

In this, lies my art;
Poetry, in which I bleed.
Music, in which I heal.
Dance, in which I come alive.
Photography, in which I picture.
Movie, in which I create.
These are all I have passion for.
These are all that represent me.
These are all that lives in me.
These are all I love.
These are my art.
These are the moon and stars to me.
These things, I dream of,
I dream of living them,
I dream of a world where all I know is them
I dream of a place where time exists only for them.
I dream of a time when all I would do is live them.
And it is of them, I wish to tell to my children.
And the children born of them. ***
The third; to which I long for,
Is Freedom.

It is of this I wish,
For that weightless feeling that I think of when I see a bird.
I do not speak of freedom to do as I wish, as most of my age mates do,
I speak of freedom to be.
Freedom to realize, know, and therefore, love myself.
Freedom to look in the mirror, and recognize myself.
Freedom to be.
I speak of freedom to wake up,
Drink my coffee; because that is what I wish to do,
Play loud music; because I feel like it, and no one is around,
Write poetry, because I want to convey the lightness in my heart onto paper.
And then after I have written till I have cramps in my hand,
I want the freedom to do what I wish,
Even after a day of doing what I wish.
That is the freedom I speak of.
The freedom that absolves me of the responsibility I never seem to put down.
The freedom that allows me the chance to think of myself, and not bloody others.
The freedom that gives no thought to what society deems girls ought to do.
The freedom that is locked out, far away from the world, in a little corner of a haven.
The freedom that just lets me be.
The freedom that gives me peace,
Because, in this freedom, I do all that I love.
It’s all I do.
And in this freedom, I find peace.
It is of this freedom I wish to tell my children,
And the children born of them.

At the center of these all,
I write.
Though it may seem a waste, but,
I write of that which I want.
I write of that which I love.
I write of that which I long for.
I write of them all,
So that they can be done.
I write them,
So they we may write them as wishes.
So that they may be told as stories,
And that they may be read of as my Legacy.
To the children to be born,
Even light years away.
This is my Legacy. *** The mother flipped the book shut. The fire, having reduced to smoke, now polluted the air. There was silence, as mother and daughter sat, each basking in the aftermath of the reading.
And then, “Wow, that has to be the longest poem I have ever heard”, the daughter exclaimed. There was a sparkle in her eyes, one that had not been there before the reading.
“Yeah? Well, that’s what I thought too, the first time I read it”, her mother replied.
“But, wow, that was so…”, the little girl paused, searching for the word to use.
“Powerful”, her mother supplied.
“Yes. Yes, powerful. Her legacy was so....”, at a loss for words again, the little girl trailed off, “wow”, she ended on a breath.
As her mother stood up, meaning to put the book back, her necklace dangled. Recognition lit in her daughter’s eyes, “Is that what you wear on your necklace?”, she asked, leaning forward to touch the pendant attached to the necklace lying around her mother’s neck.
Her mother looked down, “Yes. It is her Legacy”, she traced the pendant.
It was a dreamcatcher, but not like any other. On the dreamcatcher, the attachments were neither feathers nor beads. Instead, they were, the symbol of a heart, a half-moon with a star resting in its curve, a bird in flight, all woven and then attached to the hoop. And at the center of this hoop, a pen was woven.
She pointed to each one after the other, “This is her want, her love and her longing”, she said, respectively, “and at the center of it all, she writes”
The little girl looked awestruck, “Wow.”
“She was the first ever writer in our family. Which was why she dedicating that last part to her writing, it was a very big part of her and she had to honor it”, the mother said, “You see, writing was sort of considered a waste of time during her time. She was the first to break that cycle. And ever since then, there has always been a writer in each generation. I’m mine. Your sister is hers. There have always been musicians, photographers, dancers, movie directors or producers too. Your Aunt is a dancer, as you know. You have always felt connected whenever you’re recording, haven’t you?”, her mother asked, a knowing light in her eyes.
“Yes. I’ve never known why I always felt that way whenever I was singing. Like…….”
“Like you were born to sing”, her mother completed.
“It is her Legacy; to break grounds, to love, be passionate and be free”, the daughter said.
“Damn good Legacy, if you ask me.”


Kate looked around in appreciation. The pub was a historic building with a dark beamed ceiling and uneven walls. She scanned the crowd, almost missing Louis until she realized he was in a snug alcove where the conversation of the other patrons and the Christmas music were a pleasant background noise. He jumped to his feet as she approached, rocking the table, a delighted smile spreading over his face. Kate smiled back. He reminded her of a goofy puppy, tall and lanky with a mop of dark curls. “This is a lovely place,” she said. "Great atmosphere." “Do you come here often? Sorry, that’s such a cliché,” he said as he helped her off with her coat. “A colleague at work told me about it. I’m not much of a drinker, so I didn’t know where to meet, though I’m not trying to say that everyone in a pub is a heavy drinker. Speaking of that, what will you have? Please be specific because I don’t know anything about drinks.” “I’d have been fine meeting in a coffee shop. Anywhere but in a fast-food restaurant. A glass of white wine would be wonderful.” She watched him navigate the crowd to the bar, with many apologies for stepping on toes and jostling people. With bated breath she watched him thread his way back with two glasses of wine and sighed in relief as he set them down safely on the table. “I was just happy that you agreed to meet me at all after I spilled that coffee over you at the staff meeting,” he said, raising his glass. “Thank goodness you were wearing that dull brown outfit, so the stain didn’t show too much.” “Dull brown?” said Kate. “Are you saying I looked drab?” Louis flushed. “Of course not. That dress matched your hair, kind of mouse brown…” “So, my hair reminds you of rodents? It's okay, I’m joking,” she said as she noticed his mortified expression. Louis ran his hand through his hair, making it stick up in all directions, and sighed. “I’m not good at small talk as you can see. I’m always putting my foot in my mouth.” Kate smiled. “That’s refreshing. I’m suspicious of guys who are too glib. I’ve been burned once or twice after falling for the smooth talk. Tell me about you.” Louis looked at her cautiously. “You really want to hear about me?” Kate nodded encouragingly. “Not much to tell,” he said. “I have my own apartment and two cats. I volunteer at the animal shelter. I do better with animals than people. All they care about is if you feed them and you’re kind to them. They don’t judge you.” “And they don’t expect small talk,” said Kate, laughing. “I’m a cat person too, though I don’t have one at the moment. My roommate’s allergic to them.” “Perhaps you’d like to see my cats?” “That’s a better line than asking me to see your etchings.” Louis looked at her, worried. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be forward. I just thought that if you can’t have your own cat, you might like to spend some time with mine…I mean, I would hate not to have cats…I don’t want you to think I have other things in mind…though any normal guy would have, and I am normal, but I didn’t invite you out just to talk about cats. I suppose I sound like a crazy cat person now...or maybe just a crazy person." He paused for breath and took a gulp of wine. “Quality cat time is important,” said Kate. “I get it.” “I must admit I had a glass of wine before you got here, for courage. I thought it might make the conversation easier, but I sound just as stupid as usual.” There was a long awkward pause. “Hey, stop beating yourself up,” Kate finally said gently. “What else do you like besides cats? Do you travel?” “I love hiking and nature,” he said. “I do too,” said Kate. “What trails have you done?” Louis happily launched into a long anecdote about his most recent trip, then suddenly broke off. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I could hardly wait to get here and talk to you away from work, and now I’m doing nothing but talk about me. What about you?” “You really wanted to talk to me? What took you so long? We’ve worked together for almost a year now. I assumed you had a girlfriend since you never seemed interested in any of us girls at work.” He looked at her as if unsure whether he was going to be praised or scolded. The puppy image came to Kate’s mind again and she smothered a smile. “You know, MeToo and all that. I didn’t want to be that creepy guy at work who's trying to get too personal. The other girls are fine, but you were the one who seemed special…sorry, I don’t want to overstep.” Kate rubbed her forehead. It had been a long day. Puppies were cute but exhausting, what with all the apologizing and reassuring. “I’d better get going,” she said. “Early start tomorrow.” “I’ll walk you to the bus stop,” he said, knocking his chair over as he jumped to his feet and proffered her coat. The pub had been steadily filling up, but Louis cleared a path through the crowd to the doorway and held the door for Kate. She had to admit that she did appreciate his good manners and respect. A blast of icy wind hit them as they stepped outside. Kate’s eyes began to water in the cold. Momentarily blinded by tears, she stopped to fumble in her pocket for a tissue and suddenly found herself face down on the pavement as someone cannoned into her from behind. Winded, she lifted her head in time to see a figure making off with her purse. Before she could even draw breath to yell, she saw Louis leap forward like a gazelle, racing after the receding figure before tackling him to the ground. Concerned bystanders helped her to her feet just as a pair of police officers charged by. They took over from Louis, who, somewhat breathless, had been sitting on the mugger’s chest. He got up and began talking to them. Dazed as she was, Kate noticed that there was nothing uncoordinated or inarticulate about him now. He returned to her, holding out her handbag, smiling broadly until he noticed that Kate was shivering violently. “Are you okay?” he said in concern. Kate nodded, her teeth chattering. “I-I-I’m not hurt. It was j-just a bit of a shock and it’s freezing out here.” “Listen, my apartment is very near. I can make you a hot drink and call you a cab when you feel better… that is, if you'd like me to? I’m not trying to take advantage," he said hesitantly. Kate nodded and gratefully took his arm. His apartment was literally round the corner and contrary to Kate’s experience of single guys’ places, was clean, comfortable and well decorated. “Make yourself at home,” he said. “Hot chocolate or mulled cider?” “Chocolate would be great,” she said, cooing in delight as first one and then another large tabby appeared, eyeing her cautiously from the doorway of the living room. “Click and Clack,” Louis called from the kitchen. “Named after the Car Guys on NPR. Remember them?” “Remember them? They were a Saturday morning staple. I listened to them with my dad,” Kate said, gratefully cupping the mug of hot chocolate in her numb hands. “But what about the superman thing out there? Chasing down miscreants. He could have had a gun or a knife.” Louis shrugged and grinned. “Good point. I didn’t think about that. I used to play rugby. Old reflexes kicked in, that’s all.” Kate gazed at him through a new lens. The puppy image was gone, replaced by a grown dog, lean like a greyhound with the protective instinct and deep brown eyes of a mastiff. “What?” he said, puzzled. “Nothing,” said Kate. “I was just thinking that it would be nice to get better acquainted with your cats, if you didn't mind?” Louis pondered for a moment, then looked at her with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Speaking on their behalf, I think that would be a very good idea.” Kate felt her heart stir as he leaned forward to kiss her.


2013 : Trying to wrap my head around what just happened. Feeling like I was just born to die. Depression and suicide was heavy on my heart. Feeling like there's no reason to be alive. Trying to numb the pain away with drugs that only temporarily took it away. Cutting harmless skin only left scars that haunt me. Spending Countless nights awake and watching as the days go by. Each time I look at my reflection , I don't recognize the person in the mirror. Losing hope. Wasting time. Feel like I'm losing my mind. I look at my mother who almost lost her life. God gave her another chance to live. We lived in the Ghetto. Our spot was the trap. She was in a terrible accident. While she was trying to get back on her two feet. People tried taking advantage of her and I had to protect her at all cost. She had to regain power. Because she was so weak. Her memory was barley there. she barley remembered me. Those people put on a fake show for her but I didn't allow them to get any more closer to her once I seen thier true motives. They tried getting close to her for thier own self gain. I was disgusted at these human beings. So call friends, people who call themselves "Fam." Out of all the fakes, There were only 2 decent human beings who genuinely cared enough to help stop the madness and looked out for my mom & my own best interest . Forever Grateful for them. Months after the madness and still dealing with chaos, sleeping on different beds each night. My mom almost back to herself and working to provide. The person who I was with just couldn't take care of me the right way, because addiction tied them down. They just kept chasing that next high. I woke up some days feeling sick and uneasy. Migraines, and mood swings. Walking the streets and looking for a place to rest our heads. At the time I was frail & Skinny. My face was gaunt and I began to lose my hair. My mom was concerned and took me to the hospital after I threw up another meal. We got to the hospital and I thought maybe it was the flu. The doctor came into the room and put something over my stomach to do an ultrasound and that was the moment I couldn't stop crying because I heard a heartbeat. My mom's eyes were filled with tears of joy. I couldn't believe that there was another human being inside of me. I felt every emotion going through my body. I felt like I wasn't going to be the best mother. After finding out that I was pregnant. The father of my child needed to step up or step out. I found out I was pretty far along. I was 5 going on 6 months. It was hard but I sobered up for the baby. My mom helped me in any way she could. I left the father of my baby because he just wasn't stepping up to the plate. As I was doing my best to change and doing what I needed to do for the baby. He was just doing the same things. It only was making things harder but thanks to my momma I got through it. Going through emotions. I was excited but afraid. I was nervous but couldn't wait. I found out it was a boy. I was carrying my son. As my belly grew he became my bestfriend. I fell asleep holding my belly , I'd talk to him throughout the day, listened to music that removed my anxiety. I finally told my family as I came to Thanksgiving 8 months pregnant. And I thought they were gonna disown me but they were just as excited. I felt more peace than being on edge. I've fought many battles within myself. Many wars that almost took me out. But I managed to make it through. 2014 :

I felt pain in my stomach.  I slept over at my aunts. I woke her up not knowing they were contractions. We got ready and headed to the hospital. I was scared. I was excited. I was nervous. I seen my life flash before my eyes. Everything I went through just to get here. I was surrounded by my loved ones, just waiting for him. Before I knew it, I opened my eyes and i had him in my arms. Tears rolled down my face. I couldn't believe how beautiful he was and how much my heart finally felt complete. I named him Vincent. He was the most precious, beautiful human being I've ever laid my eyes on.

Those days I wanted to end my life , those days I wanted to give up, the days when I was depressed, lost, suicidal, broken, I'm so grateful that I was able to fight and get out of my head. Because this moment would have never happened. I was always searching for someone to love me. For someone to accept me. I was always just searching to find myself and my purpose being in this world. Becoming a mother, saved my life. My son saved my life. I was so dead inside. I was so done with life. I never thought that anyone could complete every piece of emptiness I once had. I didn't need to search anymore.. My son's love for me and my love for him is true unconditional love . Being a mother isn't easy but the wait was worth every moment with him. I was lost for awhile, in search to find myself one day. In search of what love was, in search of true happiness. My son is my where I found myself . I discovered my true purpose on this earth was to be a mother. His mother. I am the luckiest woman alive to have been blessed with such a precious beautiful soul. Every bad chapter I went through, every trial, every downfall, was worth it because it led me to the best chapter of my life. He's me every reason to be alive.


(Hello, quick content warning here for themes of suicide, mental health, and real world issues.) The Machine God hungers, and we march into its waiting maw. Step by step in neat little lines through mazes of twisted iron, blinking red lights burning our retinas from above, the cracked pavement abrasive against the soles of our feet. The air holds the memory of ash and smoke, though the fires they spawned from burned out long ago. It brings stinging tears to the eye. As they roll down our cheeks and the salty taste of them fall upon our tongues, we know it is the closest any of us will come to drinking water again. It is in these moments I think of the oceans we will never see and of the brave and cruel explorers that once sailed them, and of cooler, cleansing rains. It arrives as a sterile fact that I’ve forgotten the source of. I know they existed and I know they were real. Yet I feel as though they belong to a dream. The thought of people traveling the world is as foreign a concept to me as the idea of clean water. It is the sort of thing you might say to the neighbor ahead of you in line, or perhaps the one behind, and expect them to laugh. What could they do but laugh? What can you do but join them? But not for long. Laughing means you aren’t walking as quickly as you could, and the Machine God hungers. We can hear its call through the labyrinth, beckoning us to crawl or climb or shuffle through the fallen concrete megastructures, stepping carefully through fields that grow only mines, to do whatever it takes to reach it. Its klaxons are deafening, and they sound regardless of time of day. It does not care for the passing hour for neither do we. Why should we when we cannot see the sky? It is time to sleep when we are exhausted, then it is time to walk. These are the only distinctions to our routine we know. Our pilgrimage goes on for many cycles. Several die and must be carried. An old man who collapsed from starvation is my own burden. My forward neighbor carries a bag filled with parts of one who wasn’t careful enough in the fields. My backward neighbor is lucky, she has no one to burden her. Dead, alive, young, old, intact, or explosively dismembered. It doesn’t matter. The Machine God hungers. Our flesh will do. Early into our sleeping time, the klaxons blare. They are growing louder, and soon I know we will find the altar. What we will do there, I don’t know. I’ve forgotten. I don’t know if any of us remember, but I’m too afraid to ask. Not afraid that they won’t know, or this will turn out to be pointless, but afraid they will. The dull eyes that greet me when we stop make that seem unlikely. Still. Superstition then, perhaps, is what keeps me from asking. It isn’t a real concern so long as I don’t vocalize it. Allow me at least this comfort, to think it is pointless, that this will amount to nothing, that there is no purpose. It is self-pitying, yes. It is like picking at a scab, scratching at the itch of dry skin. Painful and pleasurable in equal measure. We sleep. We wake. We walk. We’re getting close. The labyrinth opens up. The metal and concrete pulls away to reveal a…a…circle, a hub of sorts. A small clearing. More people are filling in from other directions. They look tired like us, they are carrying their dead, they have no food or water to spare. They march toward the Machine God to sate its hunger in worship at its altar. Same as us. Our common purpose unites us, so we need no words. We sleep that night together, as a community, and in the morning we march together down the only path no one arrived from, deeper into this jumbled mess. North, perhaps? It hardly matters the direction; it is as meaningless as time in our prison. The Machine God’s roar is so loud now that it drowns out even… …thought. It snatches what little mind was left to us, allowing us only a small reprieve when it is time to rest. It is here I sit now, waiting for the time to come when I am no longer myself. It won’t take much longer…another cycle or two, perhaps? Then I won’t need to think at all. I will only need to prostrate myself before the Machine God, and hope my meager offering of flesh will sate its hunger. The roaring starts anew. We pick ourselves up, we gather the deceased, and we continue on. Who were we before this? It doesn’t matter, for we are born anew. The Machine God hungers, and we have arrived. It is…majestic, perhaps. Majestic is an adequate descriptor for something as large and indescribable as it is. A face of metal and concrete, yes, but also of fire. It belches thick, black smoke each time it opens its mouth to bellow, and its eyes stand open wide as small portals into hell. It sits in the center of the more familiar hell we’ve walked through. It does not react to us as we approach, except to open its mouth and bellow the klaxon call, but I imagine it would do that regardless of our presence. Then, one by one, we fall to our knees. Some of us pray, some of us prostrate, self-flagellate, adulate. We do so until we, and our faith, is expended. Then, one by one, we stand and step into its open maw. That is why we’ve come here, isn’t it? The Machine God hungers, and only our flesh will do. It is its mercy that the process seems mostly painless – the sacrifices do not even scream when they plunge into the flames. Only a few hesitant remain at the end, and myself, though I do not consider myself hesitant. But I want to see. So we roll the corpses in one by one next, and after that, we jostle each other and threaten and barter until the last living follow in. Until, finally, I am left with the Machine God. In this moment, I know we are both unique. I am one of a kind, by virtue of being the last of my kind, and it is the God we worship. With me, it will be over. Except. No. I don’t think it will. The fires inside the Machine God show no signs of quenching, and it is through them I see that I am not enough. None of us were. We could not sate its hunger, because it was never possible. “You’ll never be content,” I whisper through its roar. It does not listen, but why would it? I’m not even sure myself if the words are a curse, a eulogy for humanity, or mere prophecy. I know that they are right, though. Then I throw myself into the Machine God’s mouth. I was right – it is painless. But the Machine God hungers still.


March 12th, 1952 I have not kept a journal before.

Journals, diaries, and daily logs are for the preservation of days.

In my lengthy time on this Earth, I have not wanted to preserve my days.

Thousands of days and nights have all blurred together, one as forgettable as the other.

The moments worth remembering are few enough that I can recount them easily enough.

Each time I tried to end my life failed, but I am hopeful that I have made a breakthrough.

With the understanding that eventually someone will find my corpse and wonder at its presence, I set pen to paper now in an attempt to answer the questions that will surely come.

There are typing machines now that some use for clarity and speed, but I’m afraid my fingers lack the dexterity to use such a device. To say I am more than two hundred years old would imply a life of growth that began with a birth.

This is not my circumstance.

I have existed in my present state for more than two centuries, beginning in the Old World of Europe and arriving in the New World of America nearly fifty years ago.

I have never had a friend or loved one, though there once was a man who I thought knew me well.

I wept when he died, which was a new experience for me.

Until that moment, I didn’t know I could produce tears or feel anguish.

Since that day, I have not cried for another living soul, only for myself, and either I have no soul or my soul is not alive.

I still do not know for sure. March 15th, 1955 Science has made striking advances in the days of my existence.

A German man used an Italian’s battery to refine mankind’s understanding of how electricity moves from one place to another.

Faraday’s work on metals and electricity has been very well received.

Others have discovered ways of transferring energy without wires, a method called radiation, that they are learning often has unintended consequences.

The evolutionist, Darwin, proposes interesting ideas that people seem quick to adopt, but those people are also looking for reasons for life beyond basic vitalist principles: there is a force or an energy that creates life that has not been quantified yet. The study of vitalism made important strides before it was derailed by misguided persons who are now considered madmen by their former peers.

Scientists now refuse to acknowledge an inherent difference between organic, living beings and inorganic materials, asserting instead that the living tissues are made of quantifiable amounts of matter that can be found and compiled with the proper understanding and equipment.

The notion that life has a “vital” component - be it a spirit, a soul, or something else - absent in non-living beings and organisms has been abandoned by most.

The vitalists pursued fields of mesmerism and spiritual energies until the fundamental understanding that formed the foundation of their knowledge lost all credibility.

Some might say that the scientific world has thrown the vitalist baby out with the biological bathwater. I, myself, am proof of vitalism.

Before this existence, I was organic matter alive as six different human men.

They all died prematurely from injuries and wounds, and their salvageable parts were assembled by my creator.

Their inanimate materials were made animate again through the scientific vitalist efforts of that man.

While scientists in their fields have various qualifications for an organism to be considered alive, I do not meet enough of any of those qualifications to meet the definition of life.

My body is ordered, but is selective in its response to stimulus.

I see and hear and I can touch and taste, but I do not perceive changes in temperature such as extreme cold or heat.

I smell aromas when I inhale air into my lungs, but I do not need to breathe as my body does not process air, water, or food.

I do not need to eat or drink, nor do I sleep to rest as other beings do.

Where does my energy to move come from if not from a vital spirit? The wear and stress on my body across the decades seems mitigated by my form’s innate stasis, as wounds and injuries I have endured across the years close and repair, leaving no discernable marks.

The keloid scars, as I have learned they are called, that form the seams of my predecessors’ contributions to my body are the only indication that I have ever been less or other than I am today.

The only change I have managed to enact on my body has been to my hair.

It does not grow, and after trimming it with scissors once or twice, I shaved it off, and I am bald to this day. March 20th, 1955 I have purchased a small industrial building on Cannery Row, in Monterey, California, USA.

Under the name of Adam Mann I buy, sell, and trade for my needs.

While the world is becoming more connected with the use of the telephone, radio, and now television, there are few people who request references or refuse to do business when you offer cash significantly over their asking prices.

I simply say, “I value my privacy,” and give them time to count the bank notes. I kept my creator’s designs.

I have had them reproduced by printers over the years as the paper aged or became damaged in my movements around the world.

My current set of schematics was made for me in San Francisco, shortly after I disembarked from the ship that carried me through the Panama Canal and up the Pacific Coast.

I booked a small room with a porthole from which I could watch my journey.

Aside from the occasionally cresting whale, it was as uneventful as the rest of my days. For the past three months I have contracted out carpenters, electricians, welders, and fabricators to assemble a modern replica of the machine that pulled me from the void and placed me on this planet.

With the collapse of the sardine fishing and canning industry, there are plenty of men in need of work who appreciate cash payment for their services and discretion.

They tend to be gregarious in nature, asking if I’m a biologist like so many others in the area.

“Something like that,” is always sufficient enough an answer. April 20th, 1955 I have taken delivery and installation of my equipment at night to reduce casual observation from the locals.

My workshop is at the end of a pier, and with the local conditions what they are, I have no neighbors.

I hear the laborers assuming I am conducting groundbreaking scientific experiments and fear Dr. Ricketts and others might steal my work.

These are useful fictions, so generous cash tips and knowing winks help solidify the lies they tell one another.

I don’t care what they say.

If all goes well, the rumors and speculation will soon be no concern of mine. May 15, 1955 The assembly is complete.

The original design relied on lightning to generate the electricity needed for the procedure that made me this way.

With modern resources, I have designed and fabricated a capacitor to store energy harnessed from the physical motion of the tides of the Monterey Bay.

They have ebbed and flowed for weeks, and the power level has reached its zenith. I have watched the sun set over this beautiful bay for the last time.

I hear sea lions barking on the shore.

Gulls call to one another, singing their tuneless song.

I witnessed an otter and her baby paddling on their backs by my workshop.

These natural phenomena are idyllic, but after such a time of loneliness as I have endured, they bring me no comfort.

I have never had companionship, friendship, or love.

To whomever finds this journal, I hope you find utility in my designs and can bring some profit from them. Or not.

I was bitter and angry toward mankind for decades, and it has made me numb.

I now want only to sleep, to enter the void once more, and to never dream again.


TW: Swearing and gore. Danielle had fought monsters before. Compared to the giant beast before her the rest were harmless flies.             “I guess this is how I’ll die,” the knight said to herself. She inhaled deeply.             Blood rained from the red sky. The breeze from the monster’s mighty wings flapping chilled her bones. Scorpion legs that could carry a castle scuttled towards her.             “Prove me wrong again, little knight,” said the herald of a hateful god. “Kill this beast and I will tell you my name.” His melodic voice had lost the hints of scorn. She wondered if he was only saying it because he expected her to die.             “This is a greater chatter-jaw?” Sir Danielle Longbow asked. Her voice rose in pitch and volume. Her heart thundered a drumroll in fear.             Four snapping jaws mounted on tentacles snapped at her. Little black eyes ringed each jaw. Being anywhere near the mouths was suicide. Tentacles uncoiled from behind the snapping jaws. Teeth unfolded along the length of each tentacle. Each one was a saw the size of a tree. Every tooth was the length of Danielle’s sword.             “Yeah. I’m fucked.” She darted her head around to look at the devil who’d challenged her to fight monsters. He hovered in a throne of carved wood behind her. His silver eyes reflected her and the looming doom of the beast. His bone-white skin gave no hint of age. “Any tips?” Danielle asked him.             “None of my people has ever defeated a greater chatter-jaw before,” he said as she turned back. A clawing tentacle lunged at her. Danielle danced back from it.             “Then why the fuck do I have to fight one? It looks like my worst nightmares had children with fly-covered leftovers at a fish market.” She struck a tentacle lined on one side with the deadly spines. Her sword left a gash in the tentacle that would be a mortal wound for anything smaller than a bear. The creature made a horrible hissing noise and rushed forwards. Two jaws snapped at her as muscular tendrils encircled her.             “You must fight it because you overcame your last three challenges,” said the deadly god’s herald. Danielle ran through the tentacles as her guide through hell spoke. “I never expected you to come this far.” Her sword pressed along the thick hide of the monster’s belly. The blade she had sharpened to a razor’s edge that morning barely left a mark. “I am bound by the deal we made and my duty to my god,” said the pale herald.             “I must give you a challenge you could not reasonably be expected to survive. Three times I have. Three times you have triumphed.” His voice was undiminished by Danielle’s cry of pain as a spine from one tentacle punched through a gap in her armour. Burning pain blossomed in her left armpit. “You have earned my respect, Sir Longbow.”             Tails tipped with spikes a spear would envy stabbed at her. She cut at one. Her sword damaged the limb that was as thick as her mighty arms. The tail withdrew. The beast turned with her beneath. Still the herald spoke with a voice that was a balm to her mind, “with my respect comes greater challenge. Slay five monsters to save Crann Kingdom from my god’s wrath for a millennium. That was the deal.”             Sir Danielle could barely move her left arm. Clutching her shield close to her chest, she tested a leg of the beast. The sword clanged against the black articulated chitin as though it was rock. She looked for a weakness in the join. As the leg bent to trample her Danielle thrust her sword into a gap. The leg lurched out of the way. The monster tried to shake her free. Her sword was stuck fast in the joint. She could hear moist cutting sounds as the monster’s own movements severed muscles. At last, hanging from the sword, it came free.             Ignoring everything but those same joints on the other legs, Danielle ran to each. One after the other she hobbled the greater chatter-jaw. Twelve legs winced as her sword slipped between its armour.             The spike which had pierced her underarm had not reached her heart. It had damaged nerves. Blood was dribbling from the wound. Adrenaline could not cover the agony.             Tentacles came for her. Most had a slash through the rings of black eyes that circled the claws at the tip. Danielle was knocked flat by a slashing line of teeth hitting her in the chest. Knowing she’d have bruises if she survived, she slammed into the ground.             Then the beast came down on whatever passed for its knees. Sir Longbow leapt for empty space, not wanting to be stuck beneath it. Her shield fell away during the dive. The mouths of the thing faced her.             There was no escaping them. She heard the wooden clapping sound that gave the beast its name. She jumped into the maw of the horrid thing. Acrid odours of stomach acid made her want to gag. She dragged her sword along the inside of its throat. She scored a deep line through pulsing flesh in the dark.             The tube rose vertically, trying to drop her down into its stomach. Danielle threw her weight behind a stab. She held onto the handle of the slick blade. Roaring shook every fibre of her body. She was dizzy from the smell. The long neck slammed down, trying to shake lose the splinter that was cutting it up from within.             Danielle’s sword slipped from her fingers. Thrown flat against the wet walls of the throat, she looked around for the sword. A pale glimmer in the dark as the chatter-jaw’s mouth opened was all she needed. She dived for the sword. Both slid down the throat as the neck rose again.             Covered in drool and bile she slid down at breakneck speed. Her sword punched through flesh as she tried to anchor herself. Nothing stuck as she plunged from darkness towards death. Danielle seemed to double in weight. Bobbing in the air, she realised the beast was flying. Air rushed in through the open jaw. A fresh breeze was welcome. The long fall was not.             The chatter-jaw rolled in the air. Sir Longbow’s gloved hands could not grip the handle of her sword. She hit the top of the throat and slid back to the bottom as the roll slowed. Other beasts flapped through the air. She saw them through the open maw. Predators come to finish her work picked at the greater chatter jaw. She knew that if they killed it her fight would be for nothing. Only she was allowed to stop the beast’s heart if she wanted to go home.             Pulling the sword free Danielle let herself slip further down the throat. The muscles contracted. Vomit hit her in a wave. Closing her eyes didn’t save her from the gunk filling her helmet. It soaked through everything she wore.             Another beast the size of a dog flew in through the open mouth. Barely injured, the thing which had batlike wings attacked her. She cut it in half with a swipe before losing her feet. Gripping the sword for all she was worth she slid down and down. Seeing light from three other tubes, Danielle and the halves of the little monster fell into a chamber. A glowing eye watched her from above a sphincter of teeth. The eye was an orb big enough to fit her inside.             The lost knight leapt for the eye. Eyelids thick as old leather closed. Danielle snuck her left hand between and held on as gravity betrayed her. The pain from her armpit told her she did not have long to live.             “Please. Please. Just die.” The tip of her blade pierced the gelatinous surface which wept acid. Blood poured out. The glowing ooze slowly burnt her skin.             Pushing the sword in and twisting it, she let go and grabbed the eyelid with her right hand. Both lids tried to crush her. It wept gore as she pushed inside. Light everywhere was useless to her except to outline her sword as a silhouette.             The lids closed behind her, leaving her in the monster’s head. Slipping around inside, she gasped for oxygen. Her sword swung through the heavy gelatinous mass of the eye until the socket was leftovers. Everything else had been blinked away. A nerve hung in the socket. Danielle sheathed her sword and clambered up the optic nerve.             Dizzy without enough air to survive she felt her muscles weaken.             Danielle lifted her sword to the hole the width of her arm where the nerves went from the eye socket to the brain.             Her world flipped as the beast fell through the sky. Upside down, her sword slipped from her hand. The blade dived into the mind of the monster. Hot knives cut butter well. A sword flung by gravity from the sky to the ground cuts a greater chatter-jaw’s brain almost as well.             They hit the ground together.             Danielle was cushioned in the mess of the monster’s inner eye and its brain. Knocked out by her own helmet, she was lost to black unconsciousness. Bleeding internally, the two raced each other towards death. The greater chatter jaw won the race by moments.             With the duel done, the god’s herald split the beast in half with a blink. Lifting Sir Longbow from the mess he healed her wounds. “Well done, little knight. You win again.” His lily-white skin stroked her hand. The gore which had soaked her every garment vanished.             With a snap of his fingers, he created a tower of granite. The granite like that of Crann, would keep the knight safe. In the tower’s bed he lay her down to rest.             “My name is Obag Sleagh. It means magic spear.” She was fast asleep, so he sat with her and waited. It would be a day or two before she awoke. “Next, you’ll have to fight a dragon, little knight. It’s all I have left to throw at you.”


The waves crashed against the sides of the canoe. Cosmo gripped the hull of the boat with everything he had to stay above the water. As his small ship rose and sank with the aggression of the midnight storm, the fisherman knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his stability. With every gust of wind and pelting of seawater, Cosmo was quickly losing strength. He’d been on the water for only 2 hours when the skies began to darken, and the temperature dropped rapidly. He’d been planning this fishing trip for months, and when the time finally came, he wasn’t going to let a “chance of rain” stop him from getting out and enjoying his holiday. This mistake was at the forefront of his mind as he clenched the wooden slats of his canoe with wet fingers. The energy of the sea seemed only to be increasing, and the strength in his fingers and arms to be declining. His biceps trembled; his fingers slid on the smooth timber. With one final explosive smash from the ocean, Cosmo’s small canoe was obliterated, wooden shrapnel sent in every direction. His fishing pole, gear, and lunch bag were shot off into darkness and the man was plunged deep below the surface. In the black of night and the midst of the storm, it was impossible to tell which direction was up. His head was spinning from the impact and he flailed underwater in sheer panic. After a few minutes of struggling, Cosmo saw the darkness closing in around him and he slowly ceased to fight. Laying on his back on dry land, Cosmo opened his eyes and coughed up a mouthful of warm seawater. He was disoriented and confused, but safe and dry. He knew he was out of the water, but as he examined the air above him with squinted eyes, he saw ocean. He glanced fish swimming far above his head; algae, coral, and deep-sea vegetation were visible in every direction. He pushed himself up with his elbows and coughed up more seawater. He was re-gathering his bearings and at the same time becoming more confused with the situation. Cosmo was on a beach, but at the same time deep underwater. His fingers wriggled through the dry sand, his lungs cycled the air around him, and his clothes fluttered in the wind. He rose to his feet and let the sudden rush of dizziness pass before walking towards what appeared to be a wall made of sand off in the distance. Starting off slow, his strength soon returned to him and he made his way towards the wall. As he approached, the structure seemed to grow larger. When he was within 100 feet, it was apparent that this was a massive construction, very different in size than his viewpoint in the sand had him believe. As Cosmo took the final steps towards the base of the wall, he had to crane his neck almost 90 degrees upward to see the top. He was in utter disbelief and frozen in place when the structure slowly began to vibrate. Too afraid to approach and to mesmerized to run, Cosmo planted his feet and waited for whatever was going to happen next. Within seconds, the massive barrier split with a vertical opening and the pieces slid through the sand to either side. The slot grew until it would allow Cosmo enough room to pass. Cosmo felt a strong urge, a pulling from inside his chest, to seek whatever was beyond the wall. He followed the path inside and fell into absolute astonishment. Once inside the massive barrier of sand, Cosmo laid his eyes on the largest, most intricate set of buildings he’d ever seen. Not the types of structures he’d seen on the surface of Earth, these constructions were made of perfectly packed sand, glistening obsidian, smooth rock, and colorful coral from the depths of the ocean. Every wall of every building was expertly crafted and beautifully constructed; some of the largest rising through the clouds. He was standing amidst an underwater utopia. The sea was above him; clouds were below that. He didn’t feel trapped, or claustrophobic. It was as if this was normal; everything felt correct and in order inside these walls. Bliss spread through his body as he walked towards the city of sand. There wasn’t a shred of doubt, anxiety, or worry about who lived in these dwellings. He felt euphoric at his discovery, unsure if he was dreaming, dead, or hallucinating. Everything felt real, everything felt right. In the center of the city stood the most intriguing building of them all. Most of the structures had hints of glossy obsidian, maybe a flash of colored coral. Most parts of the city were made of predominately sand – all of it breathtaking, however. What Cosmo was looking at now in the heart of the metropolis left him speechless, almost without tangible thought. He struggled to find anything from his life that he could compare to what he was looking at now. Dwarfing the other structures, made from pure black stone and speckled with shining glass, this part of the town was not like the rest. The amount of color exploding from this building was breathtaking. Cosmo was being drawn directly towards this attraction. He was aware of his feet shuffling him forward, his mind detached from his body. He realized he didn’t want to stop his forward progress. Instead, he did what he could to move quicker. As he came up to the front of the building, a single panel at the base eroded, and a doorway appeared. It was the perfect height for Cosmo, and he entered without hesitation. Inside the great monolith was a single chair, a throne, large enough to hold a human 10 times the size of Cosmo and adorned with every color imaginable. The colors didn’t clash; instead, they blended beautifully and seemed to create a rainbow that flowed throughout like art. Coral had been chiseled and sculpted to shape the throne and it appeared both smooth and comfortable. The shine from the obsidian walls reflected in the background, and as Cosmo tilted his head upward, he was unable to see a roof to this room. The stunning walls rose to infinity. As Cosmo leveled his head back towards the gigantic chair in front of him, he was struck with amazement as he realized it was no longer empty, as it had been before. Seated before him was the most impressive being he’d ever seen. Fitting the chair seamlessly, the being was much larger than Cosmo, but not frightening or intimidating. The man in the chair shared the qualities of a human, but on a much larger scale. He was built to perfection, embodying an almost supernatural flawlessness. Atop the head of this enormous man sat a golden crown. All 16 points of the crown had a small carved piece of coral, each a different color. The gold glistened and coral popped with vibrant shades. The man sat his throne with grace and power, but also with benevolence. The softness of the man’s face comforted Cosmo, and he approached, stretching his head upward to keep eye contact with this fascinating man. When he was at the foot of the throne, and only at the height of the man’s ankles, the sand below Cosmo rose swiftly. He was lifted like an elevator until he was at eye level with the king. “Hello Cosmo, welcome to Arenia, my underwater kingdom.” Cosmo felt it easy to find his words, the feeling of shock he experienced outside had been replaced with a relaxed feeling of contentedness. “Thank you, Great King. I’m not sure where I am or what has happened, but I’m awestruck by what I’ve seen. It’s beyond words. The beauty of this palace and the city surrounding it is past description.” The king gave a modest bow and continued to speak softly and kindly to his guest. “You were in an accident on the surface of the sea, Cosmo. The storm capsized your boat and sent you underwater. I am the God of the deep sea, protector of those taken by the ocean, restorer of aquatic life. Arenia is a unique city in that it can accommodate both those who breathe air, and those who are sustained in water. You were on your way to death before I came upon you and brought you here to my kingdom.” Cosmo was amazed by what he was hearing, but he knew it was true. He knew he wasn’t in a dream, and he knew he was experiencing something that very few have before. The God of the Deep Sea continued. “Cosmo, you have an option that I am going to present to you now. You are free to return to your homeland, to the surface of Earth and to the troubles plagued by that society. We are on the ocean floor, but I can return you to your home in a matter of seconds, if that is what you wish. On the contrary, you may select to stay here with us in Arenia. We have everything you need for a fulfilling life. The societal troubles of the surface have not made their way down here, nor shall they ever. You will find this life full of happiness and enrichment but will need to leave your surface possessions behind. In addition, if I return you to your native homeland, I will erase the memory of this kingdom from your mind. You will have no recollection of this happening and therefore will not spread the knowledge of Arenia. We protect the sea in silence. What is it that you wish to do?” Cosmo stood on his platform of sand, full of bliss but aware of the decision he must now make. The feeling inside his body and at the forefront of his mind was unmistakable. His worries, his plaguing thoughts, his anxieties – they were all gone. There seemed to be no problems down here, no negativity. He could start his life anew and live out his days in pure happiness. If he were to leave however, he would have no memory of this experience, no sliver of proof that this encounter ever occurred. The prospect of staying in Arenia was intriguing, but he made his decision quickly. “Thank you for the offer to stay here and enjoy the fruits of your metropolis, but I’m accustomed to my life and to those that I share it with. I’d like to return to the surface, even if that means that Arenia will be washed from my mind.” The feeling of bliss that had flooded his body was suddenly flushed out by disappointment. The God responded, “As you wish. I am going to return you to the morning of your fishing trip, but I am going to grant you the intuition to make a better choice regarding the weather forecast. The memory of this visit will be cleansed from your memory and the secret of Arenia will continue.” Cosmo expressed his sincere gratitude for the saving of his life before darkness enveloped him. He awoke several hours later in his bed. Feeling well rested, Cosmo got to his feet, stretched out his back, and immediately thought about the day’s fishing trip. A smile spread across his face as he put on his slippers and walked outside to grab the paper. Standing in his driveway, he opened straight to the weather section. The smile soon faded from his face. “Chance of Rain” read the forecast for today’s date. Unsure exactly why, he had a strong feeling that he’d better mind the paper and go fishing another day. Disappointed, he crumpled up the print and tossed it into the trash. He retreated into his home, dumped his slippers by the bedside, and quickly fell back asleep.


Silence is a fragile thing, but right then, silence seemed to be an insurmountable beast that had its claws around the car. Even the howling wind that was blowing snow outside was banished from the vacuum surrounding them. If it weren’t for her heater, which was working overtime because of the howling January snow, she would have sworn that she had lost her hearing. Even that wasn't fully penetrating this silence though. Ella had offered to drive her nephew to the airport. How could she not with him going away to boarding school? He had become quite a handful for her sister, who was a widow of three years and who had four other kids to worry about. Ella helped where she could, but her sister had always been very independent, and every time Ella came to visit, she would always find her sister doing something around the house, looking tired and worn out. Then she would smile a weary but sincere smile and Ella would tell her lovingly but firmly, "Go to bed Angie, you look like hell. I'll finish up here." Ella jumped out of her thoughts as she noticed their exit coming up. She tried to change as many lanes as she could, but still managed to miss it. She winced. Her nephew rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone. She figured he must be texting one of his friends until a female voice came from his phone, giving directions.

Now it was Ella's turn to roll her eyes, "I know the way Rob." Her Nephew's given name was Robert, but he insisted that everyone call him by the nickname.

"Right," He smirked at her, "That's why we're going to be late to the airport." "Your flight doesn't leave for another hour and a half. We're five minutes away." "Not the way you're driving we're not." He muttered. "You know, you don't have to insult everyone around you. I know that you're upset that your mother is making you leave but --" “You just don’t get it. No one does, ” He snapped more defensively. Then added quietly, “Not anymore.” “What do you mean Rob?” Ella hadn’t heard Rob speak like this in a while. Actually, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard his words hold that much emotion. She’d known him quite well before his father had passed, but since then, he’d changed. He’d cut himself off from everyone, and whenever Ella or anyone else had tried to talk to him, he’d snap and say simply that he wanted to be alone. In that moment, Rob looked like he was trying to hold back a tidal wave. He probably was. As far as Ella could tell, he never gave himself any release. He was always working in his room, be it on school work, or fixing a broken computer someone at school was paying him for. Ella had never understood it, his fascination with computers. She supposed her brain just wasn’t wired that way. He and his father had always liked working together on little things like that. Her sister thought it was good that he was still working on computers, that maybe it was his way of dealing with his father’s death, but Ella suspected that it was just the opposite. That all he was doing was using the computers to keep himself busy. To never give himself a moment’s rest to think about anything. Finally, the dam that had been holding his feelings back broke, and tears began spilling down his cheeks. "You just don't get it, okay? The only person who ever understood me is dead, all right?" He gasped for air and looked frightened at his words. Ella thought it was something he'd been wanting to say for a while, but he hadn't let himself. "Everyone is acting like three years is a lifetime. Like I should have moved on by now, but I can't. It hurts all the time Ella. I feel empty and angry and sad every day. My mom thinks I'm acting out, but I don't know how to act normal anymore. I keep thinking that if I just get through one more day, then everything will be all right, but every day it just gets harder to get out of bed. I -- I haven't felt happy or even okay in three years." He slumped foreword in his seat, his head in his hands. He was crying in earnest now, sobs racking his body.

Ella didn't know what had made him break down. Maybe it was all just too much for him. Going to a new school far away from everything he knew while he was already feeling like this? She couldn't imagine. She paused for a moment. This one was not a suffocating silence as before. It was full of sorrow, but also of relief. Rob had been holding all of his feelings in for years, she could only imagine how hard it must have been for him to tell her. She laid a hand on his back, keeping the other on the steering wheel and making no move to go towards the airport. "Listen, I don't know how you're feeling right now,” Ella started, feeling rather clumsy and out of her depth. “But I'm glad you told me. I lost someone too when I was around your age. He was my best friend. We did everything together. I’d known him since 3 rd grade and I suspect that if he had survived, I may have even developed feelings for him.” She paused, feeling her emotions rub against a wound that she suspected would never fully heal. “He died in a car crash one summer, and after that, my life never felt the same. There was this absence, this hole in my heart that I couldn't even begin to fill. I tried to push people away too, thinking that I didn't deserve to be friends with anyone else, but do you know what I found helped? Talking to people. I thought that If I ever told anyone how I was feeling, it could only end badly, but I was so wrong. People tend to be much more understanding than they get credit for. "That's why I'm so glad you felt like you could come to me with this." She paused, trying to figure out what she was even trying to say. "I'll tell you what. What if, and I'll only do this if you want me to, we don't go to the airport? I could take you home and talk to your mother. You might not think it, but I'm really good at getting through to her. You don't have to feel like that Rob, the people around you can be much more helpful and willing to listen than you probably think." Ella waited. Rob had taken in her whole monologue with his head still in his hands. They sat once again in that strange comforting silence, but then Rob let out a quiet, "Yeah, okay. Let's do that." His voice was still croaky from crying and as he lifted his head from his hands. Ella saw that his eyes were still red and puffy from crying, but as she looked in his eyes, she thought that she saw the smallest spark of an emotion that she too had once nearly forsaken, hope. She felt as though they were stepping tentatively onto the frozen dam that his emotions had become, and somehow she knew that together, they would be able to thaw them out.


You groan, feeling your shirt sticking to your back. The vast football field stretches out in front of you, brimming with life, cheers erupting as someone scores a goal. The floodlights make everything a hazy white. You mull over what you’re going to say once more but the words elude you, fear slowly settling in. What are you going to say? What if it all goes wrong? You try to reason with yourself. It won’t go wrong (this was sheer optimism) and even if it does, you had nothing to lose (this was you trying to downplay the worst outcome.) The one thing you did know was that you had to do it right now, or you’d regret it later. Your final year in college was upon you and time was steadily slipping from your grasp. You despair, doubt once again seeking comfort in your mind. You look up to the stars, as if to seek divine guidance but end up seeing familiar pattern of silvery white gaze back at you. It reminds you of a very important day when the night sky was not merely a taut canvas dotted with stars in the background, but the main actor in a conversation with someone that had brought you to this very pavement on a humid September night with your heart in your throat. Your first encounter with him was unmemorable. In hindsight, you try to look for facts that you can exaggerate to create a sensational tale but the bitter truth stands—the first time you saw him you did not even care to look at him twice. You were tired from a project that had took two sleepless nights and you prolonged going back to your dorm, lest you had to deal with your roommate again. Partly because you felt extremely lonely and partly because of the fact that you didn’t want to confront her about her ability to be noisy no matter what she did. You sat with the only person you had managed to befriend over the span of the semester, but sadly they were not as antisocial as you were, so you awkwardly sat alone, fiddling with the layer of plastic that managed to peel off of your notebook. The table was occupied by other people and the person sitting immediately next to you was ensconced in his chair, hunched over the backpack in his lap with eyes concealed behind a pair of thick rimmed glasses. He looked like he was preparing to defend himself from some unknown attack. Perhaps the only reason you even noticed him was because his stalwart frame was oddly incongruous with his quiet demeanor. Its funny how when you didn’t even know him, you found solace in his silence. It made you feel a little less alone. The second time you saw him, however, was much more eventful. Unfortunately for you (in retrospect of course) you had been swept into a whirlwind romance with a very questionable individual—the affectations were initially charming, but soon reared their ugly head in every conversation, making them seem less cute and more annoying. The endeavor abruptly ended in a mere three months, not really surprising you. When you were still engaged in it however, you ended up going to a friend’s birthday together. You remember putting on your favorite black dress, with pink pinstripes at the hem. You would be lying if you said it was more for you than for your date, whatever the reason was, you felt nice. You remember your date scrutinizing you from head to toe – and then making a comment you did not even fathom. ‘You have really big eyebrows.’ You subconsciously bring a hand to your eyebrows, smoothing them over. They were still big, but a little less unruly then before. You had yet to have your big self-love moment, but perhaps letting go of that lard was a step in the right direction. Naturally, you were not your happiest that night. You felt sordid; uncoiling and coiling your scarf around your neck, the cold air nipping at your bare neck but the tiny frayed threads making it prickly and uncomfortable. The carousing accelerated by the second, and your date had disappeared. You nestled yourself further in the couch you were sitting on, wishing for some portal to emerge and suck you into it, teleporting you far away from a crowd that was turning rowdier by the minute. When your delusions of reprieve couldn’t keep you entertained any longer, you decided to step out. You expected to find an empty porch but to your surprise you found the backpack-clutching-angry guy crouched over the porch with his hand extended, fixated on something before him. When you stepped closer, you realized that it was a cat. The feline meowed, alerted by your presence, causing the boy to turn and look. His eyes didn’t seem to light with recollection, making you think that only you had noticed his presence that day. He looked like he had something to say but he refrained, and looked back at the cat. The orange and black in its fur contrasted with the white, which was rendered a bit dusty. It indolently licked itself, and the boy retracted his hand. ‘I uh, I’m scared of cats,’ he spoke, as if trying to justify what he was doing. You didn’t know what to say. He looked almost guilty, as if you had caught him in some nefarious act, but you could somehow understand his need to explain himself. The strange part however, was how his statement contradicted with his actions. You crouched down next to him feeling like an interloper in a private interaction. ‘They don’t really bite or anything, not unless you provoke them,’ you said, not knowing what else to say. You liked cats, but only from afar. It was one of the two rules you had upheld due to your acute fear of failing responsibility; no pets or children. ‘I have one at home,’ he continued. ‘Its an outdoor cat though, but I don’t pet him. I feel like he’ll bite.’ The cat, disappointed at the hesitance shown by him, proceeded towards you. Reluctantly, you ran a hand over its smooth fur. You could feel the kinks of its backbone, but not satisfied with your shaky hand, it slipped out from under you, only to settle itself in the boy’s lap. Time stood still. He was now completely frozen, hand in midair and legs, stiff. But even in this spectacle you could sense a tranquility that you couldn’t define, so you left it alone. He awkwardly lingered his hand over, and then gently pet the cat. Feeling yourself an intruder to this intimate moment of self-conquest, you trailed your gaze over to the stars. The lights had rendered it a hazy maroon, but you could still make out some of the stars from where you sat. The only one’s you recognized, formed a clear pattern, one you could identify anywhere. ‘The Big Dipper seems to be pretty clear tonight,’ you said, not really addressing anyone in particular. It was your feeble attempt to make conversation. You had time to kill and you’d be damned if you have to step inside that house again. You felt a stir next to you and when you turned to face him, you were met with an inquisitive gaze. ‘You’re into astronomy?’ he asked, expectant. You didn’t want to disappoint, but your knowledge had been pretty limited. Up until middle school, you pestered your parents to buy you a telescope so you could see the stars, but the intrigue soon dwindled when you entered high school and by the time you were in college it had buried itself in the depths of your mind with the rest of your unfulfilled desires. It poked out in your allusions sometimes when you wrote. While your desire to know them scientifically had subsided, you couldn’t deny the poetic resonance they held in their being. ‘Not really, it’s the only constellation I can recognize.’ ‘Its an asterism,’ he said. ‘Eh, semantics.’ ‘No no. People commonly mistake the two, but an asterism part of a larger constellation. In this case it would be the Ursa Major. It looks like a bear but-‘he stops midway. ‘I’m sorry for rambling, I’m a huge astronomy fanatic.’ ‘Its alright, we all have our things.’ You couldn’t help but feel a bit envious though, you had become so emotionally latent that you didn’t feel that passionately for anything anymore. Any semblance of reticence he had washed away after you had expressed your interest. You can’t remember clearly everything you talked about that day but it had devolved into physics, planets, the intrinsic nature of human despair (your contribution to the bit) and then finally, something you can recall as clearly as the sky which you’re gazing at right now. ‘Hey,’ you pointed out when the silence had settled in once again, ‘Looks like you got over your fear,’ you said, pointing to the cat, who had completely nestled itself in his lap. His frame was more relaxed now and he was resting his hand on it, a fact that was unbeknownst to him. When he finally realized it, shock dawned on his face. ‘I guess I did,’ he said, smiling triumphantly. It reminded you of a child who had earned his first gold star. In that moment, you realized you had been smiling too. ‘Do you know Roche’s limit?’ he asked out of nowhere. You shook your head. The only Roche you’d remotely heard of was Edmond Roche, and you doubted that a violinist had piqued his interest. ‘It’s a distance around a celestial body within which a secondary body overcomes its gravitational attraction and disintegrates,’ he said. ‘So, if you’re inside the Roche’s limit, you’d turn to dust,’ he said, gesturing with his hands but failing to emulate the effect. ‘It sounds like a very poetically profound concept,’ you said, looking up at the sky. ‘But I don’t get how you got reminded of that.’ You’d lost all concept of time while you talked to him, but the stars remained where they were, as if suspending you in an inanimate moment. He laughed. ‘It is. I couldn’t help but liken it to the current situation I’m in. It seemed like I’d inadvertently approached the Roche’s limit and my defenses ended up breaking down.’ You turned to face him, and found him facing you. Part of you wanted to think that what he said was not about the creature that lay sleeping peacefully in his lap. Your moment could not last long however, for your phone rang and unceremoniously dispersed all the enchantment. Turning it over, you immediately soured when you saw a familiar name, one that you didn’t really feel like associating with. ‘I have to go.’ You got up. It was late and as much as you disliked it, you were with someone. No matter how much of a douche he was, you had to respect the fact. ‘That’s alright,’ he said, back to staring off in space. You lingered for a while, and ended up not bidding goodbye. If you had, it would’ve formed a clear conclusion to your meeting. And you didn’t want that. You wanted some illusion of continuance because there was something magical about that night, maybe it was the saucepan shaped asterism in the sky, or the light breeze, or those gentle moments that you shared with a stranger. Whatever it was, you felt like preserving what you couldn’t pursue. Maybe you were straying close to Roche’s Limit too but you couldn’t cross over just then. The entire ride back, you kept your eyed fixed on the Big Dipper. Your first relationship ended soon after, rendering you a bit saturnine. It was inevitable, but the outcome was most amicable, you were rid of a burden you wished not to carry but that didn’t make it any less lonely. The Big Dipper was a distant memory as you progressed into your third year. College too became routine, and you found yourself too busy to wax lachrymose. The one thing that changed though was whenever you went out, you made sure to look at the sky, eyes always wandering in search of something. The boy had been from the electrical engineering department, which explained why you didn’t see him often. You wondered why he had chosen not to pursue something he was so passionate about, but you never had a chance to ask him about it. The few times you did see him, he was laconic and spoke with careful restraint, a complete antithesis of what he was that night. It made you feel a little special though, you saw something that he had so carefully concealed. It had taken you many attempts to find out his name, and just one more to end up with his number. The third encounter you would have with him was going to be now, on a completely ordinary day, with humidity hanging in the air and mosquitoes nipping at your bare feet. You finally decided to seize the coincidences and actively asked to meet him, with every cell in your body willing to protest. But then again, you really had nothing to lose. If he rejected you, you would’ve gotten back to routine and if he didn’t… You’ll think of that later to avoid all the butterflies in your stomach. The din rises as the game continues. The haze seems to be dissipating. You see someone jogging in your direction and your heartbeat speeds up a little. In less than a minute but more than a lifetime, someone is looming over you, with ragged breathing. He wipes his forehead from his sleeve and hands you an orange soda, one that’s now lukewarm. You’re not a fan of orange soda, but you graciously accept. He sits down on the pavement next to you. ‘Weird, the forecast said it would rain today.’ The sky couldn’t be clearer, and you see the familiar asterism staring down at you, as if to give you its blessing. You felt it now, it was visceral and perhaps too abstracted to put into words but your entire body was consumed by it. You realized that you had finally crossed over. Fists clutched, heart hammering in your chest, beads of sweat hanging from your temple at a time that couldn’t be more right, you turn to face him. And then you smile.


Author’s Note

Hello again! I thought I’d use this note to say a thank you to those who liked my previous stories and followed me. Could you kindly also comment on them? Thank you. I’m feeling the urge and am very curious to know why they got liked by you all, lol. Anyway, this is also a brief wording into what this story is. It is partially written based on a true-life story, and I hope you can understand whatever words I mixed and matched into this work XD. If you do, could you drop a quick ‘thumbs-up, you did a wonderful job’? Without further ado, let’s dive right in!

Copyright © 2021 by Fallow. All rights reserved.

There are times in life when making choices are compulsory. Times when you have that one interview that would probably land you your dream job; or when you know you are sick, you need to go to the hospital and begin using medications; or even when your elders find out you were behind a horrendous event. Whatever it is, those times are just definitely the worst, and that’s what Wemimo Atinuke Oluwatumininu thinks.

Wemimo is not entirely your everyday rich kid who goes to school in a range rover or a GMC with a stolid chauffeur, in smashing black liveries, who listens to her every complaint or command of whatnots. Instead, she attends Duntro Schools, the only private institution her bustling Lawanson neighbourhood can afford. Or where her parents can pay to take her to. ‘ Education is very key’ , her Yoruba parents never seem to stop reminding her. Undoubtedly, it was not a lie, and possibly not the truth also.

Wemimo learnt in school that the British missionaries in the 1840s introduced education to her country, the giant of Africa with 54 nations. She found out about her roots, her people, her tribe, her culture, her religion, her personality and her duties as a growing child through this education. Had they not been colonised by them, she would probably still be in Ikare, her hometown in Ondo State, plucking taros, cashews and cocoas to brew the breakfast tea, like her cousins with ignorant parents. Yes, Wemimo’s parents were not the least bright or learned, but they did know how to care for a child they wanted to be responsible to them.

Ko omo re ki o le fun o ni isimi , teach your child to give you rest, and that was what they were racing.

Education had saved Wemimo on days like when she wanted to wash clothes or dishes in the house. On Thursdays, when she learnt how to handle a dishwasher or washer-dryer in home economics classes, she made it a habit to come home to tell her mother and father.

The respectful name attributed by students in her school always found a way into each sentence, dropping casually from her full pink lips, “ Teacher

said—”

And, she would only continue after grabbing their attention, “—to maximise time and effort, we use a washer-dryer to wash and dry all our clothes, no matter how small or big.” She would demonstrate in such phenomenal ways that would make graduates in marketing flop and feel useless. The following week, or month, her parents would buy it, depending on how prayerful she was.

So, she liked it – education, even if it wasn’t something she could make as a choice of hers to do.

When it came to achievements in all her life studies, her mother would pick the perfect style for her, and she would wear it to congratulate a new stage. It was not something she needed to argue. She was indecisive in the smallest of choices and nondifferent in the largest of them.

Two years ago, she had told her parents she would become a secondary school student, and she would be taking her Basic Education Certificate Examination (BECE) the week after. Her mother had looked her in the eye and replied, “Study sciences and become a big doctor like Baba Akinnuoye-Agbaje in that TV station you like watching!” It was evident that she had gotten most of her gestural expressions from her pepper-selling mother. Her father, on the other hand, hadn’t spoken, quietly thinking of all possibilities of the future. Later at night, he went to her while she was getting ready to go to bed and said, “I believe in you to make the right choice, Atinuke mi; whatever you would like to become, your mother and I would support you, be it a doctor, a lawyer or an accountant.”

Wemimo didn’t sleep, not like she had a choice. She tossed and turned in bed severally. Her father was always a wise man, and she wondered why she hadn’t grabbed that part of him. Instead, she only took his brains and looks. That was why Wemimo was probably anxious. This stage in her life would determine the rest of it; if there were the slightest glitch, that would be the end of their hard-earned money. Her father had told her what to do in the junior grades of secondary school. Telling her again what to do shouldn’t be difficult, but he didn’t, and he never would. So, Wemimo skipped school for two days, praying fervently in the local mosque for God to intervene, make her father decide for her or send a helper to her.

She took the examination; as expected, she passed in multiple flying colours. She had the best distinction in her local government and was given a scholarship to a school in the finest communities – Lekki. Pinefield Schools had now become her citadel of learning. She knew her prayers had worked, but not in the ways she had wanted, most likely.

The following year, she began senior secondary school. As a student, she needed to participate in extra-curricular activities and few screenings to determine the department she would be placed. The day of the activities had been a Friday, as a part of the norms. Wemimo had dressed in blue sportswear, one of the many clothes given to her on her first day. Thankfully, the divisions of the clubs, one of the activities, were at different time intervals. With naïvete, Wemimo danced through the various clubs, from homemakers, debating, press to even the team of the STEM or commonly called JETS (Junior Engineers, Technicians and Scientists).

She had come home in joy, narrating continuously, till she was exhausted or her parents skipped together to the kitchen to prepare supper or dinner, “Mother and father, today we learnt many things. I learnt how to sew a button to a dress, how to make a volcano, how to give a speech, and I speak French!”

And, every day, she awaited another Friday to come. Not until the next one did she realise she had to make two decisions that would finally be by her. Wemimo had gone to the French club first to say a few words of

bonjour ,

Je m’appelle , and

j’aime  or just some other random new phrases. Then, it had been the homemakers club, where she stated the various types of stitches and explained briefly.

Unfortunately, there had been a clash between the press and the JETS clubs. When Wemimo had sauntered upstairs to fetch her book, pen and CASIO calculator had been when she saw the headmaster with a long stick in hand. Wemimo had run for her life because the one impact the

cane

had on her buttocks in her previous school was an experience she would never forget.

It had been between the chess and JETS clubs; both were on the same floor, facing each other. Wemimo preferred mixing things to form a new compound better than sitting in silence, calculating people's expressions to know their next move between pawns or bishops. When the insects the young scientists scrutinised on the tables called her in short buzzes, she obliged and ran towards the laboratory. Yes, that day had been in her small diary by the window with a picture attached to it of how she had made the best decision to join the JETS club and the science department. Maybe, become a doctor like Baba Akinnuoye-Agbaje as mother had said.

Now, fifteen-year-old Wemimo is the leader of the JETS club, all-around A student and youngest to make a 320 in JAMB (Joint Admissions and Matriculations Board), the examination that would allow her to enter the school of her choice. The University of Medical Sciences in Ondo, where she would make her hometown better than ever. Not by colonisation, but by treating the sick, including children, who would improve the state with the different choices they make.