*This story contains themes of sexual/physical violence, mental health, and other traumas. Please be advised before reading.* *Also please excuse any formatting errors, for whatever reason this site never keeps my indents in place when I paste over the story* Anti remembers falling out of her bed, her face caked with blood.     She remembers crawling to the kitchen, pulling herself along the tile floor.

    Anti remembers closing barriers around the memory of her trauma.

    She remembers forcing it out of her brain and down her neck.

   She remembers the feeling as it traveled from her shoulder, down her arm, and into     her hand.     She remembers passing the memory into the butter knife held firmly in her hand.     Then she remembers relief.

   The knife has lost its stainless-steel shine in the years since it was impregnated with experience. But even without a metallic glare, Anti can always feel it. The closer she is to it, the sharper the pain. She normally keeps it in a lock box. But not today. Today she needs it.    She wakes from a dreamless sleep and rolls out of bed in a fluid motion. She dresses plainly and ties her curly locks in a high bun. The scar under the curve of her right eye catches her attention. The tug of the knife on her nightstand grows stronger. A smear of foundation hides the scar. The handkerchief that she wraps the knife in lies next to it in a crumpled ball. She reaches for it clumsily and accidentally touches the blade’s hilt.    The memory strikes her like a bullet. All at once she is overcome with trauma as if every moment of it were happening at once. It lasts hours and seconds. She jerks her finger away from it like a child from a hot stove. She hasn’t been so absentminded as to touch the knife in months. Perhaps the significance of the day is getting to her. Because today she excises her trauma for good.

The streets of Brooklyn are quieter than normal. Or maybe the sound isn’t registering in Anti’s ears. She walks mindlessly down the streets, working toward her destination on instinct alone. Every person she nears is given an uncomfortable amount of space. The wrapped knife is safely in her hand, where it won’t inadvertently hurt someone. Her sleeve has slipped down over it, to hide the blade from passersby. She spent the last several years trying to stop herself from feeling crazy, but today she can’t help it. Eyes follow her down the street and she can’t help but speed up as they do. The world is cruel to people who’ve been through what she has. Reality seems to bend itself out of shape to throw her trauma back in her face.

Her feet stop in front of a dusty, stone stoop. A steep set of stairs lead to a large wooden door scarred with the markings of children. Vines climb the red brick walls and cover now useless windows. A teapot-shaped elderly woman is crouched at the top of the steps with her hands resting on the head of a ceramic dog statue. Her eyes are closed but a smile bends the corners of her lips upwards.

“Hi Grandma Nellie,” says Anti, the fog finally lifted from her mind. Nellie’s eyes snap open at the sound of her granddaughter’s voice. She waddles down the steps as fast as she can, her hips made heavy by a long life. Anti meets her halfway and embraces her in a warm hug. “Antimony, my beautiful girl!” says Nellie. “It’s so good to see you!”

“When were you?” Anti asks, gesturing towards the statue. “I was visiting your grandfather on the day we brought home Buster. You remember Buster, don’t you?” “Of course.” Nellie’s smile widens as her granddaughter reminisces. She turns towards the door and beckons Anti to follow.

“I have his collar inside, you should visit. I love that memory.” Nellie lives in a large house that feels intensely small. Boxes of clutter line the walls. Stacks of old newspapers cover the couch. Every space is littered with knick-knacks, old silverware, clothes, and other pieces of junk. The objects themselves are useless to Nellie, but she can’t live without what’s stored inside them. As soon as she passes through the door, Anti’s senses are overwhelmed by memories. Her grandmother’s home is more like an outdoor farmer’s market on a busy Saturday than it is a quiet place of living. She can smell Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Sunday dinners coming from a tower of plates in the kitchen sink. Old conversations echo from a line of empty picture frames on the mantle. She can even feel the warmth of the hearth when she’s near the fireplace, even though it hasn’t been lit in years. Nellie’s home has become a museum of memories and Anti understands why. It’s hard to feel alone in a house full of ghosts.

The only open seating found in the entire house sits at the center of Nellie’s small kitchen. A waist-level circular table is surrounded by two chairs with worn seat cushions. When Anti returns to her grandma’s side, she is digging through a box of old dog toys and leashes on the table. Nellie rummages through the box slowly, holding each item before putting it to the side. Looking up at her grandmother’s face, Anti realizes that her eyes are closed. For the stout elderly woman, it is easier to search for a memory, than for an object. Nellie’s eyes open as her fingers wrap around a stretch-marked collar of blue leather. She pulls it from the box and holds it out to Anti.

“Here. Take this, sweetheart,” she says softly. As soon as Anti’s hands touch the collar, she becomes enveloped in the memory. The summer breeze of a home without air conditioning hits her first. She’s on her knees. No, this is Nellie’s memory so she’s just several inches shorter. She sees the cobalt blue walls of her grandmother’s kitchen. The murmur of television hums behind her. In it, she can recognize John Madden’s iconic voice. It’s Sunday. Her grandfather is watching football.

The flow of memory pulls her down. Her field of view shifts to the ground where Buster is laying on his stomach. Her arms extend towards him. Her fingers sink into his fur, a thick clump between each of her digits. It’s been so long since she’s petted a dog. Why has it been so long? Why…? Why is her stomach sinking?

Where is this fear coming from?

No, not fear. Terror. Darkness settles into the scene like a fog. Anti can feel that she’s crouched over Buster, but now the sensation of lying on her back is taking over. And there’s weight. So much weight. She’s suffocating. There’s a hand around her throat. Buster bleeds away and now Anti’s fingers are digging into the skin of a man. A man on top of her. She’s in her freshman-year dorm room. She was just in the kitchen. How did she get here? There’s blood flowing from a cut under her eye. Her vision is going red. He’s on top of her again. How did this happen? He’s pressing down now with everything he has. He’s going to kill her. He’s… Anti collapses as she’s snapped out of the memory. For a few harrowing moments, the afterimages of her trauma hover over her vision. She’s back in the kitchen. But not in the blue one, the cluttered one. Her head is on Nellie’s lap. The collar is on the floor and so is the knife.

“A memory that strong will overpower any other, even if you’re not touching it. How long have been carrying that thing around for?” Nellie asks sternly. Anti doesn’t answer. Her recovering mind cannot produce words right now. “Can you speak, honey?” Nellie asks. “Y…Yes,” Anti stammers. “I’ve heard of people losing themselves to memories like that. Becoming slaves to their own pain. But not you. Not my Antimony.” “I’m not strong. That thing terrifies me,” Anti says. “Who told you that strength was the lack of fear? The strongest people I’ve known were terrified during the most important moments of their life. Fear is what pushes us to be strong.” “I wasn’t even thinking when I made it,” Anti says looking at the knife. “I just wanted the pain to be gone. I didn’t want it in me, so I put it there. I just want it to be gone. It’s too much. I want to…” Anti cuts herself off, ashamed of her intentions. “You want to give it back to him, don’t you?” Nellie asks. “I heard he was getting out tomorrow. I knew they wouldn’t keep a pretty boy like him in jail for long. And I knew that the day he got out, you would need me.” “He deserves it. He deserves to feel everything I felt. Not to become a better person. Not so he can get forgiveness. Just so he can hurt. Just so he can hurt like I did. Like I do,” Anti cries. “I know. I know.” “No, you don’t know. No one knows. You can’t. Not unless you touch that thing. And I won’t let you. I won’t let anyone. Only him. He’s gonna feel it deep in his gut after I stab him with it. It’s only fair! He’s gonna ask me why and I’m not gonna give him the satisfaction of a reason. He should know. Everyone should know. I shouldn’t have to justify it! I shouldn’t have to think about it!” The rant consumes the rest of Anti’s energy. Nellie holds her tightly, her hand rubbing the base of Anti’s neck. She wants to be strong for her granddaughter, but there is no helping the tears that begin flowing down her wrinkled cheeks. For the first time in a long time, she is completely present.

Nellie moves the newspapers from the couch to the bathroom so Anti has somewhere comfortable to sit. She is wrapped in the only blanket not laden with memory. A washcloth soaked with warm water lies across the back of her neck. The rhythm of her breathing is still ragged, but it has slowed. Nellie returns to the room with a cup of tea. White tea, Anti’s favorite from childhood. “Do you like it?” Nellie asks. Anti nods still enamored in nostalgia. “I haven’t made it in so long, I was worried it wouldn’t be as good.” “It’s perfect, Grandma. Thank you,” Anti responds between sips.

   Nellie leaves the room and returns with an object wrapped in thick layers of dinner napkins. Anti’s heart accelerates at its presence. Nellie holds it in her hands like the leash of a wild dog. She’s not going to let it hurt anyone.    “This memory is strong. Stronger than anything I’ve ever seen. It still holds all the emotion from the actual event, so if you do what you want to…He’ll feel everything.”     Anti is relieved at these words. She doesn’t want to give the man who assaulted her anything less than what he gave her. If the memory wasn’t whole, she’d just be stabbing him.    “Good,” she replies.     Nellie shakes her head, pulling the knife closer.    “Don’t do it,” Nellie says.  “Why shouldn’t I?” Anti asks, getting to her feet.

    “This memory is still whole,” she says. “It’s still yours. You’ll be giving it to him. Don’t give him any more of you than he already has.”     “Then what the hell am I supposed to do with that thing,” Anti yells, pointing at the bundle of napkins.     “Take the memory back from it. While it’s still whole. While it’s still yours. Make it just a knife again.”      Anti is taken aback. Does Nellie know what that would feel like? What that would do to her?     “Are you kidding me? Why would you want me to go through that?”    “It’s the only way to process it. To deal with it and move on.”    “No! It’s my knife. It’s my memory and I’m going to do what I want with it!” Anti steps up to Nellie and puts her hands on the bundle. She pulls it from her grandmother’s hands. Anger and fear paint her face as she makes her way to the door.

    “I’m sorry. I’ve waited too long for this. I’m not giving it up now.”     “I’m sorry too. Be careful.”      Anti walks out the door toward a choice that will define her life. Nellie falls into a couch she hasn’t sat on in three years. She picks up Anti’s teacup, still warm and steaming. She can feel the memory of their fight slipping out of her mind, but she fights back against it. This one will be hers.

     Anti pulls into the prison’s parking lot and parks facing the gate. Beside her, in the passenger seat, is a large, leather purse. Inside the purse is a bundle of napkins wrapping the knife. The chain-link gate is one hundred yards from the lot where Anti’s car is parked. Her eyes are locked on it, waiting for any signs of life. He should be coming soon. Her concentration is broken by the soft chiming of her phone. It’s Nellie. The ringtone is her favorite song.

“You are my sunshine My only sunshine You make me happy When skies are gray” She peers down at the screen and winces at the image pixelated onto it. It’s Nellie, holding her as a baby. Anti’s puffy arms reach up towards her grandma’s nose and Nellie smiles down at her. Her hair was only just starting to gray. She was still hiding her wrinkles under makeup. Anti wonders where her grandma has this memory stored. The faintest hint of that day is nestled at the back of her mind. It’s mostly bright sunlight, the feeling of being held, and the smell of Nellie’s perfume. She can’t tell if any of it is real, but even though she knows it may not be, it’s still the most treasured memory she has. “You’ll never know dear. How much I love you Please don’t take My sunshine away.”     The phone goes black, and Anti is met with her own reflection. She can see some of Nellie’s features on her own face. Her nose. Her eyebrows. Her lips. But her eyes… Her eyes are cold, whereas Nellie’s are warm. Her eyes take in light and give none back to the world. There is something missing. A piece of her cut away. A loud ringing sound pulls Anti’s eyes from the phone. It’s the sound of the front gate opening. The rattle of the chain link fence shakes her soul, but Anti gathers the courage to get out of the car. In the distance she sees someone walking towards a yellow taxi. He’s in plain blue jeans and a gray shirt. He’s lost weight and his hair has begun to thin, but the tinge of the knife’s metal in her mouth confirms it. It’s him.

Their eyes lock, only momentarily. He only looks up at her for half a second. There is no recognition in his eyes. She is nothing to him.

“Ma’am, are you waiting for someone?” Asks one of the guards. Anti doesn’t answer. She just turns around and walks back to her car. Reality feels different now. Like she’s been raised to a higher altitude. Anti wants to start the car and drive back home, but she knows that she can’t. She can’t go back home until this is finished. Her hand plunges into the purse and pulls out the bundle. She can already feel the weight of its contents pulling her down. She unwraps the handle of the knife and stares at her reflection on its stained metal surface.

She takes a deep breath and wraps her fingers around the hilt. The memory attacks her senses and takes control. But Anti doesn’t fight it this time. She meets her trauma with purpose. It tries to rip her apart but she pulls it into herself. A scream bursts from her throat as the scene starts to overwhelm her. Part of her wants to back out. Part of her wants to let go. But it’s either this or die, so she plugs forward.

Finally, she cannot ignore it anymore. She looks up at the man who doesn’t even remember her face. For the first time, she realizes that he couldn’t even look at her while he raped her. She grabs his face with the points of her nails and forces his gaze down. There is nothing in it but puny fear. He is nothing but she will take him. She will take all of him, but he will get none of her.

Anti pulls him into her. She pulls all of it into her. A slight prick of electricity travels from the knife to her hand. It travels up her arm and as it does the landscape begins to crumble. It reaches her shoulder, and his face implodes in on itself. It moves up her neck, into her head, and the memory blisters. Everything begins to settle. The bed becomes her driver’s seat. Sweat and brass become the smell of a faded air freshener. Heavy breathing becomes a light breeze. She’s back in her car and she’s holding a knife. Just a knife. She’s shaking and crying. The pain is not gone. Anti is not okay, but she is whole. Everything that is meant to be hers, is hers only.


Lagos I must say is a very crazy place. In the event you don't know, Lagos is a state in Nigeria, my beloved country in green and white. It is only in Lagos that the sole difference between day and night is the colour of the sky and the presence or absence of the sun and moon. Otherwise, the city is constantly bustling with activities, the streets are flooded with people. It is, for this reason, it is called the city that does not sleep. Mama will always complain whenever she comes around. She complains about the constant noise of cars honking, horns blaring, and music blaring from speakers of different models and sizes serving as commercials or entertainment at local bukas, restaurants and bars. For me though, I don't have much of a problem with all of this. I kind of like the city, it has my vibes you know. I've always been a chatterbox, I've always been agile and many will say hyperactive and so, I was never bothered by the noise of the city that was its centrepiece as far as I was concerned and the people's crazy behaviour was a plus. But, who can blame them, in biology we were taught that for an organism to survive it must adapt to its environment so there you have it, mad place mad people? For me though, I think the environment will have to be the one doing some adjusting so that it could keep up to my rhythm.

I recently moved into Lagos and I have over time formed the habit of walking when I can afford to so I could get used to my environment. Today's walk was particularly spectacular. Let me give you the full gist. I had just rounded the bend to my street when I saw this guy walking from shop to shop seeking to purchase some household items I suppose. Gosh! I think the Oxford English dictionary needs to look into the possibility of adding in new words as perfect seems to be too small a word to describe this beauty. Let me begin with his gait. He walked as though the earth were his subordinate taking steps like he was making a show of his level of supremacy with shoulders a perfect square and legs that were shaped like Cupid's bow. To make the movement more spectacular, the sun was setting just right behind him shrouding him in its last-minute glow giving him this Ethereal glow like a god landed on earth. His neat buzz cut hairstyle was a perfect fit for his delicately sculptured diamond-shaped face with a thin chin strapped beard running along the side of his face accentuating his strong jawline and conjugating at his chin. His lips were small and a little pouty giving his dominant male frame a childish touch making him even more appealing. As he talked to the woman in front of whose shop he was currently standing, flecks of light from the shop's light bulb reflected off his ivory white teeth, Oral B seems to have made the biggest mistake by not using him as their model and then he smiled, wow! wow!! wow!!! the sun seemed to instantly pale behind him knowing very well it was no match for this beauty. He walked closer the breeze blowing his scent over and I bet I would have given him my nose for a souvenir if he'd asked for it. He smelled like a heady mix of male musk and something so faint and sweet that I could not place. He got closer and the miracle of the day happened. We bumped into each other or better still he bumped into me in an attempt to avoid being hit by some rascal Lagos driver. I fell backwards and halfway to the ground he caught me and for that still moment we looked like two tango dancers at the end of the dance staring inquisitively into each other's eyes seeking out each other's souls. I guess he felt the awkwardness of the moment and so he decided to let me go, helping me balance myself properly on my feet. Since I almost fell I guess I could say he swept me off my feet. Not just me though but my nylon bag too 'cause it slipped out of my grip spilling out all of its content to the ground. This to you may sound a cliche but the scene was the climax of the evening and let's see if you guessed right; we reached down to pick up my stuff at the same time and clumsily our heads collided. He looked into my eyes and I looked back in his and whoa! I felt like I was being hypnotized. His eyes were like a whirling pool of caramel catching the headlight of an oncoming car it sparkled entrancing me in a hypnotizing stare. He came closer and closer and putting his lips to my ear, he whispered my name the sound so soft it could have been the wind speaking. Lily! he kept on calling my name repeatedly the volume and urgency increasing and strangely it soon started sounding feminine. Lily! Lily!! I realized it was not him calling me when I heard the person call me by my full name Ayomide Lily Akinwande are you going to wake up or should I call your people at the office to tell them you're not interested in resuming with them because your dreams are more interesting to you than your reality. Stop smiling with your eyes closed and get off the bed you have only an hour to go. With this notification, I quickly sprinted out of bed. Taking my bath and dressing up in a hurry. Breakfast did not make its way to my compulsory list as I even had to delete my priceless early morning makeup well it's a good thing I actually look like a sunflower even in my sleep or how did that guy put it?. I half walked and half ran to get a bus to my place of work and luckily for me there was no traffic today. Already settled in at my desk and not having any task I had to instantly attend to, I decided to ruminate on last night's dreams. Hmmmmmmmmm Later in the day, I smelled a scent that seemed all too familiar. I know this might sound crazy but it was the exact same heady mix of male musk and something so faint and sweet that I could not place. The same scent the guy from my dream had. I raised my head and I saw a young man He wore a burgundy suit, black trousers and a Black Tie. He walked as though the earth were his subordinate taking steps like he was making a show of his level of supremacy. Shoulders a perfect square and legs that were shaped like Cupid's bow. He had a delicately sculptured diamond-shaped face with a thin chinstrap beard running along the side of his face accentuating his strong jawline and conjugating at his chin. His lips were small and a little pouty giving his dominant male frame a childish touch. He was now talking to one of my coworkers revealing his ivory white teeth which should earn him the spot as the Oral B brand ambassador. And I knew without any shred of doubt that it was him, the guy in my dream, my new neighbour next door or better still my 'next house neighbour'. He walked closer, the breeze blowing his scent over and I bet I would have given him my nose for a souvenir if he asks. As he walked past my desk, he flashed that same smile that makes the sun seem pale in comparison, he looked into my eyes and I into his and then he whispered my name so softly it could have been the wind speaking Lily! Lily!! Lily!!! I jumped out of my daydream to realize he had long returned to his office after flashing a harmless smile in the direction of my colleagues and me. The other girls were now staring at me and giggling; well for me, I didn't care. At least he's a man worth crushing on and the fact is clear for all to see. Later that evening after working hours I decided to ponder a little on this 'I don't know what to call it' kind of coincidence. A new guy moved into my street who I clearly had a crush on appeared in my dreams yesterday and happened to be part of the company I had just been employed in. Could fate be saying something, could the hands of the sisters be weaving a new thread?. I knew fate had a role to play when he walked past me at the parking garage giving me the you're sighted look. I stood rooted to that same spot. The same spot where he met me minutes later asking if I'll like to join him on a ride home and I'm sure you know I did not refuse.

Just so you know, tomorrow is our wedding and I dreamt about him proposing to me the night before he did. In that dream, I was in my house wearing a loose blue top over black jean shorts. I was sitting down watching a movie when I heard a knock at the door. Surprisingly, the knock seemed to become louder and each knock was accompanied by the sound of someone calling out my name and once again it was my roommate. This time she was calling out to me to answer the door. I must have been having one of those dreams again. I opened the door and standing before me with a hello neighbour package was Oluwakayode Rotimi the main character in all of my dreams and my next door... sorry next house neighbour. Well, let's see how it goes.


The early morning sun rose above the clouds. A strong, crisp, breeze whispered through a slightly opened window. A family of three, a young girl and her parents, sat at a table with their calendars open to the month of May. "So, what's happening on the 17th? And what about the 29th" The girl asked, her voice sharpened with a hint of impatience. She sat, tapping her pencil against the open book. she stared at the book. absorbing every little detail. The family was doing their weekly calendar planning. "Patience Victoria!" The Father snapped, then he glanced at his beloved wife for support. The mother smiled in amusement. "Victoria, we are still planning May 9th " The mother replied gently. Victoria sighed and sank further into her seat. The father looked at his daughter. He disappointment and impatience coming off her in waves and hoped to brighten her spirits. He looked at his calendar searching for something that would be stirring. Then he spotted the perfect thing. "Your Birthday Party is next week. Are you excited?!" He asked in a low, kind, voice. Victoria immediately sat upright, her eyes blazing with excitement. "Yes! I'm so Excited to have all my friends over! It'll be really fun! There'll be tons of cake! It'll be totally amazing!" Victoria bounced up and down in her chair, thinking of all the people she going to invite and all the stuff she wanted to do. "It's extremely exciting. You must be thrilled!" Her mother commented, feeling her daughter's excitement wash over her like a tsunami. "I can't wait!" Victoria said.

She had to wait though. Her father advised her to put it out of her mind “A watched pot never boils” he told her but she did not listen. The days dragged on and on. Victoria felt as if the day of the party would never come. She tried to keep busy, doing endless crafts and reading tirelessly. She was so focused on the celebration that she hardly noticed anything else. Her friends at school who were coming could obviously see that she was distracted, but they were just as excited. They could not stop talking about what they wanted to do and how they were going to do it. Her best friend, Monica, was Victoria’s go to person for encouragement or advice. Monica was the definition of silent but deadly. She did not talk a lot, but if there was an enemy harming her friends then she would mean every threat she made. She was truly kind but she tended to live in the moment and go with the flow. The total opposite of Victoria. They spent all their spare time together. After school Victoria went to a coffee shop with Monica. “you really need to slow down, stop thinking 90 miles per minute.” Monica advised, but Victoria waved it off metaphorically with her hand and took another sip of her coffee. “I don’t need to think I have everything planned. And when my plans begin, I plan for the next thing.” she replied with a cheeky smirk. Monica gave her a long look and decided that there was no point in arguing.  “ha-ha anything is more than I have planned", Monica joked quietly. She spent the rest of the day wishing that tomorrow would come now.

Finally, the day of her birthday was upon them. Victoria stood outside and paced the sidewalk restlessly. As soon as the clock turned 12:00 cars flooded into her driveway. Monica, her best friend, ran out before the car had stopped and flew at Victoria. They hugged each other but Victoria could not stay and talk. There were many more guests arriving. She greeted each of them in turn and guided them to the gift table, then the food table. When everyone arrived, she took them all to the pool and they dove in. “you guys are going to love the cake later” She told them as she gestured towards a box in the middle of a table. They stared in awe at the mysterious box. They partied until it was time for them to leave. “see you guys at school this Monday!” they left and Victoria told her mother “that was fun. I can't wait for my birthday”

The morning light filtered in through the blinds. The alarm clock shouted its unending beeping. Victoria jumped out of bed, half from Surprise and half from joy. It was finally her birthday! “My 13th birthday! I'm finally a Teenager!” She cheered quietly so as not to wake her father who was still sleeping. She quickly changed into her school clothes, ate her breakfast, and stared in Awe at the gifts her mother had placed on the table. There were few presents but Victoria was excited nonetheless. " I'm so excited to open these tonight!" She whispered to herself. Her mom who had been taking a shower came out and pretended that it was a normal day as a fun prank. She did her normal routine, preparing for work. Victoria was thoroughly confused. she legitimately thought that her mother had forgotten her birthday. The mother dropped the façade and she gave her a large 'Happy Birthday' hug and drove her to school. At school all her friends told her "Happy birthday!", and her friends who were unable to come to her birthday party gave her little gifts like socks and keychains from her favorite TV show.

"I can't believe how great today has been! I can't wait for tonight!"  Victoria thought.

School ended and Victoria bounded to the car as fast as she could. She drove home. Her father stopped by her favorite ice cream place as a surprise! She ordered a triple-scoop-chocolate-cookie-dough cone-ice-cream. She quickly devoured the scrumptious treat. They arrived home and Victoria opened all her presents! She loved them all, and could not wait to use them later. Cake came next and wasn't it delicious! Victoria enjoyed every last savory bit of it. Victoria and her parents sat on the balcony and watched the beautiful sunset. Many minutes of silence passed until Victoria turned to her parents. "What next?" She asked innocently. Her father chuckled and her mother turned to her with a smile. she looked Victoria in the eyes with a stare that would kill anyone with kindness. Victoria enjoyed the warmth of her mother's gaze but her burning question still fresh in her mind. Her mother turned back to the sunset and after another long time of silence answered. "Now we enjoy the gift of a moment!" She replied Victoria looked at her with a puzzled gaze “the present gift” She explained. And for the first time, Victoria stopped thinking about what is next. She just sat in the moment, wistfully watching the sunset gently descend behind the clouds.


***Disclaimer - this story is based on the original little mermaid story, so trigger warning for suicide at the end.*** “She looked at the sharp knife and again turned her eyes toward the Prince, who in his sleep murmured the name of his bride. His thoughts were all for her, and the knife blade trembled in the mermaid's hand. But then she flung it from her, far out over the waves. Where it fell the waves were red, as if bubbles of blood seethed in the water. With eyes already glazing she looked once more at the Prince, hurled herself over the bulwarks into the sea, and felt her body dissolve in foam.” In the old stories, there were messages. All sorts of people could read them and see different messages, but they were still there, nonetheless. Stories used to make people think, the way they did in reality. They used to show people a glimpse into another’s mind, something no person was able to truly do. Now, they were merely tools in the greater scheme of things, a way to understand the world as we see it without having their own view.

No one writes stories, not anymore. It’s hard to even find a person who’ll read a good story. You would think that with more and more people spanned out across the universe that they would be more accessible, but no. They’re just there as evidence of a past few see the existence of. Then again, there are those who cannot read or write altogether. Who are not human, and can know exactly what's going on in another being’s mind through pure speculation. They are closer to what stories themselves are - creations. The creations of humanity, for better or worse.

Our protagonist is one of such creations, and in that sense is quite like a story. While in the distant past she would be considered a work of art, a masterpiece, even - now she is barely seen, barely acknowledged, yet always there. Our protagonist is an android, and a small one at that. She is called Eleni, or torch, because she was created to shed light on the world. She is one of the few beings in the galaxy that has access to the old stories that people used to tell, back when even the idea of something like her was purely speculation.

And there’s one more thing about Eleni that’s like a story - she would die as soon as technology advanced again.

As people stomped their feet and shook their bodies in a process Eleni knew to be dancing, our protagonist hovered her own shiny bright body across the floor, looking across the room for the ship’s latest arrival. While the spaceship Eleni was stationed at usually picked up people of some sort from each colony, they were typically much older than the one in front of her. People at the end of their lifespans, ready to see a fraction of the universe before they died, like the majority of their colonies eventually would. However, the man in front of Eleni was just a boy, perhaps in his late teens. He was dancing cordially with a girl who looked around the same age.

While this was Eleni’s first glimpse of the boy, she knew the girl very well. Penelope Mirai of Earth, though she had been born and raised on the ship. Of course, Penelope had never glanced her way once, at least that Eleni knew of, but she was still well known as the child of Captain Mirai, one of the few born on Earth on the entire ship.

She was smiling, something Eleni herself was incapable of doing, as she clung onto the boy. He matched her smile as the music changed to a slower tempo.

“May I lead?” the boy asked Penelope, one arm outstretched while the other lay by his side. Penelope giggled, matching his arm position. “But of course,” she replied, tucking her long golden hair behind her ear. “That is typically the man’s role during a dance.” “I heard that on Earth, it’s fairly equal,” the boy said, his eyes fixated on Penelope. “You are from Earth, correct?” “I am originally,” she responded. “But this is the only life I’ve ever known. Jumping from planet to planet, colony to colony.” The boy frowned. “That sounds either absolutely horrid or like the most exciting experience one could have.” Penelope laughed. “Oh, it certainly is both of those. Everyone I have to keep me company is either extremely old, or not really alive.” Here, she gestured towards the shocked Eleni. It was a very rare occurrence for anyone to notice her, and even rarer if they were simply having a conversation about casual things, not helping out with the heavy lifting on the ship or directing orders. It shocked Eleni so much that she hovered away from the two humans and into a corner across the room, before her curiosity got the better of her about Penelope and the new boy. “I’d love to see Earth,” the boy said, his eyes drifting from Penelope to the large window behind the dancers. “You’re lucky to be from there, even if you’ve never been.” Penelope smiled again, showing her beautifully polished teeth. “Lucky to you, perhaps,” she replied. “But not to me. Had I been born to any other person on this ship, I would have a home to visit and travel back to. But alas, I am the captain’s daughter.” “And the future captain, I hear,” the boy said, with a glint in his eye. If she could, Eleni would have frowned. This was not a development she was aware of about Penelope. She assumed that they would drop her off somewhere closer to Earth when she came of age and the next captain would be voted on, like the current one was.

“Yes, yes,” Penelope replied. “So much responsibility.” The boy laughed again, his mouth quivering as he started to speak some more, but was quickly interrupted by the captain’s loud announcements ending the party. Eleni hovered back into the corner, as the new guests and crew members crowded out of the room, their chants and cries echoing through the halls of the ship. “Penelope!” the boy called out towards the girl, his eyes wide with curiosity. “Would you meet me back here later?” Penelope turned back towards the boy, a faint smile coming across her face, her eyes twinkling. “Of course, Amir,” she said, as Eleni quickly recorded the boy’s name into her mental database. “I’d be delighted to.” With one final exchange of smiles, the two parted, Penelope following her father to the control room, Eleni assumed, and Amir staying behind in the great ballroom. Androids scattered about across the room, cleaning up leftover cups and plates from the party. While holding a paper cup, Eleni stopped in her place yet again to watch the boy patiently waiting by the end of the room. His eyes were fixated on the door, as if he was waiting on Penelope to come back at any second, to dance with him more as they spoke about responsibility and Earth. Suddenly, Amir turned his head to the left, in Eleni’s direction. “What are you looking at?” he asked, nodding his head at Eleni.

But alas, the poor android could do nothing but beep.

“Oh, you don’t speak,” he said, knowingly. “We have some androids like that at home. Well, not home anymore, I suppose.” Eleni nodded. The boy had come from a colony down in deep space. Of course he would be used to his androids speaking. The boy smiled. “You understand me, though. Hello. I’m Amir.” Eleni pointed to the identification tag on her chest. “El - lay - nee,” Amir slowly articulated, “Hey, that’s a Greek name.” Eleni nodded again.

“You know,” Amir said, his eyes widening. “The Greeks used to tell stories about gods and goddesses and great heroes.” Curiously, Eleni nodded for the third time. Not many people even mention the old stories, especially not after hearing a name. Names were purely for identification, not anything more. Just like stories were pure spectacle with nothing to take out of them.

“Penelope has a Greek name too, you know,” he said, his voice growing softer. “She was the wife of Odysseus in an ancient poem called The Odyssey.” I know, Eleni thought desperately to herself. And Eleni is another name for Helen of Troy. However, all that came out were beeps.

Amir’s eyes glanced away from Eleni and instead at the large clock on the wall, then back at the door. “She isn’t coming back, is she?” he said, his voice faltering. Eleni shrugged as best she could, then let out a few more beeps. I don’t know. She might still come. But of course, the boy couldn’t understand her.

“Oh, of course she won’t,” he said, crestfallen. “It was ridiculous of me to even think she would.” Beep. No it wasn’t.

‘ “I mean, look at me,” he said, his eyes falling to the ground. “I’m talking to an android that can’t even reply.” Beep. I can understand, though. Eleni started to feel something towards the boy in this moment, something more than just curiosity. Perhaps it was just pity, but even pity is a human emotion. Even pity was something she wasn’t supposed to feel.

Beep. It’s not your fault.

Beep. You shouldn’t suffer on account of someone else’s shortcomings. Beep. If you love someone, let them go. But of course, Amir couldn’t hear a word. Still looking down, the boy sighed. “I don’t even know if I love her, Eleni. Is she even worth waiting for?” The android blinked. It had been so long since Eleni had been asked a question by a human, let alone being opened up to through that question. She would treasure this experience for a long time.

Beep. I don’t know, Amir. Beep. I wish you could hear me.

Beep. I wish I could tell you that she isn’t worth it. Amir glanced back up at the door again. “Perhaps she’s on her way now,” he said, his eyes brightening at the prospect.

Eleni sighed, then nodded. It wasn’t what she believed, but it was what Amir needed to hear. Agreement. Hope.

“Well, thank you, Eleni,” Amir said, turning towards the android. “I think I’m going to go look for Penelope now.” Eleni nodded.

Beep. Goodbye, Amir. The boy sighed, as he walked out the large door he had been staring at all evening. Eleni sighed with him. Perhaps he would find Penelope eventually. But it had been hours, and she hadn’t bothered to show up.

Amir deserved better. He deserved someone more...human. And yet, that was the one thing Eleni couldn’t give him.

Eleni followed out the door behind him, scurrying through the halls of the ship, looking for her own little piece of humanity she had left. A small corridor leading to the outside. Where people exited the ship for good.

Where Amir had entered just around a day ago. Eleni opened the door carefully, making sure not to let too much air into the ship. With one final fake breath in, she flung herself out the door, into the emptiness of space.


It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same: peaceful. Peaceful was the perfect word to describe how she felt as she got out of her car and walked along the asphalt path toward her destination. She couldn’t help but take in the well-manicured grass, the flowering trees, and the beautiful blue sky. As she came around a curve in the path, the reason for her visit to this place came into view. She stopped. The growing tension in her abdomen felt like an invading army, attacking and destroying the peace she had felt just moments before. After a few deep breaths, she willed her legs to move and, one slow step at a time, she drew closer even as her destination seemed to move away from her into a narrow, dark tunnel. To see what she was about to see was exactly why she had come here. She could not turn back now. Lowering her gaze to the path directly in front of her seemed to help. She took the last few steps and, after twenty-four years, she had finally returned. Still keeping her eyes on the path, she steadied herself. She took a deep breath then slowly raised her head until her eyes came to rest on his name, carved into the black granite gravestone. She had met him twenty-six years before at a party thrown by a mutual friend. Her friend later had sworn that the party had not been a setup for the two of them to meet but everyone else at the party had been couples. When she was introduced to him, she made sure to give her friend the evil eye. Her friend just grinned then walked away, leaving the two of them alone.

She had been divorced for less than a year and her friends had been pushing her to start dating but she wasn’t sure if she was ready. Being the good sport that she was, however, she had decided to play along. He was rather handsome after all and immediately made her laugh. So far so good. They had indeed hit if off but, after a few dates, he began buying clothes for her and insisting that she wear them when they were together. She tried to tell him that she was comfortable with her own wardrobe but he became irritated and told her that he liked being with the beautiful woman that she was but, also, the beautiful woman who dressed beautifully.

Even though the outfits were not really her style, in order to keep the peace in this new relationship, she agreed that maybe it was time for a change. After all, he was paying for the new clothes.

A short time later, he surprised her with a spa day. He told her she would be enjoying a full-body massage with a seaweed wrap, a facial, a mani-cure, and a pedi-cure. He definitely had her attention at this point. She had not been to a spa in several years. Then, he reached out and took a lock of her hair in his fingers, looked her in the eye and added to the list: an entirely new hair color and style. She took a step back and told him to go to hell. He back-handed her across the face then immediately grabbed her by the shoulders and began apologizing like a repentant sinner. He begged her to forgive him and made the excuse that he felt insulted at her reaction to his generous gift and had overreacted. Her thoughts immediately returned to a voice-mail that had been left on her phone right after she had separated from her first husband. By his mother. Her mother-in-law told her that she was a weak and pathetic woman and that, if her husband’s eyes were wandering to other women, it was her fault and she needed to work harder to save her marriage. So, she decided to forgive him but she was not going to change her hair style and especially not her hair color. He apologized again and offered to take her to their favorite restaurant for dinner. She told him she would take a rain-check. That was only the beginning.	He would go away for weekend golf trips with his friends but return and tell her he needed to borrow money. Not much at first but in ever increasing amounts.

Although he began accusing her of cheating, she would catch glimpses of flirty text messages on his phone. If she asked about them, he would accuse her of spying on him and not trusting him, making her feel like the guilty party.

Months and months of stress from dealing with ever-increasing suspicions, arguments, break-ups and reconciliations and the inner turmoil of wanting to prove she was strong enough to deal with anything took its toll. Her new business was suffering. She wasn’t sleeping. She needed a break. She discussed the idea of a short break with him and, in order to appease her, he agreed. Immediately, he began sending text messages and leaving voice mails that flip-flopped between anger and apology. After a week of ignoring him, he finally stopped. The stress, however, from the anticipation of that next call or text message would not subside for several more days.

After a couple of weeks of radio silence, she received a text that simply said, “Great news! I’ll call you. Please pick up.” Before she had any time to process this, her phone rang. She picked up. He suggested that, since they had taken a break, and had had time to think, they should go out for dinner and talk things out. He had some exciting news to tell her. Would this just be one more in a long string of talk-things-out dinners? She had decided that it would not. This would be the last one. No matter what he said to her, she was going to end it. But as he talked about how he had learned a lot from his new therapist and as he presented his plan for how he would become a better person, a scene of her ex-mother-in-law wagging her finger at her and lecturing her like a child for being weak and telling her she should give him one more chance, kept playing in her head in an unending loop. Maybe she should give him one more chance. After all, this conversation had seemed different, had it not? He had seemed different. He was getting help. He had seemed sincere as he laid out his plan to change. Could she believe him? Did she dare believe him? As the argument raged inside her head, they looked around to discover that they were the only diners left in the restaurant. He paid their bill then asked her to get the car so he could hit the restroom before they drove home. She told him she could wait but he insisted.

She backed the car out of the parking place and shifted into drive, but hesitated. She wanted so badly to step on the gas and leave him behind; to keep driving toward a new life and not stopping until she found one.

She looked toward the restaurant. He was standing at the door with their waitress. The waitress typed something on a phone then handed the phone to him. His phone. As the waitress closed the door, he lingered for a moment as if he were watching her through the door. He turned, stepped away from the door, and began walking across the empty parking lot. Her knuckles turned white as her grip tightened on the steering wheel. She was a fool. Embarrassment flooded over her like a torrential downpour. “You’re weak! You’re weak!” Something snapped inside her.

She slammed the gas pedal to the floor.

At the last moment before impact, she turned her head away, and closed her eyes.

She hadn’t seen what would be the last, horrified expression on his face, but she had heard the sickening crunch just before his body flew across the parking lot, dead before it even hit the pavement. They called it a crime of passion and sentenced her to twenty-four years. Just before being locked away for those twenty-four years, she had watched the casket as it was lowered into the ground, ending her nightmare. So, on this day of her release from prison, the first day of her new life of true freedom, she had come here to make sure the son-of-a-bitch was still dead.

He was and that was all that mattered.


That’s the thing about this city. It gets inside your head, makes you think that for once in your life, you’re gonna do something great. It makes you think that every time you walk by a stranger on the street, that they could mean something to you, so every time you leave the house you dress up and you look nice and you run those streets as though you own them, and they don’t own you. In the city, you don’t think anything owns you till it’s too late, and you’re lying in your room and looking up at a ceiling that doubles as the floor for the people in the apartment above you. Those people, you think, were they once like you? Did they once think that moving to the city- this city in particular- would make them into something they were not? You know better now. You know better than to wake up and throw open the windows. The birds aren’t singing for you, they’re singing for food. They’re hungry for things people don’t want to give them, just like you are. They want what they can’t have and so they, like you, stay up too late and when the morning comes they do everything they can to stay in bed just a minute longer. That’s the thing about this city. It sells you dreams and then expects you to pay it back penny by painful penny. Those coins you give up don’t taste like blood because they’re made of copper, no, those coins taste like blood because they are evidence enough that the city will choke you out if you don’t move fast. You’ve gotta move fast. Faster than the people on the streets, who don’t care about you. Faster than all the buses and trains and cars, because they’ll drive right through you if it means getting to where they’re going. Yeah, see, that’s the thing about this city. If you don’t keep up with it, it’s gonna leave you where you belong. There’s all these signs, no matter where you look, and it’s all the same. People, pets, things… They’re all missing because one way or another, they disappeared. You can’t help but wonder if it’s the city’s fault you’re failing, or your own, or someone else’s entirely. Your friends blame the government for the economy and your other problems but the truth is, you know the city would still be rife with heartbreak even if the president was the best person alive. This city broke your heart, and it’s all the more sad because you came here thinking these sky kissing buildings would patch you back up inside, make up for a lifetime of never thinking you’d be an adequate member of the human race. That’s one thing you were right about, though. You belong in this city with all the roaches, the ones that skitter across the sidewalk with their janky legs trespassing in the mortal realm. Yeah, you think, I may be a cockroach and I may belong with the rest of the rats in this city but at least nothing gets to me anymore. How much further can you fall if you’re already eating ramen noodles from the same tub you washed your hair in, sitting on the carpet of a place you don’t recognize even though you spent so much time finding it. Your parents have been telling you to come back home, but you can’t go back to a place that was never yours. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? To find your space on a map, to make a thick black Sharpie slash across the universe, to stand at the top of your apartment complex and look down at the itty bitty ant people and scream that you are here? Isn’t that what you moved here for? Isn’t that why the city called you? You’ve gotta make up your mind. Maybe it’s not what you wanted but it’s what you asked for and you worked to get here, work to find the color in this sea of gray/red/blue/gray/red/blue lights. Wake up and smell the coffee, splash your hands in the cool waters of reality, stop being such a cliche and start getting back to the reasons you left all you knew behind. You may die and you may worse than die, but there’s a chance you’ll be okay and if it was up to me I’d shake you till your shoulders bruised if it got the point across. No, I don’t mean I’d hurt you in order to get your head back on track but at the same time, I don’t want the city to be the reason that script never leaves your desk. It’s not an excuse anymore. That’s the thing about this city, right? People come here with big dreams only to find those dreams getting absolutely smashed. So. What do you do? You remember what you are. You put on your cockroach armor, and you crawl the heck out of the gutter. You, like the pigeons squealing in the parks outside your window, learn to fly through the smog and the jeering people. You, like the boys who sell bagels from their grandfather’s hot dog cart, make yourself heard even if you know for a fact it doesn’t matter who remembers you when you’re gone. Don’t let the city break your heart. Do not let the city tear you in two. You know what you’re doing. Stop staring at the ceiling and go do it already. Get up, get out. There’s a clock, it’s moving fast, and it’s no different than the buses and cars and trains. It will drive through you, imbed its pointy hands in the spaces between your ribs and claw out your beating, bleeding vital organs, stomp on them and eat them whole, with a bit of pepper and even more salt. That’s the thing about this city. You moved here, but don’t let it move you.


“Mayaaaa, what on earth are you trying to do “yelled Shyam.” Press the brake damn it, the car is out of control, are you out of your mind, have you forgotten to drive, an ace racer is not able to drive a Cherokee. What is wrong with you, if you don’t put the brakes we will fall off the cliff. “Oh, just shut up Shyam, I’m not able to pull the car to a halt; there is something wrong with the brakes.” I cannot even shift the gears, Oh god, Shyam we are going to die”, yelled Maya. There was screeching sound and a rumble, the car dashed ahead and went topsy turvy and fell off the cliff with a bang. It rumbled down like a toy and with passengers yelling for help. The car banged onto the rocky mountain and there was a blast of fire. The car was burnt into ashes. “Maya, my sweet heart how long will you take to dress up, you are naturally beautiful , you don’t need any extra makeup, come its already late to the party” mumbled Sam. “Oh, Sam, stop annoying, I will be ready in a jiffy, and you know we girls need some time to look beautiful”. Sam, Maya’s dear husband was a simpleton but with an intellectual soul. He was very clever and intelligent and his creations were so fantabulous that he had made a mark in the field of science and technology. A scientist who had created the most intelligent robot which was capable of rebuilding its own replica, Robot which could clone itself and order the other clones to perform their functions. A perfect humanoid indeed. Today was the launch party of his humanoid and Maya and Sam were very excited. They reached the venue and they were given a red carpet welcome. Sam’s creation was an unbelievable miracle. A Robot which could perform almost all functions which a human could do.   It was a creation which couldn’t have been just dreamt of. Sam’s 10 year hard work and intellectual mind was the output a perfect robot which could be considered a human by mistake. The whole venue was thronged by journalists, media persons, and business men and Sam’s friends were also present along with numerous scientists. They were overwhelmed by the creative skills of Sam. Sam was a perfect human and his creations were the same. He had only one weak point and that was Maya, his love life and loving wife. His friends unleashed their memories of their school and college days. “Hey Sam and Maya where is your another buddy, not to be seen, I do remember his name, yes he is Shyam, where is he now he should’ve been on the front in your launch party”, exclaimed a friend. Just then Maya intervened saying, “Oh, Shyam had some work and he is out of the country, he will be back in few days, he has wished us luck”. Maya, Sam and Shyam were best buddies from their childhood days. Sam an intellectual mastermind , Shyam was a perfect businessman material and Maya the beauty queen. All three were different in their attributes but together in friendship. Maya made her debut in the fashion world. Shyam did his MBA in a prestigious University and Sam one of the most creative scientist. The launch party was a super hit. The Humanoid created by Sam was so perfect that everybody admired the miracle. The humanoid was almost like a human it could walk , talk , and sit dress up speak like any normal human being. It was far more intelligent than humans. It could perform complex calculations in a jiffy. It was a perfect chef which could prepare any type of cuisine within few seconds. Everything was perfect . The businessmen who were gathered wanted to buy his product and they thronged around Sam to discuss with him. But Sam didn’t accept it. “I created him because I m passionate towards science and technology. My creation is not for money making, it’s because  I love innovativeness hence a human form of a robot. He rejected the best offers and ,after all the noisy launch party both Maya and Sam were completely exhausted. They just forgot to put the robot in his cabin. He was not completely finished yet. There were minor discrepancies to be jotted out. The robot was truly a masterpiece. He reached his master’s house within a jiffy before Maya and Sam could reach home. Maya was exasperated by the speed of the robot. She was overwhelmed that she hugged the robot tight. The touch of a human made the robot tremble with anxiety. He was just a machine but he felt her touch. After that incident the robot had a complete transformation, he always wanted to get closer to Maya and this was an issue to worry about.

Shyam had not returned for months together. His family members smelled something fishy about his missing. His missing complaint was registered and Sam and Maya were the first to be interrogated. As this was a high profile case ,Shyam was an aspiring business tycoon there was a strict investigation. The police couldn’t get much information from Maya and Sam. But the result of their investigations were truly shocking. Sam was busy in his research work and Maya as usual was getting dressed up for a fashion show of a famous designer who was also her best friend. The police barged in a knocked the door. “ Excuse us Mr. and Mrs Sam, I think it’s time you both accept your crime. You cannot hide your sins behind your fair skin.” Maya and Sam were shocked “ What on earth are you saying , cop.”.”What have we done” yelled Maya. “ Will you confess about your dear’s friend’s death, or should we use other methods to do so”. Maya broke down, she started crying. Sam spoke”, yes we confess that we killed our own friend , but he was eyeing on my beautiful Maya which was very annoying hence we planned a kill”.” Is that it or is there something hidden which the world should know”. Maya was still crying. Sam opened up saying “ No Sir, I wanted a perfect human trial for my robot and Shyam was my guinea pig”. “I had to finish him hence we planned a kill”. Maya took him to a long drive and acted as if the car was out of control , she jumped off the car before the car fell into the cliff. Shyam died on the spot, and we took his body for my research”. “ My creation is always exemplary, the humanoid robot is none other than Shyam” “Yes we know it”. Sam and Maya were shocked to hear,” “how do you know that the robot is Shyam himself”. The cop replied “ Yes your are a master creator, but you are a criminal too, the creation is a true master piece indeed , he approached me and so we are here” . Maya and Sam were shocked . There was robotic smile on Shyam’s face the humanoid. “Mayaaaa, what on earth are you trying to do “yelled Shyam.” Press the brake damn it, the car is out of control, are you out of your mind, have you forgotten to drive, an ace racer is not able to drive a Cherokee. What is wrong with you, if you don’t put the brakes we will fall off the cliff. “Oh, just shut up Shyam, I’m not able to pull the car to a halt; there is something wrong with the brakes.” I cannot even shift the gears, Oh god, Shyam we are going to die”, yelled Maya. There was screeching sound and a rumble, the car dashed ahead and went topsy turvy and fell off the cliff with a bang. It rumbled down like a toy and with passengers yelling for help. The car banged onto the rocky mountain and there was a blast of fire. The car was burnt into ashes. “Maya, my sweet heart how long will you take to dress up, you are naturally beautiful , you don’t need any extra makeup, come its already late to the party” mumbled Sam. “Oh, Sam, stop annoying, I will be ready in a jiffy, and you know we girls need some time to look beautiful”. Sam, Maya’s dear husband was a simpleton but with an intellectual soul. He was very clever and intelligent and his creations were so fantabulous that he had made a mark in the field of science and technology. A scientist who had created the most intelligent robot which was capable of rebuilding its own replica, Robot which could clone itself and order the other clones to perform their functions. A perfect humanoid indeed. Today was the launch party of his humanoid and Maya and Sam were very excited. They reached the venue and they were given a red carpet welcome. Sam’s creation was an unbelievable miracle. A Robot which could perform almost all functions which a human could do.   It was a creation which couldn’t have been just dreamt of. Sam’s 10 year hard work and intellectual mind was the output a perfect robot which could be considered a human by mistake. The whole venue was thronged by journalists, media persons, and business men and Sam’s friends were also present along with numerous scientists. They were overwhelmed by the creative skills of Sam. Sam was a perfect human and his creations were the same. He had only one weak point and that was Maya, his love life and loving wife. His friends unleashed their memories of their school and college days. “Hey Sam and Maya where is your another buddy, not to be seen, I do remember his name, yes he is Shyam, where is he now he should’ve been on the front in your launch party”, exclaimed a friend. Just then Maya intervened saying, “Oh, Shyam had some work and he is out of the country, he will be back in few days, he has wished us luck”. Maya, Sam and Shyam were best buddies from their childhood days. Sam an intellectual mastermind , Shyam was a perfect businessman material and Maya the beauty queen. All three were different in their attributes but together in friendship. Maya made her debut in the fashion world. Shyam did his MBA in a prestigious University and Sam one of the most creative scientist. The launch party was a super hit. The Humanoid created by Sam was so perfect that everybody admired the miracle. The humanoid was almost like a human it could walk , talk , and sit dress up speak like any normal human being. It was far more intelligent than humans. It could perform complex calculations in a jiffy. It was a perfect chef which could prepare any type of cuisine within few seconds. Everything was perfect . The businessmen who were gathered wanted to buy his product and they thronged around Sam to discuss with him. But Sam didn’t accept it. “I created him because I m passionate towards science and technology. My creation is not for money making, it’s because  I love innovativeness hence a human form of a robot. He rejected the best offers and ,after all the noisy launch party both Maya and Sam were completely exhausted. They just forgot to put the robot in his cabin. He was not completely finished yet. There were minor discrepancies to be jotted out. The robot was truly a masterpiece. He reached his master’s house within a jiffy before Maya and Sam could reach home. Maya was exasperated by the speed of the robot. She was overwhelmed that she hugged the robot tight. The touch of a human made the robot tremble with anxiety. He was just a machine but he felt her touch. After that incident the robot had a complete transformation, he always wanted to get closer to Maya and this was an issue to worry about.

Shyam had not returned for months together. His family members smelled something fishy about his missing. His missing complaint was registered and Sam and Maya were the first to be interrogated. As this was a high profile case ,Shyam was an aspiring business tycoon there was a strict investigation. The police couldn’t get much information from Maya and Sam. But the result of their investigations were truly shocking. Sam was busy in his research work and Maya as usual was getting dressed up for a fashion show of a famous designer who was also her best friend. The police barged in a knocked the door. “ Excuse us Mr. and Mrs Sam, I think it’s time you both accept your crime. You cannot hide your sins behind your fair skin.” Maya and Sam were shocked “ What on earth are you saying , cop.”.”What have we done” yelled Maya. “ Will you confess about your dear’s friend’s death, or should we use other methods to do so”. Maya broke down, she started crying. Sam spoke”, yes we confess that we killed our own friend , but he was eyeing on my beautiful Maya which was very annoying hence we planned a kill”.” Is that it or is there something hidden which the world should know”. Maya was still crying. Sam opened up saying “ No Sir, I wanted a perfect human trial for my robot and Shyam was my guinea pig”. “I had to finish him hence we planned a kill”. Maya took him to a long drive and acted as if the car was out of control , she jumped off the car before the car fell into the cliff. Shyam died on the spot, and we took his body for my research”. “ My creation is always exemplary, the humanoid robot is none other than Shyam” “Yes we know it”. Sam and Maya were shocked to hear,” “how do you know that the robot is Shyam himself”. The cop replied “ Yes your are a master creator, but you are a criminal too, the creation is a true master piece indeed , he approached me and so we are here” . Maya and Sam were shocked . There was robotic smile on Shyam’s face, the humanoid.


TW: bullying, slurs Two years had passed since the extinction of the virus. Yet here I was. In the principal’s office. Captive so as to narrate the events of the previous Sunday night.

“You Chinese f-ck,”. All windows were sealed shut, yet a wind of bewilderment managed to blow me straight in the face. All the remarks I had heard till now; all the “go back to China”s’ in the bathroom stalls and all the hostile leers I would constantly receive in cafes and supermarkets; they had never succeeded at  bringing about my incredulity. Having grown up as a “ching chong ” little boy during the pandemic , I was more than aware of the cruelty uneducated human beings have the potential of letting loose into the air along with each and every breath they release.Yet coming out of the principal’s mouth? These words suddenly seemed to transform into heart-burning flames, firing through an opened and fervent furnace. “You should have known better than to attend that party. Didn’t it seem suspicious to you that you were the only .. wide-eyed there?” The latter even stinged. My eyes must have froze somewhere in between his shirt’s two huge blue collar buttons, resulting in his uncomfortable back and forth movement. “ Mr. Douglas, are you really suggesting this is my fault? When it was them who actually organized this so.. ill minded prank?”. My heart was pounding immensely, like it was warning me of an overflow of emotion that was soon to come. I gulped, in hopes that along with my saliva I would also swallow the tears and pain. He must have realized that, for his sturdy voice softened: “ I didn’t say it was your fault.. I’m just saying you could have avoided all of this by not going to the party and staying in your dorm. There are ,after all ,guidelines for students

of your kind . In any case, don’t worry. The rest of your classmates will be forced to undertake community work for the whole following week. You can rest assur..” Suddenly, his voice started to sound clogged; as if I had just taken a deep dive and my ears had become plugged with water.

Anything else that he might have said I didn’t hear. My mind lurched away from the reality and revisited the events of the previous night in the lake.

I remember thinking for a moment that acceptance was finally being conferred on me. When handing me the invitation, Lisa had seemed so sincere. Her teasing had generally ceased to be as far reaching as it was during the pandemic.Moreover, we had begun engaging ourselves in inconsequential chatter in between our shared English Lit. lectures. Hence,  when she greeted me upon my arrival at that party, I truly believed that a genuine friendship was quivering on the horizon. She handed me one of those cherry red beer glasses and piloted me to a table surrounded by a swirl of people. The vitality radiating from the youth was so immense that the whole lake seem to ring full of it. We played beer pong for about an hour and even though I sucked at it, as it was a game till then unknown for me, I was genuinely enjoying myself. And I was simultaneously feeling a heart warming relation to the sun; despite my origins making me so different and distinct, I was ultimately fitting in. So it figures that when I heard Lisa’s shrill voice vocalizing her desire of me joining her to a helping of some smorgasbords at the lavish buffet across, I jovially accepted it. At that moment I was a little tipsy; I didn’t  notice the innumerable pair of eyes that were falling on us as we sauntered across;I didn’t notice them even though they must have fell upon us like the lens of a projector lighting up a theater stage. Nor did I notice the leers, nor the sneers of their playful eyes. I did however wonder a bit for the sudden convocation that was forming around me. I was nevertheless too pure. Too naive to understand. And I was unaware of the urgency of my understanding; I raised a small sandwich at the height of my lips and let it slip onto my mouth. Not a second later than a crunchy sound was made, did everyone burst into laughter. I spat the sandwich at the florid tissue that I had picked up along with it, startled by its gruesome taste; and I  at last realized that the inside of the sandwich consisted of crickets and grasser-hopers. Are you aware of the conjecture concerning the reason behind people‘s inability to remember their younger years? It is said to be because of the embarrassment they feel while adjusting to life. Well, for me the same thing must have applied for that cold and horrendous night. Because the rest of it is a complete blur.

The sharp and peremptory scream of the old fashioned telephone sitting at the principal’s desk lurched me back into reality. Dazzled by the extent of my absent-mindedness, I forced my brain to return to my seated body.

“Good afternoon Mrs. Morris. Yes, yes of course, I’ll be right there” uttered the principal in his ordinary and formal manner.

He clumsily put the telephone back in its place and simultaneously buoyed up as a balloon. “Well, kid, I’m glad we got this sorted out and that there will be no further trouble. No need to perplex your parents in such a childish matter. I need to go now, so you can see yourself out. Im certain that after our discussion you’ll try not to stray too far away from your comfort and you’ll keep out of trouble.” I stood up and headed for the door. I saw myself out of the office and was ready to seal the door closed, when the air slipped outside of the office and carried some last words the principal had to say:

“Oh, and don’t forget to see the university’s psychologist.” My dorm wasn’t that far away from that frivolous office. I only had to hurry through two flights of stairs and walk five feet to find myself back in my so comforting ,yet so desolate, dorm. I was almost there when i saw Lisa dressed in athletic attire exiting her own dorm, just two doors over mine.

She saw me. I tried to speak to her, but she wouldn’t even look me in the eyes. She trotted to the staircase with such a hurry that the sound of her footsteps reminded of the heavy rain falling outside in the ground.

Languid, i uttered a fading sigh and entered my solacing shelter. I had left the window open and found some of the rain lying upon the wooden floor. I hastily approached it with the intention of sealing it shut. I really wanted to avoid the further unrest of mopping on such an already strenuous day . But the nearer I came to the window, the harder it became for me to close it off.

I soon found myself riding the window shelf. The rain was so heavy that it clutched on my leggings as if it was solid matter. And it started to  alarmingly weigh me down towards nothingness. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to escape the imminent threat of death. Then my beloved mother came into my mind. And suddenly, any suicidal thought that I might have had until then, vanished completely; I could never do that to her.. I decisively raised my leg up to the level of the small panoramic windowpane in order to bring it back into were it belonged. I decided that I wouldn’t let anyone dictate the worth of my existence. But it didn’t matter what I had decided. For all it mattered, the little hook on the pipe outside the window had already decided my fate. I remember looking at my bed stand and then straight up at the sky.


Most kids in high school spent their summers at the pool or on vacation, but I preferred to spend mine in a library. Mind you, this wasn’t just any library. This was a good old-fashion card catalogue extravaganza of county birth recordings, cemetery records, drawers of family archives, and an unholy number of biographies on Abe Lincoln. It smelled of must and brewing coffee, and the ceiling creaked like a ghost was moving in the attic. I loved it. It was there that I first encountered Cyril Aberforce. Years after the fact, I wondered if I remembered his name because it was so strange, but likely not. It had more to do with the words Murderer Convicted over his head in bold newspaper print. In April of 1838, this Mr. Cyril Aberforce was found in a pool of his wife’s blood in their kitchen, a butcher knife still in his hand. His wife Maggie, was Mr. Aberforce’s only relative in hundreds of miles. They had no children nor were likely to, being in their sixties. The fragile, yellowed newspapers read that it was the result of a drunken rage, for the man was prone to take moonshine in his bad harvest seasons, and the rain hadn’t shown many signs of coming, so maybe he was planning ahead. Other chronicles said a demon had come over him as punishment for his past sins. Unfortunately, I couldn’t precisely discover what these past sins were. That was understandable given that sixty years of not the best recorded history had preceded the murder, but I couldn’t help but question it all. I was reading a lot of romances at the time—Austen, Gaskell, Heyer—and I couldn’t believe a man would murder his wife. And of course, there was the fact that Cyril swore he didn’t kill her. He said he’d come in and found her lying in her own blood and was so upset he took the knife and laid beside her until one of the farmhands found him. I was still considering all of this on the drive home when a sudden thought struck me. I turned my mom’s car around and drove to the largest house in the town, owned by the brittle, tightfisted Julia Erford. I knocked for nearly ten minutes before the door was opened. The ancient creature herself answered, more than making up for her four feet seven inches with a stare like an iceberg and a voice as shrill as a crow. She wasn’t happy to see me, and I doubted she would’ve been happy to see anyone, but when I asked if I could look through her collections of old papers, her eyes lit up. Mrs. Erford had long since hoarded a collection of letters and other documents from her family, who had lived in the town for nearly two hundred years. She refused to give them up to the museum, saying those greedy Democrat monsters would photocopy them to high hell and sell them to the highest bidder. I let all this pass without comment, and the only account of myself I had to give was that I indeed was not what she considered the most deplorable of occupations, an academic, but merely a teenager interested in the past. Mrs. Erford’s study, where she kept all of the papers, might as well have been the library, as it smelled just the same. Still, an hour in I was missing the tidy card catalogue as I sat beside mountains of deteriorating parchment. I heard the click of her cane down the hall outside and she opened the door. “Find what you were looking for?” “No, unfortunately not.” “Might I ask what was so important that you threw off my dinner time?” I looked up guiltily. “I wanted to find out more about the Aberforce murder.” “Mmm, ah. Nasty business. My family preferred not to talk about it.” Cocking my head, I asked, “Why’s that?” She looked down at me like I was an idiot. “Because the Aberforces were my relatives! Erford is a derivative we took after the Civil War so people would stop banging on the door asking to see where Maggie died.” My eyes widened. “Maggie died here?” “Are you quite sure you’ve read about this? My family has owned these thirty-five acres since John Aberforce laid his claim in 1805. He was Cyril’s father, you know. The house was always in the same place.” “But Maggie didn’t actually die in this house? I saw the cornerstone on my way up the porch. It said 1847.” Mrs. Erford sized me up, new respect in her eyes. “Yes, so it was. No, she died in the original farmhouse. It burned down, and my great great great great great grandfather built this mansion.” For a moment, I was caught off guard, wanting to laugh at the thought that maybe there weren’t so many greats in between then and Mrs. Erford, but I controlled myself. “So the line’s been continuous since then?” She puffed out her chest a bit. “It has.” “Wait,” I said, holding up one finger. “How’s that? The papers said Cyril had no family, not even children. Did a family member come from somewhere else and take up the line?” Mrs. Erford hesitated. I could tell she was reconsidering the wisdom of letting me into her home. “Well, yes and no,” she said at last. “My ancestor, Henriette Aberforce, came with her husband and son, but they also came for another reason.” “Which was?” She sighed resignedly. “To care for Cyril’s child.” “But you said—“ “Oh child, how old are you, eighteen?” she snapped. “A man doesn’t have to be married to a woman to impregnate her!” I rolled my eyes. “You might have just said so. But that still doesn’t add up. Why wouldn’t the papers have given a clue to that as a motive? Who was the child’s mother?” “Twenty-year-old Beth Smith. A charity orphan turned nurse who’d come to take care of Mrs. Aberforce in her sickness. The baby wasn’t born until after Cyril had been hanged.” I cringed. “That’s disgusting! She was young enough to have been his daughter!” “Men are men,” Mrs. Erford said with a saturnine smile. “Now, I expect you’re going to be wanting the letters of Henrietta Aberforce.” “How would those help?” “How should I know? You’re the one playing detective, making free with my family’s history.” “It’s history in general, Mrs. Erford,” I argued. “And I didn’t ask for your opinion! Now do you want the letters or not?” Not ten minutes later, I was sitting at the study desk, unwrapping the dusty bundle. Lacking the latex gloves of the library, I had to be especially careful opening and turning pages. Making out the spidery, feminine script of the mid-nineteenth century was nearly impossible. I was on my twenty-something letter, nearly about to pack up and leave, when I caught sight of the date at the top, April 13, 1838. Not only was it the day of the murder, the letter was addressed to Maggie! Though most was of no importance, a passage caught my eye. What nonsense you are talking! You certainly are no longer in the prime of life, but I will not hear of you speaking of your death in this way. And stop saying Cyril will not miss you when you’ve gone, for I’m certain no husband could be more devoted to his wife! Did he not engage a village girl to look after you in your ill health? I look forward to meeting her, anyone who looks after my dear relatives so well is worthy of the highest respect! You may expect me only a few weeks from the time you get this letter! I looked up as the letter returned to domestic inanities. Maggie had known she was going to die? Did she know her husband had been chasing another girl? Had Beth or Cyril killed her to get her out of the way? “Did you find anything interesting?” Mrs. Erford’s voice startled me out of my morbid reflections. “Yes!” I said excitedly, repeating to her the passage and my thoughts on it. “Hmm. I wonder if the answer lies in Maggie’s diary.” “She kept a diary?” I asked, barely concealing my joy. “Supposedly,” she said. “No one could find it. If they had, no doubt it would have been key evidence in the trial. But my cousin Hetty’s journal of the goings on at that fiasco bears no mention of it. And before you ask, I’ve read them and there’s no mention of Beth Smith. I don’t think they wanted the scandal, and Hetty’s letters show she didn’t know the child was Cyril’s until it was a few years old. After that, she took it in as her own when Beth died.”  “So the baby wasn’t used as motivation for the murder? Then what was?” Mrs. Erford scoffed. “The story from the trial was that he had become violent from too much to drink and lost his head.” “So he took a butcher knife to his wife?” I asked incredulously. “I don’t care how drunk a person gets, that makes no sense.” “Well I don’t see how you can work it out now. The thing happened almost two hundred years ago.” “I know. It just bothers me. He swore his innocence.” “Mmm, yes,” she agreed, pushing up her wire glasses. “His innocence was always taken as gospel in this house, but that was because Beth’s child, my ancestor David, said his mother knew he was innocent.” “But did Maggie know about Beth’s pregnancy?” I asked, my mind working at fast. “Even if the court didn’t know, she might have, and someone killed her to keep her quiet.” “You think it was Beth?” Mrs. Erford asked, pursing her lips. “That’s who my money is on. If only I could find that diary!” “Good luck with that. None of the original buildings remain, save the old outhouse.” “Why’s that?” Mrs. Erford laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “It was the only building that greedy historical society could get the paperwork for before it was demolished! Everything else is gone.” “Could I look around there?” I asked hopefully. The old woman stopped laughing and eyed me curiously. “I’ve never seen a child so interested in the past.” “It just doesn’t sit well with me, a man murdering his wife or being hung for something he didn’t do.” “Hanged,” Mrs. Erford corrected me. “Well, I suppose you can take a look at the outhouse, but not tonight. Come tomorrow morning.” *** I was up bright and early the next day, barely pausing to grab breakfast before jumping in my car and starting for town. Before going to the Erford mansion, I briefly stopped at the library to check a hunch and, being right, arrived at the house ready to go. “The rains weren’t bad in 1838!” I practically shouted as the front door opened. “What the?” Mrs. Erford scowled at me.  “Cyril had been a farmer all his life,” I went on buoyantly. “He would’ve know what the signs for a good season were. He couldn’t have been drinking because of that!”  “Do you know how old I am? Do you want to give me a heart attack?” I grinned, wanting to suggest that I didn’t see her dying of something so pathetic, but I merely apologized and let her lead me through the house and to the backyard. The grounds consisted of a swimming pool, covered despite the season, and large gardens, overgrown from lack of care. The outhouse was precisely what I expected, a molding shack surrounded by weeds. The door creaked as it gave way to my determined pull, throwing light into the putrid square of blackness. “Ugh, it stinks like bad water,” I said, realizing the obviousness of the statement too late. “Maybe I overestimated your intelligence,” Mrs. Erford said flatly, also wheezing a little from the smell. “I’ll be in the house. Don’t bother me.” I looked around the exterior of the little shack, checking for anything strange on the walls. Then, I went inside, covering my face with the collar of my shirt and using my phone’s flashlight to look at the interior. The only other option seemed to be digging. Finding a shovel wasn’t hard, and I quickly took to the task, grateful that my early start was allowing me to beat the heat of the day. The soil smelled worse the deeper I went, and I tried not to think about what gases and other things had been released in hundreds of years from human excrement. Some time passed, and I was just regretting my decision to turn down going with a friend to the movies when the shovel hit something solid. Forgetting the smell for the moment, I knelt down and reached into the two-foot deep hole. A flat, smooth surface greeted my palm. I quickly dug around it and felt it to be some kind of box. Thankfully, lifting it out was not difficult as it was about the size of a shoe box and not heavy. I used water from a hose to clean away the filth and found a large MA was carved into the top. Unfortunately, the box was locked, and no amount of years had harmed its integrity. Despite her apparent indifference, Mrs. Erford’s eyes lit up when she saw the strong box in my arms, and she padded away, saying she needed to get something. She came back with an ancient ring of keys. “These have been passed to each head of the Erford family for generations,” she said, handing it to me. “Try them out.” We sat in what she called the breakfast parlor, methodically sticking each of the fifty or so keys into the lock. On the twenty-eighth, it clicked, slowly, reluctantly, but it clicked, and the lid lifted. Within was a single sheaf of papers, bound with a leather sleeve and cord. This too had an MA inscribed. My instincts made me go to the last page, dated the same day as the murder. Perhaps it was my excitement, perhaps because my eyes had become acclimated to old time cursive, but whatever it was, I made out the entry in a few seconds. My eyes widened. “What does it say?” Mrs. Erford asked nervously. “Does she guess at her killer?” I shook my head. “But she knew about the baby?” I nodded. “And she knew who her killer would be.” “Who?!” Mrs. Erford’s knuckles were white on the table. “Herself,” I breathed. The old woman blinked uncomprehendingly. “Maggie Aberforce killed herself,” I explained. “She says here, ‘I’ve planned it tonight, as that little slut will be gone, so Cyril will take the blame. When he’s hanged, hopefully the shock kills his Bathsheba and her spawn of the devil.’ ” I leaned back in my chair and took a deep breath. “What a psycho.” A silence descended for a minute, as we each pondered this revelation. Then, Mrs. Erford, who had been so tense before hearing the truth, stood up and said in a calm voice, “I don’t know. The Aberforce and Erford women have been doing things to protect the family name for centuries.” “But this was so evil !” I cried, aghast at her rationalization. “You would never do something like this!” The old woman smiled and shrugged, saying nothing more.