Greg was living an enchanted life. He had a condo, a hot girlfriend, and a career that killed. He was at the top of his game and nothing was going to stop him. He walked down the cement that laid a foundation of his personal will, he was strong and able, that was bullet proof. The downtown area was a gem that had been restored and rectified to assure longevity and courage for every person that walked in it. A lullaby sounded from ahead. He walked this way often and had not come across such a song. He looked. Who was it? He saw a very old homeless man sitting on the walkway with a sign and harmonica. Greg stumbled. He was quite a distance still from the busker. The buildings were solid proof that god and man were real to Greg. They were inheritance of a strength and character passed on through generations to create a solid core of civilization. He looked up. The sun shined through the clouds and he was delighted by the Fall air. He spied a coffee shop. This was a perfect day for a cup of joe. He entered. Greg ordered himself a cup of the finest coffee in the downtown area. Its was hot, it was fresh, and it was surreal to drink, nearly every day. He smelled the cup. It was piping hot and fresh. He dropped two dollars to the worker. They had earned their lot in  life and Greg knew what it was like to work hard. They smiled. He left the coffee shop and re-entered the street. The nine o' clock walk way was too much. He smiled. It was his best friend, day after day, as his stocks continued to grow. It was a walk way to a secure and better retirement. He heard the music again. He looked. The homeless man was really interesting. To Greg he appeared ragged and loud but his music was anything but, it was captivating. Initially Greg was nearly in heaven at the sound of the music; like was said, he had not seen the busker before and he was nearly hypnotized by the sound. He stumbled again. The man stared down the sidewalk and they made eye contact. Greg was stunned and hypnotized. He was staring at him and it was having an impact on Greg. He felt odd and weak, he was immediately sickened in body and mind. He looked away. He drank from his coffee. He heard the music and felt sick to his stomach. He stopped. He took deep breathes and tried to stop the urge to vomit. He stood still. The music was playing loudly in his ears. He tried to breath deep and release. He did not want to lose his will on the sidewalk and vomit. He could not hold his stomach any longer. He vomited. The man continued to watch Greg. He put down his harmonica and began to sing. "The ones you see are you. The ones you see are you. When this day is over they are you. If you look hard enough you will see they are you." Greg could hear the man singing. He looked around. A couple of people tried to help him and he shooed them along to move along. He would be fine. He always was fine. He wiped off his mouth with a hankie that someone had given him. He continued to walk closer to the busker. "Yeah they are you. The ones you see are you. The ones you see are you. I am a prophet of the truth only the truth and they are you." Greg was agitated. He was woozy still and felt like stoning the man. How dare he sit in the middle of the greatest city in the world and collect the observations of other's wonder. He was a worker. He was an able citizen. He was a someone. Greg became infuriated as he continued to walk. He thought, "I will show him". He saw the busker's case. He kicked it away from the man. He asked him what he just said. The man looked up at him confused. He had not known that Greg was so close to where he was. He had been busy trying to make a dime. "Why you do that man, I just found this spot. I mean what's your problem? Why you hurting me? Why you fucks always hurting me?" The man started to cry. Greg picked up his harmonica and shot off a single note. People had stopped to watch him. Greg belted out, "The one that falls today falls everyday, the weak is the strong because we had this debate before. We've had this discussion. The one that falls is an age old tale." He laughed and grabbed his stomach. People were stunned at what they were seeing. Greg fell over and hit his head. The man continued to cry. The crowd was astounded. They tried to help Greg get up while others assisted the busker gather his things. The two men did not acknowledge each other and both received assistance from the crowd. Greg was passed out on the sidewalk. The busker was visibly shaken but gathered his change and dollars and straightened his little spot on the walkway. He was settled in and he knew this was just a first day in a long series of events. He had just arrived in town. He had just touched down. Greg was motionless. He was being escorted off by a small group of paramedics that had set up shop in a tall skyscraper. People began to drop 20s in the busker's basket. He smiled with his shiny face and eyes and thanked them. Most had not heard either of them and the words they spoke that day. Greg was carried off. The busker remained satisfied with his first day in the new town he knew he would have soft sheets and a drink in the skyscraper's hotel room system. This was a great surprise and he could not help but to think everything happens for a reason. He continued to play the harmonica as the street got back to normal.


Jack finished his notes from the night before. It was 5:30pm and he was going to follow again tonight. He read again the pages of his new book, How To Move Forward In Life And Still Have Fun. He knew he was doing just that. It was a new year and he was going to take it by storm. His one and only resolution; take this year by storm. Sounds vague but Jack knows the details. He has been a reviewer for a small but up and coming online review blog for almost a year. Reviews for theatre; Broadway, Off-Broadway, and Off-Off which pretty much covers everything else.

Jack has a girlfriend who drinks Kahlúa and tries to write children’s books. She rips the perfume samples out of magazines and uses them. Jack never knows how she is going to smell. She is fairly sure she hates Jack but she stays for his cooking. Jack is the chef of the cheap. He can throw the cheap unexpected together and make not only a delicious meal but an experience. Eden, the girlfriend, sticks to the straight, and narrow, she doesn’t like to make waves. At work, she follows the leader and that has been working very nicely. Eden works for a Publishing Company. She has long hours. She works days. At night, Eden works on her children’s book. She has been working on it for four years. She and Jack have lived together for two. She writes in her “writing” chair. She found the chair in the trash. Coming home from work there was the chair with a sign that read DO NOT TAKE THIS IT IS HAUNTED. She took it. She curls up every night with her notebook and Kahlúa. Like the character of Joseph Grand in Camus’ The Plague, she has been working on the same sentence for four years. This sentence she says is pivotal to the book and if she does not get it right then the rest of the book will suffer.

Jack started approximately five weeks ago the work on his new business and so far so good. He's always liked that saying, “So far so good”. It covers things so nicely and leaves room for more. Jack’s business is going to be a blog about the stars of Broadway and Off-Broadway. Specifically what they do after their daily performances. Where do they go? Where do they go after having played John Proctor in The Crucible, or Don Quixote in The Man Of La Mancha or Maggie in Cat On A Hot Tin Roof or a character called No One who does nothing but moans and screams for two hours in a play titled, Four? How do they unwind from their odd jobs of pretend?

Jack has now followed five personalities of the theater world. He will do six before he launches his website. He takes notes and transfers them to the computer getting all his ducks in a row for the launch. He has one more to go. He wants three women of the theatre and three men. 		The first he follows is a huge underground theater diva. Jack went to review the show and then followed after the show. The Diva went to the nearby pub and had a drink, a martini with olives. A dirty martini. The Diva said, “Make it so dirty its X rated.” He drank it slowly. Then an hour later walked home. That was it. Jack followed him for an entire week, after evening performances and matinees. The follows after the evening shows lead to the same pub and martinis and X rated humor. The two matinees lead to the gym. Jack was hoping for more but that’s how it goes. The next week Jack’s review assignment was a production of Beckett’s Not I, a twelve-minute monologue, where the actress is hung eight feet off the ground with only her mouth on view and she spews the monologue as fast as possible. Jack loved it. He followed the actress. She is someone he has always admired. It was a Sunday matinee with no other show that night so he figured she would get dinner maybe or a drink or meet up with friends. She went to a coffee shop nearby ordered a coffee and proceeded to play solitaire for the next hour and a half. She sipped her coffee and played solitaire and checked her phone. Jack drank three cups of coffee in that time. He had two bathroom breaks. When he returned from the second she was gone. He ran out to see if he could find her but nope. Nothing. She had disappeared. He followed her for four more days and each the same; coffee shop, coffee, sit and solitaire. On the fifth evening when she had finished her third game of solitaire still not having won she burst into tears. It was a quiet burst. She sat there with tears streaming down her face collecting on her chin and sweater. Jack not sure what to do decided that may be telling her how much he admires her work would help. He walked over and said, “Hello. I wanted to tell you how much I have admired your work over the years.” Instead of “thank you” she yelled. She yelled, “Stop! You people always trying to get something from me!” and she left. At home, Eden was curled up in her writing chair sound asleep. Her notebook by her side and a half-finished bottle of Kahlúa on the floor. He did not bother to wake her.

 	The next three follows were, well, complicated.

Jack followed the lead actress in a musical revival. She had played the part many moons ago and it had made her a star. She was back to reclaim her title. “Many moons,” is another phrase Jack likes. It gives the sense of a lot of time in a poetic and respectful way while leaving you guessing and waning. She walked home to her apartment on the Eastside. That was all. For five days she walked home. She wore the same Burberry trench coat and scarf and walked the exact same way. Day six she took a different route and suddenly turned into an alley. Jack approached the alley cautiously. He attempted to peek around the corner when a hand grabbed him and pulled him in. It was her hand and she stood there with a can of mace aimed directly at Jack’s face. When she spoke her voice was shaking with fear. "I don't know who you are or what you’re doing but you stop following me RIGHT NOW or else…! With her “or else” she shook the can even closer to his face. “Do you understand?” Jack so sorry to have upset this icon of the theater nodded “yes” and left. At home, Eden was asleep in her chair. A new bottle of Kahlúa on the table. Jack quietly sat down on the floor and leaned against the chair. He listened to nothing but her breathing. He took the bottle of Kahlúa and gulped down a large portion of the sugary alcohol. He paused and took another gulp.

The next review was another revival, a drama this time, and the actress a TV star new to the theater. His review would welcome her to the Broadway family and look forward to seeing more of her on the Great White Way. She was young and ready to enjoy all the Big Onion had to offer. She went out after every performance with the cast but for the Wednesday matinees. For those, she would get sushi and take it back to the theater. Jack imagined her sitting in her dressing room preparing herself for the evening audience where she would once again have to show them all she was supposed to be there. On the last day of his follow, the Sunday matinee, she, as usual, went out with the cast for drinks. It was early in the day and she had not eaten and so the alcohol went straight to her. She stumbled out of the bar before the sun had even begun to set and made her way to the apartment she was renting in Hell’s Kitchen. This time his follow was not so much to observe but to make sure she got home safely. She was doing her best to keep upright and not appear to be as intoxicated as she was but she could only do so much. She stumbled and grabbed lampposts and street signs and the side of buildings, and then she stumbled and stepped right out of her shoe. Her left shoe. The loss went unnoticed by her and she continued down the sidewalk. Jack grabbed the shoe and moved towards her breaking his cover. However, since today was the last day of the “follow” it didn’t matter so much. He was simply a guy being a good citizen. He hurried to her. He called out her name. She looked back. He waved her shoe to show her what she was missing, she looked down and saw her naked left foot looked at Jack and screamed, Stay back!”  Then she ran. She ran hard, fast, intoxicated and straight into a lamp post falling backward. The fall was so slapstick, so comical it was laughable. Jack was mortified. He ran to help but she was yelling over and over, “Stay back!” He placed the left shoe by her side and fled the scene.

 	That Tuesday he reviewed a premiere of an off-broadway play. The playwright a supposed new voice on the horizon. He hated the play but the lead actor was someone he really liked and so he did his best in his review not to crush the play. After all, if this writer WAS a new voice of the theatre wouldn’t he look like an idiot saying she wasn’t. He followed the star actor in the new playwright’s show for three days. A hunky very attractive man known in the off off-world as someone who creates unforgettable and odd characters. He is like the Lon Chaney of the modern theatre contorting his body and voice into strange and memorable roles. This is his debut in a simple kitchen sink vehicle. He was superb. So Jack followed him for three days. The first two the actor did nothing but stop off in a bar for a beer and then home. On the third day, he came out in an oversized coat and shorts. At least Jack assumed shorts as he didn’t see pants just bare legs. He walked his usual walk and went into his usual bar but this time he went to the bathroom and didn’t come back and didn’t come and Jack started to think, “He’s on to me!” Jack checked the bathroom to see if the actor had slipped away without him noticing. No one at the urinals but Jack saw the actor’s legs in the stall. He must have heard Jack come in for he flung the stall door open and yelled, “Come in here and let's have some fun!” His coat was off and he was completely naked but for shoes and socks. His arms open wide for all to see his beauty. He exclaimed again, “Come in! Let's have some fun!” Jack tried to keep calm and replied, “Sorry I have a girlfriend.” “And I have a wife !” the hunky actor replied and he grabbed Jack and pulled him into the stall. There was a scuffle. In the scuffle, the actor punched Jack in the stomach. “You say a word to anyone and I’ll say you’re a liar out for money,” the actor yelled as he fled the stall with his coat half on. Jack was buckled over in pain. He waited until the pain had diminished somewhat and left. At home, Eden was not in her chair instead there was a note. It read, “Gone out with friends don’t wait up.” Jack took two ibuprofens and two sleep aids and went to bed.

 	Two days later his final review and follow before launching the site. A new Broadway musical about The Incredible Hulk with the brilliant title HULK and starring a very well known ex-WWW wrestler and now film idol as the Hulk. Jack’s stomach was painful and black and blue from the punch but he was excited. This would be the big follow and the one that would definitely get him attention. After this, he can request to follow the famous. After this, some of them may even ask or better yet beg that he follow them. After this life IS going to be fun and definitely moving forward. He wrapped his stomach in a gauze bandage and headed out. The musical was three hours long so he decided to see the Sunday matinee for his review. He loved it. It was funny and touching and true to the Hulk’s image, with amazing special effects. The ex-wrestler can now add Broadway star to his title.

Jack had to wait outside near the stage door for almost half an hour for the follow. There were others waiting. Fans clutching their programs for an autograph. A stagehand came by at fifteen minutes to let the crowd know it took the ex-wrestler half an hour to get the Hulk makeup off. Everyone nodded and smiled and understood. At exactly half an hour he came out. He was glowing from the performance. He signed every program and smiled for every selfie. He shook hands and hugged people and was simply gracious. Jack was impressed. Then the ex-wrestler took to the streets. Walking and looking in windows, standing outside bars but never going in. He walked further and further away from the crowded streets until he was on a very quiet street in a very quiet neighborhood, not a soul around, and that’s when he turned, ran to Jack, grabbed him by his coat and lifted him off the ground.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Who the hell sent you?” Before Jack had a chance to answer him the ex-wrestler slammed him down on the ground and punched him in the already punched and sore stomach. “I don't ever want to see you again! You leave me alone and my friends and family! You understand!” Jack nodded. It was late when Jack got home. Eden in her chair asleep. Her Kahlúa and notebook in their usual spots. He looked at her for a moment and then felt the surge of bile findings it way up and out and ran to the bathroom just in time to throw up in the toilet. Blood and food and water and pain all spilling out. From the other room, he heard Eden’s voice, groggy and upset, clearly, he had woken her with his puking. “ You should learn how to drink like the big boys.” He wiped his mouth and looked in the mirror. He thought I want to change my New Year’s resolution to add one more item. Sop take the year by storm AND find a new girlfriend. The End.


Ever since I was little, I was told to act a certain way. I've been told what to do my entire life, what to say, how to act— basically, how to live.

'Alicia, don't talk too loud since people don't want to hear you. It's rude'. I wish I had the courage to say, 'how can you think that it's ok to say that to me, to minimise me into someone I don't want to be. Someone who doesn't like themselves. Someone afraid'. But I didn't say anything.   'Alicia, when people ask how you are, they don't care. Just say you are fine, don't tell them your issues'. What I wanted to say was, 'just because you don't care, doesn't mean others don't. Maybe if you had an ounce of empathy, you could understand that, Mum’. But I didn't say anything. 'Alicia, you can't be a journalist because that job is not suitable. Be responsible like your sister and become a lawyer'. I wish I said, 'living my dream and doing the job that I am so passionate about is NOT unreasonable, Dad. It's called living a full life and doing the things that I actually want to do. Being a journalist will allow me to give people a voice, and I can help by telling their stories. Stories that will make a difference in the world!'  But I didn't say anything. Every time someone told me how to do something, I always had a remark on the tip of my tongue that I wanted to voice. A comeback that boiled in my blood. I don't know why I never stood up for myself, maybe it's because of how I was raised. The rules that have been drilled into my head. I'm not sure what exactly happened today. I can chalk it up to a handful of reasons. But I think it happened because every little thing that I held back, that I never said was filed away, until the point of overflow. I guess it was more like a volcano. The pressure of keeping everything I always wanted to say piled up and the pressure grew and grew until I exploded.

Before I can tell the story, you need to know something about me. I'm 27, and I'm the assistant to the editor of a local newspaper. Even though I have a degree in journalism and have been in every journalism club possible, my boss said I had to 'prove myself' by working as his assistant for a year. I've worked for him for almost two years now, and I don't think I will be able to prove myself to Mr Jones, ever.

I only stayed at this job because working at this newspaper has been my dream since I was little. I remember reading this article about this injustice that went on for so long and they stayed voiceless for so long until someone gave them a chance. Someone carried enough to let the world in and learn about this issue. I remember thinking this person is a superhero, possibly prevent future incidents. So, If I leave this job, then I guess, I feel that I am giving up on my dream or confirming my parents' ideas that I should have become a lawyer or a doctor. So, I hold on to the idea that Mr Jones will give me a chance and assign me a story one day. I think part of me knows that I will never get that promotion and this whole agreement is a joke.

You are probably thinking, ‘ why don’t you just leave? Find a similar job?’ A rational person would. A rational person would put their needs first and stop this horrible person rom bullying day in and day out, holding on a sliver of hope.  I think the reason why I haven’t made a big deal or quit is because of those lovely rules my parents drilled into my head off to 'not make a big scene' and 'do what you are told to do'. So, I act like a little soldier, marching along and fulfiling my duties.

So, when I arrived at work this morning, I as thirty minutes early, like I always am, to make sure everything is prepared for the day. Then, I run across the street to get Mr Jones' breakfast-- coffee with a hint of vanilla and an egg sandwich—before I rush back to hand it to him a few minutes later. I'm not sure why I have to get him breakfast or coffee every morning since he passes the cafe every morning. But, I do.

When Mr Jones walked onto the floor this morning, he took a sip of coffee before spitting it back into the cup. 'Alicia, get in here!', he yelled. I quickly filed into his office, standing in the doorway. Shoulders hunched to make myself small, unnoticeable. 'That coffee that you got me today was--I don't know what you were thinking that it was ok to-to give me that vile— that rubbish!'

'You have a lot of nerve. How dare you talk to me like that. You walk by that FRICKING cafe every morning on your way to work. Why can’t you be a big boy and get your own breakfast! 'Which is what I wanted to say. These words sat at the tip of my tongue. In reality, I took a deep breath to quell my anger, figuratively tucked my tail, and apologised excessively. 'Sir, I am--am SO sorry. I gave your usual order...and it was a new employee who made your drink. I know that shouldn't excuse the fact--he shouldn't haven't given you that--' Interrupting me as per usual,  he seethed. 'Why didn't you ask for a REAL employee to serve me

my

drink? Alicia, go get me my drink and

try

to do it right this time. If it is possible. If you can handle this

simple  task. I quietly walked out of his office and out of the building. If I spoke another single word to him, I would have lost it. I would have said horrible things back to him, but I didn't. I always don't stand up for me and let jerks like him walk all over me like that. I hate that I never fight for myself.

A few hours passed since that lovely interaction, and Mr Jones seemed somewhat pleasant since I brought him back his replacement coffee. So, maybe it was going to be a good day. Right? Yeah, that’s funny because I was

so  wrong. It was mid-afternoon and I was at my desk, answering the last few of Mr Jones' emails. Most of his emails are from people suggesting crazy news stories that are not newsworthy or completely made up, and people asking for jobs. A typical day. Suddenly, I heard a slam as if a hand slamming against a desk followed by a metal chair being thrown back against the wall.

Mr Jones flung the door open, 'Alicia, where is the spread for tomorrow's edition?’, he yelled. ‘Actually, just get in my office now!' I quickly jumped up and followed him, closing the door. Mr Jones stood in front of his desk, a few feet away. 'I specifically asked for you to get this ready earlier today! One mistake after another. You are so incompetent that it is laughable'. He walked around his desk and sat down, his eyes boring into me, like a predator sizing his prey. He spoke like he was spitting venom, so much malice in his voice. 'I expected more from you. I thought you could handle a simple task, but you obviously need me to hold your hand for every...single... thing!' 'Mr Jones, I am so sorry! It must have slipped my mind. I'll grab it right now and personally deliver it', which is what I meant to say. I truly meant to say this to him, but I didn’t. ‘'Mr Jones, you are unbelievable! You never, not once, asked for the spread. It must have slipped your mind since you are so busy doing

nothing  all day. I do all the work for you, and you get the credit. And the salary! I had enough!' I circled around his desk, looking down at him. 'Two years ago, you

promised  that you would promote me as a

journalist,  if I could prove myself, but how can I freaking

prove  myself, if I am stuck being your assistant! You have been so, so horrible to me since I started--'. I laughed almost hysterically. 'I don't know why I ever thought you would change, that you would give me a chance, but I'm done. I quit. Get the spread yourself!' I walked out of his office and straight to my desk. I don't know why I waited so long to fight back. To fight for me. But it was exhilarating! It was like a runner's high, a burst of endorphins filling my body. And I couldn't stop smiling as I grabbed my purse and jacket, and walked right out. Thirty minutes later, still on my runner's high, so to speak, my mother called. Out of habit, I answered on the first ring. 'Alicia, your sister and her husband are coming to dinner tonight. I was calling to remind you not to be late as usual’ Thanks, Mum for always finding a way to insult me.

Appreciate  it. ‘I know you take your

journalist  job very seriously', almost spitting out the word ‘journalist’ as if it was the most disgusting thing she ever said,  'but try not to be late. It is not fair to your sister and Nathan to have to wait for you. They are very busy people'. I tried to get a word in, but my mum kept talking. 'And I am inviting Jason Taylor over tonight, so try to wear something that won't embarrass me. You are not getting any younger--'

I honestly don't know the rest of what she said, but I saw red. 'Mum, will you shut up?! Who do you think you are that gives you the right to speak to me like that? I am your daughter. Your daughter! Actually, you shouldn't speak to anyone like that because that is called being a decent human, but you wouldn’t know how to be one! And I am NOT an embarrassment because I don't feel like dressing up at our

weekly  family dinner. It’s dinner. It’s not some grand affair! And I am busy too! So, if I am working late, maybe it’s because I am busy doing my JOB! I know that it is not the job you would have liked for me, but I want to do it! The one thing I ever did for me! And it is important to me, so you could try to be happy for me.’

And then it occurred to me that I don’t owe my parents anything. If they can’t treat me like a human and how I deserve to be treated, then I don’t have to spend time with them. I don’t have to do the ridiculous things they want me to do. I don’t have to pretend to be someone I am not. I don’t have to be set up on a date with someone I am not interested in. If they actually cared about me, they would know that I’ve been with someone for the last  two years. But I never wanted to subject him to my family’s insanity.  It’s seemed cruel to do that to him. So, I used my long-lost bravery I recently found and said, ‘Actually, Mum, I'm not coming to dinner tonight. I'll let you know when it is convenient for me to see you… or when you can start treating me how I should be treated .' I hung up. I couldn't believe it! I lived out my teenage fantasy of yelling back at Mum. But, as I walked down the street to my apartment, my endorphins must have run out because the utter fear of what I just did hit me. I just quit my

somewhat  good paying job, which pays for my rent and expenses. And I yelled at mother. My mother! I was so lost in my head, panicking, that I wasn't paying attention when I was crossing the street. I didn’t notice that the traffic light was green, the people calling for me to get out of the way, or the truck barreling towards me. At the last second, I turned my head, and my eyes popped out of my head. I probably looked like a cartoon character. I didn't think to move out of the way, I was frozen in place. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the impact, but nothing happened. I didn't hear the truck's brakes or feel the impact of the truck colliding into me. I was fine. Strange. I opened my eyes. It must have been a dream. Or, maybe it was a sign that I needed to start fighting for me. A second chance to live how I should have been living my life all along.


"The devil waits for us. He lives in our pride, our hate, our jealousy, and tempts us. He pulls us in with lies and false promises, turns us away from our god and our fellow man, and then we are lost." Raphe stands at the pulpit, staring down at the blank, sagging face of his followers. They stare back with bovine eyes, feeling none of the rapture he's used to. God lives everywhere, but rural Missouri and middle England's Wingston-on-the-Brook are different down to their very souls. "We must resist the dark temptations that Satan brings before us. Fight him in our hearts, in our minds, in our souls, and prevail over the armies of the serpent king." He aches for the cries of hallelujah that ring absent. "Let us pray." His pleas to the lord fall on distracted ears and are followed by a tape cassette recording of the dying groans of an organ. His flock gather together in clumps as they leave, more interest in the chatter and babble and, 'Oh, what a nice hat,' then a sermon has brought out yet. He closes his bible with care and goes to join them, press the flesh and bring them to god with a smile if nothing else will work, but his way is blocked. Mrs Withers, 80 years old and widowed for at least 20 of them, is leaning on her walking stick at the foot of the steps. She's dressed like the Queen in a baby blue dress and matching sun hat but her eyes are sharp, and she waits for him to reach her before talking. "Your sermon." She tilts her head, eyes slit. "It was definitely something new." This woman could be a perfect sample of the rot that has been allowed to set in without the firm hand of a true man of god. Their pro-forma prayers and dower hymns flowing through the town like blood. "Should bringing passion for the lord to this house of god be new? It should ring from the foundations. It's what our world should be built on." The old lady stares into his eyes with an unblinking gaze before answering. "I understand that you were not expecting to find yourself here. And we were not expecting you. Brimstone may have worked for your old congregation until, well..." He grinds his teeth and she just raises an eyebrow. "...But we're of a different sort here. Time weighs heavy. We've found our own way to do things. Our own path. We've learned that the strong resolve of outsiders isn't always so kind. Or necessary." "God may ask much of us, but never more than we can bare." "Tell that to Seila." The name sounds like it should ring a bell, but his confusion must show on his face because her own softens. "Perhaps time is all that we need. And a little enlightenment, maybe?" Her smile is crooked. "It's a good time of year to go looking. Take a walk in the woods to clear your mind?" Raphe feels like she's telling a joke he's not in on, but he nods anyway. Doesn't hurt to humour the old witch. She bids him farewell and sets off after the gaggle of similar women who are making their way out of the door, leaving him alone. - Sunday may be the main focus of his job, but it's not the majority. The rest of the week is made up of planning, preparing, and maintaining, including visits to the infirm and frail among his congregation. When he first visited the doll like Miss Coleman and towering Miss Moore, two spinsters in their 60s who live in a cottage like house down it's own country lane, he thought they were sisters. They twittered when he asked. Just friends who had decided to see out their golden years with someone else for company. Now they serve him tea in tiny cups and homemade cookies, and seem determined to spend their time talking about nieces, nephews and local gossip rather than the church. He's sure they'd be useful bringing in the community now that Easter is over. He just needs them to get with the program. He puts a tiny meringue back on delicate china. "If you'll excuse me, ladies, could I use your bathroom?" He needs a break from their chatter before he says something he'll regret. They point him to the stairs and he makes his escape, having to lean against the railing as he squeezes past the stair lift. The upstairs hallway is decorated with floral wallpaper and paint by numbers paintings, dark brown carpet that might be as old as he is, and three identical looking doors. The first is a bedroom with all the lace he was expecting. A collection of china dolls stare out glassy eyed from the shelves. In the second he expects to find another bed, so he's surprised when he opens the door to what seems to be a workroom. Paper flowers and blood red ribbons fill a table that takes up all one wall, and a tailors dummy stands in the centre wearing a simple white shift dress. White candles are scattered around the room, and he spots a blanket with what looks like a moon and stars embroidered on it. "It's the door at the end of the hall, dearie." His skin chills at the surprise but when he turns around she's wearing the same smile she had serving drinks. "I didn't hear about anyone getting married," he says, jerking his head into the room. "Oh, no dear. Not married. We just..." A wistful look fills her eyes. "It's for a party. Something we've been planning for the whole year. Just a bit of fun, you understand." And what can he say to that? He empties his bladder with thoughts jumbling together in his head. When he comes back down the comfortable mood is broken. The two ladies stand awkwardly while he puts on his coat to keep out the cold April air, and look relieved when he finally takes each ones hand and heads for the door. He's almost there when the doorbell rings, and he can't tell what he sees in their faces when he turns back for a moment, but it makes sense for him to open it. The woman standing in the tiny open porch is a shock for him, if only because of her beauty. She's young, maybe 16, and her face fills with wide eyed surprise when she's confronted with a stranger. "Tanith!" The taller woman sweeps past him to cradle the girls face, and Raphe is struck by her smile. "Oh, my dear, come in. The reverend was just leaving, and we've got everything ready. You'll look radiant. How I envy the young." Raphe finds himself quickly bundled out onto the porch, the door closed in his face. - He slips into bed that night, ready for the peaceful sleep of the righteous, but tosses and turns under his covers when it doesn't come. His mind slips back to Tanith, her innocent smile and strange name. He'd looked up it's meaning that evening. Serpent lady. After a Phoenician goddess. He wonders how a couple in this part of the world came to choose that for their child. When he looks up at the alarm clock and sees it's already passed midnight he sighs to himself. This isn't working. He need something to cool his nerves, and a quick cup of hot coco sounds like just the ticket. The floor is cold under his naked feet as he trots back round towards the bedroom door. There's a light outside. Not in his street, not that close, but the church and small house it comes with are sitting on the highest point for miles looking out over the town. He would put it down to a late night dog walker, or someone coming back from meeting with someone they shouldn't, but the light is still. He squints his eyes to try and see more, and thinks he makes out the general form. By now he can make out the geography even in the darkness of the full moon as well. Someone is standing on the bridge over the sluggish river that runs through town. Not doing anything else, just looking, like a ghost mourning a lost love out at sea. The light is moving slightly now, bobbing up and down as the figure moves strangely, and it takes him a moment to figure out what is happening. They're climbing over the railing. He only hesitates for a second. He's shoving on yesterday's clothes before he's really thought about it, forcing his feet into the wrong shoes before he thinks to switch them and try again. The bridge isn't tall, not high enough to be fatal, but that can be worse. He sees the figure in his minds eye, falling through the glassy surface of the water and breaking bones on the hard bottom, or getting sucked out into the mud and held their as their oxygen runs out. The figure is still visible when he leaves the front door hanging open and pelts down the sloping road. His feet slap against the asphalt and his lungs burn, but if he can just get there in time... He's close enough to hear the splash and puts on a final burst of speed, colliding with the metal railing and letting his body fold over it to peer down into the cold depths. He can's see anything. There's no one on the surface and it's too dark to see the bottom. He heads for the embankment and scrambles down till his feet are wet. There's no one there. He searches downriver with his eyes, then splashes to the other side of the bridge for a look, but he's alone here, standing in frigid water in his pyjamas. The climb up out of the river is undignified, and he scrapes his hands on the way, but his mind is turning over too fast for any of it to register. As he trudges back to his home he knows he has to uncover the truth - The buzzing of his alarm wakes him early, so early, and after the drama of last night it isn't surprising that his eyes drift closed and stay that way for several hours. When he wakes again it's to the sound of music. He rubs his sandpaper face and drags himself back to that same window. There's a crowd this time, gathering in the main grass square. Raphe has had damn near enough of this. He gets dressed quickly, slipping on a thin coat over his priestly garb. The change of seasons is running slow and winter still clings to the corners of the day. Something makes the holy man keep himself hidden from the revellers. He watches from consecrated ground as they gather together, garlands of flowers in their hair and paper mache masks of demented creatures. They swirl like a whirlpool till an older man dressed in flowing robes stands on the plinth of a statue and calls there attention. "Ladies! Gentlemen! Friends!" He waits for the crowd to quell. "On this May Day, just like on so many before it, we return to the forest. For though it is reduced, though the new encroaches on the old, we hold our ways sacred." He's joined on his makeshift podium by a young woman in a white dress. "Today, we give back. Give the young back to the ancient. Let us follow our May Queen." It's Tanith. Tanith looking like a bride with bare feet and flowers in flowing golden hair, holding aloft a standard and leading the crowd into the trees. Her followers are a mix of gruesome creatures, one seems to be wearing a horse skull, and innocent looking little children, angels in their own white dresses.

He's seen this movie before. Read about it happening in real life, but never thought he'd have to witness such depravity. He keeps himself unseen as he runs through the trees, far enough away to stay safe but close enough that he can still track their progress. Brambles scratch at his skin and roots reach up to trip him, but he forces his way through. They come to a clearing. It's crowded and they press in, moving through each other like murmuring birds. They dance and sing, words in some old tongue he doesn't quite understand. He circles them in his own way and that's when he sees the fire. It's been burning for a while, flames licking up the sides of what looks like a coffin made of cinder blocks. Just the right size for a person. He has to stop this. Has to bring god back to this terrible heathen place. The fire has been left to burn for itself and he heads closer. They've used local wood, and it crackles and pops with the last moisture. They've even left out the axe. He feels the weight of it in his hands and he knows what he has to do. He grips it, wringing the neck, steps forward to look into the flames, and pretends the smoke is to blame for the tears running down his face. But there's something down there. Something in the pit. A red skinned form laying in the hole. He only makes out the hooves and snout of the pig for a second before he feels a hand on his shoulder. He swings round on instinct. He feels the axe bury in soft flesh, sees innocent eyes flash pain, and then she's falling. Tanith stares up at him, white dress turning red as her blood blooms over it, and he knows he is lost.


Everyone knew the Connors' house was haunted. It was common knowledge in the neighbourhood. When they moved in, it was a spectacle - finally fitting electric lights, painting the outside, fitting double-glazed glass, and installing a telephone wire. Most houses on their street didn't even have a wire yet, the Connors were almost modern. Frankly, it seemed unnatural to have a family in that old building; it had been empty for decades, a cornerstone of the neighbourhood.

There were only two in the family. A tight-knit pair, Emily was home-schooled and her father wrote for national newspapers, submitting stories via the mail and rarely leaving the house. Everyone knew a rumour about the Connors, and as the rumours spread they grew, until the house was largely avoided and the front gate grew rusty. Lots of the mothers in town felt bad for little Emily, secluded in that old place, without any friends - but as they didn't want their children there, nothing was to be done about it. They weren't wrong about the hauntings. Years ago, before the house was anywhere of note, a child had been abducted. The Stevens family never recovered. The couple, already old when he was taken, shrunk away from society. They stopped going out, preferring to stay in and read books, or look through old diaries written by their son. They grew old, almost unknown by their neighbours, and died without an heir - the house was technically owned by the government, but it was never developed. Instead, it stayed empty, feared by the townspeople and unsellable. Soon, rumours started to spread that the couple still lived there, ghosts trapped in the real world until their son returned to put them out of their misery. Local schoolchildren dared each other to visit the house, but no one got past the gate. They all claimed the same thing - that they saw someone in the window, watching them. The first time Emily saw a ghost, she was terrified.

It was an old man, wrinkled and hunched over, half see-through and shrouded in fog. Emily had almost run through him before she saw him, and felt a dreadful cold as he looked her up and down, smiling slightly. He was almost completely grey, clothes and all, and Emily was suddenly reminded of the colouring books she used to own, before anyone had coloured anything in. "You must be Emily. How lovely to meet you, sweetheart." Emily screamed, and sprinted away. Her short legs didn't carry her very fast, and her father arrived downstairs before she got very far.

"Emily! What was that dreadful yell?" His words hissed out, and Emily clutched the hem of her skirt as she realised she had disturbed her father's writing time. I'm sorry, daddy. I thought...

"Well?" Her father paused, then stepped softly towards his daughter. He crouched down so their eyes were level. "Emily, you know the rules. You are not allowed to disturb me while I am writing. Now, run back to your room before I have to knock some sense into you." Emily sat on her cold bed, in her cold, drafty, room, and cried. She missed Minnesota. She missed her mum. She missed her grandma. Most of all, she missed Mr Snuffles - he had been lost in the move, and her dad didn't seem to care. Mr Snuffles was her best friend. He was a present from her grandma for her fifth birthday, a few years ago, and he still looked almost perfect. Emily took very good care of him, making sure to polish his glass eyes and arrange his stiff legs into a comfortable sitting position when she woke up. At night, Emily and Mr Snuffles slept together, and she hugged him tightly under the thin duvet. On the nights when her parents used to fight, she told him stories to make sure he wasn't scared. Mr Snuffles was possibly the best teddy bear ever - and now, he was lost forever. Emily couldn't sleep very well without Mr Snuffles, and now there was no-one to hug at night when she was scared. Who would she talk to about the ghost? The next morning, Emily woke up earlier than usual. As she opened her eyes, she was aware of a woman sitting at her window, watching her. Another ghost. Her heart started racing, and she screwed her eyes shut tight.

"Emily, are you up? I'm sorry if I woke you, dear." Slowly, timidly, Emily opened her eyes. She was right - it was another ghost. She did look friendly, though, and she had a nice smile. In fact, she looked a bit like Emily's grandma, and was wearing a nice flowery dress, hemmed with lace at the bottom. How do you know my name? Emily whispered, hugging her duvet tight around her torso. Who are you? "My name is Mrs Stevens, Emily. I think you met my husband yesterday. We're awfully sorry to scare you, dear, we just thought you might like someone to talk to." But how do you know my name? "Well, we've heard your father calling you by it. We've heard a lot of things your father said, dear, not all of them lovely - we thought you might like some company. It's a lonely life without friends." Emily pulled back the covers, and swung her legs round the side of the metal bedframe. She nodded her head shyly, and looked down at the floor. I did have a friend, but he got lost. I miss him. "Why don't you tell me all about him, dear?" Two weeks passed with Mrs Stevens. Emily slept in her bed, alone, every night; when she woke up, though, she always saw Mrs Stevens watching over her. She didn't really understand why Mrs Stevens and her husband were so nice to her - adults weren't generally very nice, in her experience. In some ways it made her miss her grandma even more.

One evening, as she was tucking herself into bed, her father stumbled into the room. His breath smelled funny. "Emily," he whispered, "do you know how lucky you are? You live in this big, big house, you... you get everything you want, you get to live here with me, and... you're just so ungrateful, you know that?" Emily pulled the covers up to her shoulders and tried to pretend she couldn't hear him. She had learnt that if she played pretend, and lay still, her father would leave after a while. "So you're asleep, are you? Or are... are you just too good for me, huh? Too good for your own father? Come here, Emily, give your dad a hug." He slurred, words tripping out of his mouth. Emily wriggled further down the bed and screwed her eyes shut. "I said, give your dad a hug, Emily. Don't just lie there!" As he walked further into the room, Emily could tell something was wrong with her father. He was crying, and swaying side-to-side as he walked. "Emily, I said, give me a hug. What, are you... scared of me, or something? Say hello to me, Emily, I'm your father, aren't I?" On this, he sat down heavily on the bed and pulled the duvet off Emily's small body. Sitting up quickly, Emily glanced up at her father fearfully. I don't want to, daddy, you smell funny , she mumbled.

Emily heard a crack, and was intensely aware of a stinging pain in her left cheek. Her father was staring at her, hand raised to slap her again. "What did you say to me, you horrible little girl?"

Suddenly, his eyeline shot up to something behind Emily's head. Horrified, he leapt off the bed and tripped, falling backwards onto the cold wooden floor. Almost crawling now, he slid towards the door as two grey figures advanced towards him. "How dare you hurt her? Leave this house, and never return, or face dire consequences. This child is under our protection," they hissed, "and you will never hurt her again." Scrambling to his feet, Emily's father turned on his heel and ran out of the room. She heard his footsteps pounding down the corridor, down the wooden stairs, and soon the front door slammed. Emily let out her breath, and her lip began to wobble. Is he gone forever, Mrs Stevens? Will he come back? "Do you want him to come back, Emily?" Emily shook her head firmly and started to cry. She didn't want him to come back, ever. What she wanted more than anything was Mr Snuffles. "Don't cry, my dear. We're here for you. Do you want a hug?" As Mrs Stevens wrapped her arms around Emily, the weightless cold she was expecting seemed to grow heavy and warm. Emily relaxed into the embrace, feeling comfort for the first time in months. The grey flowers on Mrs Stevens' dress blossomed into their colour as Mr Stevens seemed to solidify somehow, growing weighty and real. The pair, understanding innately their new role, sat together on the bed with Emily between them.

"It's ok, dear, you can sleep now. We'll watch over you."


"I don't know how to explain my days recently. It's like there's something lacking and I don't know what it is. Should I write or not?" These were questions that only I could answer. My classmate called me to let me know that we would be having a high school reunion. I was not excited and interested in it because I didn't want to recall those memories where my classmates kept bullying me about everything, but I had my second thoughts whether I would go or not. I never enjoyed my high school days because of them. I was a loner and I seldom interacted with my classmates in the class. I just stayed under the huge trees reading Agatha Christie and Barbara Cartland's romance novels during my free time. I grew up in a poor family. My father was only plowing rice fields and climbing coconut trees for a living. I didn't have any money for my snack at the school so I borrowed my principal's romance novels and read it one after another under the Mahogany shades. That was my routine in every recess that I had. I never had any regret because I learned how to study hard so in the future no one could bully me anymore. I excelled in my English subject and those who bullied me were the ones who went beside me to ask me if I could correct our theme writing project. My friend Julia whispered this: "Whatta brazen-faced classmates!" "Just let them, perhaps they will realize after our graduation that I helped them a lot and they will eventually stop their bullying," I whispered her back. "I really doubt it! Look at their reactions after you corrected their essays. What the heck!" "Relax, time will teach them. Yeahh they will be called graduates but the question is that, are they worth it to be called as such?" "Hmmmppp! You are so weird. You've been bullied throughout these years and that's all you can say? You are a martyr, aren't you Terry!" "You know sometimes it's better to be silent, it can make them deaf." "What? Where do you get that logic?" She exclaimed while her eyebrows were curving in dismay. "It's not logic, it's my way of showing you how my silence could silence them too." "Gosh, I can't understand what you just said. That is ridiculous. They are taking advantage of your brilliance. Don't you know that people won't realize their faults unless you're gonna tell them?" "My deeds will make them realize in the long run." Till our graduation came and I was on top of the honor rolls. Julia told her classmates. "See, you keep on bullying her. So, where are you now guys? Does that make you all polish and brilliant?" My classmates were looking to each other.They couldn't find any words to answer what Julia said to them.

I was always called for my academic achievements on the stage. It seemed all the best awards were awarded to me. I was very happy, but at the same time sad because I knew then that I was an accomplice of my bully classmates about why they never had even one medal. Julia always reminded me, but I never listened because I knew exactly how it felt if in their college days came they had no stock knowledge to support their new phase of life.

One day, one of my classmate's Dad went to my house to ask forgiveness of what his son was doing to me. He put a paper at my back. He used scotch tape and put it on my uniform with bold words said: I HAVE NO MONEY TO BUY SNACK EVERYDAY. I was so forgivable, but deep inside I was really hurt. It made me more a loner. I became more introverted. I read and read at the same time I write.

"Why you can't answer me now? Are you going or not?" Mrs. Custodio asked me about you." Julia persuaded me on the phone still. "I have to think about it. You know exactly what I've been through." "That was your fault. You were traumatized, but you still wanted to feel like nothing happened. Like they didn't do anything to hurt you etc."

"I will call you again if I will surely go. I am so hesitant to attend because I really don't know them anymore. They are perhaps strangers to me." "What is that? Are you having amnesia?" "No of course. Where it should be held?"  "At the beach near your barrio." "Ahh okay, I will perhaps text you if I will go." I changed my mind instead of calling her. The day of the reunion came and I didn't tell my friend that I would go surprisingly. I booked my flight going back home before that day. I brought some copy of my poetry book that was published last year. I planned to give my English teacher who taught me a lot about grammar and all. Who really polished me by joining any contests- whether be it's oration or declamation or writing contest in the division department. I arrived so early at the beach. I suddenly reminisced about everything that my cousins and I did there. Night swimming was our favorite thing to do under the full moonlight. A little later somebody called at my back. "Hey Terry, you really surprise me girl!" "Aha! So sorry that I didn't call or text you anymore. I want to surprise you as well." "Hi Julia what's up!" Someone called my friend at our back too, and when I turned my head I recognized those curly eyelashes of a guy who kept on putting something on my back. It was Richard. "Oh Richard, hmm you are here as well?" Julia asked her with a smile. "And why I shouldn't be here? It's our class reunion." "Please introduce me to your friend." Richard didn't recognize me at all. Perhaps of my sunglasses and my hair was dyed with Brazilian colored dye. I also wore a cap with a fitted high waist jeans and sleeveless white Guess blouse. A city girl looks to be exact. "Richard, this is my friend and our classmate Terry. Terry this is Richard." I removed my sunglasses and I could see his eyes were like a ball. So round. "Oh, hi Richard, how are you? Nice seeing you again. It's been years that we didn't see each other right?" He was like an ice cream under the sunshine-melting in front of me. "You're just kidding, aren't you?" "Why should I do that?" Julia interrupted. "But Julia, I didn't recognize Terry anymore." "Well, does she look gorgeous? You can't believe that she looks like a model right?" "Oh, c'mon Julia, this is not a perfect time for joking." He told her friend with like uncomfortable confrontation. I could see his flushing face perhaps of shame. I held Julia's hand and told her that the program would start and the games after their lunch. Our class adviser told me to make a short speech on the spot. It was like everything came back in my mind. A flashback that was not as good as the other students had experienced, but I tried not to cry instead I made my speech jolly and interesting for them and for me as well to hold my tears then. The games started and there was this newspaper dance on the beach. Richard asked my hand if I allowed him as my partner. My classmates clapping their hands. They were cheering us. I was not used to it because before they kept on bullying me. I stood up and followed Richard to our spot. All the songs that they played were love songs. It was an odd thing for me and I was with that man who used to shame me because I had no single centavo for my food during recess. We danced like nothing happened before, though I wanted to confront him for that, but I respected his father who went to my house and gave an apology for what his son did to me. The reunion that day I thought was already over when my English teacher told us that there would be having a disco party for that night. The orange clouds turned red in my eyes. I didn't know why it seemed something would happen that night. Julia told me that she would definitely come because her boyfriend was our prince charming. I even teased her that she hated him before and suddenly they became a couple.

The dance night came and all of my classmates were very excited. Some were already married, but brought their husbands or wives to that party. Julia whispered to me that Richard wanted to dance with me. I was so hesitant because I still didn't forget what he did to me though I was just so silent before. I took their bullying as my inspiration to become a successful writer and freelance model in some renowned products in the country. I agreed on what Julia said, but with a condition that only once and nothing more afterwards because of that reason. The party ended with goodbyes and good lucks. Julia went beside me and told me that Richard gave her a small piece of paper with words written on it. I opened the torch of my smartphone and read it.

CAN I COURT, YOU? Suddenly I could feel my cheeks were blushing. I couldn't explain why. My heartbeat also skipped a bit. When I went back to Makati City somebody called me with an unknown number, when I said hello a male voice answered and it was Richard explaining that he asked my number from Julia and he was in Makati too...


I never thought I would write a story. I never knew a single story could have such an impact. Would I have written it if I had known I would lose my job over it? That’s not the right question, is it? The story needed to be told. I’m not sorry that I wrote it. In the months that followed me getting fired, one female colleague after the other left the company for another job. One of them left a message on the whiteboard that could hardly be misunderstood: “When the disgusted depart, there remains only the disgusting ones.” The story I wrote was meant for the eyes of the Board of Directors only, but maybe it’s time that I share it with a larger audience. Two years ago, I took a job in a fast-growing technology startup. The founders were young and ambitious, and their ambition was contagious. We all went the extra mile for each other. Soon, our can-do attitude paid off. We received good press and investors were starting to get curious about our business. It didn’t take long before the founders announced that the company succeeded in securing five million dollars in funding. We had a big party to celebrate our success. Our financial troubles were finally a thing of the past. We’d move to a nicer office, open a subsidiary in Europe, hire more people … The future looked bright; the sky was the limit. Little did we know which price we’d have to pay for the investment from the venture capital fund. The new Board of Directors congratulated the founders for what they had achieved but decided to replace them anyway. A new manager was put in charge of our office. He introduced himself as someone who “got things done”. He was double our age and his resume read like an overview of the most successful technology companies of the past couple of decades. Having someone like him working for us —with us— initially gave us a boost. With more people like him joining our team, it felt like we were on the verge of playing in the major league of Tech. That feeling didn’t last long. The last Friday of each month, everyone in the Boston office was invited to a Happy Hour. We’d get together in a bar for some drinks and to talk about our life and our hobbies. Some loved sports, others were more into music, but our big-shot manager had a rather peculiar hobby. “My wife and I are swingers,” he confided. At first, we wanted to believe that he was talking about dancing. He was our boss and we were his subordinates. What else could he be talking about? “I’m not jealous when my wife is with another man,” he added. Still, we convinced ourselves that he was talking about his wife sharing a dance with another man. “Look, I have some pictures on my phone,” he continued. At this point, there could no longer be any doubt about what he meant when he talked about “swinging”. He showed us a picture of his wife, naked in the arms of another man —also naked. “We like having sex with other couples,” he explained. “Foursomes are great!” “I think you’ve had enough drinks, boss,” one of our male colleagues said. Our manager looked him in the eye, and asked: “Are you saying I’m drunk?” Our male colleague shook his head, feeling sorry that he had raised his voice and afraid about what might happen if his boss took offense of his remark. “I’m not drunk,” our manager winked at our colleague. “Do you know how I know?” No one wanted to know, so no one answered his question. We feared he’d tell us anyway. “When I’m sober, I like giving oral sex to a woman; when I’m drunk, I like giving head to a man. I know I’m not drunk because I’d rather eat some pussy right now than to suck your cock. You can keep your penis in your pants, boy ... for now.” Shocked at these scandalous revelations, everyone contrived to escape under the pretext of some urgent business. We didn’t talk much about this incident afterwards, but it was no coincidence that every woman at the office tried to avoid getting into a situation that left her alone in one room with the swinger, as we called him. Even some of the men felt uneasy when being around him. We were all happy to see that he had taken the habit of visiting the European office for a couple of days every month. The days he was out of the office were a happy relief of the stress his behavior caused. Then one day, we received a visit from a colleague from the European office in Brussels. He asked us what we thought of our manager. When we didn’t answer, he started telling us a story that didn’t surprise us. “There's no direct flight from Boston to Brussels. There’s always a short stopover of at most a couple of hours in Amsterdam,” our European colleague explained. “Your manager, however, always makes that stopover a sleepover. He asks the company to book a hotel for the night in Amsterdam, claiming that he gets more work done that way, not having to lose time waiting for his connecting flight at the airport. Everyone at our office knows that he's talking nonsense. He spends those nights in the famous Red-Light District in Amsterdam. Those are the actual reason why he likes to visit our office that much.” “That’s just gossip, isn’t it?” one of our new co-workers laughed. "I mean: how could you prove this to be true?" “As a matter of fact,” our European colleague said, “your manager boasts about the visits he pays to the Dutch hookers. He showed us a picture of himself in between two women. The three of them were naked above the waist.” Indeed, that sounded like something our manager would do, but the story got even worse: “When he shows that picture to the women in the Brussels office, he says: ‘I like the hookers I choose to be young —as young as you are, girls.’” I decided it was high time someone wrote a story about the sexual harassment at our office. I dreaded it deeply, but if no one else was going to do it, I should take up my pen and write it myself. I wasn’t looking for sensation. I didn’t want to make a big fuss about it. I just wanted to put into words how our manager made me feel. He hadn’t physically abused me, I explained, but the things he said created a toxic atmosphere that was bad for business. I didn't share my story with anyone, apart from the members of the Board of Directors. I marked my story as confidential, given the sensitive nature of its contents. I emphasized that I didn’t blame the Board for anything. On the contrary: I was convinced that the Board would appreciate knowing what was happening in the company they were responsible for, and confident that they would make the right decision. I was wrong. I got fired. Again, I’m not sorry I wrote my story. If I had to do it all over again, I would do the exact same thing. We should all tell our stories to remind us that we are not alone. As long as we turn a blind eye and as long as we remain silent, a disgusting minority wins the day. We, the disgusted majority, should no longer allow this. Our voice deserves to be heard.


I wasn't prepared at all. Not in the slightest. My heart pounded like a wild drum, my thoughts racing in an endless loop of doubt and fear. But I knew that if I didn't take that first step, I would forever be trapped in the small, suffocating black dot on the map that I called my town, a place that felt more like a cage than a home. But it wasn't even really my town. I wasn't born there. The place where I was born is a stranger to me, a distant, hazy memory wrapped in the fog of time, just like my parents. I wouldn't know anything about them if it weren't written in my documents. I can't say their names without feeling a hollow emptiness. They're just words without meaning, names that echo in the void, devoid of warmth or connection. Fear wrapped itself around me like the thick, impenetrable cloak of night, hiding me from view and shielding me from the prying eyes of others. I could feel their gazes, heavy and piercing, laden with pity, judgment, and reproach. Even the eyes of those dear to me carried traces of doubt and fear, like a poison seeping into the cracks of my resolve. They didn't trust me. I didn't blame them; doubt had long been a companion of mine, whispering in my ear like a dark shadow. I can't recall exactly how the idea of leaving first entered my mind; perhaps it had always been buried deep in the darkest corners of my subconscious, waiting for the right moment to surface. It wouldn't surprise me if I had tucked it away in the dusty drawer where I kept my most daring daydreams, dreams I barely dared to entertain. And it was all thanks to Violet, though she had no idea of the storm she had stirred within me. Violet adored Spanish soap operas. She didn't care about the melodramatic plots or the endless episodes that seemed to stretch into eternity—she loved them all, every exaggerated twist and turn. She couldn't understand a single word of Spanish, nor could she read the subtitles that flickered across the screen, but that didn't matter. Watching them filled her with a contagious joy. Violet was my guardian, a woman who had taken me in when no one else would, and in a way, she was the catalyst for my longing for freedom. I didn't know Spanish either, but I could read the subtitles. That's how it started. For the next three years, while my friends ran wild in the streets and fields, lost in the carefree abandon of youth, I spent countless hours with Violet, absorbing every episode, devouring every line of dialogue, and reading them aloud so that Violet could hear and understand the passion, the drama, the fire that the actors brought to life. It became our ritual, a small act of kindness that bound us together. Three years later, something shifted in my mind, like a seed finally breaking through the soil. After hundreds of episodes, I realized I could speak Spanish—not the formal, polished Spanish taught in schools, but the kind spoken in those soap operas, a colorful blend of accents from Mexico, Venezuela, Colombia, and Argentina, each word rolling off my tongue like a song. That's when the idea took root, growing with an intensity that startled me: I was going to Madrid, Spain. The thought bloomed in my mind, vivid and unshakable. I made up my mind. Armed with English and Spanish, I believed I could manage. All that was left was to get a passport and buy a ticket to Madrid. I imagined myself there, celebrating New Year's Eve under the city's dazzling lights, marking the beginning of my freedom, of a new life that I could barely comprehend. I had always stayed in the place where I grew up, never venturing far and certainly never on my own. The only times I left were for school trips, and even then, we never crossed the borders of our country and never dared to venture into the unknown. But now, I was planning to travel over three thousand kilometers away, completely alone, into a world I had only glimpsed through the flickering screen of a television. And I wasn't ready. Not at all. I worked 14 grueling hours daily for two long, relentless months to save enough money for the ticket and passport. It was hard, back-breaking work, poorly paid, and draining, but the thought of standing on the streets of Madrid kept me going. My friends pitied me, shaking their heads, calling me a daydreamer, a fool lost in fantasies. They had dozens of logical, practical reasons why I shouldn't go, each sharper than the last, but I was driven by just one thought: "I'm going." With a ticket to Madrid burning a hole in my pocket, a battered backpack on my shoulders, and a heart brimming with a wild mix of longing and fear, I said goodbye to my friends and headed for the bus station. They didn't try to stop me. In their eyes, my plan was as good as suicide, a reckless plunge into the abyss. Their words lingered in my mind, like shadows whispering doubts in my ears as I walked. "You don't have enough money to survive. You don't know anyone. Where will you sleep? Eat? What if you get robbed? How will you get back?" Each step toward the bus station felt like a battle, and every inch of ground gained a victory against the tide of fear and doubt. I could feel the weight of their gazes, their silent pleas for me to turn back, to stay in the safety of the familiar. If I had looked back, I might have given in and crumbled under the weight of their concerns. But I didn't. Leaving everything behind was like tearing off a piece of my soul, even though my world was small and stifling. It felt like an eternity before I finally sat on the bus and looked out the window, my heart tumultuous. I half-expected my friends to follow me to the station, desperate to stop and drag me back to the life I was leaving behind. Maybe I was even hoping for it. It would have been easier to stay, to convince myself that I was doing it for them, that I was needed. But no one came. The bus station remained eerily silent, the only sound the low hum of the bus engine. I sighed with relief, though I wasn't sure why. Perhaps my friends respected my decision or didn't care enough to try to stop me. The realization that I was alone filled me with a strange mix of pride and fear. I stood up, my heart pounding in my chest. "I can't do this. I'm not ready. What if they're right? What do I know about Madrid, about Spain? What do I know about life outside the town where I've spent seventeen years? Am I throwing away my life?" I turned toward the exit, ready to flee, but something caught my eye—my reflection in the glass. Yes, that was me: a skinny, frightened young man with nothing to lose. No family, home, job, money, or girlfriend. No hope that life would get better. "Who am I?" The question hit me like a punch to the gut. "Am I someone who gives up when it gets tough?" At that moment, I knew I couldn't go back. I had never really had a home. I'd been a tenant since birth, abandoned by my parents, living with strangers who took me out of duty rather than love. I returned to my seat as the bus filled with passengers, each a mystery. I watched them, wondering what their reasons for traveling were and what stories they carried with them. My anxiety grew with each passing minute, and suddenly, I was desperate for the bus to start moving, to take me away from the temptation to run back to the life I knew. The ticket in my pocket felt heavier, like a concrete block, a weight that anchored me to my decision. Ten long minutes passed, each one filled with the gnawing temptation to leave, to abandon this crazy plan. But when the driver finally closed the doors and started the engine, my heart tightened like a fist in my chest. The first step had been taken; there was no going back. I felt something shift inside me, a change as profound as the turning of the tides. I was no longer just a frightened boy but someone beginning to decide who he would be and who he could become. Yes, I had a ticket and a destination in mind. Still, more than anything, I had my life in my hands, like a blank sheet of paper, ready to be filled with the words of a new story. During the next seven hours on the road, I memorized everything I saw through the bus window—places I had never been, landscapes that blurred into a tapestry of colors and shapes, things I might never see again. It was all-important but also a distraction, a way to keep my doubts at bay, to focus on the journey rather than the fear gnawing at the edges of my resolve. The bus stopped three times for breaks, but I stayed in my seat, too afraid that if I got off, I wouldn't have the courage to get back on. So, I sat there, staring straight ahead, ignoring the other passengers, my mind locked on the road ahead, the destination looming like a distant dream. When we crossed the border, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and smiled for the first time in ten hours. I had made it. I had left the safe harbor and sailed into the unknown, where the wind would take me. It didn't matter where I would end up as long as I didn't have to return. I wasn't ready. I'll never be prepared for everything life brings. But the beauty is that I don't need to be. You just need the courage to follow your dreams; nothing else will matter. Because if there's one truth I've learned, it's this: "Where your heart is, there is your home."


The golden light of sunset bathes the calm forest surrounding them. Ray takes a deep breath of the forest air before opening another can of beer. "Summer is coming to an end boys, and we only have tonight left out here." Jimmy fishes out a new beer for himself before plopping down next to Ray. "If we can make the beer last that long." Jimmy laughs, accompanied by his three friends. After taking his first sip, Jimmy points to the west. "If we go now, we'll be able to watch the sunset from the cliffs. Wouldn't be a bad end to our first day of camping." George and Al groan, but Ray stands up, "I'm game. I just love the way the forest air makes me feel." Jimmy joins Ray on his feet, casting an impish grin to the two lazier friends. "Come on guys, it'll be fun." George and Al cast weary glances at each other before shaking their heads. "If we don't go now, we'll have to run to make it." "You know those guys are gonna keep pestering us until we give in. Let's just get it over with George." George grumbles as he throws himself back, laying flat on the floor for a second. "Fine, but one of you assholes has to carry the cooler out and back. I'm not doing it." Ray laughs as he scoops up the smaller cooler. "Don't worry fatass, I got it." George rolls over, climbing to his feet as Jimmy lends a hand to Al, his prosthetic leg making a small squeak as it straightens. George rummages through his duffel bag as the others start walking, finding what he's looking for before hustling to join them. George pulls out one of his joints and lights it, taking deep drags before passing it to Jimmy. "Hey Ray, you need to quit calling me fatass." "Why's that fatass?" "First off, I lost the weight." George lifts his shirt to reveal the beginnings of his abs. "Second, you're looking like you picked some of it up." As Jimmy passed the joint to Ray, George pokes at his side. "See? You're starting to get a bit flabby." George laughs as Ray takes a swing at him, nearly dropping the joint from his mouth. Al scratches his leg just above his prosthetic. As Ray offers him the joint he simply shakes his head, passing on the offer. Ray takes another long drag on the joint before passing it back to George to restart the rotation. As he exhales, Jimmy nudges him with a playful punch. "Cut it out. I'll wrestle you when we reach the cliffs." Jimmy takes another hit of the joint, nearly finishing the roll before passing it to Ray again. "Damn George, you get the shittiest pre-rolls. Ray, you know you're too scared to actually wrestle me, since you got that chubby when I pinned you." Jimmy laughs with Al and George joining in. "I told you guys, that was because of the meds I was on. I don't swing that way!" Ray finishes the joint, pinching the roach off with his fingers to put out the small burning remnants. George pulls out another joint. "It's okay, when you're ready to come out of the closet Jimmy will take good care of you. He'll be your daddy." Jimmy runs his hand over the back of George's head. "Just like I'm your daddy?" George shivers and pulls away. "Now you made it creepy jackass." "You're the one making fun of my sexuality, I might as well use it against you too." Al continues to scratch at his thigh. "You guys are all way too comfortable with touching each other." Ray lets out a raspy huff. "That's enough guys. I'm done talking about this gay shit." "So my sexuality is shit to you?" "That's not what I meant!" "Relax macho man, I'm just messing with you." Jimmy stretches his arms wide, "But you're still too scared to actually wrestle me." The four men let out another roar of laughter as they continue through the trees, finishing another joint as they make their way. True to Jimmy's word, the men make the cliff edge just as the sun is sinking, its final rays of light coloring the sky in iridescent hues of red and orange. With the final rays dying out, a strange wave of blue light Cascades across the sky in a flash, bathing everything around the group of men before disappearing just as quickly. "What was that?" "I don't really…" Their speculation is cut short as Al begins screaming, falling to his side while grabbing at his leg. George kneels beside Al, asking pointless questions while trying to help him. A sudden ripple in Als thigh causes the prosthetic to become loose, falling away from him. Al goes quiet, the pain becoming unbearable, rendering him unconscious. Ray checks Als pulse. "Should we try…" Ray's words are cut short as red and orange light washes over them. The three conscious men stare in shock as they watch the sun rise rapidly from the western horizon. "What the fuck?" Ray and Jimmy turn to see what George is staring at now, finding Al's leg growing from the point of amputation. Al regains consciousness, gritting his teeth in severe pain, unable to scream any more. As the sun continues to rise back to a noon position, Al's leg finishes growing into a complete, healthy appendage. Al gasps in relief as his leg sits whole, his body made whole. "What the actual fuck guys?" The four men stand in fear, unable to move as the sun beats down on them. Jimmy is the first to come to his senses. "We have to get the fuck out of here. I don't know what the hell is going on, but we gotta get Al to a hospital, he needs to get checked out now." The others agree, with Al grabbing his prosthetic, switching the sock and shoe to his new foot. "I don't know what is going on, but damn my leg feels great. Shit, I feel great!" He stands up, flexing his regrown leg. "Damn George, what was in those pre-rolls? That shit is miraculous!" Al looks at Jimmy. "That can't be it, I didn't take a hit." Ray taps each of the others on their shoulders. "Whatever, let's go. We'll find out more about this at the hospital." The four men start running through the trees back to their camp, eschewing the trail for a more direct route. They each dart past the trees, covering the distance quickly. "Hurry up! Just grab what we need and let's get going. Don't slow us down either fatass!" George stops as he picks up his backpack. "Now that I think about it, that's the fastest I've ever run. I don't even feel winded." The others look at George with unease, each murmuring that they feel the same. Ray is once again the voice of reason, reminding them that they need to get moving. The run out of the forest, and the drive afterwards feels like a blur as the men enter the waiting room of the small hospital. "Hello! We need some medical attention! Hello!" A nurse pokes her head out from a backroom, a concerned look on her face. "What seems to be the problem?" Al comes forward with his prosthetic leg in hand. "A little under an hour ago, after the sun had set, I guess I regrew my leg." The nurse looks at Al with wide eyes. "Come to the backroom. You need to see this with the rest of us." The five of them make their way to the room the nurse came from, crowding in with almost two dozen other people, all seemingly in their late twenties to early thirties. On the television against the wall a large flying object is seen in the background sky, with a large, muscular man standing in the center of the screen, the focal point of the camera. Everything about the man seems normal, aside from the slight blue tint to his skin and hair. When the camera zooms in on his face, his eyes become visible with shocking white iris against blue tinted sclera. "I apologize for making you wait so long. I needed time to assimilate your primary languages. You should all be capable of understanding me now. I am Crume Talgast, an emissary of sorts. Your sun, and planet, and indeed, all of your people have been altered by my intervention. I have caused a temporal shift of sorts, to ensure that you are all at your peak physical conditions for what comes next. Another race is currently en route to attack your planet, to seize it for themselves. They don't use advanced weaponry, only ferocious, brute force. They enjoy their malicious extermination of other races. It is my hope, that with your newly revitalized and enhanced bodies, along with my advanced weapons and technology, that we may be able to halt their expansions, to halt their brutal slaughter. Please, I beg of you to join my resistance, I cannot lose yet another species to these monsters." The camera zooms out from the strange man, bringing the flying object back into frame, as well as the forty or so soldiers that surround him with their firearms trained on him. Crume Talgast's voice rises once more. "I am not your enemy, I seek to aid you in the coming war." With that, Crume Talgast lowers himself to his knee, in a sign of surrender. Al looks down at his leg. "I think I believe him." Another man in the hospital's backroom looks Al in the eye. "Why's that?" Holding up his prosthetic leg Al answers, "Because I've needed this prosthetic for the past two years, and now I have my leg back, stronger than before." "Well son, I'm right here next to you in believing him. You see, just about an hour ago, I was shitting my adult diaper, but now I look like I did when I was in the army." A woman with unkempt red hair steps towards them. "I think I have you both beat." Her clothes are mismatched, the colors clashing, giving her a childish look. "I just turned seven yesterday." The people in the room gawk at her, muttering words of disbelief. One woman asks, "What does all this mean?" Al throws his prosthetic leg to the side. "It means we're going to war."