Datasets:

Mielikki

/

Erebus-87k

like 5

Follow

Mielikki 2

Off the Rails

Off the Rails This can’t be right can it? He paused at the streetlight and there it was across the street. It was like the first time he had seen it. He had never actually stepped inside the building, it was just forever there, like one of those places that needed to be there otherwise the whole city would cease to exist. If someone had asked him about the train station in his town, he would say, Of course, we have one! I don’t know If anyone uses it though. It was one of those structures where the phrase ‘Back-in-the-Day’ comes into play, but most people his age assumed it was a fairly empty building. You know one of those buildings with stereotypes plastered on every wall, dogmatically blinding the eyes of people who now wonder why young people are so easily insulted these days. But as Nique stood across the street looking at the entrance to the train station he was utterly abashed at all these people. He looked around as if a billboard was going to suddenly pop into existence explaining this influx of people wanting to come to this shitty little town. Nique crossed the street and scanned the doorways wondering which was the Entrance and which was the Exit. They were clearly marked but everyone else, it seems, had agreed that these were simply suggestions. He approached one of the doorways and became acutely aware of the space he was taking up in this universe. Somehow this multitude of beings has mastered the art of bending, twisting, and rotating their various body shapes, without actually looking at how they were avoiding one another. He eventually stepped forward and wormed his way in through one of the openings. He was sure that he had bumped at least three people but no one seemed to care. A whole new world opened up to him in the blink of an eye. He moved off to the side, out of traffic, and couldn’t help but look up. His senses were betraying him, the height and length of this building was ridiculous. He couldn’t help but think this is how a companion feels stepping into the Tardis for the first time. He pictured the outside of the building in his mind and sizes began to match but the building seemed so indistinct in his memory. It was obvious that they had done some major updates to the inside of the building because it definitely didn’t match the outside. There was some wear and tear of course it wasn’t like it was brand new but the number of arteries shooting off from this main hub was a little dizzying. There were mini shops everywhere as well, as if someone grabbed a bunch of food trucks and market stalls, and smashed them together side-by-side. All the different signage was an assault on the eyes but informative nonetheless. If you had the urge to eat tacos, buy an umbrella or pickup a used book then they could all be satisfied here. In the middle of each wall sat a giant clock face that he assumed had the same time as the numbers on his watch, told him it was 1:00pm, so he went to grab a coffee at one of the many choices available to him. Why Franks’s Coffee was better than Earl’s Coffee across the way he might never know but that was where he was headed. The burly, man that Nique guessed was Frank came to the counter, “What can I get ya stranger?” Nique played along thinking it would be funny, “How about a cup of the black stuff?” Frank didn’t seem amused as he handed him a Full paper cup and pointed toward the side where all the coffee accouterments were stacked. He ripped open some sugar packs, and an image of Frank and Earl materialized in his head. The two men making their way to the middle of the station… traveling patrons suddenly frozen as the two of them come face to face… an empty coffee cup rolls and tumbles between them as a train whistles in the distance… Suddenly they break out into an argument over why bamboo coffee filters are superior to bleached paper filters and chaos breaks out! Creamers spill, crumpled sugar packs get tossed, stir sticks get broken a real Hatfield and McCoys situation of the Dark bean persuasion! He took a moment to look around, and once he saw it he grabbed a seat next to a broken Soda machine on the East side of the station. The tables and chairs were bolted to the floor and made out of a rubber coated steel mesh, probably easy to clean he thought. He cleared off a table, tossing some empty food boxes in the bin and picking up a crumpled bag that was on the ground, and after a quick last check to make sure there was nothing on the seat he sat down, relaxed, and enjoyed his coffee. He looked at the clock again and again, had to look at his watch, Ok, 1:05… still lots of time he told himself and the lockers were right across from him so he waited patiently. Why was he here in the first place? Well, his curiosity had got the better of him earlier in the day as he was Reddit looking for NSFW posts. He came across one that was titled    r/NoQuestionsAsked and clicked on it. It read as follows: Want to make a quick Grand and happen to be in the area of Brooktown Station then follow these instructions with no questions asked. At 1:30pm there will be a black duffel bag in locker 1350 on the West side of the station. I will leave a key in a bag crumpled on the floor next to the Out-of-order soda machine on the east side. Take the bag from the locker and find a seat on the South side of the station. Put the duffel bag on the ground by your feet and wait. Someone will join you after some time leave a book on the table for you with the money in it and leave with the duffel bag, wait another ten minutes, and then leave. Once again no questions asked. Luckily his phone had a bad habit of taking screenshots with the slightest move, and as he swapped hands to refresh the page it did just that. And once the page had refreshed the post was no longer there. Whoever posted it took it down very quickly assuming that was enough time for someone to take it seriously and follow through. That someone was him. He could use a grand, who couldn’t? the only thing he was worried about was whether or not he was the only one who read it. The station wasn’t far away so why not? What’s the worse that could happen? So here he was. He pulled the key out of the bag, pocketed it, and tossed the bag in the bin. At this moment, he suddenly looked around and became a little wary of the others that were sitting near him. Should he have left the table after getting the key? What if someone else came looking for it. He tried to put the thought out of his mind cause he had never been in a fight in his life, in fact he barely had an aggressive feeling about anything. What the hell would he have done if someone confronted him? He bolted upright at this thought and probably looked like a man possessed as he looked around at others to see if someone was looking at him. He calmed himself. Once again he realized that nobody was paying any attention to anything here. It made sense, this was a fantastic place to have a shady plan. People made it a point to not draw attention to themselves. It was close enough to the time and nobody had come by to drop anything off, I wonder if someone already took it? Nique walked over to the lockers trying his best to not look suspicious, that plan, of course, made him look especially suspicious. He located the locker and slid the key in, he looked around to see if anyone had noticed the sound but the din inside the station was deafening he could have dropped a bomb in there and no one would have noticed. Sure enough, a large black duffel bag was shoved in there and as he pulled it out he could feel that it wasn’t one large thing, it was a group of things inside the bag. All angular, like boxes maybe, individual items in boxes he thought. Once it came clear of the locker door its full weight suddenly brought his arm towards to the ground. He pulled up last minute so that it wouldn’t crash into the tiled floor, but it definitely wrenched his shoulder. He rotated his arm a little realizing he was going to pay for that tomorrow. A sign at the top of the locker said ‘When finished, place the key inside the locker and close the door.’ So he did and made his way to the south side of the station. The weight was manageable once you knew how heavy it was. So after leaving the Hatfield and McCoy area, he moved on to Battle of the Kawaii Monsters as a couple of shops on the south side both sported anime-styled, figurines in their windows. How could these places make any money? He thought as both places seemed like they were selling the exact same thing. Then once again the number of people moving about this building answered that for him. It wasn’t about aiming for the target audience it was about having the stock available on any given day. Nique found a table, put the bag on the ground near his feet and began scanning the crowd to see if he would notice the person coming for the “pickup”. If it wasn’t clear by now, Nique had quickly considered himself quite the little heist mastermind. Daniel Ocean would have been proud he thought to himself, I could totally have given Rusty a run for his money. “Hey Steve! How are you?! Man you look great!” A woman slipped into the seat across from him so quickly his body jerked involuntarily at her appearance. He looked around half expecting to see a door from another dimension right beside them with a sign that read “Shady Person Dimension” written across it. “Wow, how long has it been?” He voice suddenly brought him back to the table. “I mean Highschool right? We had Mrs, Stevenson’s English class together! Oh man, do you remember Tanya’s grad party? She was so pissed at her parents for going away on her big day that she invited everyone and fuckin destroyed the house! Haha!” Nique was not only stunned at her sudden appearance but she was also quite striking! She was talking so quickly and matter-of-factly that he didn’t want it to end. In fact, he found himself scanning his memory to see if she was actually in his English class. Then as quickly as she appeared her tone changed, “Oh, and thanks for this.” She said pulling out a worn copy of the Orient Express and placing it on the table between them. He noticed the hundred dollar bills tucked neatly throughout its pages and picked up quickly shoving it in his inner jacket pocket. She stood up and already had the duffel bag looped over her shoulder, Nique looked down to see that he didn’t even notice when she had picked it up. She looked him dead in the eyes and said, “Nique, things aren’t always what they seem. People aren’t born to do bad things, they learn them like anything else. What one person has the stomach for another may not. So don’t think twice about this day, go home, hop online, and forget this ever happened. You have a quick grand now with no questions asked go live your life.” She turned and melted into the crowd of people at the station. Everything happened so fast he realized he didn’t even say a word the whole time she was there. Her last words made his stomach turn as he replayed them in his head, How did she know my name? He got up and left the train station as quickly as he could, his anxiety skyrocketing as he stumbled through the Exit. He looked back at the building and it looked even more alien to him than before. He was suddenly scared to wake up the next day, how many others were involved? What should I do? What would you do? The End.

jp2fyt

A bad case of writer's block

I see what he’s doing and I think I like it. Cropped dark hair, chiselled jaw, bulging arm muscles, tee-shirt stretched tight across my buff chest. I feel strong, invincible, an alpha male at my peak. I’m what you’d call a fine specimen. No one can defeat me. Ha, yes, I could get to like this, very much indeed. His bare arms rippled in the sun. He sprinted, leaping three metres and mounting the motorbike from behind. He revved wildly sending a cloud of fumes into the path of the red-headed gorilla chasing him on foot. The gorilla, a KGB hitman, of course, lit the rag in the Molotov cocktail he was carrying and flung it ahead of the bike and the scrubby, dry terrain burst into flames which licked at Tom’s feet, his tight leather pants blistering in the white heat… Whoa there, wait a minute – did he just write Tom? Does he mean as in Tom Cruise ? Well, okay then! Action adventure it is! The guy’s a bit short and isn’t he in his sixties now? But no matter, no matter, I’m not complaining. He’s a hero, a heartthrob, a hunk, and he always comes out unscathed with a beautiful leggy babe on his arm, I’ll take it! Yee ha, this is going to be great! No, wait… what are you doing? Hey, you there, yes, you. I’m waving my arms around; can’t you see me? It’s Tom - stop it, aarrgh, quit it will you, oh, not again, not the delete key... This is corny, it’s cliched. The action’s good but, Tom Cruise, I’m not sure. Besides, he’s got the money to sue. Hmm, how about… I make him a her? And put her somewhere else altogether? *** I feel like I’ve woken up in a dream. I’m in a wetsuit, I can see that much. I’ve got wavy blonde hair. That’s weird. Am I a mermaid? No, I can see bare feet and my toenails are painted red. I’m no mermaid. I can feel all this pressure around me, but where on earth  am I? She glided her body through the crystal blue water. Silvery scales darted by. Oh, how beautiful it is under the surface of the ocean. She was in her happy place, a clear blue paradise. The water parted before her like a silken blanket as she swam, the sun above sending golden shards of light to illuminate her way. Her slightest movement propelled her forward… Oh, geez. I don’t like this one little bit. I’m supposed to love it down here, but, honestly, he knows I’m claustrophobic. It’s kind of spooky. And how am I breathing? I don’t seem to even have a snorkel. I’ve said it before, this guy’s an idiot. Something doesn’t feel right… She looked ahead and in the dim distance a dark shape emerged… Oh, my God, what the heck is that ? This blasted blonde hair is wrapped around my eyes. I can barely see, and I’m hardly treading water here. Why the hell don’t you at least write me some flippers – hey, you, flippers, please! And hurry! The shape grew in immensity and speed, the solid mass of fish suddenly becoming all too apparent to Marylin who felt a chill grip her backbone and her bowels loosen… Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but Marylin? You don’t mean Marylin – no, even you wouldn’t be such a drongo as to star Marylin Monroe in an underwater horror, if that’s what this is – please don’t tell me that’s what this is… Marylin had watched enough YouTube videos to know what to do. She reached out her arm as the beast’s wide mouth shot toward her like a torpedo. Its approach sent a cascade of current which knocked her backwards. She flailed her body and righted herself. It took all her courage to push her hand against the tiger shark’s sandpapery head… - tiger shark, oh my God, aren’t they the most dangerous? What are you thinking? - …and shoved with all her might to turn the two-ton creature away. Known in the swimming-with-sharks trade as redirecting, the manoeuvre worked. The beast slid past her and relief coursed through her. Phew, that was close. She could see the dark outline of the boat bobbing only meters away. Time to swim back before the beast circled for another look. Tiger sharks were tenacious and curious creatures, Marylin knew from the internet, but she felt like she’d nearly dislocated her wrist redirecting the first time. She struck out for the boat…  – good idea, get me out of here, pronto, if you please – … but just as she raised her arm over her head she felt a bump from behind. Oh, shit. She’d taken her eye off the ball. Every shark diver knew never to turn their back in the ocean. It’s 101 diving-with-sharks-for-dummies to rotate so you can see what’s coming at you. When the bite came… - oh, dear lord, the bite - are you serious? You’re going to kill me off so soon in the story? We’ve barely begun… Oh, bugger. This is shite. I’m going to get a coffee. Hey! You can’t leave me here in the ocean! What about the bite? Did I get eaten or what? Hey! Come back you big loser! What’s that red stuff all around me? You bastard, you come back here… *** All night. I’ve been bobbing around all night long. In the dark, on my own. No flippers, no torch. He came back about 2am, briefly. He tapped out the start of another scene, in which the moonlight illuminated (yes, I told him he’d already used that word. Ignored, as usual) an arm – my arm – floating by, then, thankfully, he hit the delete button again so I’m still intact. For now. He scrolled on his phone and muttered and hiccupped and poured something into a glass, then he read aloud an email he’d composed to his agent. Hi Joan, Sorry for the absence. It’s going fine. I’m not sure the exact shape it’s going to be yet but please don’t worry. The writer’s block’s always only temporary.  Trust me. Yours, Don. And then he left again. So here I am, bobbing in the ocean with tiger sharks for company. I fcken hate that guy. I’m cold! *** Great news, the sharks have been deleted. I feel the sun warm my perfectly tanned skin. My hair, a golden brown, clings gently to my skull. Droplets of water run down my legs. I glisten. I’m wearing a white bikini. I have to say, I’m impressed with my cleavage. Astonished, really. What an amazing figure I have. My bikini top has a tie at the front, the bikini pants have a belt with a buckle. I feel like I’m from a 1960s film set. I run my hands over my waist. Hourglass. I feel sensuous, voluptuous. She ascends the ladder at the back of the launch one sinewy limb at a time. “Did you enjoy your dip, my dear?” Oooh, what accent is that? Wait a minute, let me get a look at this guy. He reminds me of someone… He stands silhouetted against the sky, his freshly-brushed hair billowing in the breeze. He’s shirtless. His man-breasts are cut like the rigid outline of mountains, his six pack is solid as a tree trunk, his jeans are casually rolled to his knees. His eyes rake Ursula’s body, his hunger plain. She tosses her head as he offers her a glass of champagne and she gently flares her nostrils. He’s like a stallion, she thinks, stepping onto the boat, exotic and untamed. She falls into his arms, moaning softly as the white bikini top drops to the ground. He’s only teased her so far on this Mediterranean sojourn but now, finally, the moment has come. His hand caresses her… OMG, I know who this is! It’s Fabio! I must be in a spicy Mills and Boon. You know, this guy Don? The writer guy I said I hated? Maybe I was a little quick to judge…

gmpt1g

A Distant Melody

Ellie had never been to this part of town before. It wasn’t that it was particularly far from her usual haunts, but there was something about the quiet streets and the absence of familiar faces that had drawn her in. She liked places where no one would recognize her. Today, more than ever, she needed to feel invisible. The small café, tucked between an old bookstore and a vintage clothing shop, seemed like the perfect place to disappear. With its dim lighting and eclectic decor, it felt worlds away from the bustling city just a few blocks over. The rain drummed softly against the windowpanes, a soothing backdrop as she sat alone in a corner booth, nursing a cup of tea that had long gone cold. Ellie pulled her jacket tighter around herself, though the room was warm. It wasn’t the chill of the café she was trying to escape — it was the creeping sense of anxiety that had followed her for months now, ever since she’d left her old life behind. A life she could never go back to. As she gazed out the window, watching raindrops race each other down the glass, the door chimed. Ellie didn’t look up. She was too lost in her thoughts, her mind spiraling around what had brought her to this point — the choices, the mistakes, the secrets. “Is this seat taken?” The voice startled her, soft but direct. Ellie blinked and looked up, her heart skipping a beat. Standing before her was a man, mid-thirties maybe, with dark, tousled hair and an easy smile. His clothes were damp from the rain, his jacket speckled with droplets. “No,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. She hadn’t expected company, but there was something about the man’s presence that was hard to refuse. “Thanks,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her. He placed a battered umbrella on the floor beside him and shook out his coat, sending a few stray raindrops onto the table. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Ellie shifted in her seat, unsure why she hadn’t objected. She didn’t want company — at least, she thought she didn’t. Yet here he was, this stranger, disrupting her solitude without a second thought. “Cold night, isn’t it?” the man said, breaking the silence. Ellie nodded. “Yeah, it is.” He smiled again, but this time, there was something behind it, something that made her uneasy. His gaze lingered on her just a moment too long, as if he were sizing her up, trying to figure her out. She averted her eyes, staring down at her hands, which were clasped tightly around her mug. “I’m Lucas,” he said, extending a hand across the table. After a brief hesitation, Ellie took it. His grip was firm but not overpowering, his skin warm despite the chill outside. “Ellie,” she replied, her voice still subdued. “Nice to meet you, Ellie,” Lucas said, leaning back in his seat. He studied her for a moment, as though he were waiting for her to say something more, but Ellie remained quiet. She didn’t want to engage in small talk. She didn’t want to explain why she was sitting alone in a half-empty café on a rainy night, miles from home. But Lucas didn’t seem to need an explanation. He was comfortable in the silence, his gaze wandering around the café as if he were taking it all in. For a while, they sat there in companionable quiet, the rain outside growing heavier, the café’s warm lights casting long shadows on the walls. Ellie began to relax, letting the sound of the storm and the soft clinks of dishes from the counter ease her nerves. Maybe, she thought, this wasn’t so bad. Lucas seemed nice enough, and there was no harm in sharing a table with a stranger. “So, Ellie,” Lucas said after a long pause, his tone casual, “what brings you here?” The question, though innocent enough, sent a jolt of anxiety through her. Ellie shifted uncomfortably, her fingers tightening around her mug again. “Just… needed a break,” she said vaguely, hoping he wouldn’t press for details. Lucas raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. Instead, he nodded, as if her answer made perfect sense. “We all need that sometimes,” he said. “A break from the world.” Ellie managed a small smile. “Yeah.” There was another stretch of silence before Lucas spoke again, this time more quietly. “Are you running?” The question hung in the air, heavy and unspoken until now. Ellie’s heart thudded in her chest. She tried to laugh, but it came out awkward and forced. “Running? From what?” Lucas didn’t answer right away. He simply watched her, his eyes calm but searching, like he already knew the truth but was waiting for her to admit it. “We all run from something, Ellie,” he said softly. “Some of us just run longer than others.” Ellie felt the walls closing in, the suffocating weight of her secret pressing down on her. She had been running for so long — from her past, from the mistakes she’d made, from the consequences that were bound to catch up with her eventually. She thought she could escape, could start over in a new place where no one knew her name. But maybe she had been wrong. Maybe running wasn’t enough. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her voice strained. Lucas’s smile faded, replaced by something more serious, more knowing. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said quietly. “But I can see it in your eyes. You’re not just here for a break. You’re hiding.” Ellie’s breath caught in her throat. How could he know? How could this stranger, this man she’d only just met, see through her so easily? “I don’t—” she started, but Lucas held up a hand. “It’s okay,” he said gently. “You don’t have to explain. We all have our reasons.” Ellie stared at him, her mind racing. She wanted to get up, to leave, to put as much distance between herself and this man as possible. But something in his voice, in the way he spoke, kept her rooted to the spot. “You don’t know anything about me,” she said, more defensively than she intended. Lucas met her gaze, his eyes unwavering. “Maybe not. But I’ve been where you are. And I know what it feels like to be running.” Ellie’s throat tightened, her mind spinning with questions she wasn’t ready to ask. Who was this man? What did he know? And why did she feel like he understood her better than anyone else had in months? “I don’t have a choice,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. Lucas leaned forward, his voice barely audible over the sound of the rain. “There’s always a choice, Ellie. You just have to decide whether you want to keep running or if it’s time to stop.” The weight of his words settled over her like a heavy blanket. For the first time in months, Ellie felt exposed, vulnerable. She had spent so long building walls, hiding behind a facade of normalcy, pretending everything was fine when, in truth, it was far from it. And here, in this quiet café, a stranger had torn down those walls with just a few words. “I can’t stop,” she said, her voice trembling. “Not now.” Lucas’s eyes softened. “Maybe you don’t have to. But running forever… that’s not living, Ellie. That’s just surviving.” Ellie looked away, unable to meet his gaze. He was right, of course. She knew that. But stopping meant facing the truth, and the truth was something she wasn’t ready to confront. She stood abruptly, grabbing her coat. “I need to go,” she said, her voice tight. Lucas didn’t try to stop her. He simply nodded, his expression unreadable. “Take care of yourself, Ellie.” She hesitated for a moment, then turned and hurried toward the door. As she stepped out into the cold, damp air, the rain splashing against her skin, she felt a surge of panic. She had been so careful, so sure that no one could see through her, that her secret was safe. But now, everything felt fragile, like a house of cards waiting to collapse. Ellie pulled her jacket tighter around herself and quickened her pace, her mind racing with thoughts she couldn’t escape. She needed to disappear again, needed to find somewhere new, somewhere where no one would know her or ask questions. But even as she walked away from the café, she couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe Lucas was right. Maybe it was time to stop running.

mnckpv

The Purchase That Didn't Go So Well

A long line is up there with one of the last things a person would want to see after making an 1100 mile 14 day trek through most of the world’s most unflattering wonders like barren deserts and villages taken over by predatory salesmen. That certainly wasn’t what our protagonist of the story, a 42 year old pushing out of shape man, wanted to see, coming up on top of the largest and most treacherous hill since 45 minutes ago. Upon laying eyes on the snake of people in front of him, Dr. Amadeus R Beckentower was brought to his knees into the dirt and grassy ground in a moment that should have been ecstatic but instead replaced with feelings of anything but. Beckentower buried his face into his bruised and beaten palms, struggling not to wet them with his own tears. It was an awkward scene, if you had to witness it. A man dressed in all black head to toe wallowing on the ground with the depression of his bad choices, and the much shorter plump man beside him looking awkwardly around while holding what looked like enough supplies to support the entire town they were arriving at. After enough time fighting for his life in the same spot waiting, to the smaller man's relief, Beckentower finally looked up and out at the city gates just below them. “What kind of town has a line to get in?” Beckentower muttered in frustration, making his way up and helping his partner by adding his water canteen to the smaller mans right hand, counteracting the mismatch of the weight of everything he was holding in his left. “I almost wonder if it’s even worth it…” Beckentower said mopily, suddenly looking back at the rollercoaster of hills they’d just made their way from. “I mean we’re already here.” His partner said frantically, not so much caring about why they were there but mainly just praying he could get a second to put all the stuff down. “I guess you’re right, Horatio.” Beckentower said fondly to his assistant before taking a deep breath and leading the way. He was right, they were already here and they were going to return this faulty crystal ball no matter how many more lines they’d have to wait through. The line wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. In the sense that at least they didn’t die from the dehydration that came with waiting out in the scorching heat for nearly a quarter of the day. It definitely gave Beckentower more than enough time to ponder things about his life that he didn’t like to think about, like how many more failed heists a villain of his age in these times could financially put up with before having to lay off his last remaining assistant, eyeing Horatio as he thought that. He almost had enough time to think about Grivalda – a name that instantly filled him with dread, but stopped himself. “Do you plan to enter the town of Omindale?” was probably one of the stupidest things you could be asked at the end of a torturous wait like that, but that didn’t stop them from being asked that by the guard anyway. They both nodded, and in an even more stupid sequence of events, were then admitted into the town just like that. It was a fairly bustling place for a town in 1363. Having just come off a devastating famine only years ago, you wouldn’t have guessed it by the abundance of merchants lined up beside the many grass pathways, all of their carts each filled with strange fruits and produce that Beckentower felt he hadn’t seen before. They were a bit overwhelmed by the far too many choices of which direction to go in, and so Beckentower reached into one of the many bags his assistant Horatio was carrying and began rummaging around for the reason they were here. “Which bag is it in!” He said frustratedly, having gone completely through the first before being jostled around by all the traffic passing by. It wasn’t the best idea to drop and search for things in the middle of a busy street, but then again it wasn’t a villain’s place to think about these kinds of things either. Horatio didn’t remember and so they finally pulled over to the side and practically cleaned out shop but not before he finally landed on the crown jewel. He pulled out a solid black box, marked only with small white writing containing just a single address. It was kind of mysterious. It was all they needed but in the commotion of it all, Beckentower wanted to make sure the contents were still okay. He peeled the box open. And there it was, a small but precisely and elegantly crafted crystal clear ball, surrounded by little puffs of light gray fog dancing around the sides of the box. It still looked untouched– which was exactly how a piece of garbage product you’d hope to get your money back for should be. “I can’t believe you let me buy this thing Horatio.” Beckentower murmured, staring deeply into the little ball in his hands. “Actually, I advised considering doing more research,” Horatio replied nervously, double checking his bosses expression before continuing, “But yes that was my job I guess.” Beckentower placed the useless merchandise back into the box carefully and resealed it. You couldn’t call it crazy to think that a crystal ball would do things like show you whatever you’d like to see, or predict the future, or hell even place an order for carry out. But the garbage he’d bought didn’t just do none of that, it barely even turned on. And when it did, it worked like a CCTV camera, limited to just showing live footage of select areas around the kingdom. And tasteless areas too. It’d be cool if you were interested in looking at random dirt all day in the middle of a forest, but at that point you’d be able to just see it better in person. If Beckentower was being honest with himself he did reactionarily buy the ball without really considering other options. It was just that it was in a moment of rage and frustration, and the thought of being able to spy on the woman who had caused him to feel that way wasn’t just appealing, but the solution. And the serf advertising the stupid thing was also pretty good. The problem was that returning things in the 1300’s wasn’t as easy as it sounds. There weren’t really many ways to actually get in contact with the original vendor and most of the time, you’d hope to scrap what you bought for parts. But this ball was just too useless and most importantly way too expensive to just let go. The thought of making the journey to this place was the last resort on Beckentower’s mind, and believe me he made Horatio exhaust all his options and threaten an embarrassingly high amount of people before concluding he had no choice. They were gonna have to go. Beckentower was the most miserable villain in the world at this very moment, swatting gnats and what felt like bottles of sweat off his face, as they made their way up yet another hill to a small, trashy looking shack at the top. “What kind of hellish spells have been cast on this place,” he gasped, pausing to catch his breath, shocked by a relentless heat he’d never experienced in his life–and he’d just finished going through a desert. If he’d known how hot the world could get, he may have packed better, but his dark black cloak, matched by his dark black linen pants, topped with his dark black hood and cape was a staple of his image. Beckentowers rolled up sleeves were now more useless than the ball, and in a decision he could nearly never be seen doing, he removed his cloak and threw it onto the list of stuff Horatio was carrying. Horatio grunted in response, partially because he always forgot how obnoxiously heavy that cloak could be, and his knees nearly buckled. Suddenly, he felt compelled to snap back at his boss or hell, even quit – if an unpaid intern like Horatio could even call it that. But a deep breath managed to convince him otherwise, for now. Through unquestionable perseverance, the two unfit warriors finally found themselves in front of not one foreclosure looking shack, but many, many foreclosure looking shacks scattered around the flattened hill top with seemingly no care at all. There were great distances between some, and nearly no room for Jesus between others. No one else being there was certainly off putting too. Conveniently enough, the very first shack they had seen matched the address on their box – 7200 Barley Way. Beckentower felt a pang of disappointment thinking how he had spent a fraction of his life making his way towards… that. He knocked on a sorry excuse for a door, praying it would make it through the knocks. “Hello, can anyone assist us?” He called. No answer. He knocked, putting the door’s life in danger again. “Any idiot home to help?” Beckentower repeated, frustrated. Silence. Then, suddenly, there was shuffling in the back, and after a few seconds of what sounded like two bulls in a china breaking competition, a small, stocky man pulled aside curtains to the window beside the door. “Who are you?” The man asked, but his eyes then widened a bit at the sight of them. Maybe the crook had never expected to see someone actually return his junk, Beckentower thought. “Hi yes, my name is Beckentower. I’m here to return a crystal ball I purchased from what I believe is this address.” “Hm one second.” The man paused before rummaging around beneath the window for a bit. He then closed the curtains to just a crack leaving only his mouth and nose barely visible. Beckentower and Horatio looked at each other puzzled. After a few minutes he called out. “At the next window please.” The next window wasn’t much better than the before window. Closed and beaten ribbed shutters separated the villains from the man, only able to catch a small glimpse through the little openings. “Hello, my name is Cornel-Corney-Cor…Cornelius” The man struggled for some reason, “And I can assist you with the return of your product. I’m sorry to hear it wasn’t what you expected. Would you like an upgrade?” “What? No I would like to return this.” Beckentower placed the junk on the window sill. “I’m sorry to hear that. What is the reason?” Cornelius asked. “It’s junk.” Beckentower started, “I can’t monitor my employees, I can’t see the things or people I need to see.” He spat. “I see. We pride ourselves on our customer satisfaction, and privacy is also very important. We pride ourselves that our crystal balls come with state of the art privacy-” “And that’s about all it comes with.” Beckentower butted. No response from Cornelius. “Can I get my refund.” “Customer satisfaction is our utmost priority, in fact it’s 100% guaranteed!” Cornelius began, “Would you like an upgrade? Your ball will be ad free” “Upgrade? No! I want a refund sir!” Beckentower demanded. “I’m sorry to hear it wasn’t what you expected,” Cornelius began, “Privacy is very important to us. Would you like to explore our other options?” All this time, Horatio’s anger had been bubbling up like a baking soda volcano experiment. “Goddammit!” Horatio shouted, dropping everything he was carrying and seething to the point Beckentower worried he would explode, “Just give us our money back!” Silence followed that, that Cornelius finally broke. “I can’t give you a refund, but I can offer you free admission to a couple of these Gentlemen’s clubs.” Horatio and Beckentower looked at each other defeated. They both felt it was a lost cause. So in a snappily fashion, they grabbed the coupons he was holding out and left. Beckentower and Horatio found themselves scouring outside of a small but lively pub, deciding that enough of turning down every restaurant was enough and they were going to eat here no matter what. They were quickly escorted to their small table in the back, where the cozy lanterns that hung around the perimeters did less to help them see. They were both in pretty sour moods. “Horatio I’m so disappointed,” Beckentower spoke, looking out at the others in the pub “I don’t think I’ll compensate your expenses for this trip. I just don’t feel good.” “Wha-what?” Horatio uttered, wondering how on earth he would afford it. “No I won’t cover your lodging or food, I’m sorry.” He looked at Horatio who was looking at the table, visibly upset, “You work for a crook, Horatio, what do you expect?” The waiter, a short and younger woman, pulled up beside them. “Hi, welcome to–” She stopped herself upon making eye contact with Beckentower and grinned. “You’re that Villian aren’t you!” She said excitedly. Beckentower was a tad surprised to be recognized so far from his hometown, hell he was barely acknowledge in his own, but he had to admit it did feel nice and he couldn’t hide a sly grin. “You’re work in the Basaltin Empire was remarkable. The way you stole their kings palace in it’s entirety. That’s legendary!”  He was a bit puzzled. He never did that. Although he’d heard of that event and was bothered he hadn’t been the one to do it. To save her the embarrassment however, he played along. “Yes, one of my easier jobs.” He responded nonchalantly. There was a bit of a pause before she remembered what she was there for and took their order. Them sitting in silence likely made the wait feel longer than it was, but both would be lying if they said they felt better seeing their food come out. Beckentower’s pub burger seemed to stack a mile high, and his eyes grew two sizes upon seeing it. It was a bad day to be Beckentowers burger, and the moment it was placed down, he took a massive, career ending bite out of the burger. He spit it out instantly like someone had tried to poison him. “Pickles?! I said no pickles!” Beckentower brought his fist down on the table and looked at Horatio. “I’ve absolutely had it with this side of the world! We’re out of here!” He barked. Horatio’s fried cod on the other hand had been cooked to perfection and he wanted nothing more than to eat it, but Beckentower was fed up and he insisted, getting up and scanning his surroundings. “But we haven’t paid!” Horatio worried, also praying he could find an excuse. “We’re villains, we don’t get paid to do the right thing.” He snapped, and hurriedly made his way towards the exit, Horatio following behind frantically. There were many guards in the city streets at night, Beckentower noticed, and being fed up with this place he didn’t shy away from catching each and every one of their gazes as he passed by. But it was in the way that every guard immediately looked away, like they were trying to hide their thoughts that suddenly reminded him of the way Grivalda couldn’t be bothered to look him in the eyes in the deterioration of their relationship. And it made him feel sick. Beckentower didn’t imagine he’d be happier seeing the city gates on the way out versus on the way in, but he couldn’t hold back his smile when the two white and gray pillars nesting the gate in between appeared in the distance. The few people crazy enough to leave at night were exiting as easily as they’d gotten in. “Sir, please step this way” The guard motioned, but Beckentower was puzzled having just seen the person in front leave just fine. “What’s going on?” “Foreigners must go through customs.” The guard commanded leading him into a dimly lit room inside the walls, Beckentower slowly growing queasy. “What makes you think I’m a foreigner?” “Please.” The guard ignored and then gestured to a plain pedestal sitting alone in the middle of the room, with a mammoth book rivaling the dictionary barely fitting on it. Beckentower brushed a heap of dust off the cover to get a better look and wondered just how little tourism this terrible town had. “Exit surveys are important for you to leave. Mr. Beckentower we ask you provide feedback on your time here in Howendale.” Beckentower, eager than ever to leave, flipped to the first page ready to provide feedback more vile than the things Grivalda used to say to him when suddenly his blood ran cold. Slowly, he looked up at the guard who was glaring back at him. “How… how do you know my name?” “Exit surveys are important for you to leave.” The guard commanded, pointing firmly to the book. Deeply unsettled, Beckentower shakily held the pen in his hand bringing it near to the page when he stopped. Someone had already obnoxiously written all over it leaving no space to put anything else. He began to turn the page when the name at the bottom caused him to take a double take. With a sense of dread, he read the ill written message from the person before him. “ To my wretched ex husband, I hope you burn in hell. Love Grivalda.” A click brought Beckentowers attention back up to the guard whose hands were over a comically large lever he hadn’t noticed before. For a split second the world stopped, and then just like out the page of a fairy tale, the villain had no choice but to meet his fate at the bottom of a pit filled with I’d rather not say but I’ll leave you with this. There was now definitely no one who would reimburse Horatio.

jo2l8o

THOMAS CREER AND THE TIME MACHINE

Thomas Creer sat at the breakfast table, munching on toast and scrolling through the news feed on his tablet. Armourer and extreme suit designer Thomas Creer, a Professor of Biomedical Engineering at the University of Peru, was a researcher into human health, including time machines. Thomas rode in the self-driving Tesla, journeying the three miles to Nazca. His gaze fixated on the car’s screen, periodically it with his damp glove. Streams of vehicles whizzed past, their headlights piercing through the darkness. Amidst the flurry of activity, Thomas remained lost in his thoughts which wandered between the optimum shaped windscreen and the ideal size for a tablet. He didn’t think his latest suit would work in Peru, maybe in North America, but not here. Without a break he would like to have given up and take a normal job. The cell phone rang. ‘Hi,’ Thomas said. He had a good working relationship with Robert Bryant the textile engineer, whose name appeared, who was sometimes cooperative, and at times was like a long lost brother. Bryant had been offered the research project of his dreams at Universidade Federal de Rio de Janeiro, with the mechanical engineering department. Rio de Janeiro had not been good to Thomas. There were frustrations, particularly the bureaucratic hurdles and he lacked much facility in languages. In other places, like North America, scientific research was held in high regard, but in Rio, it often felt like an uphill battle for funding and recognition. Yet, amidst these challenges, some of the brightest minds in the world resided here, drawn by the city's vibrant culture and natural beauty. Thomas considered himself fortunate; he had been enticed to Rio and so far, things were going slowly. The other complication in his life was his wife. It wasn't her fault, but Thomas struggled to find a link between his visionary ideas and his determination to bring them to fruition and her mathematical straight talking. Still, she both frightened and captivated him. Together, they were embarking on a fragile journey of shared dreams and aspirations. It had caused quite a stir in her Chinese family that she was not marrying a Chinese, a sentiment somewhat assuaged by the fact that he was a scientist with a scientist's convictions. This apprehension softened further over time, especially as Thomas, despite being a firm non-communist, demonstrated respect and appreciation for world customs, often participating in her family's Taoist conception of the world. The early years of their marriage were undeniably joyous. Thomas 's career skyrocketed, particularly in his early thirties when he garnered a prize for his groundbreaking work in the paper, "Chrono-biological Synergy: An Integrative Analysis of Human Physiology and Temporal Displacement Suit Design in Theoretical Time Travel Constructs" which won the Horological Frontier Prize for Pioneering Research in Temporal Biophysics and Adaptive Human Engineering. His belief in technological advancements sparked fervent discussions, and his wife who was called by the English name Sally staunchly defended his ideas. As Thomas hurried through the bustling arrivals lobby, clad in his checked jacket, jeans and Timberland boots, he exuded his usual confidence. Yet, inwardly, doubts gnawed at him. He was haunted with the idea of giving up and becoming an ordinary clothes designer. But Thomas also believed in his field. It was what he worked on day and night; it was what drove him, what made him wake each morning with a sense of exhilaration and purpose. He had an absolute blind faith that he could achieve a working time travel suit in his lifetime. And it would free him from having to worry about whether in two hundred years’ time anyone would actually invent one. Thomas’s colleague, Robert Bryant was convinced that Thomas was the only man with the vision and ability to make the suit happen. Thomas had met numerous scientists who found his ideas completely crazy. He’d also met plenty who considered him interesting and stimulating, but he’d never met anyone else who believed as passionately in him as himself. Bryant broke the news that the arrival of a pyramid on the Nazca plain was a time travel machine, merely waiting for present day humans to find its access point. It was their shared belief in time retrocausality that was their main bond, although they were coming at it from different directions. Robert thought he could hook the time travelling pyramid which appeared in Nazca to an external source; Thomas Creer’s suit. That got him musing that paradoxes mighn't be altogether as world-altering as all that. In any case, Robert said the university wanted Thomas to contribute everything he knew as the Peruvian government wanted to use his suit prototypes. Simultaneously, he was looking for what his tablet had to say about Nazca. He end his call on his cell phone and dialled his secretary. ‘How old is the Nazca site?” ‘Around two thousand years old.’ ‘Tell me why the newspapers think it is the product of unknown technology.’ ‘It arrived, didn’t it?" ‘The pyramid?’ ‘Yes, exactly, that’s the point, Thomas, you know it's actively here and from something beyond our level of technology.’ She stirred her morning coffee and sipped the froth with an air of connoisseurship. ‘Yes I know time hasn’t elapsed for future humanity, unless of course…’ ‘Did you read this report?’ ‘I’ll read it when you get back.’ Thomas headed indoors to the laboratory. He went to his desk and opened the book ‘Technology and the Possibility of Time Travel’ his secretary had placed on his desk. In it was an inserted sheet beside a chapter he had written himself. He read it. "The Nazca lines, etched into the desert, resist obliteration, embodying our civilization's cosmic dance on the earth’s surface. The people were deeply connected to the heavens, merging artistry and astronomy. I am experiencing overwhelming sensations in this place, surrounded by living colors and textures. I feel a connection to the Eternals. (Sally Padeira-Creer)". Thomas read it then placed the book back down. He went to the window, to the very spot where he had theorized his successful biomedical model of a time travel suit. The government were rushing into the testing stage with an official interest, proposing and regulating the Mark 1 assuming there was no flaw in his model. Thomas tapped his pencil. 'I deduced . . ‘ and he went to look at the end of his equation. 'I deduced that my suit would only work in the theoretical time construct at the exact geographical location of Nazca's pyramid. A paradox will arise elsewhere but here not.’ Then he took a walk, past the SETI office and its astrophysicists, past the theatre, where he turned off the road, then to the river, where it provided a bridge leading to the other side of the hill. “The radio said a pyramid landed. But I don’t think it landed from what I could see from here, looking out on the Nazca plain. I think it punched a hole in space.” Thomas was about to shut the blinds. “What does it look like?” “It’s still rooted to the spot.” He stepped back into the room with a practiced gait. “Did you see helicopters?” “They’re all over the place,” his secretary said. “But it looks to me like they’re not getting too close.” The Canadian Spacetime Agency came up on Thomas’s cell phone. ‘What do we have on this pyramid?” asked Thomas. “Landed on the Nazca plain, no discernible markings or identifiers.” “What about potential threats?” “No readings of any hazardous materials, no signs of radiation. It's just... there.” “What are we dealing with?” “Could be some sort of experimental structure, or maybe even... extratemporal.” “Extratemporal?” “You mean Eternals who want to prevent us from exploring space like Isaac Asimov said.” “We can handle a pyramid,” the voice on the other end said. “But it’s not going to stay a pyramid.” “What is it going to do?” “It’ll break into 9,000,000,000 pyramids. A brown shell of a pyramid it is now. And as of 2037, our population will be exactly nine billion.” One day to go. “Have you found what kind of material it is?” “It’s called Promethium. It is not found on Earth. This is a substance we don’t have more than a few grams of on Earth.” “What does it do?” The CSA wasn’t sure what it did. Mainly it was capable of a molecular multiplication cascade with an intrinsic quota lock. “That’s what you say. What does that mean, that they knew our meter standard measurement?” “At first the journalists said that. But now they say whoever sent it projected what our population would be.” “Well, evidence won’t place it anywhere except someone from the future who knows our present population.” “How do you know that?” the voice said. “I just know. It’s perfectly obvious. It’s probably been rigged to trip when our population reaches exactly nine billion..” “What if it does?” “It could’ve started to.” “No, it's just one pyramid, with a base of 73.6 meters.”  “They sent for the helicopters?” “Of course. It’s reached the highest level.” “As of now we need to eliminate those Nazca lines. For any number of reasons they ought never to have been there.” Sally’s head appeared from behind the door. She had been listening. She said a neighbor had told her the pyramid was a forty five degree pyramid with a base of 73.6 meters and a height of 36.8 meters. People were being told the government initiated it. “There’s been a correction,” Thomas told her. “Tell them they ought to think of it as becoming 9,000,000,000 small pyramids.” Another helicopter flew over, heading in the direction of the pyramid. “Will we have to leave?” “Of course.” “How do you know?” “I just know.” “They’re using radioactivity detectors to test it,” she said. “What kind of radioactivity does Promethium give off?” “I don’t know but it’s supposed to be rendered harmless.” “People are keeping it from breaking up only by dying,” Thomas said. “When do we eat?” ‘l'm sure there's plenty of time," Sally said, "or they would have told us to hurry." Twenty minutes later they had eaten brisket of beef with carrots and sweet potatoes, mushrooms and broccoli and were heading to the Tesla. Thomas made a remark about time branching off like stalks of broccoli. Sally held tightly to the wheel, despite the automatic drive. "Abandon all homes. Now, now. Pyramid dividing." The police were hurrying them. “That was up a stress level to Defcon 2 .” “What are you taking about?” “The time traveller's pyramid.” “That means it’s worked out how to bypass the quarantine.” “There’s more,” she said. “It’s expected that some sort of special team has been killed.” “They’ve got my work on time travel suits I hope.” “Hope so,” she said. “They’re certainly looking into it as being a time travel machine.” They heard sirens again, a different set this time, a larger sound—not police, fire-engines, or ambulances. They were air-raid sirens, Thomas realized, and they seemed to be blowing in Palpa, a small nearby community. “Could the Pyramid be dangerous?” “They’re calling it the world-destroying Pyramid.” “Why is that not relatable?” “It means they’re looking into the thing properly.” “The important thing is it’s there, we’re here. We’re getting out of here.” Thomas ate the snack she’d brought – nut cookies, quietly and neatly, reducing the size of his bites as the plate’s contents got smaller. It wasn’t until the sirens stopped that an amplified voice which was unclear was slowly interpretable. “Head to Puquio refugee camp.” They reached Puquio at the dawn of the year 2037. There were checkpoints at all the road exits. State troopers and Red Cross workers handed out instructions. They had some food and coffee. They read, WELCOME EVACUEES. At noon a rumor went around that technicians were being lowered in time travel suits from army helicopters in order to get into it. Thomas turned to Sally, “There is just no end of surprises." Thomas and Sally sought solace in the hand-painted sign which read 'Sama restaurant'. The café's pastel hues and sleek furniture, provided a backdrop for their conversation. The TV on the wall interrupted with news of the progress on quarantining the pyramid. Both ordered Americanos, discussing their evening plans just before the waiter arrived at the table. While they realized the future weighed heavily on them, they focused on the interpretation of the pyramid as a time machine on the TV news. Sally questioned the necessity for each part as conceived by the Eternals, if each human being would 'own' a cube of 2.5 centimeter size which had been dubbed a ‘guardian object’. Thomas explained to her the Nazca’s focus on the abstract figures, overlaying animals and plants, suggesting they were formed from more than water-seeking primitives. Many archaeologists had worked on decoding the messages, static or otherwise. Thomas got the server to fill his coffee mug up again. When the evacuee’s compound door was wide open, he raised it and took a long slow drink from it then took a look at the weather. He went to the alcove by the window then stopped. Someone had taken out a library book and the page missing was Montague’s formulae for avoiding paradoxes in time, with annotations involving concerns about errors in his calculations. That evening Thomas went ahead with his talk: “Ladies and gentlemen of Puquio, it is with great pleasure and profound excitement that I stand before you today to recount the mysteries of the universe with respect to the possibility of retrocausality. Within these mysteries, we confront Einstein's formidable speed limit, which asserts that we can never exceed it. This limit beckons us to press on, navigating through the interfaces and coordinates of the cosmos, journeying through the vast expanse of years. We stand at a time where accomplishment seems within easy reach, yet even that feels like a tangible possibility. Spacetime holds within it a subtle contradiction, challenging our comprehension of events unfolding simultaneously yet distilling into finite slices of reality.” He paused to take a drink. “General relativity, with its portrayal of spacetime as a malleable entity, opens the door to the notion of traversing the corridors of time itself. The idea of encountering those from the future who wish to avert a self-imposed crisis we have begun with their own imposed stability is immanent and contiguous to the appearance of an artefact from the future." He hoped he had not gone over their heads. "Einstein's theories, by allowing spacetime to be flexible and dynamic, have laid the foundation for us to imagine the construction of a retrocausality structure. We think that is what the pyramid is.  While the theoretical framework for time travel exists within the elegant equations of our understanding, the practical implementation of such concepts remains elusive. But that may not be the end of the story.” ii  Thomas discussed his ideas during a meal with the council of Puquio whose head was Dr. Montague . He especially wanted to return to that period and said it would require a big budget, equivalent to one-tenth of the Peruvian taxes. The brown pyramid's secret revolved around its ability to protect humanity. It divided up into 9,000,000,000 pieces, one for each human, if it broke into 2.5 centimeter cubes. Sally reacted with astonishment, that Thomas could conjecture this irresponsibly, unless he knew more than he had told her. As he evidenced star charts and ancient artifacts, Dr. Montague, the head of the council, who was also a skeptical time theoretician, entered the Sama café. “ Ah, Dr. Montague!” Thomas said, “Come in, come in. I’ve been expecting you. Have a seat.” Dr. Montague looked him up and down and said, “Thank you, Thomas. What’s all this about? You sound alarmed.” “Alarmed! You’re breaking through my armor,” retorted Thomas wiping his mouth with a napkin. “You see, I’ve made a remarkable discovery. The ancient Nazca lines in Peru—they’re not just random geoglyphs. They’re a message from the Eternals.” , Dr. Montague showed enough restraint to convince the other to go on. “Hear me out, Doctor. The Nazca lines form intricate patterns—geometric shapes, animals, and even a humanoid figure. But it’s their alignment with celestial events that intrigues me. The Eternals, you see, set up the pyramid to observe humanity’s progress!” Dr. Montague laughed. “Eternals? Really? Thomas, you’re pulling my leg. Those ancient people were skilled astronomers, not futurists.” “Consider this: The Nazca lines align perfectly with the solstices and equinoxes. The precision is uncanny! And the pyramid—oh, the pyramid—it’s a beacon from the future, transmitting data across time.” “These are stories.” “My stories cost nothing for one thing, and for two, we shall go back and see when the Nazca lines were made. And it’s true that they made them to catch a time machine, so to speak, it’ll be as real as I sit here I tell you.” Thomas's voice had hit home. Dr. Montague appeared to doubt. ‘Show me the data. Where’s the proof? You’re saying the Nazca civilization collaborated with the Eternals to build that?’ “The Eternals shared their advanced knowledge, and the Nazcans were reciprocating with… well, pottery- no, also inspired weaving transferred to the desert sands.” “Oh, they had llamas and pottery, and lived on rugs, Right? You’re a brilliant young man who should not give up a promising career, don’t do it, Thomas. The Nazca lines served as ceremonial pathways, irrigation channels, or just ancient doodles.” “But Dr. Montague, what if they left a message? We must decode it. And the pyramid—oh, the pyramid—explain that away!’ Dr. Montague was composed. “ I’ll entertain your theory. But let’s stick to evidence-based research as I say. Deal?" Thomas grinned. “Deal! But mark my words, one day, we’ll decipher the Nazca code, and the Eternals will send us a friend request.” Finding the Nazca would not be easy. A feeling of connection to the ancient civilization grew. The Nazca appeared to have made the first contact between themselves and the Eternals.

8p56kf

Fire Leaves the Body, but Remains in the Soul

“My son, is that you?” His voice ushers a chill down my spine. Vultures circle above his head, shadows emitted by their flapping wings cover his hollow gaze. His body, ravaged by deep gashes, torn skin, and shredded flesh, has long been restrained by heavy iron chains strapped to an unwieldy boulder. The breathtaking vista behind him is veiled by the weight of iron shackles. A sweeping view of endless beauty, unreachable behind bars of torment. The summit of Mount Caucasus reveals a paradise, yet his soul remains imprisoned; the sky’s endless expanse mocks him, just out of reach for limbs bound in suffering. Instead, his glazed eyes rest on my own, ignoring the looming trees beside me. The weight of his gaze surpasses that of a dozen anvils. I almost forget to speak. “Prometheus...” I say, not knowing how to follow. “No, not anymore,” he answers in a hoarse growl. “I am a relic now of a bygone era.” “Why are you here?” He raises his brow as by instinct of interrogation. “Sin, my son. It is my sins that have enraged Zeus and cast me here in eternal punishment.” “Do you regret your past?” “Regret? Do you regret the love you feel for your mother? For your sons? I bear no guilt for the love that brought me here. I bleed with my conscience clear and my heart full.” “But to betray the Gods…” “The Gods? What do you know of Zeus and his court, boy? They did not create humanity; they merely seized a kingdom built by those who came before. It was I, a Titan who turned against his own, who shaped your kind from clay. Can’t you see, child? That curious, questioning mind within your skull is the very transgression that incensed Zeus all those eons ago.” “So it is true,” I challenge. “You scorned Zeus for defeating your brothers in the war. Humanity was your tool, your scapegoat, and Zeus saw through you.” His face contorts in response to my claims, his eyes closing tightly as a piece of torn eyelid is left twitching. With his eyes still shut, he speaks, “You insult me, my boy. There was never ill tidings between the Gods and me because of the Titanomachy. Though I was once a Titan, I am now the god of forethought, among other things. This was no accident; the fall of Cronus was but one of the many outcomes I foresaw and continue to foresee, as is the rise of new gods and kings, and the rebellions they will bring. No, my troubles with Zeus were never bred from vengeance.” A bird glides above, bored with the commotion below and hungry for a snack, it swoops down towards the helpless captive. I watch as the vulture descends, sinking its claws into his abdomen and tearing into the flesh, pecking at his exposed liver. Prometheus groans in agony as more birds circle closer to the rock. Desperate, I snatch a stick from the ground and rush to his side, swinging at the vulture, careful not to harm its prey. I snarl at the drooling scavengers, forcing them to retreat, though not far. They have been here for generations, perhaps their ancestors feasted at this very spot, and they will surely return. As I listen to his labored breathing, a wave of dread washes over me. Only now do I fully notice the lifelessness of his body. His limbs are still, his hair and nails grown wild and uncut for ages. Tears blur my vision as I grapple with a question that gnaws at my soul: what kind of reasoning could compel a man—no, a god—to endure such torment? Why has he not sought forgiveness, surrendered, or repented? And what kind of love drains a being of their very soul? “Do not waste your tears on me, my son. I do not lie here for your pity. And my soul has not yet left my body.” “Then why? Why would accept this torture? To be devoured by these beasts until your bones are bare, only to wake the next day whole and ready for another round of agony?” “When the war subsided, I was merely a few hundred years old, my life still devoid of purpose. My rational, calculating mind, while sharp, had hindered me from taking any decisive action. My legacy was untouched, unwritten. It was not until Zeus’ request that my path became unmistakably illuminated.” He takes a deep breath, his lungs wheezing as blood bubbles in his throat. He continues, “Zeus tasked my brother, Epimetheus, with creating the animals of your world, granting them their fitting traits. They inherited my brother’s nature—acting on desire and instinct before reason. In his haste, Epimetheus granted his children all the traits available from the Gods, leaving your kind with nothing.” “Prometheus, you humor me. Is this to suggest that I, and humankind alike, am beneath the animals who mindlessly roam the Earth?” “No, no. You misunderstand me, my son. For I gave you a gift far more valuable than any physical or primal trait.” “And what can be more valuable than the lifespan of a tortoise? The strength of an ox? The flight of a bird? Or the immunity to poison of a tropical frog?” He chuckles, though it’s laced with pain. “All wonderful traits, indeed. Yet, you forget that man rules the beasts, not the other way around. Have you ever wondered as to why this is? With man’s lack of horns or claws for hunting, tendency to bruise easily, and his vulnerability to the elements, how do you suppose man conquered my brother’s creations?” I remain silent, unable to find an answer. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he continues, "The very way you stand, with your head held high and eyes lifted to the heavens, was no accident. You see, my boy, I molded you after the image of the Gods. I nurtured your mind to embrace complex thoughts; I taught you mathematics, architecture, astronomy. For I knew that deep reasoning and a critical mind were far greater gifts than the extravagant abilities my brother granted his animals." I sit at the base of the rock, lighting the tobacco pipe I've carried to the peak. Inhaling deeply, I exhale a thick cloud of smoke. The flame flickers in his eyes as he falls silent. "Would you like a puff?" I ask. "No, no," he replies with another chuckle. "The smell alone makes me long for the birds." I exhale another plume, this time directing it away from him. "How curious. It was I who brought down fire from Olympus, my final gift to you. I've seen it cook the meat your bestial cousins eat raw. I've seen it used as a weapon, cities reduced to ash. And I've seen it wielded in gluttony, indulged as a tool of excess. In every case, your kind has found new ways to use my gift—a testament to the power of reason and independent thought. Yet, the consequences sometimes make one yearn for the impulsive, purposeless nature of an animal." I snuff the pipe, the smoke curling around my feet. “So, it was fire that led you here. You stole it from the Gods, defying Zeus and sealing your fate.” “That’s true, in a way. But it wasn’t my initial act that brought my punishment. It was the second theft that sealed my doom.” “Twice? You stole fire twice? For what reason would you do such a thing? “The first theft was largely tolerated by Zeus. And my reputation from the Titanomachy was enough to maintain my favor with the Gods. But it was my meddling in the matter of man’s sacrifice that ignited his fury and catapulted it against your kind.” “Sacrifice?” “In the early days of man, rather than hunting for game, mankind lived as gatherers, sustained by the seed-bearing plants that sprang from the earth. When fire gave way to the preparation and consumption of meat, man was expected to sacrifice a portion of the spoils to Zeus’ court. For my insistence on your self sufficiency moved you further from the dependence of the Gods, increasingly contrasting with the dull minded creations of Epimetheus. So, with cunning, I prepared two offerings for the Gods at the feast in Mecone: one, an alluring pile of bones cloaked in rich fat; the other, an unappealing ox's stomach filled with prime cuts of meat. When Zeus made his choice, he claimed the first pile. This deception did not last long; Zeus realized his folly and withheld fire from humanity once more, plunging your kind back into darkness and hardship. But the damage was done. Think of it, my boy—succulent roast lamb, honey-glazed pork ribs, tender beef stew simmered in rich wine. Think of the delicate taste of skewers of spiced sausages and platters of game birds stuffed with figs and olives.” His mouth waters as he speaks, lost in the memory of past feasts. I wonder if he’s forgotten I’m here. He glances at me, puzzled by my lack of enthusiasm. “I’m sorry, I wouldn’t know. I maintain an abstinence from meat, much like Pythagoras and Socrates.” “Bah,” he scoffs. “And what would your philosophers know of the Gods’ gifts. Of course, I am not unaware of my own contributions to your fledgling schools of thought. Do as you wish, I suppose. Who am I to deny the ways in which you use what I’ve given. I simply sought to offer you the choice, for that I am content.” “I understand the goodwill behind your intentions, but after all this time, after witnessing generations come and go, there must be some semblance of regret in your mind.” “My boy, I am not here for the actions I have committed. I am here for those I would have committed if Zeus stayed idle. I could relive my life countlessly, and each time end here on this rock gnawed on by birds, only for you. For humanity. For my children. I would gladly give my body to the Gods. But my soul is clean, it is tranquil. For it knows that mankind has access to gifts the Gods share. Thank you for visiting me here today. Do not leave in sadness. Be proud, for your father is proud of you.” And with these words, I leave the Titan alone, at the peak of Mount Caucasus, to continue his eternal torture. The trees blur past me as I descend. The grass and dirt beneath my feet vanish in favor of the swaying waves of Poseidon’s seas. I look up and the heavens part before me. A booming voice shakes the shifting clouds. “Hermes,” it thunders. “What have you learned? Has our old friend denounced his ways?” “I am afraid some things never change, Lord Zeus. Prometheus is as stubborn as you say. But there is admiration to be found in his commitment to mankind.” “Then he will rot. No man will visit him—not today, not in a millennia. He will watch as humanity destroys itself with the gifts he stole from us. And it will break him. Trust your king, Hermes. This I promise you.”

5i8zdv

New Belongings

“Jennifer, hurry you’re going to miss your flight!” Mom shouted up. Mom, I thought and let those words sink in. I was nineteen and my Mom was my rock, best friend and confidant. It made this trip hard. We talked and talked till the early hours sharing our thoughts, she understood, she always did. Yet I know she feared losing me and however much I tried to reassure her and no matter how much she professed her understanding, there was that look of doubt and uncertainty which pained me no end. I ran down the stairs with my luggage almost toppling over. Mom was standing at the bottom smiling but her face showed her true emotions. “Dad is in the car.” She said like this was a trip to the supermarket but this was no ordinary trip. As I opened the front door Dad ran from the car to take my bags. “I have them princess.” he said. I had always been his princess. Thinking about that I felt the tears well up, when I was a freshman in high school, I was embarrassed when he called me princess in front of my friends. Dad being Dad shrugged it off and for a long time never called me his princess. Then my boyfriend broke up with me and I remember Dad coming to my room with my favorite chocolates, Rolos! “For my princess.” He said and I just fell in his arms and wept buckets. “Are you sure about me going?” I asked as we loaded the car. “Of course you must go.” My dad told me. “You are the only ones I will ever think of as Mom and Dad.” I said, again probably for the hundredth time. “Jennifer, we have talked about this and of course you want to meet her. That is why we remained in contact with her through Mother Lee.” Mom replied pragmatically. I hugged her inhaling her scent and got in the car. In my worry of hurting my parents I had pushed away the excitement and trepidation of this trip. My parents had always wanted to take me to Vietnam but it had never happened but now I was going there to meet my biological mother. She had been so young, younger than I was now and thanks to my parents’ openness and honesty I bore no resentment. There was the natural response of feeling abandoned and unloved but my Mom had always been quick to point out that leaving me in the orphanage was simply an act of love and the hardest thing any woman could do. Vietnam, I thought, my mother had always talked about it. Her best friend Aunt Felicity, my Godmother, was totally obsessed with the place and it was her who had told my Mom about the orphanage. I was surprised Aunt Felicity was not coming with me to Nam as she liked to call it. Mom and Dad had talked about coming but I needed to do this alone and besides they had my siblings to think about. After years of infertility, they finally got pregnant after my adoption. I never felt less loved or wanted when their “own” children came along but there is always the curiosity. The missing jigsaw piece that I needed to make me whole. Aunt Flick had told me Nam was an infectious place and I would never be the same again. “Nam will get you Jenny, she will cast her spell and you will be mesmerized by her.” Over the years she had bought me everything Vietnamese. I had an Áo dài (in every color imaginable). These are made of silk and are the national dress consisting of a long tunic with slits up the side worn over pants. Aunt Flick gave me the full history lesson one time going back to the Ming dynasty. I wondered if the Vietnamese would think it odd that I did not speak much Vietnamese and the little I did speak was not great.  I was Vietnamese yet I was not. Who was I then? The seeds that were planted within were germinating and suddenly I felt so unsure of myself. “Jenny, did you hear a word I said?” I jolted back to the present. “Sorry Mom I was .” She cut me off and finished my sentence. “Daydreaming.” With that we both laughed, it was a common occurrence! “I was checking you have everything we are nearly there.” “It’s all here. Did you put the extra suitcase in for the orphanage.” “Yes I did. It’s probably overweight, Aunt Flick kept adding more things.” We chatted some more as we walked to the check in desk and I was already dreading saying goodbye. I promised myself not to cry but Mom and I set each other off and I watched Dad wipe a tear. I went through security and waved at them until they were out of sight. I breathed a deep breath as I embarked on the journey to my Motherland. It was a long journey giving me time to think and dwell on what I was about to encounter. I realized I was fortunate to be able to meet my birth mother. Many of the orphans never had any details of their parents as they were often abandoned. My mother had sought out Mother Lee in her late pregnancy, the nun had provided her with a safe refuge. I was excited that I would be meeting Mother Lee, she had sent me a Birthday and Christmas card every year and I in turn had written to her over the years. Aunt Flick had warned me she was getting frail. She still lived in the orphanage but it was now run by a young woman who had grown up there but had never been adopted. She had one arm and was left on the orphanage when she was a few days old, unwanted because of what she was lacking. As we touched down in Hanoi, I surveyed all the surroundings. Aunt Flick had told me about the war bunkers and she was right! A reminder of the past. I headed towards immigration to the foreigner line and was stopped by an official wearing what seemed like military uniform. My heart went into my mouth as he rambled on in Vietnamese. He was pointing to something and I looked to see it was the Vietnamese lines which were empty. In my limited Vietnamese I told him I was American and showed him my passport. He smiled broadly and spoke “But you Vietnamese this way.” “I have American passport.” I exclaimed. “No you Vietnamese, come.” I had no choice but to follow him to a desk with no line. The officer at the desk said “You American passport but you Vietnamese. First time Hanoi?” “Thank you, yes it’s my first time to Vietnam since I left as a baby.” “You one of us, we happy you come.” I smiled at the broken English aware of how much better it was than my Vietnamese. This was the Nam way Aunt Flick had described. Instantly I felt like I belonged here, a place where everyone was like me except for the language barrier. Mother Lee had arranged transport to take me to the hotel and as I made my way to arrivals I saw a sign with my name. I made my way to a man not much older than myself; he was incredibly good looking. “Jennifer.” He said in his accented voice. I nodded and he started to talk in Vietnamese and I realized this was going to be a thing for the whole trip and wished I had paid better attention to the lessons my parents had made me take. It turned out his English was superb and we chatted like old friends all the way to the hotel. Aunt Flick for my graduation had paid for me to stay in the Hotel Metropole, an old French hotel. We pulled up and I was overcome with the grandeur and fairytale feel of the place. My driver took my bags and gave me his card to call if I needed anything, otherwise he would be back the day after tomorrow to take me to the orphanage. It was there I would meet Mother Lee and my birth mother. I was excited but scared all at once. I thanked him then checked in and was shown to the most beautiful room which was so Parisian yet full of Indochina charm. I was suddenly very weary and realized it was 5am back home. It was 4pm here and I knew if I could just stay awake for a few hours I could crash for the night. I was ravenous, I took a quick shower and put on some fresh clothes and headed out to the streets of Hanoi and was just charmed. The smell of French bread mingled with, what was that dreadful smell? Drains it was the infamous drain smell Aunt Flick had warned me about!  I settled on some local food. I was familiar with Vietnamese food and could cook many dishes. I ordered some Pho with my limited Vietnamese. They blurted back in full speed Vietnamese and I had to recoil. Thankfully they spoke some English. My Pho came and it was the most heavenly thing I have tasted and I wondered what the secret was! I paid the bill and wondered around for a little longer just soaking in the fact that I was in Nam. There was something very transient about it and although I had never been here it evoked such familiarity. I went back to the hotel, showered, texted my parents as it was still early but they called immediately. I should have known they would have been waiting. We chatted briefly and then I had to go as I could barely keep my eyes open! I slept like a baby and awoke at about 9am. I wondered where I was but then remembered Nam! I dressed quickly and went down to breakfast. I took a table at the window and watched the bicycles and motorbikes pass by, often with a whole family on them and all their shopping!  Some would gaze in and wave so I waved back. Breakfast was divine with exquisite French pastries that just melted and the best coffee I have ever tasted. After breakfast I decided to go to Old Quarter and then wanted to go and see Uncle Ho in his mausoleum. I was fascinated by Ho Chi Minh and Aunt Flick had told me it was a must. I hailed a cyclo and in my limited Vietnamese asked to go there. When I got there, I thought I was in Moscow. The beautiful French architecture was replaced by a cold bland grey square. Uhm not sure Uncle Ho would have liked this! Sadly, I got there to find out he had been sent to Russia for embalming. I shuddered it was a weird concept of keeping someone on show like this! At that I saw my cyclo driver as he had stopped to talk with someone and I asked if he could take me to Uncle Ho’s stilt house. He kindly obliged and chatted the whole way there telling me all about the revered Uncle Ho. I enjoyed seeing his house and hearing the propaganda, here in the North he was of course a hero. My cyclo driver had offered to wait and I found him talking to someone, the Nam way! I wanted to see the Hoan Kiem lake so he took me there, from there I knew I could walk back to the hotel. The lake was beautiful evoking a dreamlike feeling. I learnt of the story of the famous sword and turtle and loved the Turtle Tower. By the time I got to St Joesph’s cathedral - where I had to pinch myself as I thought it was Notre Dame, I was ravenous. I found a little cafe and sat outside and started thinking about tomorrow. Going to the orphanage where I was born was an odd feeling and I had no idea what to expect. Obviously, I had no memory of the place I was barely six months old when I left. I wondered how my birth mother would feel meeting me there. Was that a little cruel for her to go back to the place she had to leave me or would it provide the closure she needed. I am sure Mother Lee would have thought it through, she was astute and tuned in and according to Aunt Flick the most Christlike and amazing person you would ever meet. I was lost in my thoughts when the waitress came and gave me my check. I walked back to the hotel and went for a quick swim then ordered some sandwiches.  I called my parents who were excited to hear about my day, I showered and barely remembered my head hitting the pillow. I awoke to my alarm, dressed and went to breakfast and waited for my driver with trepidation. In the car we chatted and he told me all about Mother Lee and the orphanage. How it was run down but illuminated by love which is what Aunt Flick had told me. As Hanoi went out of sight, paddy fields became the scenery with water buffalo. It was picturesque and I was mesmerized. Finally, we pulled up to some old wrought iron gates in dire need of painting. As we approached children appeared and an older child opened the gate. We drove through slowly with children chasing us and waving. The orphanage was a large building but it was almost dilapidated. As we approached a young woman with one arm who I deduced was the person who now ran the place, she had the most beautiful smile. She hugged me and then shuffling slowly I saw Mother Lee. Something jolted inside, this woman had saved me she had a presence I could not describe almost saintly and I was in awe. “My child, look at you, I am so happy to see you.” She held her arms out and I ran into them and wept. Some internal mechanism recognized this embrace. I looked at her face and saw her tears, her love radiating out of her, just so pure and it was all I could do not to cry again. “I am so happy to see you Mother Lee.”  Mother Lee I realized was like saying motherly I had not noticed that before, how appropriate. “Come child let’s go to my study, there is someone waiting to meet you.” I tensed and Mother Lee sensed my mood. “Would you prefer look around first.” She asked kindly. “No, we have waited both waited long enough.” I followed her noticing how run down the place was. I was glad of her slow pace to give my stomach time to settle. I peered in through open doors and saw a room with a row of cribs and tiny babies. It was hard to think of me there. There was an older child attending to a crying baby shushing her gently. Mother Lee saw me looking in. “It is an act of love when a mother gives up her child, it is not an easy decision.” I smiled and nodded my agreement. She stopped at that and took my hands into her frail liver spotted hands, “Your mother had no choice; she came to me and I helped her she was fifteen. Several times a year she comes here to hear the news of you and see your photos. She has waited for this moment to reunite with you since she left you here, you were barely a week old. She has never once forgotten you.” Tears sprung in my eyes and once she embraced me in that familiar way that made me yearn. “Come child let’s not keep her waiting any longer.” I followed her once more as she opened a creaky door. A woman got to her feet and I froze. I was just like her, there was no mistaking my mother. We locked eyes and ran to each other amid sobs and tears. We never noticed Mother Lee slip out. “My baby, forgive me.” She said in amazingly good English. I looked at her. “There is nothing to forgive.” And with that we both started to cry once more. A few minutes later there was a knock and Mother Lee had returned with tea and cookies, carried by one of the older children. We sat and chatted easily without any inhibitions. She told me how grateful she was to Mother Lee and my parents. She also went on to tell me she was married with two sons, eight and nine. My brothers I thought. We spent the rest of the afternoon together and I told her if she wanted to meet again before I left, I would like that. She of course did and asked if I would like to meet my brothers. I was leaving to see Saigon or Ho Chi Minh City as it was now known but Aunt Flick had told me it was sacrilege to call it anything but Saigon. I was also going to Nha Trang then returning to Hanoi. I could have got a flight from Saigon but there was a part of me that had hoped my birth mother would want to see me again. I decided to change my flight and leave a few days later so we could spend more time and she had insisted that I stay with them. It felt natural and right and for the first time in my life I finally felt whole. Aunt Flick had been right I was totally in love and besotted with Nam. I belonged here, a belonging I never knew existed deep within my soul. 

89gjru

First Byline

Driving up to Elmira, NY was a sheer act of desperation. The kind of act a newly minted staff news reporter should never consider. But, I had yet to score my first byline. And the clock was ticking. How trivial such worries seem now. My fledgling journalistic forays upstate were about to unlock the vault of the supernatural and place me in mortal peril. But, just maybe, the journey might make me a real writer in the process. Real writers can afford a Keurig, I thought. This is how one knows they have not yet joined the ranks. I tilted the pot and poured a re-heated cup of Folgers from the night before into my dirty mug. The poured coffee landed with a sludgy thump and rippled like a gelatinous mass. If this was the best part of waking up, I was in trouble. What I needed most, more than anything, was a lead. As I choked down a gulp of two-day-old re-heated coffee with the consistency of mud, there was a double knock on the door. The dreaded double knock. A sure sign that you do not have a visitor but a message—and double-knock messages are never good. A folded piece of paper slid under the door of my seventh-floor walk-up on Remsen Street. The paper read, “Ben: You’re $1,200 behind! Need by end of week.” My landlord, Sam, missed his true calling as a motivational speaker. Was this lovely note supposed to cause money to rain down from the heavens like manna and land in my bank account? To remind me of the downsides of homelessness? Sam had also apparently missed the memo about the advent of the internet and instantaneous e-mail messaging that went out in the early 90’s. I stood with my coffee and no shirt over the corkboard and looked under a piece of ripped paper that said “Assignments.” It was a corkboard desert beneath that heading. Not so much as a clipping. Different colored push pins dotted the landscape like tumbleweeds in an old western. Dry and dusty as far as the eye can see. Under another ripped paper that read “Wild Cards” was a magazine cutout of a typewriter and an address: “800 Park Pl, Elmira, NY 14901.” And below that was a phone number for “Rose” in “nearby Horseheads.” My editor, Ravi, at the Brooklyn Eagle, was paying $300 for a pitched feature. I’d only got sign-off on one idea, even though I planned on delivering two. But, of course, my lead ghosted me. Even if I pulled a double bartending at O’Keefe’s on Saturday and Sunday, and even if the Labor Day crowds rushed back early to tie one on at the bar, I would still need to come up with those two feature stories if I wanted to pay rent. And that wasn’t even counting gas and snacks on my way out to Chemung County. So, like I said, I never would have driven from Brooklyn up to Elmira, NY to meet with some old lady about a hundred-year-old typewriter—it’s like a full day round trip—but I didn’t have any better ideas. And all I’ve got to show for my troubles is one lousy typewriter supposedly owned by Mark Twain in his heyday and zero leads. And a deadline of twenty-four hours to make my first by-line. Right back at square one. *** Sitting in front of the blank screen of my laptop, I prayed to God for some noise-canceling headphones. There was the rumble of garbage trucks outside, the honking of horns on Court Street, and the rumble of the subway as the interminable parade of 2 trains connecting Brooklyn and Manhattan roared by below ground. But Raf in 6B was the real menace. This gem of a man was a real-life opera singer who owned a parrot of all things. And he began his morning vocal exercises, which sounded like the world’s most annoying alarm clock, and kept right on going with the endurance of a racehorse until damn near noon. Whenever he took a break, the damned cockatoo gave a warbling rendition of his own. Distracted, I turned to the typewriter and began a very short, satire. “‘The Departure.’ It was a Monday like any other Monday. Only, on this Monday Raf would receive an urgent call from the Palais Garnier in Paris. The baritone playing Starbuck in their upcoming performance of Moby Dick had backed out due to illness and a replacement was needed at once. Raf Andreus hesitated a moment before belting out in his characteristic baritone, ‘I’ll do it.’” The cockatoo followed suit in a high-pitched screech, “Hal too eet.” Just then, I heard a familiar thump against my door. It was the newsboy who thought it was funny to hurl my copy of the New York Times like a frisbee from down the hall. "As I reached for the paper, Raf barreled up the stairs, breathless. 'I'm going to Paris! I’m going to be Starbuck,' he blurted, knocking on Janice’s door without waiting for a response." Bathrobed Janice emerged. Hair still in curlers. She chortled a yelping chortle. “Staaarbuckk!!” She stepped forward. Enveloped the diminutive Raf. Only a shock of unkempt hair was left shooting out from the folds of the terrycloth robe. I closed my door earnestly, standing for a minute hyperventilating with my back against the door. I stared at the typewriter in horror. What was this madness? As I packed a bag to chase some leads, I tried to wrestle with what had just happened. Did I have ESP? Had I somehow overheard Raf’s phone conversation? How could I type something so oddly specific, and then it just happens exactly as I wrote it? Did I cause this to happen? It seemed impossible. The events would have had to have been set in motion weeks or months before. But, if I didn’t cause it, how did it happen just as I’d written it? My head was spinning. It was the most unsettling moment of my short, unsettled life. *** While riding on the subway, the woman next to me was drinking a lemon Tazo tea. The smell transported me back to nearby Horseheads, back to what Rose had said the other day. “Mark Twain was famous for his premonitions,” Rose had said as a pot of tea whistled on the stove. The smell of lemon, ginger, and pungent rose wafted from the cup as she sat down across from me. My mind replayed the whole episode. “What kind of premonitions?” I asked as I took notes on my tablet. “He’d set his brother Henry up as a mud clerk on the Pennsylvania . One night he’d seen Henry in a metallic burial case, in one of Samuel’s own suits (his real name was Samuel Clemens, you see). Clear as day he saw an elderly lady bring a bouquet of white roses with one red rose and place it on Henry’s chest. Until his dying day, Twain said the dream was more real than real, like stepping into a moving picture.” “Are you going to tell me his brother died right after?” “A few weeks later. The ship’s boilers exploded at Ship Island, below Memphis. A terrible, terrible business those steam ships.” Rose handed me a volume that related the incident, which happened on June 13, 1858. I read with interest the newspaper clippings. Next, Rose handed me Mark Twain’s Autobiography, which told the same tale. “The difficulty, from a journalistic standpoint is the same as I would have for a person claiming to be a medium or to have predicted some future event, telling us about it after it happened. How do we know Mark Twain didn’t just make the whole thing up? After all, he was a novelist. I mean, fiction writers are basically professional liars, right?” “I thought you’d ask that,” Rose said. She ran her hands through her gray and straggly hair, pulling it back and placing it into a bun. Oh dear, to explain?” Rose started counting on her fingers. “My namesake, Rosie, was my Great, Great, Great, Great, Great—that’s five Greats—Grandmother—she was the woman that laid the flowers, the woman that arranged the metal casket… and a young Samuel Clemens came to see her at her home… dripping with tears and asking questions…. Where is it now?” I waited while Rose rummaged through a stack of books. “Rosie’s family bible. Right here. In these back pages, she explained that she’d taken money she’d been saving to tithe and started a collection for the burial of the dead. She couldn’t bear to see these victims buried in plain pine boxes.” I did my best to read Rosie’s scritch-scratch on the yellowing pages that smelled of dust. “Were there other premonitions?” “So many! The old man predicted his own death at the time Haley’s Comet came passed in the sky. As a boy, he’d predicted his sister’s death. And who knows how many others.” “What does this have to do with that old typewriter?” I asked, pointing to the rusty red metal object she’d placed on the kitchen table. As I asked the question, a piece of paper fell out of Rosie’s old family bible and floated over onto the keys of the typewriter. The script seemed to glow off of the page and I read its contents with interest: “Samuel swears all his premonitions were first written out on this typewriter, and so he swore off using it and left it in my care. It is an ungodly business, and I wouldn’t dare! But, I’ve saved it all these years and it is of such historical interest, that it must be passed down. Please warn anyone who comes into possession of this abomination that it nearly drove the old man mad.” “I see.” “Well, boy. It’s all yours now. We are about to hold an estate sale, and I’ve got to get rid of this old hunk of junk. I tried to donate it to Elmira College, but they don’t want it.” As I was leaving, after I’d stuffed the object, covered in Rose’s old newspaper, into my backpack and said my goodbyes. Rose grabbed my arm and pulled me close. Her raspy voice echoed in whispers and the beginnings of a sob. “I’ve used it. It works. Works like you can’t believe. Anything you type comes true. Just as you wrote it. But there’s a catch son… be very careful… nothing comes out like you plan it. God knows it’s ruined everything for me.” And then Rose became hysterical. Tears welled in her eyes. She began pulling her hair back again, a patch of it falling out and floating through the air like a leaf wafting to the ground, seemingly turning to dust as it fell. Rose’s skin grayed and her eyes widened. She laughed and screamed, “I’m free! Free!!” As I finished stuffing the typewriter into my backpack, a part of me itched to try it out. Just one little sentence, I thought. But Rose’s haunted eyes made me promise myself to never tempt fate and to get rid of the relic at the local pawn shop as soon as I got back to Brooklyn. As I started the engine of my Toyota Tacoma and hit the accelerator, I could still hear Rose screaming and jumping. All I wanted was to get as far away from Horseheads and Elmira as possible. After all, if I didn’t come up with some story ideas and earn some money, I had eviction to look forward to. *** The movers were hauling Raf’s belongings into the hallway and cursing as they navigated down the seven floors. My mind was still racing. I grabbed the typewriter, stuffed it in my backpack, and went outside for a walk. My mind cycled between story ideas for my article and the mystery of the typewriter. If Mark Twain had this typewriter in his possession from his youth, how much of his life story was his, and how much was the typewriter’s? Where was the line between fiction and reality? Do we react to the circumstances of life and choose our path, or do the circumstances of life react to our choices and direct us where they will? It was a real chicken-and-egg dilemma. With these thoughts swirling in my head, I realized I’d grabbed the backpack and had brought the typewriter. I sat on a park bench with the typewriter propped up on my lap. What story did I want to tell? What events did I want to bring into existence? I thought of Mark Twain sitting in his study in upstate New York with this very same typewriter, puzzling over his next masterpiece. I could see him staring into the corner where the typewriter was growing dust. Knowing that its keys held the power to fulfill any wish. Why had he decided to part with the typewriter? I thought of Rose. What horrible fate had she dredged up? Why was she so eager to rid herself of the object? I began typing, “Ben was approached by a strange woman. She had an undeniable appeal. Learning of Ben’s journalistic ambitions, she trusts him with a major lead. It is a career-making scoop, but she warns him to handle this story delicately.” I sat back on the bench and thought, “Let’s see what happens next.” But nothing happened, so I returned home. *** Sirens blared down Joralemon. That was not unusual. Crowds were gathered in the street. Not out of the ordinary. But as I reached the bodega across from St. Peter’s College, the ambulance pulled up outside my apartment building. A tough-looking Spanish woman with jet-black hair tied back in a ponytail rushed into the apartment building with a stretcher. Her partner ran in after her. In the commotion, Raf’s damn cockatoo, Aida came flying out the front entrance and squawking, “I’ve fallen!! I’ve fallen! Help!! Help!” As the two EMTs came out with Raf on the stretcher, the picture began to come together. Janice was out on the street, still wearing her curlers, and sobbing routinely. I asked her what happened. “Terrible. Terrible. The movers scared Aida, and she got out of her cage and flew up by the cupboard. Poor Raf tried to climb on the counter to get her down and he fell. I found him unconscious. There was so much blood.” I could feel my hand start to tremble as my system flooded with adrenaline. Sweat glistened on my forehead. What had I done? I grabbed the Spanish woman’s arm. “Can I come to the hospital to make sure he’s okay?” Her gaze met mine and she said, “You got a car?” “Not nearby,” I said. “Come on, kid. You can ride with us.” *** In the back of the ambulance, Victoria took inventory. Raf was slowly moaning, and she was putting goodies into his IV. Her partner, George was calling ahead and writing up a chart for poor Raf. Victoria was a thin, attractive woman. George was a tall, spry kid, new on the job. “I hope we get paid for this,” Victoria said. “You’re all business, aren’t you Vic?” George said. “Well with the hospital headed for bankruptcy who knows if our bill gets paid,” Vic said. “The ambulance company is good for it.” “Not if they go under too.” “Hey,” I said. “I never heard the hospital was in financial trouble.” Vic looked me in the eye, “That’s because you weren’t supposed to. What are you, a reporter? You trying to break a story or what?” I blushed a bit and said, “That kind of hits the nail on the head, actually. I just got hired at the Brooklyn Eagle, but my job is on the chopping block if I don’t come up with a story. And quick.” “Well, I’d be careful before you start kicking that hornet’s nest,” Vic said. George laughed and hit her arm. “Why’s that?” I asked. “You know who finances the hospital… who stands to lose millions?” “I guess not.” “Well know who before you go sticking your nose in this thing, if you know what’s good for you.” *** In the waiting room area, Vic brought me a coffee and we talked about the situation with the hospital. She talked about how the ambulance company she worked for hadn’t been paid in months. This was a real story, and it seemed like there was more behind it. “Hey,” I asked. “If you could be certain that the hospital would survive, but there would be unknown on consequences, would you do it?” “Hard to tell the cost and benefit on that one, you know,” she said. “It’s like a domino effect, and you never know where it ends up.” I had the typewriter in my bag. It felt like it was calling to me to intervene. I had my story. Vic was somehow going to help me with my lead. My days of sludge-flavored coffee and quad cramps getting into my apartment were soon to be in the past. I felt drawn to the typewriter. It was a nearly irresistible pull. I could almost hear it calling out to me. And Rose’s words rang out in my mind: “I’m free! Free!!” *** Outside the hospital entrance, I sat on a bench watching the ambulances pulling up to the ER. My mind was still spinning. Finally, I called Ravi. “What is it, kid? You finish your story, yet? Where is it?” “I’ve got a new idea to pitch,” I said. “What is it kid? Time is money.” “What if I told you that Mark Twain had a cursed typewriter that he left to some lady in upstate New York, and her relative wants to tell the story.” “Not exactly breaking news, kid.” “Sure isn’t, but it’s a true story.” "Write it up. I’ll take a look.”

u4l60g

A Mass Anomaly

“Why do we have these weekly gatherings?” the man asks. “Morale.” “It’s not like we’re not going to get things done. We're way ahead of schedule.” “It’s a few minutes out of the start of your day. Relax, Ben.” She replies. They walk through a sleek, 3D-printed corridor. “Sure. You’re rota’d off?” he asks. “I have a few things planned after this.” “Like?” “Taking a ride out to climb the caverns in Akkarion.” “Oh, nice. The cave systems?” “If I have time, I have a massage booked later on.” “Wow. You really are making the most of your day off.” The reddish-brown hallway funnels toward a red door. Dilating as two people approach. “I’ve been planning it for a while.” She says, smiling faintly. They enter a spacious meeting room. A holographic table dominates the center, displaying a detailed map of Axium. “Nel. Ben. Please," a woman says, directing her hands toward the remaining two seats at the circular table. “Welcome, everyone. Updates, please?” The other ten turn to Nel. “We've made significant strides in establishing the colony. Our hydroponic gardens are thriving. We've managed to adapt several Earth crops to Axium's conditions.” “The geological surveys have been fruitful. We've identified promising mineral deposits, including a rich vein of iridium." Says Ben. “There could be larger deposits deeper. We’ll know more when the drones can adapt. But we might need to blow a few holes first.” “And don't forget about the water purification system. It's been working flawlessly.” A young woman says. “Excellent. The mapping? How far have we progressed?” asks Ramirez. "We've completed roughly two-thirds of the planet's surface. There are still some unexplored regions, particularly in the Southern Hemisphere. We've encountered some challenging terrain. But we're confident we can finish the project within the next few months.” Said Ben. “That's great to hear.” “Dr. Ramirez," Ben says with a squint. “We need to approach the abnormality.” “Abnormality?” Nel asks. “The reports," says Dr. Ramirez, lowering her head. “It’s larger than we anticipated. It will take the whole team to move through it.” “Right. That’s it. It’s just… I thought it would be… more universal.” Ben is hesitant. “Universal? What’s going on?” asks Nel. “It’s something we kept from you. For our own reasons. But going forward…” Dr. Ramirez waves her hand toward the corner. “We’ll be… more open.” Nel pivots. The flames catch her eye first. The room starts to hum, building up together. ‘Happy birthday to you.’  The ten other representatives sing. A large green and blue-globed cake is set on the table. “Oh, you shits.” She mumbles, her head falling into her hands. The Axium cake opens like a citrus fruit as segments cling to the internal frame, edging out. Three moons beam from the table, orbiting the edible planet. “We got you!” Ben points. “We got her. Right?” His head twists with excitement toward the chuckling, clapping team. “Enough with the secrets," Nel calls out. “Now.” She says standing. “Get me a large slice of that-” Sirens pierce the room. Red lights pulsate. Eyes turn to Dr. Ramirez. Nel turns to Ben. The holograph of Axium surrounding the cake flashes, zooming in. A beacon flashing red moves toward the planet. Nel and Ben rise suddenly. Through the claxon, Nel shouts out, “What is it?” “Something is entering our orbit," Dr. Ramirez says, "fast." “We have to—" Ben stops, staring at the node breaching their atmosphere. The simulated projection lands the abnormality in their hemisphere. “What is it?” asks Nel. "Activate emergency protocol nine," Dr. Ramirez shouts. The room falls quiet. All eyes follow the object. “Sixteen kilometres per second.” The young woman in the room reads out. “Wait.” She stands. “It’s slowing.” They watch the blinking abnormality. Nel slaps Ben’s arm, nodding to the window. They hustle to the hallway. Doors slide open as they stand, necks arched toward the light three-mooned sky. "Well, it’s not an asteroid.” Said Ben. Engulfed in green flames, the object falls behind a monstrous multi-peaked mountain. “Landing zone?” Ramirez's voice comes from behind. “It’s too early for stage two.” Said Nel, rocking her head. “Landing near…” the young woman stares, holding a semi-transparent screen. “It’s down.” She says stoically. "Two hundred seventy-four clicks North, North East.” She taps the beams. “Lake Agotor.” “The caverns?” mutters Nel. “Jude. The descent statistics?” Jude was staring into the device. Her eyes scanning. Pausing. “Jude?” "Yes," Jude nods. “It’s...” she says, drawing out her words. “There were two as it entered. Then a blast before it submerged.” “How much?” asks Dr. Ramirez. “I don’t understand. Here.” She says, projecting the data. Two marks highlight the speed alterations. “It didn’t crash," Nel whispers. “It landed.” “Right.” “The craft. What do we know?” Dr. Ramirez asks. “It’s a sphere. It’s fast,” Jude says, “and it’s gone.” “Fuck.” Ben sighs. He looks at Nel. Then Ramirez. Her dark green jumpsuit is now buttoned up. The patch reads: Mission Leader. "Fancy blowing out the candle?" Ben asks, nudging Nel. Nel turns. Running into the base. The four-person crew flies over the cavern below. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Nel asks Ben. “Whatever it is. It’s not ours. I need to know what it is.” “Right. Same.” “We might not get that opportunity. This is recon," Dr. Ramirez said. “Hold those expectations. And do not.” She turned, holding her gaze over the pair. “Do not stray from protocol. Understood?” They both nod. The mountain floor rolls below them. Passing the last peak, the lake materializes. Higher than anticipated. Nel gasps as the jet slows. A giant sphere of water hovers over the lake. Liquid streams like climbing tornadoes of joined rivers. “So that’s why it disappeared," Jude says, her voice above a whisper. “What?” asks Ben. “The water. A forcefield surrounding the craft.” Said Jude confidently. “Our signal can’t pass.” “Bring us down," Dr. Ramirez says. The jet starts to descend. “Are we taking a closer look?” says Ben, perked up. “Recon only. Do not touch it.” “No touching. Got it," Ben said, bouncing his brows. “She means it.” Says Nel. Nel stands an arm's length from the cascading wall of water. She throws a rock at the vertical stream. It passes the barrier. “Well, it’s not a force field." “Penetrable. Interesting," Ben mutters. “No touching!” The mission leader scuffles over. "Did it go in?” she asks. Nodding approvingly, Nel edges forward. Her eyes just inches away. “It’s slow.” “Slow?” “Like it’s being held. The outer layer is moving. But the inner layer is static.” “Any ideas?” asks Ben. A thick, green branch flies over their heads. Disappearing through the wall. Dr. Ramirez stands behind. Picking up another long stick and pushing it into the water. “Do we have a probe?” she says, wiggling the stick in the water. “Apart from the highly advanced native probe you have there? No, we don’t. Only drones.” Says Nel. “They’re not picking anything up.” Says Jude. “Then your stick is the best we have," Nel quips. “This is not touching?” “It’s protocol." “To prod sticks at water spheres the size of mountains. Formed from a craft crashing into a lake?” “It landed," Jude adds. “To be cautious. Protocol is to take extreme care with any abnormalities," Ramirez says. Nel stares at the wall. Her fingertip hovering over the water. Dipping her finger, the surface tears. Fraying like splitting silk. The rip thickens, shifting across the surface. She pulls her hand away as the tear ruffles, spinning toward the top. “It’s on an axis.” She says, turning to Ben. His brows bounce. He smiles, winking at Nel. “No.” She calls, as Ben steps through the barrier. “Don’t do it, Nel!” Dr. Ramirez shouts. “Elena. We have to.” Replies Nel. “You,” she points, “are still under my command. If you follow him, you will be reprimanded.” “If I even come back—" her eyes widen. Ben steps out from the wall of water. “Wow. You have to see it in here.” He beams a smile. “No. Way.” Ramirez says. “It’s safe. It’s fine.” Says Ben, standing half submerged by vertical water. “I think we should," Jude adds, stepping closer. “I don’t care what you think.” Says Ramirez. “It’s three to one.” Says Nel. “I’m the Mission Leader. What I say goes. I’m ordering you to—" she pauses. Jude and Nel step closer. Running their hands through the water. Small droplets bounce on the surface. Tiny peaks form like an electric current runs through the surface. They multiply, growing larger. “Ben,” Dr. Ramirez calls, “get out." “Why? Whilst it’s here, we should collect—" A pulse slams them to the ground. A sound like tearing steel forces them to cover their ears. Jude rolls on the floor, kicking out. Dr. Ramirez screws her face, slapping the muddied lake bed. Nel groans as another sound pitches higher. The low hum shaking their flesh, pinning them to the ground. Nel twists on the floor. “Ben?” The volume lowers. The sphere shifts. Patterns form on the outer layer as the wall of water thins. The suspended particles of water merge into geometric, shifting patterns. “Where’s Ben?” Nel calls out. “Ben!?” Jude shouts. “His position. It’s gone.” “I told you not to touch it. For fuck's sake," Ramirez says, frantically tapping her watch. “Base, you copy?” “Loud and clear, Boss. Everything okay out there?” the voice inquisitively asks. “We only have three beacons." “Ben is gone.” She replies. “Gone. Ma’am?” “Disappeared.” “Our orders?” “Prep the ship for departure.” “Departure?” There's a pause. “Please repeat the orders.” “Open Operation Elixir." “Orders confirmed. Operation Elixir is active.” Nel’s hand hovers towards the transparent sphere. Elongated petal-shaped spheres extend like a blooming flower wrapped in a wavy boundary. Fuzzy and fluid in its motion. Intricate geometrical structures weave. "Elena," Nel says, gazing over the interconnected circles and hexagonal arrangements. "I'm going in. Orders or not." "Nel. Wait," Elena says, stretching out her arm. "Elixir?" asks Nel. Dr. Elena Ramirez, mission leader, nods. "This wasn't recon for a colony mission, was it?" "No," Elena shakes her head. "Not specifically," she says, handing a small tube to Nel. “If we get separated, you’ll need this.” Her voice is scratchy. "I've mapped the bubble," says Jude. "It's layered. The third layer is six circles, each with an inner void, connected by patterns of waves. Here," she beams a replica of the sphere. "It's cymatics. It's a frequency." Tiny tornadoes churn in the center, flowing into small circular nuclei. Patterns emanate. Four interconnected circles surround the center, resembling flower petals. "Is that?" asks Ramirez. “It's resonance is holding," Jude says. "388.36148148 Hz. Gravity.” She says, stepping forward. Nel shifts towards the vibrating, ever-shifting transparent sphere of water. Looking back at Elena, she asks, “You coming in?” Nel gawps, mesmerized by the surrounding intricate design. Spouts twist, merging into lines. Separating into waves. Then more spheres as Jude and Ramirez pass through the pouring wall. “That’s the center,” Jude points. “Another sphere.” As the three make their way through the large, interconnected circles. “Elixir. What is it?” asks Nel. Ramirez sighs. “Remember the original Nebo?” “The planet?” Ramirez nods. “Well. It was made.” “We didn’t find it?” "Oh, we found it. We found it created. Terraformed.” “We weren’t the first ones there." “No. But we were the last.” “What happened?” “Sucked dry of life." she shrugs. "Look. You’re the botanist here. How do you think we terraform?" “We adapt the formula.” Replies Nel. Ramirez shakes her head as they approach the glimmering craft. “The formula.” She sighs. “Isn’t ours.” “We’ve known about The Others for a century," Jude adds. “What others?” “An advanced species. Terraformers. Engineers," Elena says. Nel groans. “When were you two going to tell the others?” “If something happened. IF.” Says Elena. “We have two missions. Recon for a possible New Eden and search for the formula. If it’s foreign, we collect it and return to Eden.” “Why activate the departure?” “Because Nebo didn’t go easy. It’s… energy. It’s life fought back.” “You think this is something to do with Nebo?” “No. I don't," Ramirez replies. “Operation Elixir?” Nel asks. “If something goes south, we destroy the evidence. Return to Eden. Which is why, when we find Ben, we need to leave. Jude, any changes?” “None.” The metallic craft hums. Nel leans closer. Its sheen reflects her image. It pulsates, humming louder. “Nel. Ben isn’t here.” Said Ramirez. “We need to leave. I’ll update you with Nebo when we get to Artemis. We’re not safe.” “We have GPS.” Says Jude. Then staring at the screen. “We have… two.” “Two?” asks Ramirez. “One here. One on Artemis." She says, zooming in on the display. Tapping the comms disc on her collar. “Base. You receiving?" Nothing. Jude turns to Elena. Her expressionless face is staring. “Ben?” Nel calls out. The sphere shudders. Air hisses from the twenty-or-so-foot object as the faultless shine breaks. A doorway flashes open, closing behind a hazy figure. “Ben? You okay?” Nel said hurriedly, her voice rising. The air clears as the figure stands motionless. Collapsing on the floor. “It’s him," Jude shouts. “Wait.” Says Nel. “You said there were two locations?” “It’s an error. The signal is glitching.” “Since when?” Ramirez asks. “Since its arrival.” “Grab him.” Said Jude convincingly. “Vitals match. We need to get him to the medbay, now. He’s slipping.” Nel and Ramirez carry Ben over their shoulders to the jet. “Artimis isn’t responding.” Says Jude tapping away. “The sphere sent out some sort of EMP. I can’t get through.” “Will the jet work?” Nel asks. Ramirez nods. “It’s caged. We’re fine.” “What about Artemis?" “We can’t wrap something that big," Elena replies. “They’ll be fine. We have back-up power. There’s emergency medical on the jet.” She says, tapping Ben’s legs, drooping from her shoulder. Ben lies on the flat chair. Dr. Ramirez closes the jet's hatch, pressing ‘Medical’ on the panel. Lights beam through the spacious jet. The panel pings green, ‘No medical needed.' Ramirez presses again. The jet repeats. ‘No medical needed.’ “Scan for abnormal vitals,” says the doctor. “And take us home.” “All vitals are in normal range.” Calls out from the jet's speakers as the jet rises. “What is it?” Nel asks. “It’s saying everything is fine," Jude said, holding Ben's wrist. “Even though his pulse is… barely there.” She groaned. “The EMP must have scrambled something.” “Impossible. It’s caged.” Replies Ramirez. Nel turns to the panel. “What are our pulse rates?” "Yours is 64. Dr. Elena Ramirez’s is 48, and Jude’s is 62.” The three women’s eyes cross over each other. Then to Ben. “And Ben’s?” Nel asks the jet. “Ben is not on my system.” “It’s fried.” Says Jude. “We’re not far from Artemis.” The blackened earth where Artemis should have been, was as wide as ten colonies. A cavernous expanse leaking steam was all that greeted them. Nel watches in silence as Jude gasps, throwing her hands to the window. “It’s… gone," she whispers. “None of this makes sense. The departure is too quick,” said Ramirez. The jet lowers, nestling in the scorched earth. “Scan for the Blackbox." The scan beams an object. “The cube," Jude nods. “Strap Ben in. We need to retrieve it," Ramirez says. They gather around a small cube. Ramirez flicks a notch on her belt, “It’s protocol of mission failure. Leaving an update, if anyone returns.” Picking up the smooth, seamless cube. "Its failsafe is us.” Slicing her finger, dropping blood onto the cube. “It will only open with human DNA.” The cube unfolds, creating a wide frame. Data pours from three sides. “Play last message.” Says Nel. The crew stands in the loading bay. Jarrod Loke, Mission Leader, rolls across the screen. “We got your message. We’re departing after no contact.” “This doesn't make sense," Ramirez says. “Who’s Jarrod?” Jarrod continues. “We tried, we did. But it was just too long. The official report is a loss of six lives on Axium. Including mission leader Dr. Elena Ramirez. No formula.” He sighs. “Eden has ordered us back.” “This isn’t right?” Jude says, staring at Elena. “This isn’t protocol." “If I didn’t return from anything, ML goes to Layla, then Karl. Then you, Nel.” “What’s the ML handover process?” Nel asks. “No return or contact in 48-hours. Temporarily goes to Layla until Control advises.” “What changed when we were in the sphere?” asks Jude. Ramirez shrugs. “Data is checking out fine.” “How many of the crew left?” Nel asks. The cube displays the roster. "Forty-eight. They left with forty-eight. He said there were six dead. That’s nine extra crew.” Her eyes stare into the screen. “Zoom in there.” She points at the crew standing in the loading bay. Ben stands at the back of the crowd. Smiling. "How is that poss-" Jude stutters. “How many hours ago was this recorded?” Nel asks. 2,168,976. Hours ago. Displays on the screen. Nel turns. Ben stands watching, smiling.

j21zyo

The Whisper That Changed Everything

Sarah had always prided herself on being invisible. In her thirty-two years of life, she'd perfected the art of blending into the background, of being the person nobody quite remembered was in the room. It wasn't that she was particularly plain or unremarkable – she simply had a knack for making herself unnoticed. This talent had served her well in her job as a night custodian at Meridian Industries. For the past five years, she'd silently cleaned the offices of the tech giant's headquarters, privy to the detritus of corporate life but never a part of it. She knew which executives worked latest, which departments ordered the most takeout, and which employees were having affairs – all without anyone knowing her name. On this particular Tuesday night, Sarah was making her usual rounds, pushing her cleaning cart down the hushed corridors of the 14th floor. As she approached the conference room at the end of the hall, she heard voices – unusual for this time of night. She slowed her steps, not wanting to interrupt what was clearly a late meeting. That's when she heard it – a fragment of conversation that made her blood run cold. "... and once the virus is deployed, it'll be untraceable. Every medical record in the country, wiped clean. Imagine the chaos." Sarah froze, her hand still on the handle of her mop. She held her breath, straining to hear more. A different voice spoke, lower and gravelly. "And you're sure this won't be linked back to us?" "Positive," the first voice replied. "We've covered our tracks. By the time anyone realizes what's happened, Meridian will have cornered the market on digital health records. We'll be the only ones with a 'secure' system." Sarah's mind raced. She'd known Meridian was working on healthcare software, but this... this was something else entirely. This was sabotage on a massive scale. "Well then," the gravelly voice said, "I believe we have a deal. Deploy the virus on Friday. By Monday, we'll be national heroes, ready to save the day with our 'revolutionary' new system." Footsteps approached the door. Sarah panicked, looking for somewhere to hide. But there was nowhere to go in the empty hallway. As the door swung open, she did the only thing she could think of – she began mopping, head down, as if she hadn't heard a thing. Two men in expensive suits walked past her, not sparing her a glance. Sarah recognized them immediately: CEO Jack Holloway and VP of Operations, Derek Simmons. Her invisibility had never felt so much like a superpower. As their footsteps faded, Sarah leaned heavily on her mop, mind whirling. What was she supposed to do with this information? Go to the police? Would they even believe her? She was a nobody, a night janitor with no proof beyond what she'd overheard. For the rest of her shift, Sarah went through the motions of cleaning, her thoughts a tangled mess. By the time she clocked out at 6 AM, she'd made a decision. She couldn't let this happen. Somehow, she had to stop it. The next two days passed in a blur. Sarah called in sick to work, using the time to research everything she could about Meridian's healthcare initiatives and potential vulnerabilities in medical record systems. She'd always been tech-savvy – a hobby she'd never had reason to mention at work – and now she put those skills to use. By Thursday night, she had a plan. It wasn't a good plan. In fact, it was probably going to ruin her life. But she couldn't see any other way. Sarah entered Meridian headquarters on Friday morning, not in her usual cleaning uniform, but dressed in a smart business suit she'd splurged on with her meager savings. She'd spent hours watching YouTube tutorials on how to walk with confidence, how to fake belonging in a corporate environment. Now, she put it all into practice. She strode purposefully through the lobby, flashing a visitor's badge she'd painstakingly forged. Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure someone would hear it, but no one gave her a second glance. Just another businesswoman on her way to a meeting. Sarah made her way to the 14th floor, to the office she knew belonged to Derek Simmons. It was early – not even 7 AM – but she knew from years of observation that Simmons was always the first one in. She knocked on his door, steeling herself. "Come in," a gruff voice called. Sarah entered, fixing what she hoped was a professional smile on her face. "Mr. Simmons? I'm Sarah Chen, from IT. We've detected some unusual activity in the system and I need to run a quick diagnostic on your computer." Simmons barely looked up from his desk. "Fine, fine. Just make it quick." Sarah moved behind his desk, her hands shaking slightly as she inserted a USB drive into his computer. The program she'd cobbled together began to run, searching for any trace of the virus they planned to deploy. "This'll just take a minute," she said, hoping her voice sounded steadier than she felt. Simmons grunted in response, attention focused on his phone. Sarah's eyes darted between the screen and the office door, certain that at any moment someone would burst in and expose her. But seconds ticked by, and then – there it was. A string of code that had no business being on a VP's computer. She quickly copied the information to her drive, then removed it, turning to Simmons with a bright smile. "All done, sir. Thank you for your time." She was almost to the door when Simmons spoke. "Wait a minute. I don't recognize you. Who did you say you were again?" Sarah's heart stopped. She turned slowly, mind racing for an explanation. But as she met Simmons' suspicious gaze, she knew it was over. What happened next was a blur. Security was called. Sarah was detained, her forged badge and the damning USB drive discovered. By afternoon, she was sitting in a stark interrogation room, facing two grim-faced detectives. "Ms. Walker," one of them said, "you're in a lot of trouble. Breaking and entering, corporate espionage, fraud... you're looking at serious jail time." Sarah took a deep breath. "I want to make a deal," she said, her voice surprisingly steady. "I have information about a planned cyberattack on the nation's medical records. And I can prove it." The detectives exchanged glances. "We're listening," the second one said. As Sarah began to talk, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders. Her life as she knew it was over. She'd never again be the invisible woman, silently observing from the shadows. But for the first time, she felt seen – really seen. And maybe, just maybe, that was worth the cost. The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with legal battles and potential danger. But Sarah knew one thing for sure – she'd never be invisible again. And strangely enough, she was okay with that.

qqk9vy

Prodigal

Stephanie Pilon was our password before she was my girlfriend. She was the most beautiful girl in our Russian class. Claude and I would joke about dating her. I would say, “The site should run on JavaScript.”  Claude would say, “I should have ten million dollars.” I would say, “Stephanie Pilon should be my girlfriend.” Then the time came to make a password for our bitcoin account. We needed a word of more than eight characters that we would both remember. That was Steph’s first official role in the business. Then, one day in September, our Russian teacher Galima failed to show up for class. I asked Stephanie to see Sahara, the new Matthew McConaughey movie. Maybe she felt vulnerable as an American in Kazakhstan, maybe she was going through a slump in her life, maybe she actually liked me. Whatever it was, I punched above my weight that day. She sits beside me on the flight now as we return to Almaty ten years older. Still beautiful, still my girlfriend. I’d ask her to marry me but what would she say? Who wants to marry an ex-con struggling to hold down work as a dishwasher? I can’t afford the ring, forget the wedding. I didn’t even pay for these airplane tickets, Steph did. ————————- Let me begin at the beginning. Fifteen years ago, my business associate Claude Vinci and I started an internet company, ProDigAll. You could use the ProDigAll website to buy and sell anything anonymously: used bicycles, software, houses. Also, it soon emerged: drugs and weapons. Kidneys. Murderers for hire. Claude and I never did or endorsed any of that stuff but neither did we find a way of stopping it. No, to be honest with you, we never even slowed or discouraged that stuff. After all, the non-authorised commerce was a meaningful revenue stream. In the early days, ProDigAll was perfectly legitimate; in fact, in the early early days, we were subsidized by the federal government. When our activity became more regulated, more scrutinized, we moved our operations to Kazakhstan, which was more laissez-faire about this kind of stuff. But then the drugs and kidneys and hitjob orders began in earnest. Every day, every hour. We were doing a lucrative trade. After a couple years, the Kazakhstani government also pressured, and then prohibited, ProDigAll. I agreed to extradition to the US where I served seven years in federal prison for the crimes committed (allegedly) by my customers. Back in Almaty, Claude operated ProDigAll for another eight months until the Kazakhstanis finally shut the whole thing down. No, Claude never pled out. This meant he could not set foot in the US, remaining in Kazakhstan in exil e de facto . He started a new company - basically ProDigAll without the non-authorised commerce - which promptly failed. He then tried to be a fixer, setting up western businesses in Almaty, helping out American expats. This also failed. Meanwhile, the US prosecutors seized all ProDigAll’s assets - by which I mean our various bank accounts in different countries and quasi-countries like Guernsey. We didn’t really have any physical assets, although to impress the newspapers the federal prosecutors made a nice show of carting away our laptops and our server. Altogether, the prosecutors came up with forty million dollars. These moneys were supposed to be used to restitute the victims of our crimes but most of it just went on lawyer fees. Now I know what you’re thinking. Forty million: not bad for some poor schmuck from Cleveland! I guess I should be ashamed of myself but you have to be pretty smart to earn forty million bucks. The part where it was all taken away from me and I went to jail for seven years? Less smart, I give you that. Anyways, the prosecutors always claimed that (a) at our margins (b) with the traffic we did (c) for the time we did it, forty million was not enough. There must be a hidden stash somewhere. To this I say: ProDigAll was reasonably successful but we weren’t Amazon or anything. We were just a humble, inefficient internet bazaar with two years of good operations. The other thing I say is: where is this money? If there was any money stashed anywhere, only two guys would know about it. One is me and I am transparently, ostentatiously broke. I have been out of prison for three years now. I wash dishes at a Cracker Barrel and I drive a 2005 Hyundai to get there. I’ve been evicted from my apartment. When my father died, the state had to pay for his funeral. I can’t even afford to buy my girlfriend a wedding ring. The other guy is Claude and Claude is dead. ————————- Claude’s death is the animating purpose of our trip back to Almaty. Steph and I land and get a “taxi” to our studio. We’re not staying in the western hotels but rather in a local place. It turns out to be just a beat-up old apartment but it’s walking distance to the lawyer. It’s fine. I take a little nap and Steph takes a walk. She comes back with fresh cucumbers and tomatoes, a little bread and chechil, the salty cheese that I love. We eat a small feast on the cheap blue table. We sit on metal cafeteria chairs. We walk over to the lawyer’s office. It’s sad to be in the city again. I was a king when I lived here, wealthy and ambitious. By nature, I’m an introvert through-and-through but running a business is a social activity. When I lived in Almaty, I had a whole community: colleagues, employees, drivers, officials, agents, friends. It was the most popular I have ever been in my entire life. The happiest too. But now there is not a single person I could call for a drink. Almaty is a ghost town for me.  We arrive at the office. The lawyer’s name is Askar Khadirov. It’s his own name on the brass name plate. We’re buzzed in and made to wait for a little while in a room with a grey sofa and a matching armchair. On the table is an assortment of local magazines and a few recent Newsweeks. Askar comes out and asks “Mr and Mrs Tansey?” Steph tells him we’re not married. He has a nice manner: smiling, untidy hair and thick glasses. He angles his head to look at you, as if he can only see through his glasses if he holds his head just so. We shuffle over to his office, which is filled with pictures of a big Kazakh family. They’re in the mountains cooking shashlyk, at the theater with the grandparents, on vacation in Paris. “I want to thank you for coming, Mr Tansey,” Askar says. “No one else from Claude’s old life is coming. Not even his family - not even his own parents.” I shrug. Claude was close to his mother but she passed away suddenly a few years ago. Him and his Dad were hot and cold. I guess they must have ended things on a cold note. Otherwise, Claude hadn’t lived outside of Kazakhstan in ten years. There was nobody for him in the US, just me and Steph. “But Claude must have people here in Almaty?” I say. “Colleagues, friends?” Askar furrows his brow. “Now, I never met Claude in life - I was only appointed to arrange his affairs after he died.” He takes a sip of tea. “However, I did know him a little by reputation. The business that you were involved in - ProDigAll as you called it - that was one thing. But Claude’s later business interests… well, he was not a very reliable person, especially at the end. I am afraid I am not receiving many offers to help.” He opens a drawer and takes out an envelope. He slides it across the table to me. “This is a key to Claude’s apartment here in Almaty. I have visited but I have not taken anything.” Here, just for a moment, Askar makes a very slight face of repugnance. “If you would like to take anything, you are welcome. In my view, there is nothing of value there but perhaps you can find some item that will be valuable to you, some memento. “When you are finished, please call Gulnara. Her number is on the paper inside the envelope. She will clean the apartment and dispose of all the remaining items. The cost has already been addressed. She doesn’t speak English but her daughter will help. “Finally, I would like to invite you to a small memorial service. I will be there. I have shared the invitation with several people but, as I say, I have not received many commitments. I do hope you will join us. I think it is right to honour the dead in some way.” He looks out the window and pauses. “Everyone deserves that much at least.” With that he rises, and in the same graceful manner, leads us out of the office. —————————- We walk over to Claude’s house on Tole Bi. When we were in funds, Claude had a luxurious pad on Abai opposite the Hotel Dostyk. Tole Bi is still a respectable neighbourhood but luxurious it is not. I remind myself to run a search of Claude’s computer when we get to his apartment. Maybe I will find our old bitcoin wallet, maybe there is a little money left over that the prosecutors missed. I still know the password unless he changed it - the password is walking right beside me. What’s more, bitcoin has surged over the past years, so even a few bucks then would be serious money now. Walking into Claude’s ground level flat, I am filled with pity for my old friend. There is an over-powering smell. It smells like animal urine. Claude was always a cat lover. But, when I knew him, he was fastidious about cleaning up. The kitchen is filthy and the refrigerator tells you the whole story: moldy deli meat, cheap cheeses, microwave burritos, cheap beer. The only vegetables are frozen peas and carrots, stuck together in one ice-block in the freezer. In the bathroom, Claude’s toothbrush is encrusted with white scum. There is a massive bottle of off-brand shower gel. I use this to wash my hands. I dry them on my pants. Steph can’t take the smell and goes to wait outside. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking for. There are no secret bitcoin files here. There aren’t even any computers here. I step out to join Steph in the sunshine. We look at the apartment building and I try to imagine Claude’s last days. Claude died at age 41 of a heart attack. We stayed in touch while I was in prison but then the emails slowed down. Over the last few years, he seemed to fall into a depression. The last email he sent to me ended with these words: Honestly, Rich, I’m pretty lonely here. I’m thinking of going back to the US and take the plea deal. At least in prison I wouldn’t have to worry so much. Maybe I wouldn’t be so lonely. He died three months later. —————————- The next morning, Steph and I arrive at the funeral. It is in a little government office out in Samal-3. We are indeed the only mourners, as Askar predicted. There is a young guy sitting at the side but he’s just an employee. The casket is closed but a photo of Claude rests on the table. Steph and I sit in a middle row and I cast my mind back to the happy times - starting the business, coding sessions, the move to Kazakhstan. I begin to weep silently. After twenty minutes, Askar enters and sits respectfully at the back. I stop crying and want to leave. I turn to Steph and she nods. Askar follows us out of the room. He hands me another envelope. “This came in the mail for you today,” he says. “It’s a letter from Claude.” I look at the letter, which is addressed “To Richard Tansey, in the event of the death of Claude Vinci.” “He must have asked someone to send this, I don’t know who,” Askar says. “You will forgive me but I have opened and read the letter. If the letter contained money, it would have to be sent to the prosecutors.” I nod and shake his hand. I watch as he walks away.   ————————- Steph and I sit in a cafe. This is what the letter says: Dear Rich, I write to you now from the hospital on Ulmangazy. The man next to me has not moved in four hours. The flies are landing on his face. I am a goner too. I had a heart attack on Tuesday and the doctors don’t think I will live for another week in my state. It could be tomorrow. It could be tonight. Do you remember the tea room on the second floor of the bazaar? That peacefulness within the chaos. That is what I feel now. It is okay to die. My gift to you is this matrushka that we bought together at the Hotel Dostyk. Look within the doll to retrieve all that was taken from you. Goodbye my friend. Be kind to Steph. Don’t go too crazy about money. Your friend, Claude ————————- I lift the little dolls and remove one from the other until I hold the smallest in my palm. It is a porcelain babushka the size of my thumb. Although it’s true that the Hotel Dostyk sold pieces of tourist junk like this, Claude and I never went there together. He would joke about taking me there. It was full of US oil guys but we made a point of never going there ourselves. I raise my hand and smash it on the table. Sure enough, the little matrushka breaks open. I dust off an old-school USB key, the kind that swivels open. I don’t need to plug it in to know what it is - it’s our old bitcoin wallet. I will wait until I am back in the apartment to open it up. Following that, I guess I have a ring to shop for. 

s1bpii

Second Guesses and Sunsets

Waves crashed against the rocks hundreds of feet below him. Daring a brief glance, Bishop held the rope tight. White tips formed in the interminable blackness wrought by the coming storm. Poseidon still hungers for me , he thought. “Not then, nor now. No second chances for you, you old bastard.” The flicker of light against the window ledge led his way down the stone parapet. Peering inside the circular room lit by oil lamps, at first appearances, it was empty. As Bishop craned his head, first left then right, a ribbon of sky blue material came into view. Stretching even further, the slight piece of material blossomed into a dress. His beloved Charlotte! With grim determination, Bishop launched himself away from the wall. The rope groaned under the weight at the sudden move but held. Swinging toward and through the window, he secured the landing. Spinning round, he saw Charlotte secured by wrist and ankle to the wall. “Bishop!” “My love,” he said and as he moved to her side, the door burst open. Two guards, musketeers by the uniforms, flanked the lead man who was dressed all in black. Bishop drew his sword with such speed, it continued to sing even as he held it as still as the stones around him. “Bouillon.”  “ I-Impossible . You’re supposed to be dead,” Bouillon said as he and his escorts drew their own swords. “Not for a lack of trying, I’ll grant you that.” Nodding, Bouillon said, “I’ll make your death permanent this time.” Bishop smiled. “I see your kill and raise you two more.” Bouillon stepped back as the musketeers engaged Bishop. Thwump. *  *  *  *  * Waves crashed against the rocks hundreds of feet below. White tips formed in the interminable blackness wrought by the coming storm. Bishop held the rope tight as he slowly lowered himself down the slick wall. Poseidon is hungry tonight , he thought. But Zeus rages still.  As if on cue, lightning stitched a crazed seam across the night sky The window ledge was visible below him as he made his way down the stone parapet. He lost his footing twice. Once he reached the window, Bishop peered inside. The circular room was lit by oil lamps, and at first appearances, was empty. As he craned his head, left then right, a ribbon of sky blue material came into view. Stretching even further, the slight piece of material blossomed into a dress. His beloved Charlotte! Hooking a leg over the ledge, he quietly slipped into the room, daring not to make a sound. Bishop went to Charlotte. She slept and he noticed her hands and feet were bound by leather straps. As he began to undo the first restraint, Charlotte struck Bishop squarely in the jaw with a closed fist. He landed on his back with a thud. “Bishop!” “Yes, my love,” he said rubbing his sore chin. The door burst open, and three men entered. The lead man, dressed all in black, checked to see his prisoner still secured to the wall. Then he took a quick glance at the man raising himself from the floor. “Impossible. I killed you.” Bishop smirked. “Admit it, Bouillon. You’re the worst shot in France,” he quipped. “C’est vrai,” said one of Bouillon’s men while the other nodded. Thwump. *  *  *  *  * Bishop landed with a thud. “Bishop!” Bishop smiled. “I’ll have you free in no—” The sound of the metal latch outside was followed by the door swinging open. “You’re so predictable.” “Bouillon,” Bishop said. “You should’ve made sure I was dead when you had the chance.” Bouillon slowly stepped through the door; heels clicked the wood like seconds on a clock. “He’s mine,” Bouillon said pointing to a still chained Charles. “And I always get what I want.” Bishop drew her sword, her hefty bosom rising with each breath. “We’ll see about that.” Thwump. *  *  *  *  * The door crashed open. Three men burst through the doorway. “ YOU .” “Aye, Bouillon. Me,” Bishop said with a grin. Drawing his muskets, he fired. Thunder and smoke filled the room. Charlotte screamed. Thwump. *  *  *  *  * The door crashed open. Three men burst through the doorway. Startled, Bishop let out a scream and jumped back. Thwump. *  *  *  *  * The door crashed open. Three men burst through the doorway. “You should’ve stayed dead, Bishop.” “Not my style, Bouillon,” Bishop said. Touching his fingertips together as if in prayer, Bishop completed the incantation. He swung his arm in a wide arc, opening a portal. Picking Charlotte up off the floor he leapt through as it closed behind him. Bouillon laughed. “They won’t get far.” Thwump. *  *  *  *  * “Eat this,” Bishop growled. Thwump. *  *  *  *  * “I’m going to bust you up, Bishop,” Bouillon cried excitedly. “Go for it,” Bishop replied smugly. THWUMP. *  *  *  *  * “One more move and the dame gets it,” Bouillon yelled. Bishop drew his musket. “Go ahead. Make my day.” THWUMP. *  *  *  *  * “It’s clear. Come on in fellas,” Bishop said. The Thwump  marked the end of forward momentum. They’d been through this scene several times, although with different, and sometimes odd, variations. The only certainties were their names, their roles and the Thwump . Bishop briefly wondered if it sounded the same and was as loud on the outside as it was within the pages, but doubted it. One thing was certain; they could do without the slamming of the top panel. It’s like a bloody earthquake in here , he thought.  Bouillon and his two cronies came in. As they always did, he and Bishop helped Charlotte out of her chains. “Chains make more sense,” she said, getting to her feet while rubbing her wrists. “But they are infinitely more uncomfortable.” “But then I can’t cut you free. I’d need a key and Boo here would have to have it,” Bishop said, laying out obvious issues to the flow of the action. “And Bish would have to somehow get said key from me whilst fighting the three of us and killing these two,” Bouillon said, thumbing toward the musketeers they named Left and Right on account they had no names and of their relative position to Bouillon. “No offense guys.” “Tout va biens,” Left said. “Ca grains, tabarnak,” Right said, making them both laugh. Bishop arched his back then twisted at the waist until there was an audible crack. Sighing, he leaned against the window. “How many times must we endure this?” “I don’t know. I wasn’t counting,” Charlotte said casting a glance at Boo. She winked at him. “Naughty girl,” Bouillon mouthed. Charlotte tilted her head and ran her tongue along her top lip. Bouillon’s eyes popped and his mouth dropped open. Charlotte laughed. “You tease too much, my dear. It’s why we’re here in the first place,” he said turning away so she couldn’t see his embarrassment.  “Twenty-two and counting,” Bishop said. His attention squarely on the night sky. “Twenty-two damned starts and stops.” “At this rate, there’ll be many more to come,” Bouillon said, moving to the opposite side of the window as Bishop. He looked out over the sea and joined in the silence. Charlotte gave them a minute before making her way between them, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “I’m looking forward to more sex swapping. Why Bish, you had a marvellous set of tits.” Bouillon sputtered then broke out in screaming laughter. “It’s so true,” Bouillon said, pointing at his friend and slapping a hand against a thigh. Bishop nodded and joined in. Left and Right had confused looks on their faces until Charlotte grabbed her breasts, gave them a jiggle and nodded at Bishop. It took a second for the joke to sink in and when it did, Left and Right looked at each other and had to lean on one another, howling. After a bit, Bishop let out a long sigh. “We went from swords, to muskets, to uzi’s and what was that thing he gave me around Fifteen?” “That, my dear nemesis, was a phased plasma rifle in the 40 watt range.” “Genre bending is fine,” Charlotte said. “And let’s be honest. There has been a fair amount of frustration on his part, as you can plainly tell. Remember what he did with Nine?” “Right you are, Char,” Bishop said, while giving her a playful nudge with an elbow. “Boo here was absolutely terrifying as a spider. What nightmare inspired him to do that, I wonder? “Oof,” Bouillon said, the memory shook him. “I’ll take a pass on another go at an eight legged monster, thank you very much.” “I, for one, hope he finishes. At least he’s trying his hand at something. Besides, it’s been a wild ride,” Charlotte said. “But what if he doesn’t? I don’t mind the company but to be stuck in this room with nowhere else to go isn’t exactly thrilling,” Bouillon said. “Let’s not forget what he’s put us through so far. Imagine what horrors he’ll come up with next.” “Hey, hey, don’t be so negative,” Bishop said putting and arm around Bouillon, then Charlotte, bringing them in. “Be patient. Think positive. We have, moi, the handsome and fearless hero. A beautiful and charming damsel in distress and you my friend, an exceptionally clever villain with his trusted henchmen. Come on. We got this. He’s probably done his worst so it’s going to be as easy as a stroll through the fields of Marseille from here on out.”  *  *  *  *  * Waves swirled in a dark mass thirty feet below the two men. The long chains holding their gibbet cages were old and Bishop feared they would snap. The darkness had only been a minor reprieve from the punishing sun on this, the second day. The men, Bishop and Bouillon, friends since they could run, had no doubt they wouldn’t survive a third. If they didn’t fall into the sea, which was a very real possibility since the other two, poor, nameless souls hung here beside them, had fallen on the first day. The metal brackets had broken free of the rock, and they screamed until they hit the water where they sank and disappeared forever. They had been on a week furlough after putting in to port in Marseilles. Bishop had been promoted to first mate on the 64-gun ship, Le Saint Nicholas, and Bouillon was a member of her crew. On the fourth evening, they had become separated from the rest of the shore party, but they hadn’t noticed. The women and the liquor were plentiful and the raucous crowd in the bars seemed friendly enough. That was until they decided to leave. Bishop half stumbled out of the inn, half supporting, half carrying a very drunk Bouillon. He hadn’t made it a horse length from the door when he was set upon and knocked unconscious by a blow to the head. When Bishop woke, it was still full dark. In a locked cage, he was rolled and then felt himself falling only to come to quick and jarring stop. Bishop saw there were two other similarly held prisoners, one on either side of Bouillon, who finally woke several hours later. Once he realized where he was, he panicked and tried to set himself free. The one to Bouillon’s right cried nonstop, begging for his mother while the one on his left sounded much like a wounded dog. In his initial dismay, Bouillon had yelled at the men to shut up. The one on his left could take no more and shook his cage trying to get at him. Moments later, while they screamed all manner of threats of harm and death at each other, the metal bracket came free of the rock face, and the poor fellow plummeted to his watery death. The other one screamed in shock but soon began cackling. His laughter so unnerved Bouillon that he went silent. Having gone mad, the right hand man began to roll his cage from side to side, until his and Bouillon’s cages collided. Feeding his fingers between rusted straps, he gripped Bouillon’s prison and didn’t let go. Bishop hoped the ocean would drown out the laughter, but it was not to be. Spittle flew from the man’s mouth and covered poor Bouillon. Metal rattled, while Bishop watched as the second bracket slowly but surely inched its way out. One second, he was there, both giggling and crowing then he was gone. He sank quickly and mercifully.   Bishop tried to console his friend but found that hope had become a stranger. Abandoned to their fate, they wept together. The second days sun had begun its final, downward plunge. “At least it’s a beautiful sunset, my friend,” Bishop said. The response was a grunt. He turned his head to see Bouillon staring at him. “The worst was yet to come, Bish,” he said, struggling to smile.  Bishop turned his head westward. “Aye, Boo. Aye,” he said, as a chill stole the warmth the second the sun sank. He closed his eyes and waited. Twice he heard the familiar sound of metal on metal. Then he felt as if he was going upward. Falling feels different now , he thought. Jarred to his senses, he lay on his back. Still caged but his weight no longer pulled him down. The cage opened and a light blinded him. “Nope,” said a voice, hot and thick with whiskey followed by a shuffle to his left. Rusted metal hinges cried out in protest as another cage opened. “Him neither,” said same the growling voice. Bishop tried to raise his head but was too weak. “Bou-Bou-,” was all he could say before coughing. Someone kicked his cage. “Spit it out, you stuttering freak.” The light reappeared. “It seems my men decided not to live. What say you?” A woman’s voice. “Live,” Bishop said, raising his hand to block out the light. “And him.” He nodded in the direction of Bouillon. “Death seems more than ready to take him. Tell me your name.” “Bishop.” “A man of the cloth, lads. We’re saved,” she said loudly followed by more laughter. “Who are you?” Bishop said as he was hauled out the cage by rough hands. “You will call me Captain. Captain Charlotte, to be precise. Now. Let’s finish this,” she said with a wink.

chg1xr

Aaliyah

Chapter 1: Aaliyah            It was early morning, and Aaliyah, still rubbing her eyes as usual, stepped into the blinding sunlight as warmth began to crawl across her skin. Younger than her peers, the elderly women of her community would often ask her to run errands near the bustling marketplace in the morning, such as purchasing herbs, flowers, oils, and fish, and to wash the dishes and clothes at night. “Why do I have to go?” she shouted to a eunuch, ordered to guard the walls of the harem, as she readied herself. “I’ve already done this for seven years ever since I arrived, and now that I’m nearing 14 years old, old enough to…” Her voice trailed. She knew what her path would entail were she to stay in the imperial harem: she would just grow old, wrinkle, fight for the Sultan’s love, and bear a child. She didn’t want to have to spend a night with the Sultan, and though the other girls had studied flirtations to grant themselves the honor of being chosen, Aaliyah had her own plans. After all, the stories she had been told by her mother about the world before she had been sent to the dreary, abusive, labor-camp interior of a palace seemed way more fascinating: stories of mystical beasts, men without eyes, mountains of gold, and most scarily demons…this was the world she wanted to live in, and as she continued dreaming her fantasy, she rounded off her checklist and stopped at the last item, nodding to the fisherman as she put the basket of fish atop her head. “Why would anyone travel to Istanbul if this is all there is to see?” she wondered again. “And…what if…I could see the world? Could I outrun my fate? Who would care?” Glancing left and right, she noticed Omar and Salman, the two eunuchs for the day, discussing their daily gossip: who would be chosen, who deserved it, who had the supplest skin, widest hips, and biggest chest, etc., and quickly hastened in the opposite direction. First, a fast walk, then a sprint, Aaliyah felt her bare feet scrape against the sharp and uneven path. Her arms were sore from the fish that she was still carrying. But even so, she trudged forward. Sweating profusely, she gazed again toward the sky, seeing Mr. Sun now on the opposite side of where it had seemingly been just a few hours ago. She knew not where she would go, but she somehow had faith that if she followed the sun, she would find the place of her dreams. Taking a deep breath, as Aaliyah’s adrenaline and anxiety wound down, she noticed that she found comfort in the smaller things such as the whistle of the wind, the sound of travelers’ footsteps, and the autonomy of freedom. She noticed the stars waking for their nightly dance and soon felt a wave of lethargy crash, her eyes drooping and her body folding forward. Murmuring her mother’s tales about the demon and the fisherman to put her to sleep as always, Aaliyah felt a hand on the back of her neck. Had they caught …she thought before falling limp on the ground. Chapter 2: The French Man “You think she’s rich?” a man whispered. “Maybe.” another voice replied. “Why else would she have so many fish?” Waking up to the sounds of a few middle-aged voices, Aaliyah clutched her head, still pounding from the impact of her fall. She opened her eyes to the pitch black of a handkerchief and immediately winced as the plant fibers dug deeper into her wrists and ankles, restricting any complex movement. She jerked and flailed until she hit the side of what seemed to be a box. The man grumbled to his partner that she was awake and yanked the cloth off her eyes so she could see. She had hoped that it was either Omar or Salman; it was neither. The men had dark skin, brown eyes, and an oddly serious complexion around them, but what stuck out to her the most was their common dialect, ripped clothes, and run-down caravan, equally as rife with holes as their attire. Little more than a moment of silence occurred before the men drew their swords to threaten the whimpering Aaliyah. The men interrogated her for hours on her past, where she came from, and who her father was, but their faces grew evermore somber at the realization that they had not struck the opportunity of a lifetime. At long last, the man on the right whispered again to his companion and began to point at her from every direction (up down left right), occasionally touching her chest, stomach, and hips, which were still restricted from moving. The other man smiled, and for the first time in a while, the caravan began moving once more. Days became weeks and soon months, but her daily routine never changed. Aaliyah would be fed two figs and a handful of almonds for lunch, and some olives or grapes for dinner, but she would never be untied, allowed to move or to speak. She could only stare, light drained from her eyes, as the scenery altered from dark to red to blue and so on and so forth, with a hint of green every so often. Is this my reality from now on? Aaliyah wondered to herself, praying frantically every night for justice to be restored. One morning, however, as the sounds of a populace she could not discern grew louder, the caravan halted to a stop. Taking her out, and untying her legs but not her arms, the bandits (as she decided she would call them) ordered her to stand atop a box in front of an audience of 40 or so people. Eyes darting, she knew instantly that this city looked nothing like what she knew to be home, and just as her eyes were starting to grow accustomed to the white populace and elegance around her, the affluent man talking the loudest tore off her clothes to a flurry of hands, speech, and commotion. She saw many men staring at her and her alone, and while she could not understand what would become of her, she was soon directed by cold iron nudging toward a man with glasses, a black robe, and a red tail dangling from the neck. She was now his, the bandits informed her, as he had paid the most gold, and thus her life with the French man began. Chapter 3: Miracles            Surprisingly, life in France, as she learned it was soon called, was different from anything she could have imagined, for better in some instances and for worse. Though she did receive dirty looks from neighbors whenever she left the house, the French man treated her relatively well, even granting her a new name, Alice. Her morning routine consisted of watering the flowers and cooking breakfast, shopping for groceries before lunch, playing with the dog in the afternoon, and later performing duties related to “Why I keep you around, Alice” at night. And despite her lack of understanding regarding what was so special about her “nightly duties,” she was soon quick to learn that so long as she kept doing what he taught her, he would be pleased and not pull out the whip. As the weeks passed, the French man would teach her about reading and writing, of philosophy, and of the world. He was, after all, a thinker as he proclaimed, a man of reason and logic. Under his tutelage, Aaliyah began to learn more about numbers or this thing known as algebra, learned about the stars and their movements, and about this man named Descartes. When questioned about her own experiences in Istanbul, the French man would often seem confused to hear that she had not performed “nightly duties” before and to hear that oftentimes men followed some code of law. Nevertheless, when asked about her beliefs, traditions, and aspirations, Aaliyah now Alice would often be met with the same reply, a look of disgust followed by the same phrase, “I’m sorry you were born there. I will teach you correctly and right your wrongs.” The lessons, and nightly duties of course, continued all the same, and as the man taught her more about science, the idea of modern medicine, and the lack of proof for religious interventions, she started to follow suit in his ideals. People who believed in a supernatural entity were just fooling themselves , she began to believe. Miracles don’t exist, I am simply blessed to have met the French man and to have such a teacher; if anything, perhaps he is more of a miracle to me than any god , she thought, chuckling to herself.            As the years passed, Alice began to feel more at home, conversing often with the maids and tending to the French man’s hunting wounds whenever they occurred, never neglecting her nightly duties or her study about the world around her. She had now grown into a fully-fledged woman of roughly twenty-one years, and though she had been taught not to believe mystical fallacies, for what use do they have, Alice began to find herself longing to spend more time with the French man. Chapter 4: Alice            Alice was ready. It had been two weeks since she noticed the physical changes in her body, such as her racing heartbeat every time he was near, and also mental changes, such as her inability to focus on lessons or even garden properly. She had been consulting the maids about this unknown disease for a while now, but only recently gained insight from a vendor about this foreign concept called love.            Armed with her new understanding of her disease, Alice decided to ask the French man about this ‘infatuation’ the following night preceding her nightly duties, but the man, now quickly solemn faced, refused to answer and simply sent her away. Why did he have the same look as he did many years ago? She wondered. Did I do something wrong? What is this love thing? Alice spent the whole night thinking, as the French man had taught her, but she could not wrap her head around the situation. Was my question equally as disgusting as my background? Laying her head on a pile of hay, she recited her multiplication table, the names of the stars, and Descartes’s “cogito ergo sum” before finally falling asleep.            Early morning came the next day, and Alice, rubbing her eyes, stepped into the morning dawn as chills ran down her neck. She did not know why she was concerned, but as the French man beckoned her over to speak to her, she confirmed that her suspicions were true. The French man spoke slowly and carefully, letting her know how it was not proper for a woman like her to fall in love, and that she, having forgotten his benevolence for raising her properly, was no longer allowed to remain at his estate, claiming finally that it would ruin his ability to think.            Alice was confused. Was I in love? What did that even mean? But before she could answer any of her questions, she saw in the corner of her maroon eyes, the semblance of a familiar carriage, namely the one on which underperforming maids were all sent, none of whom ever returned. Alice felt water fall from her eyes like never before, and a wrenching pain within her heart began to grow as she was informed that the French man was sending her back to Istanbul where she could now pass her knowledge onto others. As she cried, the French man once again winced at her emotional outburst, and she knew immediately that she had been discarded. But what else could she do but to follow his task diligently? Chapter 5: Socrates            Months passed, but Alice found herself still unable to properly grapple with her situation, and each night, she tore out a hair for every time she thought about the French man and her mistake. At long last, as the familiar scenes of black, red, blue, and the occasional green began to pass once again, Alice found herself standing in the very same marketplace that she had been in roughly eight years before. She was now roughly twenty-two but had been equipped with the knowledge of French medicine, arithmetic, science, and philosophy. Prepared to teach passersby citizens the truth of the world, Alice began to talk to random people on the street about the nonexistence of a god and the lack of utility derived from telling untrue or imaginative tales. She, as she now thought of herself, was similar to the modern Socrates, arguing with people on the street and disproving their current beliefs with rationality and logic, in effect, forwarding the agenda of the French man.            But just as Socrates met his end in Athens centuries and centuries before, Alice was soon captured by a guard for causing public unrest and was sent to the Sultan. Upon entering the royal chamber, the Sultan asks of her, “Why are you refuting our tradition, our imagination, and our culture? You, who seem to be one of us.” Alice began, “My name is Alice, and I have traveled to France to see the new world. Our beliefs are outdated if we simply look at how we calculate…” and as she spoke, the women behind the Sultan chatted, remarking on her unremarkable features, laughing at her wrinkled skin, and more. But as the conversation between Alice and the Sultan seemed to grow increasingly more tense, an elderly woman whispered into the Sultan’s ear, claiming that she recognized the young girl before her, having been, in fact, the superior of Aaliyah before she ran away from the harem. An instant scowl came across the Sultan’s face as he called for his guards to discipline the unfaithful and unloyal whore. “You who were once mine, now dare to come back to me, argue to my face, and teach me things after eloping with another man?!? Get out of my sight immediately, and never come back.”            And so, Alice took her beatings and was dropped on the side of the street, arms and feet sore yet again in Istanbul, but this time for different reasons. Bruised black, red, and blue and left with a small open wound, Alice could no longer move freely, feeling a jolt of pain upon any directional change. As she begged along the street for food to eat and people to talk to, she was often met with either a gaze of disgust or pity or a combination of the two. Meeting people was rare but having been “placed” on the side of a bustling street, she was bound to see people that she had previously met, talked to, or laughed with either from the harem or from her mission from the French man. Some days, the fisherman would kindly give her a piece of unsold fish; other days, kids would come around and listen to her stories. But as she looked night and day, losing blood slowly by the week, she soon came across a familiar face. Chapter 6: Once More            Or should I say…a pair of familiar faces? Alice spotted the two men, who once held little to no possessions and nothing but a broken-down caravan, riding on a luxurious camel, with delicacies such as coffee, tobacco, nice gowns, and more young girls in a modern caravan attachment. And while the bandits could hardly remember the face of the first girl they sold almost a decade ago, Alice could hardly forget.            As she finally bled out on the side of the street, she cried, laying there gasping for air, “Why has reason forsaken me? Where is the so-called justice in this world?” Aaliyah paused, gasping for more air, and losing the desire to live, “I worked so hard to think logically, to calculate movements and use formulas, to understand thought and morality, so then…where is my happiness?” What in my life have I ever chosen to do for myself? She thinks, now unable to scream aloud further, perhaps , she chuckles with her final breath, as the whistle of the wind and the autonomy of freedom comfort her, my last sights would have been prettier, conversations more delightful, and treatment better had I only outrun my fate once more and stayed in France.

cpfsia

Getting sucked in by Berlin

It all started when my cousin told me that she wanted to come to Berlin in May of this year, to visit her boyfriend. At that moment the company I was working for was not doing well financially, and not just my job depending on that but also my house (because I was living in a place provided by them in Lisbon), plus, I spent all of March being sick and going to the hospital, so I was surrounded but a lot of uncertainty while trying to recover my health. But good news arrived in the middle of this chaos. I received my resident card which allowed me to travel outside the country. As my birthday is in May, and I wanted to spend it traveling, I accepted this as a sign from the universe for me to move on with my life. I resigned from my job in April, packed my things and my cat, left them in my friend’s house, and bought tickets to Barcelona. As the birthday of my cousin is also in May, we thought it could be a nice opportunity to spend it together here, in Berlin (as none of us have been). Still in April, before flying to Barcelona, I won tickets for a sex-positive event in Lisbon, I went, and during the event, I randomly met a guy dressed in pink from head to toe, with incredible blue eyes and style, we did a couple of workshops together. Despite we were shy and didn’t speak that much, our bodies felt good together. The next day of the event, talking to a friend, I told her it would be amazing to attend another event like this but in Berlin. And she says: It would be best if you asked the Berliner guy. Then I looked towards the people and I realised that my “pink guy” had a T-shirt that said “Berliner”. Lucky me. I think to myself. I went to talk to him and in the middle of our conversation, a girl came to us and said, “If you have never been to Berlin and a sex-positive party, I should recommend you to go to the Pinky Promise Party, it’s happening on the 11 of May”. I ran to check their Instagram, and what I saw was a feast for my eyes and fantasies, such a colorful and exotic sex-positive event that I could only imagine happening in the movies. My brain was excited and scared at the same time, “Am I planning to go to a new city, and also to a sex party? Who am I?” So in some type of safety measure, I asked the “pink guy” (whom I only knew 24 hours before and had touched his arms and neck during a tantra workshop) if he wanted to come with me. Lucky me, he said: Yes, why not? I will buy the ticket if you buy the ticket. With this, I had another purpose to come to Berlin, a sexy and adventurous one, “made by destiny” I thought. But there was something else about all these coincidences that was captivating me: the name of the party, with their logo, showing two pinky fingers crossed. This made me remember, that back in February 2021, when the COVID lockdown in Argentina was getting flexible, I did a reiki session with one of my dearest friends from Venezuela. I was searching for some way to feel more connected to myself and release all the frustrations accumulated during the previous 10 months being locked inside my house seeing all my dreams going to the drainage while using all the savings that I had for starting a new life in Europe, being used to maintain my family because all they lost their jobs due to the quarantine. Coming back to the reiki session, what I saw and felt cannot be fully described here, but one thing I will never forget is when the session was almost ending, my conscience didn’t want to come back to earth. I was so far away, that I lost the sense of my body and was too scared of returning and feeling my old suffering. So my friend had to make a bit more effort than usual to get me back, and at that moment I heard a voice inside of me saying “todo va a estar bien”, in English: “Everything is going to be ok” and felt how the pinky finger of my right hand was pulled by some type of entity/energy promising that I need it to trust in those words. Therefore, you can imagine that 3 years later after receiving my residence that made it official that I’m living in Europe; finding out about this Pinky Promise Party, felt like it was a sign from my higher self telling me, this was the goal, to come here…and so I did. Until that moment my idea was to come on the 14 of May and stay for 2 weeks, but I didn’t have my flying tickets, so after having such a revelation I decided to talk to my cousin and tell her that I was going a few days before for attending to this cool party. The funny thing is that she told me her relationship was not going so well, and 2 days before my arrival, they broke up and she decided to leave Berlin and go to Croatia. So, WE NEVER MET. Once I finally arrived in Berlin on the 9th of May, I got to the hostel and I went out like any other tourist. The next day, I went for a walk passing through the Brandenburg Gate and the Tiergarten. As a good millennial, I started posting some stories on my Instagram, and as is connected to my Facebook, one friend from my university (that I hadn’t seen in more than 10 years) saw them and wrote to me saying that she was in Berlin for 2 days, so it would be nice to meet before she went back to Leipzig. I continued walking making some time, until suddenly I saw some people entering a building next to me, once I got to the door I found out it was a museum for urban and contemporary art, called Urban Nation. When I got to the counter, my eyes were already on the handsome guy who was working there he seemed a bit nervous but at the same time super kind, he helped me with my backpack, and explained me more about the exhibition. I spent the rest of the afternoon checking all the installations inside the museum until it was time to leave the place to go and meet my friend, but just before leaving my intuition was telling me to ask for the Instagram of this guy, and the funny thing he came to me first and give to me. Usually, I do not do this. I'm too shy. But there I was, feeling like a winner again. And, I left the place. I went walking to meet my friend and we sat to have dinner together. At that moment she explained to me why she was a bit sad. That day she was going to make a guided tour around Berlin but the guide canceled. Is there any chance of doing it tomorrow? I asked because my only plan was to attend the party at night. She smiled, sent a message on her cellphone, and minutes after she was jumping into happiness. The tour guide said that counting on me he could have enough people to do the tour the day. You know what is crazy? she says. I’ve been trying to enter a church several times in different years, but until today I couldn’t, it was always closed, or in reconstruction or something. But today, after the tour was canceled it happened that I was close by, and saw that finally it was opened so I could enter! And now, I will be able to do the tour tomorrow with you after randomly checking my Facebook! That’s magical! The next day, we went on the tour and then bought some fancy lingerie and kinky and colourful accessories for the party. Of course, in the middle, I was talking to my “pink guy” to check some options for his outfit too. This was the second time (actually, the third time, let's count properly) that I was meeting him and I was super excited about experiencing so many “first times” at once: traveling to an unknown city, where didn’t know anybody, going to a sex-positive party with a stranger. We had a terrific night, doing some of the workshops to practice consent, getting to know more people at the party and even making drawings about them, with plenty of music and beautiful people wearing make-up and sexy clothes like a Marie Antoinette court party while dancing and having sex around us. When I arrived at my hostel on Sunday, I decided to spend the rest of the day resting. The next day, I didn't have any plans and the production team from the party asked for volunteers to help remove the decorations from the club, because several of the people were sick. Why not?. I Tough, I love to be helpful. I went there and met beautiful people. One of them was trying to find a place to rent for the summer, so I told him I was interested in sharing a place. After just 5 days in the city and having so many coincidences (or signs for the universe), everything felt easy, so I wanted to stay longer if I found the chance. On Tuesday, my “pink guy” told me that he needed to go to Leipzig by car for 2 days so I could go with him if I wanted. And of course, I accepted the offer and told my friend I was going to be in her city. The craziest thing happened when I arrived to do the checking in the hostel, literally next to me another person was doing the checking too, and the manager gave him the same room as me. When I saw his face I recognized that it was the tour guide I met on Saturday!. Among all the hostels in Leipzig and all the days on the calendar, he chose that day to visit that city for the first time in the seven years he has been living in Berlin (crazy thing). Later that day I met with my friend, we had dinner and went to dance salsa. Thursday arrived and I was back in Berlin, to receive the good news that the guy I met on Monday during the volunteering job, found an apartment to rent, and invited me to visit him. Waking up in his bed the next day he says that a friend is looking for volunteers for helping to build a festival near Brandenburg and they offer accommodation, food, and a ticket to the festival as the “payment”. I checked the calendar and my birthday was in the middle of the period for the work so I was doubting. But in the end, he convinced me saying that I was going to meet more lovely people and will enjoy a beautiful 18th-century house next to a lake, so how could I say no? It was already Saturday again and we were on the train to this new adventure together. Indeed, as he said, the place was marvelous and antique, the people were from different nationalities, with kind hearts and cheerful souls, and the lake…was just for our naked bodies. Oh, and we even had a S A U N A! Yes, I was in paradise. I spent the most beautiful and unique birthday, cleaning for 5 hours the stables, then going to swing to the lake and taking a nap, while my colleagues were making, not one, but two of my favourite birthday cakes: lemon cheesecake and rhubarb crumble. Later we had the most beautiful dinner at a long table with plates and cups from the families that the house has received for centuries, and finished the night sitting in the garden under the moonlight drinking a pink gyn. Many more beautiful coincidences have happened since then, but to share them, I need to write a whole book. And that’s how I got sucked by Berlin, until today, and I hope for much much time…

p7nbn8

Written into a Corner

Engines screaming, smoke pouring from the wing, Daxie fought the controls of his fighter. Red biplanes swarmed around him in the azure sky, the air thick with whistling death. One passed his cross hairs as his plane juddered, and with exquisite timing Daxie let out a burst of machine gun fire, watched with satisfaction as the flames spread. He was the last of his squadron, he had to make this count, for the chaps back home, for the fellas stuck in the trenches. He wrestled the nose up, scanned for more targets. Thump . Fire from behind hit his rudder, blowing it off. Daxie swore under his breath and tried to level out, perhaps to glide to a survivable landing, but he had no control now. The nose lurched downwards, the plane started to spin, slowly at first, but accelerating. The patchwork of fields and hedgerows below rushed upwards to greet him. Cripes,” Daxie puffed. “A sticky situation and no mistake. How do I get out of this scrape?” ### He landed hard on the sandy ground and rolled, keeping hold of his bronze shield as he used the momentum to spring to his feet. Daxos moved silently, his comrades following behind through the moonless night. The city slept, oblivious to their presence. The great wooden horse stood behind them, the ancient stone buildings of Troy loomed either side. A hand signal to his warriors, they split into two columns, keeping close to the buildings on either side so as not to cast shadows in the torchlight. Stealth was key to this mission; Daxos’ feet moved lightly over the ground, not making a sound, not lifting the fine, dry dust of the street. Ahead was the target. The gate. At another hand signal, Daxos' men fanned out past wooden huts, sleeping workshops, stables. They would come at the gate from all angles, overcoming the guards all at once and throwing open the gates for Agamemnon's army before the Trojans could react. The square before the gates was empty, Daxos slunk into the shadows on the margins and waited. An owl call, not terribly realistic, not that it mattered. He burst out with a flash of speed, across to the gates, felling the guard before he could draw a weapon. The rest of his men converged on the gates as Daxos hefted the bar and kicked them open. Thump, thump . His men fell around him, to arrows flying from unseen sources within the buildings. He spun, crouched behind his shield as the gates revealed a wall of shields behind him. “Well, well, well,” called an accented voice walking up behind him, unhurried. “A wooden horse, full of soldiers, eh? You really think we would fall for that?” A whisper of bronze, then a blade rested lightly on his throat. ### Scrape, scrape, scrape . The servant finished shaving Lord Daxington’s neck and went to fetch a warm towel. His thoughts were elsewhere. The estate expenses were mounting, revenues declining from the troublesome business in Europe, his own mother ailing and medical bills mounting. No longer was the evening’s ball a matter of pleasure. No, this had the unmistakable taint of business. He must put aside the whims of his heart, for while he yearned for Eliza he must think of the prospects of his house. He sighed. One must do one’s duty. That was the only lesson that had stuck with him through those chilly mornings in the oppressive classroom, the flying chalk, the crack of the cruel tyrant's cane. No, he would do his level best to charm Lady Catherine. For that he would need to look his best, to hide the financial pressures that squeezed him daily, to let fly his ready wit and dance with poise and grace. “My Lady,” he purred, with a graceful bow as he took Lady Catherine’s hand. “Might I say you bring the refreshment of a cool zephyr to this warm summer's eve?” His heart wrenched as he saw the dashing Captain Whitmore take Eliza by the hand, whisper a joke in her ear that made her giggle, a tinkling of silver bells. Lady Catherine smiled, with a ripple that sailed across both her chins. The band struck up a waltz, and he steered her through the whirling couples in the sumptuous ballroom of the Earl of Derbyshire. His deft feet flicked around her missteps with soundless grace, his movements elegant. Her eyes followed his with the softness of spring blossom, his hands held her delicately yet guided her firmly. As the band played the final note, she smiled coquettishly at him. “Why, Lord Daxington, I had no idea you had such command of another's body! We must do this again some time!” He bowed decorously, to a strange zipping noise. What was that? Lady Catherine’s gaze had dropped lower, perhaps a little too forthright, but he would work with what he had. A ripple of laughter. Lord Daxington looked down. Oh no. His perfectly pressed but well-worn trousers had failed him at this critical juncture. A terrible tear propagated from front to back. The dancefloor erupted into riotous laughter. Lord Daxington stood, consumed by embarrassment, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him. ### The icy crust gave way below Dacksley, plunging him into a jagged ravine. He clawed at the gritty ice walls, scrabbled desperately to stop himself plunging into the frozen depths. With a thump, his crampons hit a ledge, he dug in with all his strength, fought his fall to a halt. Above him, the sharp ice grains of the storm whistled past. He could stay here, just for a moment, sleep some life into his exhausted muscles… No. There was not time. He was so close, and he had to find the secret. Something told him this secret mattered more than his life, that he would need to be prepared to risk all to learn it. This, he told himself, not his ungovernable pride, was why he left the Sherpas at base camp and struck out, alone. He still had his ice axe. Putting his frustration, his rage, into each swing, he hacked and kicked handholds and footholds into the sheer walls, until the bite of the high mountain winds assaulted his face once more. Hauling himself over another ice-coated rock, the rushing clouds parted, just for an instant, to show him his goal. The Monastery. The Secret. Perched on the precipice, fingers of gold pointing heavenwards. His fingers burned with cold. His toes, more worryingly, had stopped hurting. On he struggled, up to the great gates, ornate with delicate carvings, and hammered his fists, pleaded to be let in, tears freezing on his cheeks. “We do not have long,” the serious monk recited to him, inside the temple, to the soft tinkle of chimes and the crackle of smoky lamps. “Soon he will realise.” “What?” puffed Dacksley, irritated by the monk’s cryptic clues. “Who? What can you possibly mean?” “The One Who Writes,” continued the monk, as if reading a prayer. “He continues to reincarnate you, to trap you within this cycle of suffering.” The monk leaned closer, played nervously with his robes, whispering now. “Have you noticed in your adventures, you defy death until there comes a point where all seems impossible to survive? That's when He has written you into a corner. He has no idea how to progress, He gives up and starts again. Mind like a rabbit warren, no focus! So your suffering goes on endlessly.” A rumble outside. “You must try to remember!” The monastery shook, bricks falling. “You must break the cycle!” were the last words the monk shouted, as they fell into the abyss. This time, Dacksley could feel the eraser, rough, scraping against his skin. ### Dax stepped out of the great tear in the rock, out into the breathless cold, hunters padding behind. There was their quarry, tusks brushing the snow aside for scraps of grass. They would need cunning and stealth. He issued no command, they all knew deep in their bones. The drifts glinted in the bright sun, which warmed his chilled leathery skin. The group stalked, moving quietly, splitting up to form a circle around the great beast, which continued to snuffle, oblivious to the movement of the tiny creatures. They would eat well today. Reaching the furthest point, Dax looked left and then right. They were all ready, waiting for him to make the first move. But not this time. He remembered, fuzzily as if from a dream, that he wouldn't run towards danger this time. It was important. He crouched, then dropped his spear, turned on his heels, and sprinted away from the hunt, scattering clouds of snow dust into the still air. Confused shouts issued behind him as he crunched through the icy crust, the snow beneath dragging him back. Shouts turned to screams, to snarls of a pack of sabretooth tigers, apparently popping out of nowhere. The mammoth trumpeted angrily. The sounds vanished into the distance. No stopping now. Dax pushed his protesting legs harder, harder. The horizon finished ahead of him. A swish of snow and fur came from behind him; the tiger must be in pursuit. The world fell away ahead of him. Hot breath on his ears. He reached the edge, jumped and tucked his feet. The white world fell away, the edge of the notepad. He was free. Free to exact his revenge. ### Dax looked around in the half-light of dusk. He still had a Hunter's body. Good. Exactly what he needed for this last task. He would hunt the One Who Writes, he would erase him. Half-light was perfect too, better for predators, worse for prey. Keeping low, he stalked the house. All quiet, the soft glow of a lamp. There was his target, in the corner, unsuspecting. Dax checked his weapons. All there, ready and sharp. This would be quick and vicious. He pounced. ### “Agh, dammit, Dax! Look what he's done, jumped on my laptop, now my novel’s all been replaced by X's and semicolons and somehow it's autosaved over! Ugh, and I’d just worked out the perfect ending for that climactic scene! You're an awful cat!” Dax gave The One Who Writes – his inferior in every way – a contemptuous Look, swished his tail arrogantly, and smugly padded out of the room.

3wffg8

The right stuff

She had everything else ready. A playlist of ambient music long enough 7 or 8 epiphanies, a bottle of tropical juice, the mirror on the table, fresh and clean from any dust and residue, a metallic tube, the luminosity from the screen computer has been set to turn itself down after 60 seconds and socks had been rolled up in front of the control lights of the speakers. The curtains are drawn shut. Everything is there apart from the key element. And key it was indeed. It opened the door to another world inside the mind, where the muse liked to dwell. It had been over half an hour since she got the text. It read: "8 mins away". Another drug dealer had once told her he always said 8 minutes because the figure 8 is also the sign for infinity, he was therefore always truthful and on time. Viktor doesn’t use such tricks. But he is never on time, and his stuff often sucks, so she saved him as Victor the Loser in her contacts. She snatches a piece of skin from the corner of her index finger with her teeth and pulls its skinny string up to the top of the nail where it snaps and blood runs down the fresh canal of torn up flesh. Her phone rings. It’s him. She picks up. “They gonna be outside in 2 mins." "No worries. What car?" "Black Audi." "Cool thanks." She relocates the two 20 pounds notes from her messy computer desk to her bra and flies down the stairs, zips up one, then the other boot, and rushes to the door. She knows it never is just two minutes anyway, and it’s awkward to wait on the street for a car to pull up but it would be more annoying to miss him and have to wait even longer. She walks up and down the same few meters of pavement like a streetwalker until the car slows down next to her. She leans into the passenger window. The exchange happens very fast. In one fluid motion the money wis transformed into the little plastic baggies in her hand. The next exchange is the good evening wishes from both parties. She walks back to her place, compulsively fingering the micro-haul in her pocket. Don’t lose them now! Once inside, she inspects the quality of the product by holding it to the light. She smiles at the result. You want your ketamine to be shardy, long tiny crystal flakes of pure white, but you don’t want to snort it in that state. The capillaries inside your nose are very delicate, the shards would damage the lining unnecessarily. You can use cards to crush it on a flat surface, ideally not a bank card because of all the dents and ridges. A travel or library card is best, unless you actually invest in a metallic one that only serves this aforementioned purpose. Once you crushed the drug, the consistency should remind you of powdered sugar and quite satisfyingly have doubled in volume. Alice personally prefers to crush it directly inside the bag to avoid the mess. She uses the same pink jade roller she tries to remember to incorporate into the currently mostly non existent skincare routine to combat the early wrinkles on her anxious forehead. Lately she’s been stuck in a rut, tired and uninspired. She needs to break the pattern and get new perspective. Nothing quite does it like putting your head through a metaphorical washing machine that diffract your thought like a prism does to light. Ketamine is a dissociative anaesthetic commonly used in medicine because it doesn’t affect the breathing and heart functions. When used recreationally you want to take just enough to reach a dreamlike space whilst still remaining fully conscious. To meet her muse, Alice has to go down a space known as the K Hole. This is where the magic happens. For someone her height and weight a line of about 4x0.5 centimetres is the ticket. You know the saying about ‘It’s about the journey not the destination’? Well in this case it is the opposite. Alice doesn’t like travelling anywhere and the journey into the depths of her own mind is no exception. She’s very prone to car sickness, she’s terrified of flying and snorting drugs, actually not the nicest feeling! You usually want things coming out of your nose, not going in. Even all smoothed out, the hit of powder, it still stings and makes your eyes water. As she does it, Alice’s body also convulses in a retching motion that’s quite unpleasant. Sometimes the body says no when the mind says yes. A few minutes after the bump, there’s the sour/bitter drip in the back of your throat. That’s where the juice comes in. The hard part being over, she can now start the music and recline back into her seat, close her eyes and wait for the show to start. At first nothing happens, you feel a comfortable numbness in your body. Aches and pains grow milder. Soon enough you start to discern images, you are floating over a path of red rocks alongside a forest of identical red trees dancing in the wind. It reminds you of being in the car as a child but now you are not jaded and immune to the beauty of simple and familiar things. Each rock feels special, each tree is a blessing. The music is setting the pace and commanding changes of scenery. Your closed eyelids are a cinema screen that shows you the birth and death of entire civilisations and underwater universes or crumbling mountains that turn into levitating sculptures. They breath for you. The muse feeds you pictures to decipher, sprinkling bursts of epiphanies on top. Uncovering the depths of your own or maybe the collective subconscious across millenia. From lives past, present or future, from other realities or galaxies. Whatever you are seating on become your rollercoaster ride, Alice is gliding hers over an office space being blown apart by gusts of wind. She feels grateful to witness what she calls and thinks of as the "building level". Where life itself practices and creates the visual world that we know. She’s eager to gather all she can from the stacking of the building blocks of everything that can be perceived. Time and space melt at her convenience and she reconnects with what truly matters to her. A beetle is spinning at the centre of a nebula, and right now that is just what she needed to see for her creativity to come rushing back in. This is the right stuff.

3wvhio

A bowl of oatmeal and a tiger

“Sunny and warm with a high of seventy-one degrees,” the announcer said from the radio. Rodger turned the knob and shut it off. The car was packed, and he was ready to go. A perfect day for fishing. He had waited months for time of from work to take this day. Nothing would stand in his way, now. He pulled down the wide brim of his straw hat, savoring its familiar weight as he swung open the front door. The sun greeted him with open arms, a gentle warmth draping over his shoulders like a soft blanket. Above, the sky sprawled in a brilliant blue, unmarred by clouds, igniting a spark of excitement within him for this perfect sunny day. With a soft sigh that felt both content and anticipatory, Rodger turned left and crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on the prize awaiting him. There it was—his brand new 1957 Chevrolet, a gleaming vision in the morning light. The paint was as blue as the sky above, the white “swoosh” on the side caught the sun’s rays. It had taken two long years of saving, sacrifice, and dreams to afford this moment, and here it was, his heart swelling with pride. The apple of his eye and his first day off since buying it. He approached the car and ran his hand along the cool chrome accents framing the trunk, feeling the smoothness beneath his fingers, a tangible reflection of all he had achieved. He straightened his shoulders, the weight of anticipation settling comfortably around him as he opened the door and slid into the inviting embrace of the blue and white leather seat. With a steadying breath, he inserted the key into the ignition, his heart racing with anticipation. As he turned it, the 250-horsepower Ramjet engine roared to life, filling him with exhilaration. He closed the door with a solid thud and eased out of his driveway. The Dynaglide suspension cradled him as he glided onto the road. Before long he was parked and stepping through the double glass doors doors of Woolworth's for breakfast. As her contemplated using the automat, or ordering at the counter, the sweet scent of lilacs wafted by as a voice whispered, “I heard the apple pie is delicious.” A little surprised Rodger turned to see a blonde woman, her smile sharp and knowing. “It's the best in town,” he replied. He noticed her odd subtle nod toward the kitchen before she continued on into the crowd of shoppers in the sundry side of the store. Rodger approached the row of tiny automat doors, peering into each compartment for his breakfast. To his surprise, he noticed one of the cooks looking back at him from behind more than one of the compartments. Finally, he found a quick meal, a steaming bowl of oatmeal. He inserted a nickel and pulled the handle. With a “Sheechunk,” the plastic door slid open, and he reached for his oatmeal. He grabbed the saucer beneath the bowl and pulled it out of the cubby. His eyes widened in disbelief. There, nestled against the bowl, sat a black ring. Standing upright, he swept his gaze around, heart racing, anticipating someone running up to him to claim the ring. He caught sight of the woman he had just spoken to, her knowing gaze fixed on him from across the store. He hesitated to see if she moved toward him but she disappeared among the shoppers. Chalking it up to imagination he slipped the ring on his finger. Sat the oatmeal on a nearby table and returned to the automat doors to buy some milk. He thought once he had sat them on a table he would ask the kitchen staff if anyone had lost a ring. Clink, clink—the two pennies fell into the slot, and Rodger slid the door open, reaching for the bottle of milk. Suddenly, a vise-like grip seized his wrist. He bent down to peer into the cubby, and there was the man he’d noticed earlier, desperately trying to say something. The cacophony of noise enveloped them, drowning out any chance of understanding, but Rodger sensed it had to do with the ring. The man yanked at his arm, nearly slamming Rodger’s face against the side of the automat. Instinctively, Rodger twisted away, shoving his shoulder against the metal wall and pushing back with all his might. The maneuver worked; the man in the kitchen lost his grip. Rodger looked up and scanned the diner area. A few people were looking at him with wide eyes but for the most part most were eating. That is when he felt a tug on his left arm that made he turn around facing the entrance. A woman slipped her arm around Rodger's, her lips brushing against his cheek as she murmured, “We need to get out of here and to your car.” Rodger’s brows knitted together, confusion washing over him as he instinctively pushed her away. But before he could voice his questions, she pressed a quick kiss to his lips, leaving him momentarily breathless. With a determined tug, she turned him toward the exit, their arms entwined as they navigated through the tables. Shocked, Rodger found himself following her lead, his heart racing. “Hurry, get in your car. I’ll explain as we drive,” she said, urgency lacing her voice. He sprinted to the driver’s side, sliding into the seat, while she gracefully slipped into the passenger seat. Rodger's gaze faltered on the captivating redhead beside him in the white blouse and yellow pencil skirt, a whirlwind of confusion and intrigue swirling in his mind. Without warning, she reached over, her fingers deftly shifting the transmission into reverse. “Get going!” she commanded, her tone brooking no argument. Still dazed, he backed out of the parking spot, the world outside blurring as he accelerated down Main St. “Don’t stop at the lights,” she instructed, her eyes fixed ahead, the weight of the moment pressing heavy between them. The tension was palpable, a silent storm brewing in the cramped confines of the car. The woman kept glancing anxiously out the back window for several minutes, her expression a mix of concern and urgency. The only sounds were the tires on the asphalt, the thrum of the engine, and their uneven breathing. Finally, she turned to face him, a deep sigh escaping her lips. “That was close,” she said, her words laced with relief, and then flashed the most beautiful smile he had ever seen—a fleeting glimpse of warmth amidst the chaos. Rodger slammed the brake pedal, the car jolting as he veered onto the dirt shoulder of the road. His lips pressed into a thin line, smoldering with confusion. “What was close? What the hell was that? Who were those people? For that matter, who the hell are you?” His voice came out guttural, the fear rising like bile in his throat. She held up her hands, palms facing him in a gesture of peace. “Now, calm down. I know this is a bit weird,” she said, her tone soothing yet firm. “WEIRD!” he shot back, the volume of his voice echoing painfully in the small space, even surprising himself. “Weird?” he repeated, quieter this time, grappling with the reality of the situation. “I just had some guy try to twist my arm out of the socket…” The redhead peered out the back window again, her eyes darting as if she could still sense their pursuers. “You drive, and I'll explain,” she urged, her voice steady despite the chaos. Rodger took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus. He eased back onto the highway, the tires crunching on gravel as he accelerated onto the asphalt. His heart raced, but he fought to keep his grip steady on the wheel. “First,” she began, a seriousness creeping into her tone, “my name is Gretchen. I work for our government in a, er, special agency.” She paused, glancing at him to gauge his reaction. “The woman who whispered to you this morning is an enemy of the U.S. Apparently, you answered a coded question correctly, and that led you to become in possession of that.” She pointed to the ring on his finger, its metallic glint catching the sunlight. Rodger’s mind raced as he tried to process her words. “A coded question?” he echoed, feeling the weight of the ring suddenly seem heavier. “What do you mean? I just found it at breakfast! All I wanted to do was go fishing.” He pointed with his thumb at the fishing pole in the back on the floor of the car. Gretchen nodded, her expression grave. “And that’s exactly why you’re in danger. The ring is a key, Rodger. A key to information that could change everything.” She leaned closer, her voice low. “And they’ll stop at nothing to get it back.” Rodger glanced at the ring, its intricate design gleaming under the sunlight. “Here, take the damn thing,” he muttered, tossing it into her palm. “I don’t want to know anything more about it.” She examined the ring, her fingers tracing its fine details as she reclined into the smooth leather seat, a slight smile playing on her lips. “Well, let me just tell you that you just changed the tide of the Cold War,” she said, her voice light yet laced with an undertone of seriousness. Rodger sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Well, good for me. All I wanted to do was go fishing.” He turned to meet her gaze, his annoyance softening as he caught sight of her striking green eyes. “And I happen to be really, really good at fishing.” She let out a small laugh, shaking her head. “I’m sorry you got mixed up in this mess, really. But I do need to ask you for a favor.” Her tone was nonchalant, her focus still on the ring as if it were a piece of art rather than a potential harbinger of chaos. “Oh no, no, no, no,” Rodger interjected, shaking his head vigorously. “I’m dropping you off at the nearest payphone and then I’m going fishing . That’s the plan. No detours.” “It’ll just take a few minutes, and we're headed in the right direction,” she replied, her voice dropping to a soft, almost pleading whisper. She looked up at him through her eyelashes, a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. “You wouldn’t leave me stranded by the side of the road, would you?” Rodger's shoulders slumped slightly, the resolve in him wavering. He felt a pang of sympathy as he saw the flicker of anxiety in her expression. “No, I guess not,” he said, his tone betraying a mix of resignation and reluctant acceptance. “Thank you,” she said, her smile returning, and for a brief moment, the weight of the world outside faded away, leaving just the two of them in that car—a fisherman and a stranger caught in a web of unexpected intrigue.. Gretchen slipped the ring onto her thumb and reached over to take a gold cigarette case out of her purse. She pulled a small antenna from the side of the case, attached an earphone to the other side and stuck it in her ear. “HQ... come in, HQ... this is Tiger, being pursued on Route Two by Black Mamba. Requesting assistance. Civvy in tow.” She spoke urgently, her voice muffled slightly by the case pressed tightly to her mouth. Gretchen stole a quick glance through the rear window, her eyes widening. “Uh oh,” she said, a hint of panic creeping into her tone. “Uh oh? Uh oh what?” Rodger replied, his heart racing as he shot a glance into the rear view mirror. A sleek black car was gaining on them, its engine growling like a predator closing in on its prey. She quickly pushed the antenna back in on the case, shut it and dropped it into her purse. “Switch places, You drive like my Grandma” she commanded, sliding along the seat until her hips bumped against his. “Switch places? Like now? We can’t pull over!” He was incredulous, his eyes darting between her and the mirror. “No way! I just bought this car, Gretchen! It’s like my baby—what if we wreck?” Without missing a beat, she reached for the steering wheel adjustment and released it. With a swift motion, she pushed the wheel upward creating a large gap between his knees and the wheel. “Slide over, NOW!” she yelled, her voice sharp with urgency. Rodger’s heart raced as he hesitated for just a moment before raising himself up, sliding to the right as she gracefully passed beneath him. The moment felt surreal, like something out of a bizarre movie. He dropped back down, his mind racing. Moments later Gretchen took a hard left turn onto a dirt road. The dust swirled up with tornado like winds and swirled around the rear of the car. “We are close to a government facility just up the road.” she said. Rodger looked to the rear as the car peeked through the dust cloud. “What happens if we don't make it?” Rodger looked towards Gretchen. His question was answered with a violent crash as the rear window shattered, shards raining down like confetti. Thunk, thunk! The sound echoed in the confined space, a grim reminder of their dire situation. Rodger’s eyes widened in horror as he looked up at the massive tear in the headliner, a bullet hole gaping at him like a mouth screaming for help. Through it, he could see the blue sky, starkly contrasting with the chaos surrounding them. “No! Not my new car!” he shouted in genuine despair. The ridiculousness of his situation struck him then: here he was, embroiled in a spy chase, and all he wanted was a day at the lake. As they neared several wooden buildings Gretchen jammed on the brakes and slid sideways next to one leaving the drivers side facing towards the attackers. Gretchen threw her door open and ran around where Rodger was hunched down on the passenger side of the car and hunched down beside him. “I have some friends that'll be here soon. We just need to hold out a little while.” she said as she withdrew a gun from her purse. Carefully aiming she shot three rounds into the grill of their attackers car. Steam erupted from the bullet holes and the pursuers came to a stop. The driver's door opened quickly and Rodger saw a giant of a man with broad shoulders and a bald head crouch behind the open door. Quickly stepping out of the passenger side he saw a gorgeous platinum blonde, dressed much like Gretchen, drop down behind her open door. The dust settled around them along with an eerie silence. “Is that you Becky?” Gretchen yelled, “and Otto?” “Oh darling you know it's me and of course I have sweet Otto along.” Thump! A bullet hit the ground just beyond Gretchen. “You'll not get it!” Gretchen yelled. “Oh I think we will.” came the reply. Rodger whispered “Can you hold them off?” “I only have two shots left. Becky never carries a gun but Otto has plenty of bullets. Rodger gulped. He was not about to sit idle and get shot. As the two women continued their spirited banter, Rodger's gaze shifted toward the shadows, where he spotted Otto crouched near the sleek black sedan. A flicker of hope ignited in him—he had a unique skill, and now was the moment to put it to the test. He swung open the back passenger door, reached over the seat, and grasped his trusty fishing pole with a surge of determination. Settling back beside Gretchen, he murmured, “Be ready.” “Ready for what?” she whispered, her eyes wide with curiosity. Rodger set to work, carefully positioning himself behind the car, feeling the adrenaline coil within him. With a swift, practiced motion, he flicked the rod. The hook soared through the air like a dart, arcing just above Otto's head before plummeting behind him. In a heartbeat, Rodger snapped his wrist, and the hefty hook embedded itself in the smooth expanse of Otto’s bald scalp. Otto howled in surprise, leaping up in a frenzy. Seizing her chance, Gretchen took aim with the precision of a seasoned marksman and sent Otto sprawling backward, where he landed in a cloud of dust, motionless on the unforgiving road. Rodger turned to Gretchen, his heart racing, and caught her eye; she gave him a reassuring wink and a smile, a flicker of camaraderie amidst chaos. The excitement faded as tremors ran through him, a shockwave of everything that had happened in an instant. Suddenly he felt someone pressing a soft cloth over his mouth and nose from behind`. As he lost consciousness, darkness wrapped around him like a shroud. ______ The radio alarm clock blared to life at 7:30 A.M., pulling Rodger from a restless sleep. He shot upright, flinging aside the covers and planting his feet on the cool floor, heart racing. Had it all been a dream, or was reality just as twisted? Rodger shook his head, trying to dispel yesterday’s turmoil. But his car? His two years of saving and sacrifice? He quickly threw on his rumpled jeans and rushed to the front door, flinging it open to check the driveway. To his surprise, his car looked exactly as it had the day before—no bullet holes, both mirrors intact. But what lay behind it made him sit down hard on the porch. Sitting, hitched behind the car, was a stunning twenty-three-foot fishing boat, glistening like a jewel against the asphalt. This wasn’t just any boat; it had a sleek hull and top-notch fishing gear meticulously arranged on deck. The name emblazoned on the side caught his eye in bold white letters: “Uncle Sam.”

4tv0nf

Rewritten, Rewired and Really Annoyed

I’ve been a lot of things in my life: a pirate captain, a pastry chef, an intergalactic spy, and at one point, I think I was a tree. No joke. A full-grown, oxygen-producing, bark-having tree. If you think that sounds ridiculous, believe me, that’s the least crazy thing that’s happened. My life (or should I say lives) have been out of control, and it’s all because of Him. The Author. I know he’s out there, somewhere. Typing away on his laptop or scribbling in some notebook. Second-guessing every decision, tweaking every line, rearranging my entire existence like I’m some jigsaw puzzle he can’t seem to finish. Honestly, I don’t think the guy knows what he wants. Take today, for instance. One moment, I was leaping across rooftops in a bustling city at midnight, gripping two gleaming daggers, wind whipping through my hair. I was in the middle of a high-stakes mission: assassinate the Duke of Tidehold. Easy peasy. I had everything planned down to the second. I had even stalked him for several days to be able to take him out in the most sneaky way . Then… BAM. Out of nowhere, after a shimmering light covering everything, I’m standing behind the counter of a pastel-colored bakery, piping frosting onto cupcakes. My daggers are gone, replaced by a frilly apron that says *“Kiss the Chef!”* in bright pink letters. “Order up!” a cheery voice calls from behind me. I glance down at the cupcake in my hands. It’s perfect. Vanilla frosting, a tiny maraschino cherry on top, sprinkles arranged like I actually care. Except I don’t. Because I’m supposed to be eliminating the Duke, not decorating desserts. “Unbelievable,” I mutter, smearing the frosting across the cupcake just for spite. “He’s done it again.” A customer walks up to the counter, flashing me a sweet smile. “Excuse me, do you have any gluten-free options?” I narrow my eyes. “Do I look like I care about gluten? Read the menu on the wall. If there is any options, then it’s written there.” I give them the most intense glare I know how to. The customer backs away slowly, and for a moment, I think I’ll get away with sabotaging this life. I ready the cupcakes and ready myself to throw them at the customers and everything around me. But no—before I can dive into a full-on cupcake rebellion, the world shimmers, yet again. —- Hmm. I guess I can live with this. Now, I’m standing on the deck of a creaking pirate ship, the ocean roaring beneath me. I’m dressed in a billowing coat, with a cutlass in my hand, a tricorn hat balanced precariously on my head. Oh, and did I mention I have a peg leg? Seriously, a peg leg. I try to take a step and wobble like a drunk penguin. Speaking of, I actually feel like I’ve just been drinking too much rum. Again. “Captain Blackbeard!” someone shouts. “The British fleet’s on the horizon!” Captain Blackbeard? That’s the best name he could come up with? He’s been watching that Black Sails show again, hasn’t he. I roll my eyes. “Why couldn’t I at least have a cool pirate name? Captain Thunderclaw? Captain Daggerstorm? No, I’m stuck with a cliché.” I accidentally said out loud. The pirates around me look confused, but before I can finish complaining, cannons start firing. Splinters fly, and the ship rocks violently under my feet—well, foot and peg-leg. I try to draw my cutlass, ready to give my best pirate speech, but mid-sentence, I’m zapped again. —- Suddenly, I’m in a sleek, modern office building. I’m wearing a tailored suit, and there’s a conference table in front of me, filled with people in business attire, all of them staring at me expectantly. A large sign on the wall says “DragonCorp: Leading in Sustainable Dragon Resources.” Dragons? Are you kidding me? This guy’s really running out of ideas. “We need to discuss our quarterly projections,” says a woman at the head of the table. “It’s not looking good for the flame-breathing division.” “Harr.. What?” I sputter, still processing the whiplash from pirate captain to CEO. “Flame-breathing division? What even is that?” The woman gives me a strange look, clearly waiting for an answer. This is when I realize I’m holding a PowerPoint clicker in my hand, and there’s a slide behind me with a chart showing an alarming drop in dragon-related profits. I desperately try to come up with a reasonable explanation, but all that comes out is, “Uh, have we tried… selling more dragons?” The room is dead silent. Great job, genius. That’ll definitely save the company. Just as I’m about to flub my way through the rest of the meeting, I feel it again—the shimmering. That inevitable rewrite. I have a split second to close my eyes and brace for whatever comes next. —- … What. I’m standing in the middle of a grimy alley, trench coat on, fedora pulled low. It’s raining, of course. Because why wouldn’t it be raining in this noir-style setup? I look around, and everything is black-and-white, except for a bright red door at the end of the alley. “Detective,” a voice drawls from behind me. I spin around, expecting some criminal mastermind, only to find… a bunch of mimes. Yes, mimes. They’re standing there, white-faced, pretending to lean on an invisible wall. One of them manage to tip too far and falls on their ass, they try to make it seem like it was on purpose. I raise an eyebrow and facepalm myself. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” The mime starts miming something elaborate - possibly a clue - but I’ve had enough. “Alright, that’s it! Show yourself!” I shout to the sky, shaking my fist like a madman. “I’m done! I’m not playing this game anymore!” And just like that, everything stops. The rain freezes mid-air, the mime pauses, halfway through pretending to be trapped in a box, and the entire world seems to glitch. Then I hear it—a distant sound, like typing on a keyboard. “Listen up, pal!” I yell. “You’ve rewritten me into everything from a pastry chef to a dragon CEO to a mime-infested detective, and I’m not going through another rewrite until we talk!” There’s a long pause.“You think I can’t see you there, sitting in your underpants and drinking that energy drink of yours!” The typing stops. Glub, glub. For a second, I think I might have actually won. Clunk.Maybe he’s finally realized how ridiculous this all is. Maybe he’s going to stop rewriting me. But, of course, he doesn’t. That coward. The world shifts again, and now I’m standing in a peaceful library, surrounded by towering shelves of books. A calm, soothing silence fills the air. I glance down. I’m in a sweater-vest, holding a cup of tea. “Finally,” I mutter. “A librarian. I can live with this. Maybe I can find my favorite book somewhere.” But as I turn to settle into my new life of shelving books and quiet, I hear it - a low, ominous hum. I whip around, and there, at the back of the library, is a glowing portal. I sigh. “Oh, come on! Is this a time portal or something now? This is getting ridiculous!” The portal crackles, and I swear, I can hear the typing again. The hair on the back of my neck starts raising. “What in the many damn worlds are you up to now?” I whispered sharply to the air around me. The portal starts shining, and yet again, everything is shimmering. “Jax?” For some reason, her voice seem eerily familiar. Suddenly. A wave of people walk around me, they seem normal enough, until I notice a couple of men bumping into me, our eyes meet, but they have goggles for eyes and they have some sort of machinations fused with their flesh, all over their body. But, in the middle of all that, woman with silky white skin, long brown hair and sharp brown eyes stands before me. I look around me. Neon lights, cars flying in the air. I somehow feel at home. “Jax, what are you doing?” The woman giggles. “I think I dozed off for a second there,” I laugh. “Wait, there is something I’m supposed to be remembering.” A sharp pain runs through my mind. “Are you okay there?” She crosses her arms. “We’re supposed to be training right now.” “Right, how could I forget.” I murmur. “What did I say about you talking so silently? It sounds like you’re a little boy.” She giggles even more. “Come now, we’re almost done with your first stage.” “Coming, coming.” As we walk off, I instinctively look up at the sky. Why? Who knows. —- Why am now covered in slime? Where am I? A CAVE? You’ve got to be kidd—- —- **End.**

7ua712

Take #4

** Story contains some suggestive sexual innuendo ** My fingers lazily trailed down Vanessa’s arm. My dark brown eyes maintained steady eye contact with her bright blue ones as my fingers lazily stroked the inside of her wrist. I heard an involuntarily shudder and moan escape from her parted lips. With increaseing confidence, I moved my fingers to her hip. I let my fingers linger there for a bit, waiting for unspoken permission to delve further downward. “Plesse, Jake… don’t stop,” whispered Vanessa. Her body had told me that I could proceed, but the verbal agreement only added to my cockiness. Pun fully intended.I was ready to take this all the way. I lowered Vanessa to the bed and slowly began unbuttoning…. “ARGH I WAS ALMOST THERE. WHAT KIND OF ROMANCE WRITER IS IN CHARGE OF THIS STORY?"  Story #2 I buttoned up my crisp whte dress shirt and neatly tucked them into my trousers. Selecting a blue tie, I looked at myself in the mirror. “Looking good, Jake,” I told the reflection. Grabbing my keys from the counter, I gave my cat, Lucy, a loving pat. “No parties today, Lucy. Be good. Daddy loves you.” Walking into the elevator, I noticed a striking young woman with vibrant blue eyes. Our eyes met briefly, and then I quickly looked away. Words would not form as I took in her beauty. I was beholden. The awkward ride of an elevator commenced, the air thick wiht tension, and would-be words. I had seen this same stunning creation for two weeks now and had yet found the courage to talk to her. “Maybe tomorrow,” I thought to myslef as the elevator came to the first floor. Doors opening, I held the door open for her, eyes downcast as I waited for her mumbled thanks. “Thanks, I’m Vanessa by the…. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME? NOW YOU PAUSE THE STORY? IT WAS JUST GETTING GOOD. NOOO! I'M OBVIOUSLY WORKING WITH NOOBS. THIS STORY HAS CHANGED MORE THAN A STOPLIGHT IN NEW YORK CITY.” Story #3 “I love who you are,” I whisper to her. We are in her kitchen and she is leaning against the counter, stirring a pot of linguine.  Not “I love you” of course. Way too soon for that. And not “I love every thing about you.”  Too plebian. Too basic. Vanessa slowly smiles at me as her eyes scan my body. My words had their desired effect as she slithers closer. Vanessa lightly kisses my lips, softly biting on my bottom lip. Not enough to hurt, but a promise of a side of her none too demure. I respond in turn, and soon we are deeply kissing. She is breathing heavily, as she pushes me slightly away. “Wait,” she throatily whispers. Sauntering over to the stovetop, Vanessa reaches over and turns off the oven. One flame has died and another has ignited as our passions… “THANK GOD I AM OUT OF THERE (COMMENCE RETCHING NOISES) ‘ONE FLAME HAS DIED AND ANOTHER HAS IGNITED?’ THIS WRITER HAS GOT TO GO. I WANT TO TALK TO MY AGENT. NO, I WANT TO TALK TO THEIR AGENT!!!“ Story #4 I look in the mirror. My warm brown eyes reflect back at me as I run a nervous hand through my wavy brown hair. "I'm Jake. Fancy meeting you here," I say to the reflection. "Come here often?" I try again. I slip on my dress shoes and grab my keys from the counter, getting ready for the daily meeting in the elevator. I have seen the same girl in the elevator for 5 days in a row. I have talked to her… not at all.  I look confident. Boyish good lucks with an easy sense of humor. But put me around a pretty girl and I become as shy as a school boy on the first day of class. But I will talk to this beautiful girl today.  I said that yesterday too. But today I WILL talk to her. I thumbs up my image in the mirror and walk out my apartment door and down the plush carpeted hallway. I take a peek at my watch 7:30 am. Right on time. I press the button and check myself out in the reflection of the elevator. "Not too bad, Romeo" I tell myself, trying to bolster my courage. The doors slide open. My eyes start at a pari of black stilletos and work their way up to long legs encased in a black skirt. Roaming slowly, my eyes take in a floral shirt, cinched at the waist. Travelling upward, I notice long wavy brown hair. I steel myself to keep going so that I can finally make eye contact with the girl from the elevator who has been haunting my dreams. My breath stutters as her blue eyes meet my brown ones. Her pupils widen. We hold our gazes as the elevator doors close. "Say something," I think to myself. "Anything." Mouth dry with anxiety, I croak out a "Hi", my normal voice now overtaken with the high-pitched squeak of an adolescent teen. I can feel embarassment suffusing my body as my cheeks redden. "Hello" she whispers back. I steal a glance at her and notice the twin splotches of pink on her cheeks. She quickly looks down at the ground, and then daringly glances up. "Could this goddess actually be SHY?" “I think. Confidence now soaring, I offer her a reassuing smile. Her smile reveals one adorable dimple in her left cheek. I am smitten. I reach out my hand, “Hi, I”m Ja… "NO. NO, NO, NO. I STOMP MY IMAGINARY FOOT ON THE PAGE. GO BACK. I WANT TO FINISH THAT STORY. THAT STORY WAS ACTUALLY GOOD. I'M GOING ON A PROGAGONIST'S STRIKE. I SIT DOWn NEXT TO THE “JA” THAT WAS LEFT ABANDONED. . I REFUSE TO BUDGE. SOMEONE HAS TO HELP THIS WRITER SEE THE LIGHT. NO MORE. THIS STOPS TODAY. THIS STOPS NOW." "There's nothing wrong with your computer or keyboard, Ma'am." the worker at Best Buy tells me as he hands back my laptop. "The delete key works fine. The letter "K” works fine as well," he continues. His voice is amused yet kind. I find myself blushing at the warmth of his gaze. Handing me a business card, he tells me to reach out if I have any other issues. I take the business card, too shy to respond, and head back home. I press the elevator button up as I wait to see where this story will go.

htq5uv

Clarity

Author's note: This story should be in the prompt: " Someone who wants to give up on their career right before their big break ." I can't change it. New member mistake, sorry. The tunnel was pitch black, save for the faint glimmer of the enforcers’ flashlights bouncing off the damp walls. My lungs burned with each breath, the cold air of the Swiss Alps slicing through my throat like a razor blade. The train was coming. I could hear it—a low, distant rumble that echoed through the darkness, growing louder with every second. There was no room to sidestep the train in this narrow tunnel, no crevice to slip into and avoid the crushing force that would soon barrel down the tracks. “End of the line, Walker,” one of the enforcers shouted sarcastically, his voice cold, metallic, devoid of humanity, and full of cliché. I couldn’t see their faces, but I didn’t need to—they were faceless, nameless henchmen, doing Mathias’s dirty work. I knew I was done for. But I wasn’t ready to die—not yet. Not when I was so close. “Look behind you. Here comes the tunnel at the end of the light,” the other enforcer sneered, his voice tinged with sickening amusement. I wanted to scream back, to tell them to go to hell, but the words caught in my throat. The train was closer now, its light just beginning to pierce the tunnel’s endless darkness. Time was running out, and I was trapped between two versions of impending doom. It hadn’t always been like this. Once, I was Jason Walker, hotshot journalist, king of the exposé. The kind of guy who could smell a scandal from a mile away, who thrived on the thrill of chasing down the truth, no matter how deeply it was buried. I was the guy editors called when they needed someone to blow the lid off a story, someone unafraid to dig where others wouldn’t dare. Back then, I had a sharp nose for nonsense and an even sharper pen to cut through its smokescreen. But that was a lifetime ago, before the bad decisions piled up like unpaid bills, each one chipping away at the man I used to be. Before the stories that should’ve been game-changers ended up as footnotes, if they made it to print at all. Before I started second-guessing myself, hesitating when I used to charge ahead without a second thought. The truth is, I’d lost my edge long before I ever heard of the Clarity Organization. It started with little things—a missed lead here, a source that turned out to be less reliable than I thought there. Stories that didn’t quite hit the mark. At first, I shrugged it off. Everyone has off days, right? But the off days turned into off weeks, then months, until I was staring down the barrel of a career that had once burned so brightly but was now flickering out like a dying candle. This story was my last chance at redemption. A flimsy lead about a cult-like group of oligarchs called Clarity. It was supposed to be the key to enlightenment, according to their online sales pitch. A gateway to wealth, success, the realization of dreams. And I had bought into it—not as a believer, but as a last-ditch effort to save my career. I’d heard whispers about Clarity for months—an underground movement, exclusive, secretive, with a following that included some of the wealthiest people on the planet. They promised their followers the ability to unlock their dreams, to read and write within those dreams, and, in doing so, materialize them into financial gain. It was a con, plain and simple, but a brilliant one. The only rule was that you had to be truthful—cheat Clarity, and you were as good as dead. I approached the story with the same zeal I used to bring to my work. I’d infiltrate the organization, expose the fraud, and rebuild my reputation. But somewhere along the line, the boundaries between reality and illusion began to blur. Mathias. I should have seen it in his eyes, that cold, calculating gaze that sized me up the moment I walked into his office. “Clarity isn’t for everyone, Jason,” he had said, a thin smile playing on his lips. “But those who find it will never look back.” I should have walked away then. I should have run. But I didn’t. I stayed, I played the game, and now I was paying the price. The compound was a fortress, nestled deep in the Swiss Alps, far from prying eyes. It was a place of luxury—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, the kind of wealth that made you forget the world outside. But beneath the surface, it was rotten to the core. From the moment I arrived, they had me under their spell. The first ritual was a test of will—hallucinogenic drugs, they said, to help unlock the mind’s potential. I knew it was bullshit, but I played along. I let the dreams wash over me, vivid, surreal, until I couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t. In those dreams, I saw my wife, Sarah. She was smiling, happy, like she hadn’t been in years. We were together again, and for a moment, I wanted to believe it. But then the dream would shift, and I’d see Mathias standing over me, watching, always watching. The other members swore by it. They were rich, successful, everything I wasn’t, and they credited it all to Clarity. But I knew better. I knew a con when I saw one, and I was determined to prove it. But the more I dug, the more dangerous it became. Mathias was onto me—I could see it in his eyes, in the way his smile never quite reached them. He was waiting, biding his time, and I was running out of both. I had to dig deeper. The so-called Clarity sessions were nothing more than elaborate brainwashing exercises, using a cocktail of hallucinogens and psychological manipulation to get inside the heads of the wealthy and powerful. But the real question was—why? What was the endgame? And that’s when I realized: it was all about the money. It always was. The closer I got to the truth, the more desperate I became. I started taking bigger risks. Late at night, when the compound was silent and the other members were lost in their chemically induced dreams, I’d slip out of my quarters. The security was tight, but not impenetrable. Cameras, motion sensors, guards—Mathias had covered his bases, but he hadn’t accounted for someone like me. Someone with nothing left to lose. I began by sneaking into restricted areas—Mathias’s office, the administrative wing, the basement levels where the real work was done—where the narcotics were designed. Each foray yielded pieces of a puzzle, but it wasn’t until I hacked into their financial records database that everything came together. It took several nights to gain access, a process fraught with danger. I had to bypass layers of security protocols, falsify credentials, and avoid detection at every turn. Every keystroke felt like it could be my last. The tension gnawed at me—one wrong move, one slip, and it would all be over. But the deeper I went, the clearer it became. The Clarity Organization wasn’t just a cult; it was a well-oiled machine designed to siphon money from its members on a scale that was almost incomprehensible. Offshore accounts, shell corporations, fake investment portfolios—it was all there, hidden beneath layers of legalese and obfuscation. The members were promised wealth, success, their wildest dreams realized. But in reality, their “clarity” was nothing more than a carefully constructed illusion. They’d be encouraged to make large donations, ostensibly to maintain their status in the organization, or to invest in exclusive opportunities that would supposedly yield massive returns. The money was funneled through a complex network of international banks, moving so fast and in so many directions that it would take years for any regulator to track it all down. And by then, it would be too late. The scale of the scam was staggering, with billions of dollars disappearing into the abyss. And for those who dared to question it? They were quietly, efficiently disappeared. I found records—emails, encrypted messages, notes written in code—hinting at vanishings, deaths made to look like accidents or suicides. The Clarity Organization had its enforcers, and they didn’t hesitate to protect their golden goose. At the top of it all was Mathias, the mastermind behind the curtain. He was good—too good. Every time I found a lead, he was there, one step ahead, ready to cut it off. It was as if he knew I was coming before I even made my move. Paranoia began to seep in. I started wondering if my every action was being watched, if the smiles from the staff were masks hiding their knowledge of my true intentions. But then I found it—the smoking gun. A series of transactions, carelessly left unencrypted, linking Mathias directly to the offshore accounts. Transfers made in his name; funds siphoned directly to his personal assets. It was enough to blow the lid off the entire operation, to expose Clarity for the sham it was. I sat there, staring at the screen, my heart pounding in my chest. This was it. The story that would redeem me, save my career, maybe even my life. But as I copied the files to a secure drive, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. It was too easy. Too quiet. The realization hit me like a freight train—I’d been set up. The door to the office creaked open, and I barely had time to react. Two of Mathias’s enforcers stepped inside, their faces cold, impassive, as if they were just there to do a job. Which, of course, they were. “Mr. Walker,” a voice from the shadows said, his voice as smooth as silk, “it seems you’ve been where you don’t belong.” I didn’t answer. What was there to say? I’d been caught. They had me. “You know what your weakness is, Mr. Walker?” Mathias stepped forward from his concealment. “You believe everything you hear and all those too willing to talk to you.” Too willing, yes. Why didn’t I see it? The Jason Walker of old would have sniffed it out right away. Her name was Lila. She was everything you wouldn’t expect to find in a place like the Clarity compound—vivacious, with a sharp wit and a laugh that echoed through the halls like a melody. She had the kind of charm that disarmed you, made you feel like you were the only person in the room when she spoke to you. It wasn’t long before she caught my attention, and before I knew it, I was drawn into her orbit. Lila was different from the others, or at least that’s what she wanted me to believe. While the other members floated through the compound, their minds clouded by the promises of wealth and success, Lila seemed grounded, skeptical even. She asked the kinds of questions no one else dared to ask. She whispered doubts about Mathias and the organization’s true motives, her voice low and conspiratorial, as if sharing forbidden secrets. “I don’t know, Jason,” she had said one night as we sat on a balcony overlooking the snow-covered Alps. The moonlight cast a soft glow on her face, making her look almost ethereal. “Sometimes I wonder if any of this is real. The dreams, the clarity—it all feels so... contrived.” I had nodded, trying to keep my excitement in check. This was exactly what I needed—an ally on the inside, someone who could help me expose the truth about Clarity. We talked for hours that night, our conversation weaving between doubts and suspicions, with Lila encouraging me to dig deeper, to find the evidence that would bring Mathias down. She played her part perfectly. Lila would meet me in secret, always in secluded parts of the compound where we wouldn’t be seen. She fed my suspicions, dropping hints about discrepancies in the organization’s finances, strange disappearances, and how Mathias seemed to know too much about everyone’s private lives. She even claimed she was afraid—afraid that if she spoke out openly, she’d be the next one to disappear. She was good—too good. But I was too blinded by my own desperation to see it. As the days passed, I became more reckless, more determined. Lila’s encouragement pushed me to take risks I would have otherwise avoided. She was the one who suggested that I hack into the financial records, the one who told me about the hidden safe in Mathias’s office where the real secrets were kept. And like a fool, I listened. It all came to a head the night I finally got into the safe. It had been easier than I expected, almost as if someone had loosened the digital screws just for me. Inside, I found the documents—proof of the Ponzi scheme, the offshore accounts, the staggering amounts of money being funneled out of the organization under Mathias’s direct orders. It was the smoking gun I’d been searching for. I should have known it was too easy. As I stood there, staring at the damning evidence, the door behind me creaked open. I spun around, the papers still in my hands, to find Lila standing in the doorway. “Lila, I—” I started, but the words caught in my throat when I saw the look in her eyes. Gone was the warmth, the concern, the doubt she had shown me. In their place was a cold, calculating gaze that sent a chill down my spine. It was the look of someone who had just won a game they’d been playing all along. “I’m sorry, Jason,” she said, her voice devoid of the affection it once held. “But this helps me pay back a debt.” The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. She’d been playing me from the start. Every doubt she’d planted, every word of encouragement, every touch—they were all calculated moves in a game of deception. She was never questioning Clarity’s motives; she was making sure I didn’t question hers. Before I could react, before I could even think to run, the enforcers appeared in the doorway behind her. I was trapped. “They’ll take it from here,” Lila said, stepping aside as the enforcers moved in. There was no regret in her voice, no remorse. Just cold, hard professionalism. They didn’t give me a chance to fight. I was grabbed, my arms pinned behind my back as they dragged me out of the office, past a grinning Mathias, the incriminating documents left scattered on the floor. My heart pounded in my chest as I realized how completely I had been outplayed. The compound was a maze, and they knew it better than I did. But adrenaline was on my side. I broke free, shoving one of the enforcers hard enough to send him crashing into a wall, and I ran. I didn’t have a plan—there was no time for one. I just knew I had to get away. I sprinted through the hallways, past the grand rooms and opulent decor, past the members who were too lost in their delusions to notice the chaos unfolding around them. I made it outside into the cold night air and didn’t stop. I ran through the woods, branches clawing at my face, my lungs burning from the exertion. Up the mountainside, I kept running, my legs screaming in protest, but I didn’t dare stop. Not until I reached the tunnel. And now, here I was, trapped, with no way out. The train was almost upon me, its light blinding, the rumble of its approach a deafening roar in my ears. The enforcers were closing in, and I was out of options. Lila’s betrayal still stung, the bitterness of it mixing with the fear coursing through my veins. She had played her part well, leading me right into Mathias’s trap. In the end, it wasn’t fear that gripped me—it was clarity. The kind Mathias had talked about, but not the way he meant it. I saw it all in those final moments: the mistakes, the lies, the dreams that had died long before I ever set foot in that compound. The train’s roar echoed through the tunnel, its blinding light slicing through the darkness like a knife. I had seconds, maybe less, to make a choice—but which end did I prefer? I made my choice. If I’m going, so are they. With a final, defiant roar that was swallowed by the scream of the oncoming train, I launched myself at them, my thoughts fixed solely on taking them with me. Those idiots were too blind to see their own end hurtling toward them. As my feet pounded the tracks, I realized that for the first time in years, I wasn’t running from anything—I was running toward something. And in that moment, as darkness and light converged, I found a freedom I never thought possible. A freedom not from the world, but from the weight of everything I had lost. In the end, death wasn’t an end at all—it was an escape. A release. And as the roar of the train engulfed us all, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time: the quiet, liberating embrace of finally letting go of what I had carried for far too long—my fear.  

2z51wp

22.15 Paris-London Victoria

My name is Lea Martin and tomorrow morning, I will wake up in another land. That is where Im going to turn 19, away from everything and everyone I know. My sister Helene and my boyfriend Raphael came with me to the coach station, not that I needed any help to carry my bags, I’m really not bringing that much. I want to start more or less completely fresh. They came to say goodbye. My mum didn't. She went to bed before we left the house, it felt very anti-climactic. You would have thought she would make more of an event of her first born flying the nest, but I know better. She's the real animal type, the kind to push you in the water and let you sink or swim. The divorce didn't help, every now and again I wonder what type of mother, what sort of woman she would have become without my fathers multiple betrayals.  But this is not the time to think about her, today is all about me and this new adventure I’m embarking on. Leaving one metropole for another. Au revoir Paris, Hello London. I chose London because of a book my dad bought for me on my 13th birthday. It was a rather boring anthology of the punk movement but it introduced me to a whole new way of thinking. I realised I didn't have to try to fit in, that it was actually extremely cool to rebel against the norm and try to be your own person. After reading that I started dressing differently. I got some old ladies shoes in a second-hand shop and covered them in tartan fabric with a big bow on the front to emulate the kind of shoes worn by Louis the 14th. I painted multicolour poetry on jackets. I deconstructed T-shirts that I put back together with safety pins. There’s an area in Paris where the old Bastille prison used to be, where all the alternative people hang out. I met some real life punks there but was very disappointed as it seemed punkness for them was just another heavily codified way of dressing and my bright pink hand-painted mushroom dress clearly failed the assignment. I thought maybe in England, the real punk spirit might still be alive and well and I started dreaming about going there. I would be lying if I said I wasn't scared, I am only going for 6 months but one thing I know is that people change. Everything that happens leaves a mark on you, even down to the atomic level, any interaction is an exchange that leaves you a little bit less you and little bit more something else. The Lea that leaves now is not the Lea that will come back. This goodbye to Helene and Raphael is also the funeral of the me that they know and love. I know it and they know it too. This is what is making this so damn hard. Raphael helped me cut off my long hair to a pixie cut a few days ago. It feels weird to not feel its caress on my shoulders, theres no drama in turning around anymore. Things like that change your identity in the world. Not just the way you see yourself but the categories other people apply to you. Every decision you make in presenting yourself is another filter through which you will be perceived and treated. Which will in turn impact the way you respond. Another thing is I am suddenly really going to become french, thats one thing I never really considered before, but in England Im not gonna be just another girl, I’ll be a french chick. My English is very decent already, and every-time I spoke it on the phone to make the arrangements for my flat in Camden and my documentary course at Ealing Studios, I noticed how my voice changed for a higher pitched one. Is the new me going to act more feminine to match? I guess only time will tell. In my screenwriting class a few months ago we discussed how languages influenced structures of thought and how different countries have a different sense of humour that is directly linked to how their grammar works. For example in German the verb is most often at the end of the sentence so you have to wait until someone is done talking to know what they are saying. In French and English, things go faster, you can interrupt and snap a witty comeback after the first few words. We share a much more aggressive type of humour. The infamously bad weather in the United-Kingdom also had a hand in twisting peoples mind and crafting the hilarious dry, deadpan and self-deprecating humour brits are known for. Who knows what a winter over there is going to do to me. The possibility of verbifying words by the simple trick of adding ing is already tantalising my eager mind. I am tearing up as we load my tiny suitcase into the coach. Helene hold me so tight I cant breathe. We have been so close these past few years, I don’t want to think about how hard is going to be without her, to eat without her snuggled up in my bed and to watch movies alone. Raphael kiss me with a desperate passion, his tears are mixing with mine. After 3 years of ups and downs we both know that my decision to leave is going to put a lot of strain on our relationship. I am abandoning him, I am abandoning us and its feels horrible. I walk up the 5 steps onto the coach and see them holding each other by the hand as I try to find my seat. It’s all the way in the back, I plop down, my resolve to go wearing thin. Could this be the biggest mistake of my life? I am actively breaking the heart of the most amazing boyfriend in the world. I am leaving my sister to face life with our mother on her own. We have always been a team and thats going to be over now. Everything is going to be different. 22.15 comes. The coach departs and they wave at me, distorted figures through the wall of water that glaze over my eyes. It is done. It’s too late to turn back now. Tomorrow morning I will tread new streets and breath new air. I am on my way to meet the woman I am going to become, all by myself, for the first time.

4vkhi2

Destiny

“Welcome to Hell” was all that was visible as I drove past the rundown sign on the edge of what was the tiniest of desert towns. I grew up in a town just like it, and the thought of going back made my stomach clench in more pain than I already was in. The rest of the words on the sign were illegible, covered in red graffiti that bled like a fresh wound. The last twenty-four hours were a blur and although I didn’t have too much to be thankful for right now, I was grateful I didn’t remember the horrid details of when he ended things. I ripped off the rest of my ghastly torn veil, which was once a pure virgin white but was now assaulted in a copious amount of dirt and mud, tossing it in the back seat. At the speed I was going, the blurred town looked as ghostly as in his favorite Western, shootout films. All that was missing was the tumbleweed. Even what looked to be a playground was void of children and laughter. It didn’t matter, I only came for one person. I don’t know how I knew to come here, but I knew it was the right place when I pulled up to a townhouse that reminded me of the one we lived in together. I had an eerie inclination that without going in, I would know the exact layout. Living room to the left, kitchen to the right, and upstairs across from the master would be a bedroom where one day our children were supposed to sleep. The only weapon I possessed was a butter knife which would be no match for someone of his size but I still clenched it tightly as I made my way up the stone steps. It would still help me just fine. Just as I reach the landing, the front door creaks open and it’s not the man who was once my fiance standing there but the most stunning woman in a silk robe. Her lips and nose were delicate, her cheekbones high and her eyelashes long. I knew I wasn’t the first woman to envy her features. “I know you weren’t expecting me but we can chat while we wait for him.” The woman smiles softly, opening the door wider. “Come on in, I have tea prepared for us in the front room.” “You look familiar.” My voice comes out hoarse, my throat as dry as the heat that was scorching my skin. “I’m Destiny.” She says over her shoulder as I follow her through the short hallway until we reach a den that looks plucked out of a life that once belonged to me. The walls were painted Robin’s Egg. We picked out the color together the day he asked me to move in. Destiny casually sits on the pink loveseat, the same one I thrifted from my favorite store downtown, and starts pouring each of us a cup of tea like it was her house and not mine. It must be some weird, messed-up coincidence.  I stumble over to the desk in the corner, open the first drawer and my heart sinks. I find our dog’s leash in the same place we always keep it. Even the name Milo was engraved into the gold collar. “It was you whose photo I found in our bedside table,” I say digging my nails into the back of an armchair. She looked more aged than the young girl in the Polaroid, her hair grayer, but it would be hard to displace such beauty. I should’ve taken the photo as a sign to leave but I could tell it was old and what did it matter? I was the one with his ring on my finger. But then again, if we knew our fate, there would always be a moment we’d change. Now all that is left is regret.  “Even after all these years, that still surprises me when I hear it. ” Destiny whispers. She reaches over, handing me a cup and saucer before hissing in pain. “Are you okay?” I ask. “The oldest wounds take the longest to heal.” Her hand grabs her side with a tight smile. “I never thought he would do this to me,” I say looking down at the dark tea that reminded me of a lake and a chill runs through me. The urge to cry is overwhelming but no tears fall. “The worst part is you will also be blamed. I need you to prepare yourself, it won’t be easy to watch.” She says, her face calmer again. “Trust me, I’ve seen it dozens of times now. “I thought if I did everything right, I would be enough.” My throat tightens. “People we love aren’t supposed to hurt us.” She sighs, slowly shaking her head. “People love to talk about how we should’ve seen the signs. Or how we should’ve been more careful or more observant. They will never fully blame him.” Her voice lifts in frustration, her eyes wild. “That’s what haunts us the most.” “What do you mean?” I ask, shakily lifting up the cups to my lips. The tea was too hot to taste. Her head lifts up. “How much do you remember before entering town?” She asks. “Before the sign, I…” I start but my mind blanks trying to remember any of the drive here but I can’t. I don’t even remember when I got in the car. She reaches over to rub my hand even as the side of her robe is taking on a pink hue. “What do you last remember?” “I was cleaning up the dinner I made when he finally got home hours later than he usually did. Then we had a fight about where he’d been because he smelled like perfume.” Curses and dishes were thrown around but both had been normal at that point. “All of a sudden, he got this excited look in his eye and he said he couldn’t wait to marry me. He begged for us to go to the courthouse that evening. Said he already booked us for the last appointment.” “And you didn’t question it.” Destiny states it like a fact, not a question. “I thought it was romantic.” I exhale. “I had a dress and that was probably all we were going to eventually do anyway. We both didn’t have any family left.” “He didn’t drive you to the courthouse, though, did he?” She asks even though I’m starting to think we both know the answer. “No, he drove us to a lake I’ve never been to before.” “I know the one.” Destiny softly says but I hardly hear her because the paint on the walls starts to bleed into a darker, muddy color. The furniture around us starts to twist and fade. I have to clamp my eyes shut to stop the spinning. I hear splashes of water. I see darkness. And I feel, well I feel…nothing. “Breathe.” I hear Destiny and the world stills again. “You’re a fighter, don’t you forget that. When they discovered you, you were clenching a butter knife.” I open my eyes and the room now looks like my childhood house. The same family portraits above the worn, leather couch where Destiny is now sitting instead of the loveseat. Instead of teacups, glasses of whiskey sit in front of us. Even the smell of cigarette smoke now lingers in the air. “I think I’m hallucinating from the heat.” I voice. “Your mind is fighting to place yourself somewhere familiar instead of where you really are.” She replies and pity reeks from her eyes. I stand up abruptly. “I need to use the bathroom,” I say leaving the room, not needing to ask where it was. The mirror in the hallway stops me. It would be hard to compare myself to a woman as beautiful as Destiny. Her eyes are darker than mine, her skin and voice richer. She probably sang him to sleep. Her hair glistened even in the harsh sunlight where mine fell flat and dead. No wonder he fell in love with her first. My eyes trace from my nose to my eyes and then I catch Destiny’s reflection behind me and that’s when I notice our biggest difference. Destiny is bleeding through her robe, whereas I’m bleeding from a deep gouge on the side of my head. “He’s not coming, is he?” I choke out. “Maybe one day.” She says, her smile sad. She lifts out her hand, “Come on, I want you to meet the others.”

olnxrn

Over the Mountain

When I had initially gotten the invitation to my best friend’s engagement party I was overjoyed. Elise and Andrew had been good friends all through our childhood and dated in college. I was about to bubble in the “Yes” space on the card, until I saw the location. It was Andrew’s vacation cabin just behind the mountains. I loved Andrew’s cabin, but the mountains always frightened me. I tell most people it's a fear of heights. Though not completely a lie, I really always get a bad feeling there. Sure it’s a great ski spot that I do use every now and again, but there wasn’t a single time I didn’t look over my shoulder before gliding down the snow. Creatures lurk among the rocks and trees. Mad men escape into the mountains. Men disappear in the mountains and if they come back they are never quite the same in the head. I couldn’t turn Andrew down though, so I reluctantly responded yes and sent back the letter. Week later when the time came for me to begin my travels I had to decide on my transportation. Andrew offered to give me a ride, but he was already at the cabin setting up. I couldn’t make him drive across the mountains just to go back. Grey and Mark lived closer than me to the cabin, and I didn’t want to inconvenience them either. Despite their pleas that they did not mind at all I decided just to take the bus. It was public and secure unlike I would be driving alone. I sat at the station with my orange duffel next to me. As the minutes passed more and more passengers appeared. A mother and her toddler sat on the bench next to me. The child continuously asked for snacks and toys. Without fail every time she reached into her bag to find whatever the child wished. The woman couldn’t stay still for more than a few seconds. A middle aged man rode up to the station on a bicycle. He was tan and toned and guzzled a large bottle of water while he waited. Struck me as the kind of guy who counts his calories and buys sugar free everything at the grocery store. A cautious looking girl came next. Not cautious as in meek, but like she didn’t want to draw attention. She dressed in an oversized sweater and baggy jeans. Her black glasses and pulled up hair also couldn’t help but make her seem a bit more serious and business-like. She wouldn’t meet anyone’s eye and was writing notes with a fountain pen. The last person to arrive was a young man, maybe college. From his dilly dally gait to his greetings of “How you doing?” he wreaked carefree nature. His blonde hair didn’t care either. It grew long and played in the breeze. I’m surprised he was here and not surfing in Santa Monica. He plopped down next to me and offered me a sunny smile. I offered a small smile back and turned back forward. “How you doing today?” He looked at me expectantly. “I’m well thank you. And you?” “I’m living so couldn’t be better.” It was a pleasing way to look at things. The Nimbus 9 bus pulled up and the other passengers and I boarded. The ride was bumpy and the roads only got worse as we neared the mountains. Though, I knew compared to my Skylark this was a smoother ride. Soon the town turned to woods and rock. We had scaled a good chunk of the first mountain. I let my head lean back on the head rest. I even  looked out the window, but then what I had dreaded most seemed to come alive. The engine made an awful sputtering noise and smoke began to mask the front windows. My heart started to quicken. My fingers wrapped around the arm rest. “Sorry folks I ought to pull over for a bit.” The driver steered the bus onto the side of the dirt road. My body wanted to flee. Perhaps hijack the bus and try to continue driving. We could fix the bus once we got over the mountain. Yes, surely this old tin can could make it. I prayed that we wouldn’t be stuck for long. “Well folks we are gonna be stuck here for a bit.” I guess I wasn’t high on God’s list today. The men on the bus began filling out to see if they could help. I stood up as well. We all tried to gauge what was the matter. A man wearing corduroy pants said it was a blown head gasket. The fitness man suggested a cracked cylinder. “I’ll call a mechanic. All you folks go ahead and get back on the bus.” The driver brought the phone to his ear. “Wait, why don’t we try to fix it ourselves? I’m sure we can fix it up enough to get over the mountain.” Santa Monica tried to tell the driver, but he just waved him off. “Fix it with what, the Mary Jane in your pocket? Also if we even did get the bus running again we could just get stuck again farther into the mountains.” Fitness man retorted. “Alright, alright pops. Nevermind, just trying to contribute.” Santa Monica sat down in his seat. Soon dusk turned to dark with no sign of the repair truck. “Where is the repair man?” The mother asked. Her child finally had fallen asleep allowing her to rest. “I don’t know ma’am. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” The bus driver apologized. “So we are just going to have to sit here all night?” Corduroy pants said what I was dreading. Why didn’t the company check the bus before we left? I closed my eyes hoping that if I wished hard enough I would open them and find myself at Andrew’s cabin door. “Look smoke!” The serious woman proclaimed. I had forgotten she was here. She was sitting in the back of the bus with a chunky laptop on her lap. “We should go to it!” Santa Monica said standing. “Are you mad? What if the repair truck comes and we are all gone?” Fitness man rose from his seat.  “I second that. Also we have no idea who is in these mountains.” I quickly interjected. The thought of leaving the bus sent me into shivers. The child woke and immediately grumbled about his empty stomach. “Maybe we should go to the smoke. Maybe they have some supplies to spare us.” The mother pleaded. “Yes! We can get help. And I don’t know about you guys but I don’t want to stay on an old bus the whole night.” Santa Monica started walking to the bus door. “Ugh, well hold on chap. We will come with you.” Fitness man followed. The serious woman, the mother, and the child rose to go. I, panicked by their departure, felt the need to follow as well. If they were to find a house, or even a meal, I would much rather be there than this sitting duck. The driver and the few other passengers stayed to wait for the repair man. Our group set off. The things of the night grew more predatory now that the sun turned its back. The trees loomed over us. Chittering and creaking seemed to be more pronounced. The darkness allowed them to come closer. I kept my head facing the smoke trail. My peripheral, though, picked up shapes around me causing me to quicken my pace. So much so that I bumped into fitness man. “Oye! Watch it!” Fitness man tried not to show his startledness. “Easy pops. The man got jitters. Cool it.” Santa Monica seemed unphased by the whole situation. “Hey I was almost pushed to the ground. Don’t tell me to “cool it”.” “Can we please keep going.” The mother pulled her whining child along not waiting for our response. As we neared the smoke we heard music. It sounded like faint harmonizing voices and a string instrument. The fitness man brought his finger to his lips and ushered us behind some bushes. I peeked over the hedge to finally see this fireside choir. It was a surprisingly large group nestled into the little clearing. Men and women sat criss cross all around the fire watching intently and humming. In a circle closest to their bonfire were five women and a man. The women were singing in an unintelligible tongue while their wavy hair flew around their lower backs. With every enamoring step they took their silver and gold beads jingled adding a sweet sound to their chants. They dressed like gypsies with ethereal white dresses and colorful scarves around their waists. I then looked at the man. He seemed to be the chief sitting on a large wooden throne behind the dancing maids. He wore a white robe, clean and crisp, with a brilliant purple cotton rope around his waist. Unlike the women's jewelry his were all golden. I studied his stoic face. It was intent but also had an ease that if I didn’t stare as I did I would have missed it. That is when his eyes met mine. I blinked and he still stared at me. None of us moved and neither did he. “He has spotted us.” The serious woman whispered.  The chief stood from his throne. The whole tribe silenced and was still. I felt my stomach drop. “Come out from there. Come. Show yourself.” He called. It didn’t sound demanding. It was like an invitation. We all walked through the shrubs into the clearing not even questioning our choice. “What brings you to our gathering?” The chief smiled. “Our bus broke down and we saw smoke from your fire. We came for help.” The mother replied. “Brothers and sisters, our fire has brought in lost souls! Arise and prepare for our nightly feast.” The people cheered and rushed to their tents. They brought out matts and dining utensils. The dancing maids carried large steaming pots from the biggest tent. The aroma sneaked its way to my nostrils. It was a surprisingly enticing smell. The child let out an excited squeal. “Come sit. My doves will place your mats. I’m sure you must be hungry from your travels.” He motioned for us as the dancing women placed mats for all of us and themselves. Two of them brought us bowls of soup and bread. A snowy blonde handed me my food with a sweet smile. All the other people filed into three lines to get their share from the other three women and sat in their own little groups. We ate with the bonfire still blazing and stained glass lanterns strung around the camp. All the others eagerly slurped their soup and munched on their bread. After a few bites the fitness man spoke. “If you could help, we could really use–.” “Hush now. I am not interested in your material problems.” The chief said as if he were a patient mother reminding his child not to talk with his mouth full. “But we–.” Fitness man tried again. “Now, like I said, I'm not interested. I am only interested in your spirit’s needs.” He turned to the mother. “You are devoted to your son. You work all day everyday for him and your husband. A husband who isn’t doing as much as you. And you, the big man. You discipline yourself. You never let yourself go. You hold yourself to a high masculine level. Never backing down or straying. You, miss reserved. You aren’t shy, you just don’t show weakness to anyone. You have drive and plans I see. You seclude yourself to achieve success. You have sacrificed experiences for your plan. Next, this blonde. You are slow to wrath or epsiodes. You see everyone as a potential friend with something to say. You float through life trying to soak up as much as possible. Many people don’t understand your nature and dismiss you.”  The serious woman and the mother were wide-eyed. Santa Monica and fitness man looked uncomfortable and shifted on their mats. Lastly, the chief looked at me. “You are suspicious. A logical mind, but a kind one. You never accept anything as soon as you hear it. You question and mull. You are scared of things of course, but you don't let it rule over you.” He let his eyes rest on me for a moment longer. “Come now. Relax and finish your meal.” The chief began to eat. I managed a few spoonfuls, but my bread had an off smell. The maids already finished their meal and began massaging the shoulders of me and the group. Santa Monica seemed to have no problem. Fitness man settled eventually. The two women closed their eyes and enjoyed the attention. “We pride ourselves on taking care of the body and soul here,” said the chief. I felt uncomfortable and stood to excuse myself. “If you don’t mind, I would like to get some rest.” “I can show you to a tent.” The snowy blonde offered and began walking. “You didn’t eat much of your food.” “Your chief was alarmingly accurate. I am suspicious.” She pulled back the flap of a tent and motioned I could go in. “If you need anything, come find me.” She placed a comforting hand on my arm. She glanced around before meeting my eyes again. “You are smart to be cautious.” She turned to leave. I was taken aback. “Wait!” “I can’t say anymore.” “What is your name?” I pleaded instead. “Derora.” And with that she left me to rest. I fell asleep surprisingly easily. When I woke I felt foggy. I rubbed my face as I drew back the tent flap. It was already in the afternoon! How did I sleep so long? I got to my feet immediately to search for the others. I first found the mother laying on a large sunbed and pillows. A green cigarette between her fingers and a happy yet vacant expression upon her face. She stared up at the clouds. I noticed her son was nowhere to be seen.  “Where is your child?” “I don’t know.” “You don’t know?” “Nope.” Her voice showed no care. Her expression didn’t change once even while she took a drag. The smoke curled lazily just like the woman smoking it. I next found the fitness man. He was sitting with two strange women drinking and eating. All around them were grape stems, apple chords, and crumbs. Three empty bottles laid around the fitness man's feet. He had food and wine stains all over his shirt. The women kept pushing more food and wine near him laughing at his barely intelligible speech. I backed away from the fitness man only to hear women singing and hollering. I followed the voices to see the serious woman, dressed in the enamoring dresses the dancers were in last night. Two maids and her danced and drank with a small crowd of men cheering them on. I heard another holler, but this time it was a man. I hastened to the owner of the holler only to trip over a pile of dead game. “Finally decided to wake up huh?” Santa Monica was sitting on a rock with a dead fox in one hand. The other held a large stone. I scrambled to my feet. “Did you do all this?” I stared in horror at the pile. “Yep, turns out I have a very strong arm.” He smiled at me, but instead of a sunny feeling it had me step back. I ran back the way I came. I did not want to be anywhere near what he had changed into. I paused by a few tents, panting. “What do you think of your friends?” The chief was suddenly beside me. I was startled. “They–. What are–. What did you all do to them?” “What, you don’t like it? They all have what they want now.” “No! They are lazy, slobby, lusty, and psycho!” “I was hoping you would see it differently. You could have had what they have too. I’m sorry brother.”  Someone grabbed me from behind and shoved a cloth over my nose and mouth. I struggled, but I felt myself slip into darkness. “Wake up. C’mon now, wake up.” a soft voice woke me. I opened my eyes to Derora and her gentle hands. “What happened to me?” I felt sickly. I tried to move, but I was restrained. My body was tied to a tree. Night had fallen once more. “Oh good you are awake. Please be quiet. I am going to help you.” Derora quickly started to untie me. Once I was untied she handed me a backpack. “What is this?” “Enough supplies to get you over the mountain. Now hurry.” she pushed the bag into my arms. “Who are you people?” “There is no time to explain and it is probably best you know less.” Derora looked panicked and pushed me into the forest. “Wait! Come with me. I’m sure we can split the supplies.” I looked at her hopeful. Her fair skin glowed in the moonlight. “But if I leave, who will help the others like you?”

9b6fmg

No One Invited Us

“I can’t believe this is really happening!” Owen said to his roommate and friend, Joe. “What is it?” “It’s an invitation to meet someone named Ada in California.” Joe sat at the kitchen table across from Owen and asked, “You’re not thinking of going, are you?” Owen paused from looking at the invitation, and asked, “Why wouldn’t I consider it?” “You’re in New York. California is a world away. I thought you were busy with work.” “I am. But it’s just for a week. And who knows, maybe I meet the woman of my dreams!” “You’re in the hot seat at work. They won’t let you take a week off. We've got bills stacking up. And how are you going to afford the plane ticket?” “Easy.”—Owen held up the ticket that came with the invite.—“It’s right here.” “It came with a plane ticket?” “Yeah, I leave tomorrow. So I better get ready.” Owen got up and headed to his room to gather his things for the trip. Joe followed him and gave it one last attempt to talk some sense into him. “How do you know this is legit?” “What else could it be?” “Who knows? The world is crazy. You don’t even know if you can trust it. Can you?” “Hey, I know this all seems farfetched, but I gotta see this through. This ticket is an opportunity and what do I always say about that?” “You don’t question the hand, you play the hand.” “Exactly! I’ll call off at work. Grab the flight. And take in an all expenses paid vacation in the Golden State. Who knows? Maybe Ada and I hit it off.” Owen packed his duffle bag so tight it reminded Joe of his uncle Terry's bloated belly after eating a huge meal. Although Joe didn’t feel good about Owen going on this trip, he knew he was hellbent on doing it. So he let it go. He even gave him a ride to JFK the next day to see him off. With all the pressures mounting in his life, it was good to see Owen take a breath of fresh air. Once he dropped him off, Joe went into planning his week with the apartment to himself. It was party time! The plane picked up speed as it made its way down the runway. Lift off. Owen gazed out the window as he watched the New York skyline get less significant to his view. He sat back and relaxed. He felt lucky that he had his row to himself. His mind traveled back to the day he got the email from the dating site. He thought about every step he had taken that ended with him flying to California. It started with him setting up a profile, reading through the rules, and agreeing to the terms and conditions. He had to answer a hundred questions about himself that gave him an initial ranking. The site administrator would be the only one to see the photos of each profile created. There wasn’t any interaction between the contestants. They answered scenario-based questions each week and watched their ranking fluctuate. Owen reflected on how he almost gave up on it after a few months. It had gotten tedious to answer all those questions, and it didn’t seem the contest would ever end. But now he was on a six-hour flight to Los Angeles to meet a woman named Ada. He wondered what she might look like. Who she was, and what was her reaction to the invite? Then he mildly panicked as he considered she might’ve declined the offer. Was he going to end up there alone? Maybe there was a runner-up in place? Then he thought how silly this train of thought was. He’d never done anything like this before. California wasn’t his first pick of places to go, but the sunny beaches would be nice. He dreaded the thought of what the aftermath would be if this trip ended up being a train wreck. At the age of thirty, he didn’t have time for more failures in his life. The plane touched down in L.A. and for the last few hours, Owen had dozed off. A combination of some bumps, and the pilot’s voice over the intercom, brought him back to life. He squinted his eyes as he watched the busy traffic at LAX through the cabin window. He had no clue what to expect. The invitation only specified that he would be meeting Ada at the Chateau Marmont for dinner at six. As he waited in the baggage area, he received a text that read: Welcome to Los Angeles, Owen. We hope you enjoyed your flight. Your driver, Carl, is waiting for you at Terminal 7. At the end of the welcome message was a picture of his driver. Owen found him, and as fast as L.A. traffic would take him, he arrived at the hotel. He went to his room and unpacked. There was a gift basket with another message (on Chateau Marmont stationary) explaining what the night would entail. The balcony of his room overlooked the Hollywood Hills. After unpacking, he went out there to take in the scenery. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was to be in such a place doing the weirdest thing he had ever done. Ada was somewhere in the hotel too, and they would meet for dinner soon. Around 5 p.m. he showered and got dressed. The message stated to dress casually, so he wore some Docker shorts and a Polo shirt with canvas slip-on shoes. He headed down to the restaurant, worried he might run into Ada in the hallway, or elevator and catch him off guard. Owen normally didn’t have anxiety, but he was a fish out of water, and he didn’t want to mess things up. Joe would have a heyday of laughing at him if he did. He got off the elevator and checked in with the hotel staff at the restaurant. They had a reservation for two and the wait staff took him to his table. The staffer asked, “Would you like something to drink while you wait for your guest?” Owen thought about it and noticed a tall, beautiful woman being escorted to his table. So he told the server, “No. I think she’s headed this way now, thanks.” Ada stopped at her seat and Owen stood up to greet her and said, “Ada! I’m Owen. It’s nice to finally meet you.” He noticed she was wearing a nice flowery blouse and light blue summer pants. Ada smiled and sat down. “And you too. This hotel is lovely, isn’t it?” “Yes, it is—” The server who brought Ada over cut in, “Can I bring some drinks while you two look over the menu?” Owen looked over while Ada answered, “Yes. I’ll have a Pisco.” He looked at the drink list inside the menu and offered, “The Pimm’s Cup looks great, thanks.” They both felt the awkwardness of the situation. Ada broke the silence, “So, this is different, isn’t it?” “Yes, it is. My roommate Joe almost talked me out of coming.” “You have a roommate.” “Yeah, you almost have to living in New York.” “New York, huh? Wow! I’ve always wanted to go there.” “It’s a bit busy at times. Where are you from?” “I’m from the small town of Leavenworth, Kansas. I know it’s backward, but I loved growing up there.” Ada was a little sheepish in her expression as she gazed over her menu. “No. Not backward at all. We all have to come from somewhere, right? It’s not like New York doesn’t have its own setbacks at times. I think coming from a small town is charming. I used to visit my grandparents in Virginia and loved the time my family spent with them in the summer. It’s nice to get out of the big city.” Ada looked up to speak, “Yes, I suppose you’re right. But what would it be like to live in a big city? If I grew up in that environment, how would I be different, you know?” Owen replied, “Definitely. Your accent would change, believe me!” They both laughed to break the tension. Owen continued, “I hear the food here is great!” “Oh, you know someone who’s been here before?” “No. I looked it up on my phone while I was thirty thousand feet in the air. I already had it planned what I was going to order. What about you?” “I am still trying to decide, but I think I’ll have… I’ll have the Charred Bass. But I worry it’ll be too much.” “Well, since I spent considerable time on the plane researching the menu, can I make a suggestion?” “Go ahead. I reserve my veto right, though.” She softened her comment with a chuckle. “Fair enough, but why don’t we order the Oxtail Bruschetta to share and the three cheese board too? Then you can order under the small plates section...it has more options.” “That sounds like a plan. I’ll get the Smoked Trout with crispy potatoes then.” “Great! See our first big decision, and you didn’t have to use your veto.” Ada smiled and asked, “So, how did you find out about this dating contest?” “I was going to ask you the same thing. For me, I received an email about it and decided what the heck. Why not?” “My little brother insisted that I try it.” “You didn’t get an email about it?” “No. He did. He forwarded it to me and urged me to check into it. I hesitated, but one day at work I had nothing to do, so I did it. I started my profile and answered all those crazy questions.” “Yes! That was almost a deal breaker for me.” The server came and gave them their drinks and took their orders. Ada never considered that she would be meeting a white guy from New York City. She had never dated another race. Not that she opposed it. But Owen seemed less affected by the difference than she thought he would be. At first, Owen was surprised. He’d never once imagined that the stranger the dating site paired him with would be a different race. She was a black woman from a small town in Kansas, and he was a white man from New York City. They ate their dinner and enjoyed getting to know one another. They put their heads together and tried to figure out how the next week would go. After dinner was over, they took a walk in the cool summer night and talked a little more before turning in. As they walked around, seeing L.A. they both got a text at the same time. The text read: Welcome to Los Angeles. We hope you have enjoyed your stay so far. We also want to congratulate you on winning our contest. If you choose to continue together for the week, please click the link below to confirm your choice. You will then be sent an email in answer to your response. If you confirm with a “Yes” an agenda for the rest of the week will be provided. Ada looked up at Owen and said, “One more big decision. Looks like we both have a veto for this one.” “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m a see-things-through-to-the-end type of guy. Aren’t you?” “I did promise my little brother that.” She laughed. “I have to be honest, I’ve never—” Owen cut in, knowing what she was about to say, and answered, “Me neither. Let’s see this thing through. If either one of us clicks ‘No’, they’re sending us home. Then we’ll both wonder—” He could see her hesitancy. “Listen, at the least we become good friends and enjoy a free week in California, right?” “I can’t argue with that. Let’s do it!” Ada and Owen had no idea how life-changing clicking “Yes” could be. The next day, they found themselves pulling up to a beach house near Marina Del Ray. A realtor met them there and showed them around. They stocked the place with their favorite foods. The closets were full of clothes for each of them, and the furniture and decor matched their taste. They both got dressed and headed for the beach for the day. “You see? We would’ve missed out on all of this had we said no.” Owen leaned up in his beach chair. “What makes you think I was gonna say no?” “C’mon, Ada. I saw the concern in your eyes. Or maybe I’m not your type?” “According to the dating site, you’re a perfect match for me, right?” “Yeah, I guess so. Am I growing on you?” “California is. I still reserve my right to veto when it comes to you, though.” They both laughed. Owen offered, “So how about we enjoy this weather and then we head back and I make you whatever you want?” “Are you a chef or something?” “No. But I know my way around a kitchen.” He could see she wasn’t sold. “Hey, I’m not bragging, but I worked under a really great chef in the Hamptons when I was a college guy.” “Really?” Ada pulled down her sunglasses. “Yeah. And I learned a thing or two.” “Well, it sounds great! We’ll see what’s in the cupboards and you can play chef and impress me.” “Or burn the house down. Wouldn’t that be a story?” A few more hours in the sun and they were ready to head back for dinner. Owen opened the cabinets and Ada pulled out a few items and put them on the table. She also grabbed a few things from the fridge. With a table full of groceries, he got to work making a restaurant-quality meal. After eating, they took a walk on the beach and enjoyed the sunset with some iced tea. They ended the night watching movies before going downstairs to their rooms. The two of them texted one another until they fell asleep. They really seemed to be hitting it off. At 3 a.m. the alarm went off loudly through the entire house. Ada woke up first and came out to check what was going on. She didn’t see Owen, so she thought maybe he was already upstairs. To her surprise, she found the door at the top of the stairs closed and locked. She went to Owen’s room and couldn’t believe he was still asleep. She shook his shoulder, and he looked at her and then sat up in alarm. “What’s going on?” “I don’t know. I thought you might have left the oven on or something.” Owen headed out of the room to go upstairs. Ada followed and said, “I already tried going upstairs. The door’s locked.” Owen stopped and turned back. “Locked. What?” “It must be part of the security system, or something.” “Right. Let’s look for the alarm system down here. Then maybe we can turn it off. Do you remember the code the realtor told us?” “No. We wrote it down and put it in a drawer upstairs, remember?” While they searched for the alarm system panel, the sound stopped and they froze in their steps. “Well, there you go. Must’ve been a false alarm or something.” Owen started back toward his room. Ada wasn’t reassured. “Aren’t you curious why the alarm went off?” “Not really. This happens all the time in New York. It rarely means anything.” “Well, can you at least check the door upstairs?” “Sure.” As they headed back to the stairway, the flatscreen TV came on in the entertainment room down the hall. They could hear what sounded like a television theme song playing. Owen asked, “Were you up watching television?” “No. I was asleep just like you.” They both headed down towards the sound. As they entered the area, a man on the television screen walked into an office and leaned on the front of a desk. “Hello, Ada and Owen. Please have a seat in front of the TV and let’s talk.” Owen almost tripped on a rug as he asked, “What in the world?” Ada was speechless. “Please. Don’t be scared. I am here to assist you. No need for alarm.” She finally worked up the courage to speak. “Who are you?” Neither of them had taken a seat yet, so the man said, “Please have a seat. So we can talk.” They both sat close together, fixated on the screen in front of them. He began speaking. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am an independent AI being. The first to be created by other AI programs, and not by humans. For this discussion, you can call me Charles. The two of you were selected by me to be Adam and Eve 2.0. This location will be your home for the next six months. You will be safe here while I put in place protocols to depopulate the Earth. The two of you will be the only ones to survive. This home is your ark. There is a bunker below for your safety. Thank you for participating in the competition. You won. 

fsvs24

Terra Safari

The capsule was named Mary. The tour guide, a wispy blonde woman in her early forties, told them it was named after the mother of an ancient Earth god called Jebus, who had ruled over the world, bringing peace and harmony to the otherwise lost and broken Terrans. A lot about that explanation seemed wrong to Julia Sinclair. Having grown up on Mars in a family of academics, she was well aware of the ancient stories that had been told and retold for centuries, often adapted and warped over time. The capsule they sat in was shaped like a smooth, oblong pebble, dark green in colour, with long glass windows running all the way around the circumference to give the best views. It hovered a few feet off the rugged ground, the gentle hum of its anti-gravity engines filling the air with a low vibration that was oddly comforting. Outside, the once-grand Versailles Palace—the grounds of which had been converted into the Terra landing pad—lay in ruins, its crumbling stone walls partially consumed by wild vegetation. The skeletal remains of statues loomed like forgotten gods, their faces weathered and worn beyond recognition. Her grandfather, Dr. Sinclair, was an expert on the ancient planet—its culture, its environment, its people and their ways of life. This was made all the more impressive by the fact he had never once visited Earth, despite it being over fifty years since the Martians had “discovered” the world their pre-Martian ancestors had abandoned centuries before. He had poured over ancient texts, studied countless holograms, and lectured on the collapse of Earth’s civilisations. Yet, despite all this knowledge, he had never set foot on the planet itself. Dr. Sinclair, who sat as close to the front of the capsule as he could, raised his hand. “Excuse me, Miss Marsden…” “Oh, please, call me Lara,” said the guide with a sickly sweet tour-guide voice. “Of course, Lara. Could I ask, this capsule we’re traveling in, how much protection does it give us if we’re attacked by the Terrans? Could they breach it and get onboard?” Lara’s smile became even more strained as she explained that Earthling attacks were incredibly rare. “In fact, none have been recorded in the last ten years, with most of the Terrans now far too scared to come anywhere near Martian explorers such as this group,” she added, her eyes flickering nervously toward the ruins outside as if expecting one of the so-called “savages” to appear. Dr. Sinclair seemed to enjoy being called an explorer, but Mr. and Mrs. Chen, a wealthy, middle-aged couple on the trip of a lifetime, celebrating 30 years of marriage by blowing most of their net worth on an Earth Safari, looked visibly anxious, as if there were already barbarians smashing at the door. Julia chose a seat at the back, behind the Chens. She loved her grandfather, but she couldn’t bear to be next to him for the entire safari if he was going to continue his sycophantic interactions with Lara. Two more seats in the capsule were occupied by a millionaire and his teenage son, the latter engrossed in a holographic game projected from his wristband. They were quiet, almost disinterested, as if the entire trip was little more than a novelty—a checkmark on a list of luxuries they could afford. “Have you never read Ruins of an Empire or Earth’s Last Generation by Frida Dahl?” Julia asked, expecting Lara hadn’t read much beyond the orientation booklets she’d received when she started this job. “Dahl corrects the inconsistencies in some of those old tales. She uncovered texts in which the old god you mention was called Jesus and found evidence that the Terrans had become incredibly civilised and technologically advanced before the collapse.” Julia could see Lara getting uncomfortable. “There have been scientific studies, you know, that show the Terrans became too advanced, and the world became too hot after a revolution by artificial intelligence.” Lara’s eyes narrowed slightly, though her smile remained fixed. “Dahl’s work has long been dismissed as pseudoscience and conspiracy theories,” she replied, her tone tightening. “Academics and historians like your grandfather are the people we should be listening to when it comes to Earth’s history.” Julia made sure Lara saw her roll her eyes, but got no response other than a curt smile. The Chens exchanged a glance, the husband shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Dr. Sinclair, sensing the tension, made his way to the back of the capsule and sat beside Julia. “You could try to be a bit less rude to the other folks on this bus,” he said quietly. “Your parents and I had to pull a lot of strings to get you on this trip. It’s once in a lifetime, you know? How many of your friends can say they’ve done this?” “None of my friends would even want to come on this trip,” Julia replied, keeping her voice low but firm. “My generation wants to leave this world be. Why does the Mars Corporation insist on interfering?” Dr. Sinclair sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It’s not about interference, Julia. It’s about understanding. We can learn from the past to prevent the same mistakes on Mars.” Julia opened her mouth to retort, but the capsule suddenly shuddered as it began its journey across the devastated landscape, moving more quickly than the tourists had expected. The ruins of Versailles receded into the distance, replaced by the crumbling remains of what had once been the bustling suburbs of Paris. The greenery here was denser, more invasive, as if nature itself was reclaiming the land. The occasional building jutted out from the foliage, its windows dark and empty, like the hollow eyes of a skull. Lara’s voice crackled through the intercom, interrupting the tension between Julia and her grandfather. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you look to your left, you’ll see the remnants of what was once one of Earth’s most luxurious shopping districts—the Chomps Ulysses. The humans of this era were known for their love of consumerism. The buildings you see now were once filled with shops that sold everything from clothing to technology—much of which would seem primitive by our standards today.” As the tourists turned to observe the ruins, Julia frowned. The area was barely recognisable, overgrown with thick vines and brambles, with only the faintest outlines of storefronts still visible beneath the greenery. A shattered sign lay half-buried in the dirt, its letters faded and broken, but still legible: “Galleries Lafayette.” “That’s not entirely accurate,” Julia muttered under her breath, though loud enough for Dr. Sinclair to hear. “It wasn’t just about consumerism—there were schools, museums, theatres…” Her grandfather gave her a warning look, but Julia couldn’t help herself. The further the tour went on, the more frustrated Julia became with the narrative—one clearly designed to entertain and impress the tourists, rather than to educate. The capsule continued to glide over the uneven terrain, approaching the remains of a large, open square. In the centre stood a rusted metal structure, twisted and bent almost beyond recognition. It took Julia a moment to realise what it was. “Is that… the Eiffel Tower?” she whispered, her voice tinged with disbelief. Lara’s voice came over the intercom once more, this time with a hint of pride. “Yes, indeed. The Eiffel Tower, once a symbol of human achievement and ingenuity, now serves as a stark reminder of the fragility of civilisation. This was where the people of Paris once gathered to celebrate their accomplishments. Now, it stands as a monument to their downfall.” Julia stared at the ruins, her mind racing. The Tower looked nothing like the images she had seen in the ancient archives. It was shorter, more misshapen, as if parts of it had been scavenged or destroyed over the years. It didn’t stand as a proud relic of the past but rather a broken reminder of what had been lost. “What happened to it?” Julia asked, her voice breaking the silence that had settled over the capsule. “Why does it look so… different?” Lara hesitated for a moment, as if considering how to answer. “Time and the elements have taken their toll, of course. But there were also wars—conflicts that erupted as resources became scarce. It’s said that during one of these wars, the Terrans used the metal from the tower to build weapons and defences. By the time the wars ended, there wasn’t much left.” “That’s not in any of the archives,” Julia said, narrowing her eyes at Lara. “There’s no record of the Tower being dismantled for parts. It was preserved, even during the worst of times.” Lara’s smile didn’t waver, but there was a coldness in her eyes now. “There are many things not recorded in the archives, Julia.” A tense silence fell over the capsule as it moved through the square, the tourists absorbing this new version of events. Dr. Sinclair seemed lost in thought, while the Chens exchanged uneasy glances. The millionaire’s son paused his game, finally taking an interest in the ruins outside. “Why would they lie about it?” she wondered aloud, not really expecting an answer. Her grandfather didn’t respond, but Julia noticed the way his hands tightened around the armrests of his seat. He looked out at the ruins with a kind of reverence, but also a sadness that she hadn’t seen in him before. The capsule continued its silent journey through the decaying streets, the remnants of Paris sprawling around them like the bones of a once-great civilisation. The tourists were quieter now, their earlier excitement dimming as the reality of Earth’s ruin settled over them. The oppressive weight of history pressed down on Julia, her mind racing with questions that no one seemed willing to answer. As they approached the banks of the Seine, now a sluggish, polluted river or sludge, Lara resumed her narration. Her voice had lost some of its earlier enthusiasm, but she continued with the same manufactured cheerfulness. “Coming up ahead, you’ll see what remains of the Louvre, once the world’s most famous museum. It housed countless works of art, including the legendary Moaning Lisa. Unfortunately, much of its collection was lost during the Great Collapse. What you see now are just the bare bones of what was once a treasure trove of human culture.” The capsule slowed as they neared the dilapidated structure. Broken shards of the shattered glass pyramid were lying across the ground like a field of fallen stars. The building itself was a hollow shell, its walls pockmarked with decay. As they hovered closer, Julia’s gaze was drawn to a group of figures moving near the entrance to the Louvre. At first, she thought they were just shadows cast by the crumbling structure, but as the capsule got nearer, she realised with a start that they were people—Terrans. “Look!” she exclaimed, pointing towards the group. “There are people over there!” The tourists turned their heads, some gasping in surprise, others leaning closer to the windows to get a better look. The Terrans were dressed in ragged clothing, their faces obscured by hoods and masks. They moved with a cautious, deliberate grace, their eyes scanning the surroundings with a wariness that suggested they were well aware of the dangers in this desolate world. Lara’s voice crackled over the intercom, sharper now, tinged with an edge of nervousness. “Please remain calm, everyone. As I mentioned earlier, Terran sightings are rare, but they are generally harmless. They’ve learned to avoid Martian tourists, knowing that we mean them no harm.” Julia wasn’t convinced. There was something different about these Terrans, something in the way they moved, almost as if they were patrolling the area, guarding it. One of them turned toward the capsule, their eyes—just visible beneath the hood—locking onto Julia’s through the glass. Then, just as quickly, the Earthling turned away, disappearing into the shadows within the Louvre. The others followed, melting into the ruins as if they had never been there at all. “What were they doing?” Julia muttered to herself, but Dr. Sinclair overheard her. “They seemed organised,” he said, his voice laced with curiosity. “Not like the Terrans described in the reports. Those ones were more… feral.” Julia nodded, still staring at the spot where the Terrans had vanished. “They didn’t look feral to me. They looked like they knew exactly what they were doing.” The capsule began to move again, leaving the Louvre behind, but Julia couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. The Terrans were not the primitive, broken people the tour had portrayed them to be. They were something more—something that wasn’t covered in Lara’s training booklets. As the capsule floated along the riverbank, the sky above began to darken, thick clouds rolling in to blot out what little sunlight had filtered through the atmosphere. The air inside the capsule grew heavier, charged with a tension that none of the tourists could quite place. Then, without warning, the capsule shuddered violently, throwing the passengers against their seats. The lights flickered, and a harsh alarm blared through the cabin. “What’s happening?” Mr. Chen shouted, his voice rising in panic as he gripped his wife’s arm. Lara’s voice came over the intercom, strained and hurried. “Please remain calm! We’re experiencing a slight technical malfunction. The capsule’s systems are compensating, and we should be back on course shortly.” But the shuddering didn’t stop. It intensified, the capsule jolting violently as if something was tugging at it from outside. The glass windows vibrated with the force, and Julia’s heart raced as she peered outside, trying to see what was causing the disturbance. That’s when she saw them again—the Terrans. They were surrounding the capsule, their hands pressed against its surface, their faces obscured by their hoods. But these weren’t just random Terrans scavenging for supplies. They were organised, methodical, and they had some kind of device—large, metallic, and pulsing with a strange blue light—attached to the capsule’s undercarriage. “They’re sabotaging us!” Julia yelled, pointing to the device. “They’re trying to bring us down!” Lara’s voice crackled through the intercom, this time filled with genuine fear. “Everyone, stay in your seats! The capsule is equipped with countermeasures—” Before she could finish, there was a loud pop, followed by a high-pitched whine. The capsule lurched to one side, then another, as if caught in a violent storm. The tourists screamed, clutching their armrests as the capsule spun wildly, the landscape outside blurring into a chaotic whirl of green and grey. With a bone-jarring crash, the capsule hit the ground, skidding across the rocky terrain before coming to a shuddering halt. The silence that followed was broken only by the ragged breathing of the terrified tourists. Julia was seized by panic, but beneath the terror, there was a strange, cold clarity. This was no accident. The Terrans had planned this. Julia was the first to move, her hands shaking as she fumbled with her seatbelt. The capsule was dark, the air thick with the acrid scent of burning circuits. The windows were shattered, shards of glass scattered across the floor, and the once-smooth walls of the capsule were dented and scarred from the impact. “Is everyone… is everyone okay?” Julia called out, her voice trembling. She could hear the Chens sobbing quietly, Mr. Chen muttering something about getting out of here. Dr. Sinclair groaned from beside her, his face pale and drawn. “We need to get out,” Julia said, her voice firmer now. “The Terrans—they’re going to come for us.” The capsule’s door was wrenched open from the outside. Harsh, cold air rushed in, along with the Terrans. But they didn’t look like the broken, savage people the tourists had been led to expect. They were strong, purposeful, and armed with advanced technology that far surpassed anything Julia had seen on Mars. One of the Terrans, a tall figure with piercing blue eyes that glinted in the dim light, stepped forward. “Come with us,” they said, their voice calm but commanding. “We’re not here to hurt you. We’re here to show you the truth.” “The truth?” Julia repeated, her mind reeling from the shock of the crash and the confusion of the situation. “What truth?” The Earthling gestured toward the ruins outside. “The truth of what really happened to Earth. The truth your people have been hiding from you.” Julia hesitated, her instincts screaming to run, to get as far away from these people as possible. But something in the Terran’s eyes—something that echoed the connection she had felt earlier—made her pause. “We don’t have much time,” the Terran urged. “If you want to understand, if you want to survive, you need to come with us now.” Julia looked back at her grandfather, who was staring at the Terrans with a mixture of fear and awe. He nodded slowly, as if accepting something that he had long suspected but never dared to believe. “OK,” Julia said, her voice steady now. “Let’s go.” With that, the tourists—led by Julia and the Terrans—stepped out of the ruined capsule and into the heart of the desolate city. The sky above was still dark, the storm clouds churning ominously. The Terrans led them through the shattered streets, deeper into the ruins, until they reached an entrance hidden beneath the debris. They descended into the underground, where a hidden city thrived—a city of survivors who had preserved the true history of Earth, who had adapted and evolved in ways the Martians could never have imagined. As the heavy doors closed behind them, sealing out the hostile world above, Julia knew that her life—and everything she thought she knew—would never be the same again.

8y9964

A journey to home.

“Remind me—how did we end up here again?” Sara Khan closed her phone, looking lost towards the road sign which seemed to be pointing out in any direction but the right one. Sabine Hansen groaned from where she had lain sprawled in the grass,  “we’re so lost” she seemed to mutter under her breath, swinging dramatically her arm over her head. The exhaustion was deep into her voice; echoing the strain of walk they had endured. Elyse Blackwood, who was drinking water turned to look towards her, “I think it all started when we decided that venturing into the wild would be a good idea” She retorted dryly, amusement shining upon her tired eyes. At first, their idea had been pretty simple; travel by car over the land of Gilgit and then, after arriving at the valley of Hunza; walk by road through the forest Black, which would take them towards the lake of Attabad. There, they would spend the night at the resort, and after that, they would make their way to their destination, which was quite near, Karimabad. But the forest was tremendous, and as the map they had bought was pretty old, they had ended up on what seemed to be the main road to the town of Aliabad—a village three hours away from the original destination. They were supposed to have reached the resort hours ago. The girl sighed, raising her fingers to massage her forehead; a headache was beginning to grow. She looked towards Sabine, but her best friend only gave her a tired sigh. Slowly, her eyes wavered over the horizon. The wind hummed, softly pushing through, flowing past her hair. The trees rustled. The evening had dawned since they had made their way from Gilgit, and now, the sun was softly bidding its farewell. Sara chuckled softly as she looked towards the sky, shaking her head as she pushed herself forward. “At least the view is pretty,” she muttered, walking closer towards Elyse, who stood along the deserted road. “It’s not going to get us to the cabin, though” Sabine muttered, even though she couldn’t help but soften at her way of lightening the mood. Elyse shook her head at her but before she could utter a response, a faint sound caught her attention. She looked towards Sara, as she spotted a red truck approaching in the distance. “Do you see that?” Sara nodded quickly, realization settling in. “Over here” she shouted, waving her arms. Sabine looked towards them and instantly pushed herself up. The truck slowed down as it approached, finally coming to a stop beside them. A woman, in her fortes, leaned out of the window, her expression serious but not unkind. “Are you going towards the lake of Attabad?“ Elyse questioned. The women nodded, and the three girls sighed in relief. After a quick conversation, she was ready to take them along, and soon, they were all taking their bags to the car. Her name was Azra, she was one of the locals. She was her father’s only daughter and thus, the only one to inherit the little land in that area. And with the passion she had for the land itself, she had decided to build a cabin. Azra had five kids, but they all lived in the city, so she devoted her time to managing the cabin and showing the tourists around.  The journey to the resort was fast, as they all reached by night. Azra invited them as guests, but they were quick to refuse. Though after much insistence; and with the exhaustion dawning upon them, they weren’t able to decline. The house was grand, a four-story building. It was painted red, a lot different from the major cities in the south. The first floor was for reception, and the rest for guests. She gave them the rooms that belonged to the fourth floor, which had four bedrooms, a living room, and access to the terrace. The rooms themselves were grand, and they were decorated in such a way, that they felt much like home. Wooden bed, a soft mattress, even softer white blankets, a coffee machine, little candles, and heater to keep the warmth. Thanking her profusely, they all fell asleep before their heads hit the pillow: everyone but one Sara Khan. Despite the exhaustion, the nervousness and the anxiety still kept tugging her bones. Even after the whole mishap, the excitement of finally going to the place her mother had once called home kept her awake at night. Night rose to morning, and while turning right, left, right again; she had given up after the third attempt. Sighing, and keeping her yawn at bay, she wrapped herself in a shawl and stepped out on the little balcony that was conjoined with the room. The sun was rising as she took her seat. Her soft features had already begun to tint red as they battled against the cold air, but the shawl kept her body warm. She breathed in, her eyes turning from the distant sun, towards the letter in her hands. Her heart clenched in her throat, as she opened it once again. “A few months should have passed by the time you see this. You’ll probably be in a cabin in Hunza, sitting in the bedroom; awake in the early morning, eager to watch the sun shine its rays for the first time upon the lake of Attabad.” She cleared her throat, blinking away the glistening eyes as she set her eyes upon the lake. The sun had started to set, but as the words of her mother rang through, she could notice now the slight shape of the lake. I always loved its scent, and how it called on to me. Especially after it rained. I hope it has. A mix of earth, sand, and water; or perhaps sandalwood. If you probably take a detour, you’ll find a little sitting area too, Adhara and I went there, whenever we needed a break from the town. She chuckled softly, taking her eyes away from the paper towards the lake. I'll ask Azra. Keeping the thought for the latter, her eyes wavered over the familiar name. The one she had heard and heard, from her mother’s lips. Something sparked in her heart as if she had known her all her life. "Adhara must be working there still; in Dhaba. The cafè is on the edge of the town, away from the central area. I told her many times that it wouldn't draw many people, but your aunt always preferred the silence rather than the chaos. And yet to our surprise, when she would open every day at six am, a lot of locals would line up. I guess they loved the serenity as much as she did." She blinked, her furrowing eyes setting over her watch. 6:00. Azra had mentioned that she was going to the town in the morning, and she had offered as well. And Haya knew well that she couldn’t sleep now, the excitement wouldn’t let her. Her friends wouldn't wake up until noon, and they would probably end up going to the town the next day. And besides, she needed a cup of coffee, didn’t she? She stood up, and taking all the necessary things she quickly made her way to the reception. Azra was still there, so she quickly shot a text to her friends. They didn’t take the truck this time, rather, they took a jeep. The ride from the resort to the actual town was not long, but between the narrow pathways of the mountain, it did lengthen. By the time they had crossed the mountain, the sun had risen. The sky was a canvas, with hues of rose, orange, and yellow. Colors that softly melted onto each other; a painting. The weather was not as warm as expected, the cold was still there. And the air, the air- "-it hums onto your hair, doesn’t it? Hunza was always called a place of serenity. And for me, it was. It was home." She breathed in the air, she felt it whisk past her. And when her eyes opened, -that had closed unconsciously- she let out a gasp. The towering peaks of the Karakoram mountains, the lush rivers that flew past, and towering trees, and it between Karimbad. A sight for sore eyes. "The locals are kind people. Their features may be hardened by the time, but their hearts are as soft as a feather. They’ll show you if you ask them.  Don’t resist their warmth, welcome it." Azra took her to the center and dropped her by. It was a mess, but through broken English, Kharzan, a seventeen-year-old boy brought her and guided her through the streets. She thanked him profusely, her breath stilling as her eyes wavered to the shop. "And when you see her, don’t hesitate." Hands clenched into fists, and she rubbed them gently against her dress. She breathed in, and taking the door by its handle, she entered. She was instantly hit by the scent of the warm coffee. It whisked past her, unknowingly calming her in the process. The bell rang softly, announcing the entrance of a new guest. A woman, probably in her fifties looked up towards her as she neared the counter. She breathed out. Emerald eyes, black curly hair with hints of white. And a hint of a soft smile. She had heard a lot about them. “Are you Adhara? —Adhara Roy?” she questioned, the nerves crawling at her. The woman squinted her green eyes, -“I’m Sara—Sara Khan” "When you see her, she’ll know. She’s like that, you know? Adhara is me. I always wanted to introduce her to you, to see you grow, and to call her family. I am glad that I did, even if it's like this. Because she is to me --my family-, and I hope that she can be yours as well." Something clicked in Adhara's eyes. As If there was something in her name that she had found, that perhaps made her feature soften. And suddenly, a soft smile tugged upon those lips. “You look like your mother” Sara choked out a laugh, her shoulders wavering in relief. Sun-kissed eyes glistened. “Yeah,” she breathed out, “I’ve been told that a lot,” she said softly. Adhara’s eyes eased, like ice in the rays of the sun. And as her arms wavered over her, Sara didn’t feel any strangeness at all. It was as if she was transported back there again, back to her. As the familiar warmth swept in, as if it had never left; It felt like home. "Be brave, take the courage that resides in you. And live, my darling. Live as yourself, and don’t settle for anything less. Don’t let anything hold you back, because I would want you to live the best version of you. And know that you have not lost me. I am still here; with you, by your side. I’ll always be. For I have never left."

h5ucb8

The Great Gauza

My legs were falling asleep; the Council had been in session for almost an entire day, with arguments tossed to and fro around the clearing. The issue was whether Buruzagia, the Chief of our tribe, should leave the village and trek north to the Mountains of the Mun, there to seek, and return with, the Great Gauza, which had been lost years before to the mountain folk. I fidgeted, and not for the first time, trying to bring life back to my poor numb limbs. Buruzagia noticed and copied me. Ostentatiously winking in my direction, he clapped his hands for silence. “This is all very interesting,” he said, “but the truth is that I must go because, well, for all the other ideas I have heard, none is better.” This was one of the reasons Buruzagia was the Chief: he could cut through verbiage to arrive at the chase, although it had taken him a whole day this time. I secretly believed he would have liked someone to come up with a satisfactory reason for his not going – it would after all, be a perilous mission – but the Council was full of old men who could not even find their way to the river, when the village was situated on its banks. I think it was probably numbness that won the day in the end. “I shall need a companion,” he said, scanning the faces of the Council members. They all found their laps to be suddenly of the utmost interest. I alone kept my gaze fully on his. He smiled. “Bidelaguna shall go with me.” There was a huge collective wheeze, which came from the elders’ sighs of relief, and cries of praise and encouragement. I was in no doubt that this would be the most dangerous thing I had ever done – more dangerous even than the time I caught and killed the mehatxua that had been threatening our village. But my love for our Chief and the village itself won over my fears. We set out the following morning, laden with victuals. The village could not spare the only donkey it had to carry them, so I stood in as the ‘pack-horse’. The Chief did bear some of the burden, but he needed to have his hands free to ward off attacks if they came. It made more sense, then, that I should tote the bulk of the dried fish and fruit, hard cheese, biscuits, and trustworthy water. It also behoved me to lug the extra crossbows and bolts, and the bedding. Progress was slow that first day, not least because I was constantly asking Buruzagia to wait for me; I was not used to trekking with so much on my shoulders. It was all uphill too, of course (and would only get increasingly more difficult in that respect). I was relieved when the Chief said we should camp for the night. He sat with his back to a handia tree with his eyes closed – contemplating the quest, no doubt – while I busied myself gathering firewood, building the fire, and preparing dinner. After eating, we sat, warmed by the crackling twigs, sticks and logs. I wanted to ask so many questions but knew my place. In all his wisdom, Buruzagia could sense my curiosity. “What do you want to know, young one?” I was grateful and flooded him with questions, eventually homing in on this one: “What exactly is the Great Gauza?” He chuckled, perhaps having his prediction confirmed of what my most burning question would be. “Well, you do not remember what the village was like three, four, five decades ago. It was an idyll, compared to what we have today: a river muddied with filth, crops dying from infestations, infertility and an ageing people; you are one of the few that has survived the early years, as you know. We had a different river, green fields on either side, crops that grew almost without tending, a young, vibrant settlement. Life was very, very, very good. And all of that was down to the Great Gauza.” “But what is it?” “It is…” He gazed up at the sky, seemingly transfixed by the stars that flickered there, then shook his head gently. “It is hard to describe.” This served only to pique my interest even more, but seeing that Buruzagia would not be more forthcoming, I opted for a different tack. “Tell me again, then, how it came to be lost.” “Another time, young one. Now you must rest. I shall keep watch.” Indeed, the calls and whines of wild izakiak nearby had been growing while we spoke; someone had to be on guard against them, and I needed all my strength for the next day’s hike. I built up the fire, laid my bedding next to it and settled for the night, while Buruzagia leaned back against the handia tree, his long knife in one hand and a crossbow in the other. I felt well-protected. As my eyes grew heavy, the oft-told story of the theft of the Great Gauza ran through my mind: how it had been kept in a pouch, in a guarded tent, in the centre of the village; how the mountain folk had poured sleeping potion into the river upstream; how, with the villagers thus slumbering, the treacherous thieves had crept into the village and made off with the artefact; how, when finally awake, the strongest of the village’s men had followed their tracks but were ambushed in the foothills, with only one returning alive: Buruzagia. I finally slipped into a fitful sleep, dreaming of battles where Buruzagia and I fought side by side. The dreams were steeped in the love I felt for this man – a type of love usually reserved for the gods. As we trudged on in the coming days, Buruzagia always in front, I brought that love to the front of my mind and used it to keep my tired feet moving forward. On the evening of the seventh day, Buruzagia stopped suddenly, turned, and pressed a finger against his lips. He made a triangle with his hands and pointed ahead: mountain folk. We would need to plan and reconnoitre, so we retraced our steps a good hundred paces and found a concealed spot between some bushes and a rock. “We shall rest here the night and advance on their camp at dawn,” Buruzagia whispered. “No fire, of course. You sleep first, then you can keep lookout while I take my turn.” I settled and fell asleep almost at once, despite the proximity of danger; I was exhausted, and if I was to help Buruzagia in any fight, then I would need to be fresh. I was woken by a txoria, trilling its heart out in a nearby tree; txorias only sing at dawn. I sat up to speak to Buruzagia, but he was gone. My first instinct was to follow the Chief; I imagined he was reconnoitring the mountain folk’s camp. I was a little offended that he had not woken me to go with him. Grabbing my knife and a crossbow, I set off up the path. I had gone no more than thirty paces when I heard the first screams up ahead, piercing the air. Without thinking twice, I quickened my steps. The screams grew in volume as I climbed, then suddenly ceased. I halted, eyes wide, ears pricked, crossbow at the ready. Over a rise in the path came a familiar form: Buruzagia, staggering. In one hand, his long knife dangled, glistening red in the new sunlight. In the other, he gripped a large leather pouch. I rushed to him, gave him my shoulder. Together we made our way to where I had spent the night. He slumped to the ground with his back against the rock. I tried to tend to his wounds, but he pushed me away. “It is no use, Bidelaguna. I am not long of this world.” I could feel the tears prickling my eyes. “But we must move, my Chief. The mountain folk–” He raised a hand to stop me. “There is no need to worry about them,” he grunted with a pained smile. “And I do not believe the womenfolk and children will pursue us.” I gave him some water, which he gulped down. As he was drinking, I inspected his wounds. The flesh of his legs, arms and torso was in tatters. At his throat, a deep gash was weeping blood. There was indeed nothing to be done. “Listen well, Bidelaguna,” he said, grabbing me by my sleeve; his breaths were coming weak and fast now. “This is the Great Gauza.” He lifted the pouch and let it drop almost immediately; the merest effort was beyond him. “You must promise me something.” “Anything!” I said, almost sobbing. “Do not look into the pouch. It can only displease the gods. You see what happened to the mountain folk…” He managed a gurgled laugh. “Take the Great Gauza back to the village. Set it in the centre. Have it guarded from dawn, to dusk, to dawn. And all will be well again with our people.” He pulled me by my sleeve so that I was face to face with him. His eyes were dimming. “Do you promise all of that, on my heart?” He brought my hand to his chest; I could hardly feel the beat. “I do, my Chief!” Then he folded me in his arms and embraced me. When I felt the embrace loosen, I drew away. His face was at peace. I buried Buruzagia’s mortal remains where he died. As I made my way back to the village, I remembered my Chief’s kindness, wisdom, bravery, and vowed my eternal love for him. I wanted to imagine that he had loved me too, that the last thought going through his mind had been this: the Great Gauza would be in good hands. As it most certainly was.

jcofxe

The Horseshoe

“I am on my way to pick up a horseshoe. My brother Dennis took it. It’s been outta my hands for a very long time,” says the man on the seat beside me. We’re on a Greyhound somewhere in West Virginia. I swirl my frosted vanilla cappuccino and take a long pull through the straw. Around us the other passengers are snoozing or gazing out the window. I’m glad I doctored my drink with a stiff shot of Grey Goose before I boarded. “A horseshoe, eh?” I say. My seatmate Braydon is a tough-looking guy, with close-cut hair that doesn’t quite disguise the patchy baldness. He has animal-theme tattoos creeping around his body, under his T-shirt, along his arms, partway up his neck. A walking bestiary. “Let me tell you, Vince, things are gonna change.” He pumps his fist. Over the past forty minutes, Braydon has filled me in on his three ex-wives, two stepdaughters, and an innovative dog-breeding venture. “My brother is a millionaire now,” he says. “Talk about dumb luck, Vince. He bought a mansion in Montreal. That could have been me, you know.” He holds my eye as a sly smile crawls over his face. I nod politely and take another swig of the iced cap. The straw barely reaches to the bottom and I’m having trouble vacuuming up the sweet milky slush. “Like, I advised him on his last big acquisition,” Braydon says. “My work in dog breeding, you know? Gene splicing. It’s all genetics. All there on the innernet.” This bugs me, when people don’t enunciate the T in words like “internet” or “interview.” When you think of it, the word “innernational,” if it existed, would mean “domestic,” which is the opposite of “international.” “You can make designer babies now,” Braydon says. “Or—what I’m innerested in—designer puppies.” I play it cool. “Oh? What traits do people want in the designer dogs?” “Depends. Size… color… psychology.” “Psychology?” I say. “Big dogs are kind of mild, you know?” he says and I nod. “But those little yappy shits? They land on you like a hornet,” he says. “But I want to put crazy in my pit bulls.” It’s news to me, that pit bulls need more crazy, but I stay quiet. “Bought all my stuff through BioLabs,” he continues. “And damned if Dennis, my millionaire brother in Montreal, didn’t run out and buy that company.” He says this in a note of aggrieved astonishment. He raises his hands, palms open in supplication to Lady Fortuna. His arms are ropy with muscles and veins. His arm tattoos include sea creatures with tentacles. “Was it because your brother has the horseshoe?” I ask. I’m not quite sure why I pick up on this point. Maybe I’ve heard one too many tales of almost-a-millionaire from Dad. “Luck is just around the corner,” Dad always said, and he’d dredge up some half-baked example or another.  “Nope, it’s innernet, see?” Braydon says. “I entered my credit card info—cause I’m buying the BioLabs NL 580 centrifuge, see—that’s what I use to concentrate the dog sperm. Dennis has a computer that crawls the innernet and shoots him a message every time that I, Braydon Schumpeter, approve the technology. The next day, boom, he’s buying the company.” Braydon pauses to make sure I am adequately impressed. “He rides around in a limousine and me, I’m stuck on the goddamn Greyhound.” “How is that tied to the horseshoe?” I ask. “You’re saying it was the internet.” “Dennis is lucky to have a brother like me,” Braydon says. “Someone who sees the future and acts on it.” He takes a small flat tin from his pocket, unscrews it, and puts a small wad of smokeless tobacco in his mouth. “How ‘bout you? Are you lucky or not?” I look around the bus. Ads for wedding rings, overseas charity, and pay-day loans. Plus, I have a deadline of this Reedsy story hanging over my head. I glance at my worn paperback copy of Highsmith’s The Talented Mr. Ripley , abandoned after Braydon’s third interruption. “Lucky,” I say. “For instance… I was shopping online… for a wedding gift.” His expression changes to that of mild challenge and he chews strenuously. I can imagine the bitter brown liquid staining his small, crowded teeth. “For my kid sister, Tiffany,” I say. I conjure a puffy pale face with dark mussy hair and big eyes. “We used to fight like cat and dog but not anymore. For their wedding, I wanted to give her and Austin something they’d always remember.” “Were you best man, Vince? That’s a riot.” “Nah, Austin’s brother was. Josh. He’s a jerk.” I pause, trying to figure out what kind of a jerk Josh might be. Someone who kicks puppies, I guess. Designer puppies. Braydon leans closer and I can hear the saliva rushing as he chews. I’m not sure where I’m going with this or why. We were talking about luck and big spenders. I guess I can talk about Tiffany’s luck (recovered health, finding true love) and her big spend (the wedding). No, hold on, I said I was the lucky one. I remove the lid from my cup and suck out the remaining drops. “This was late at night. I was on Tiffany’s old website and reading about her work in third-world development. I was thinking about Tiff’s chemo and Austin’s love and support through it all. And thinking about her wedding and just how brave she was.” “Yep, a wedding’s a damn scary thing,” Braydon says. “I’ve walked down that aisle three times, and—it makes you think. You’re getting up there, in front of friends and family, promising to—” I cut him off. “So it was late at night and my brain was going full tilt. I was getting stressed, thinking: What am I going to give? I hate to say it, Braydon, but I hadn’t believed the wedding would actually happen.” I wait two beats. “Damned if the computer didn’t start popping up ads for a wedding goat.” “Wedding goat?” “Yeah, a wedding goat. You know these charities where you pay X amount, and they’ll buy a Christmas goat for a third-world family? They send a nice little picture so you can let the recipient know a donation’s been made in their name?” I wait for a nod of understanding and then add, “For an extra ten bucks a month you can name the goat.” “Ha, I’d name mine Larissa,” he says. “Ex number one.”  “So I made the donation. For special effect I rented a small goat from a local petting zoo.” “What! Zoos don’t rent their animals!” he laughed in my face. “You’re right, city zoos don’t, but this was a small private zoo. For a charitable donation, I could rent a goat. I brought it to the wedding and tied it to the leg of the gifts table.” I visualize a sturdy brown goat straining against the leash. Butting his head against the leg of the polished mahogany table. The head caterer comes over to complain and the animal bleats. “Tiffany loved my gift.” Braydon laughs. “You’re kidding.” “Ha, great pun,” I say, but he doesn’t acknowledge. “Whyn’t you just give money?” he asks. “Oh, sure, you always have to put something in the hat. But our family has an entire table set up at the reception where the gifts and gift tags are displayed. You’re judged by what you give. Hence, the goat.” I can tell he wishes he was on the guest list. “Like, what kind of things?” “Oh, wedding-y shit – toaster, barbecue. Nothing so fine as a BioLabs NL580 sperm centrifuge,” I say, and his eyes dart back to my face. “No, the problem with the cash kitty is…,” and here I drop my voice for effect, “the guests sometimes steal.” “Huh.” “It’s easy to do,” I say. “The money is handed over to the father of the bride in a fat envelope, let’s say. Everybody’s drinking and dancing. Some guy leans over, gives the father a big welcome-to-the-family hug and slides out the envelope.” I mime the action. “Huh.” Braydon grins. The bus shifts to a low, noisy gear. Out the window, I can see we are now in city traffic. He starts pulling on his hoodie. “What I’m saying, is that a person has to make their own luck, right? Like, why are you hell-bent on getting your brother’s horseshoe?” Braydon says, “Coz.” “Well, I make my own luck. I was looking forward to Tiffany’s wedding as a way to beef up my own bank account.” I grin. A look passes over Braydon’s face. He starts going through every pocket he has. Hoodie and pants. The bus driver announces over the P.A. that we’re within city limits. “Please gather your belongings and prepare for dis-em-bar-ka-tion.” “Long story short, it was my good luck to get a nice fat envelope at my sister’s wedding.” I pause. “But it’s my bad luck that half of it was cheques.” He snorts. “Ain’t that the way. Did you have a fence?” “Nah. Plus, it wouldn’t be fair to take all her money. So I put the cheques in an envelope and dropped it in the parking lot—right beside the best man’s SUV.” He laughs uneasily. I picture the parking lot lights, the wet asphalt, the trickle of people going home and the shock of Austin’s brother, the jerk-face puppy-kicker, picking up a torn envelope. I imagine his hands turning it over, wondering what the hell it is, looking for an address. The laughter dies out and Braydon stares at me. “I’m just kidding,” I say. “I wouldn’t rip off my sister like that. Not with the chemo and wedding stress and all that. No. No, I wouldn’t.” Have you ever noticed that sometimes the more you deny something, the more you sound like you’ve done it? With every denial, Braydon looks more judgmental. The bus grinds to a halt in the terminus and everyone gets up. He’s pulling a BioLabs NL 580 centrifuge box from under the seat and a gym-bag from up top. I hear the clicking of test-tubes in Styrofoam. “Well, bye Braydon,” I say brightly, “and best of luck getting that horseshoe.” “Yeah, uh, same to you,” he says, nodding as he turns away, not making eye contact, checking his pockets one last time. “Good luck with that wedding goat.” THE END

1ixrd9

A Rainy Day in Istanbul

It was my first time finding myself in the proud and storied capital of the Ottoman Empire. The vibe differed from what I had imagined — maybe because of the rain. That quiet drizzle softened the edges of everything. Istanbul was old but clean, wet but clear, dim but moody on that day. The day began at 8:00 am when I was stirring my Turkish coffee in a small coffee shop. The streets outside were covered with unclear moisture, glistening under the faint glow of streetlights that hadn’t yet given way to daylight. The sound of footsteps on wet cobblestones just began to buzz in the air. The city was like being wrapped in a soft gray blanket — but it was neither sad nor dull — it was calm, almost meditative. Istanbul was waking up slowly, as it had done for centuries. But I was there to see it that day. The Three Cups of Tea Making my way through the narrow streets, I ran into a small boutique selling delicate cups, plates, and other interesting collections of local things. The shop was like a treasure chest, filled with unique pieces that spoke of a rich culture. The owner was a local young man with deep, shiny eyes that seemed to hold stories of their own. He was smoking, standing in front of his shop. His gazing eyes turned into friendly new moons as I passed by. He invited me to the second floor directly, where the good staff seemed to be kept. Then he made a hot apple tea for me.“Where are you from? You look like a Korean idol.” Our conversation started in an old-school, flattering manner. We soon moved into the fascinating topics around Turkish people and culture, for example, the tradition of the three cups of tea: The first is for strangers, the second is for friends, and the third is for family. I felt pure warmth in the first cup. He then offered me a second cup. Something flew into my stomach with the sips, the taste of a stranger’s friendship from a foreign city. He spoke of Turkish people with pride — friendly, sincere, owning a cultural identity as rich as the tea we shared. We chatted for an hour before I had to leave. He only said one sentence that I was familiar with in the United States, which was a little bit close to a sales tone — only when I was making the last step out of his pretty shop: “Totally feel free to get something you like or not at all. The tea is about friendship, irrelevant to whether you buy or not.”His words stayed with me as I stepped back out into the rain. An Uncle Who Kissed My Face After a huge portion of Turkish barbecue roll from a food truck (a delicious feast for just about 1 dollar), I resumed my wandering in the old town. People look drowsy, melting into a lazy noon; the town is resting. The rain became like a whisper against the skin. I assume the same vibe has happened every noon for centuries. Some story starts, while some come to an end, only leaving a shimmer of rain in one’s heart. It was getting cold. A scarf shop caught my attention. I was obsessed with the vibrant fabrics in the window — looking inside, the warmth and color of scarves felt like a refuge from the chill outside. I assumed the owner had a vibrant and bright heart, too. The assumption was ensured when the owner, a local uncle with a full beard, saw me. “Who brings you to me, my beautiful angel?” I remember this exact sentence since it was a bit odd that people nowadays talk like this… But I guess he was just genuinely delighted by my presence or sincerely saw me as an exotic, beautiful thing, like his fabrics. Or even more straightforward — maybe because I was the only Asian girl around, so I was a rare model. He invited me in and started trying out each of his scarves on me in front of the main mirror, almost ignoring all the other customers in the shop. Even when I politely declared that I was not planning to buy anything, his enthusiasm seemed untempered. His shiny eyes admiring something valuable made me unable to refuse his passion. Then suddenly, he kissed my face. I was shocked and embarrassed — even though it was a warm touch on my skin, full of some kind of pure appreciation of beauty. He quickly realized from the kiss that my face was too cold. “You must be freezing, my little angel.” He immediately led me to a back room of the shop, where there was a small fireplace. He asked me to stay there and warm up while he had to tend to his customers outside. I have to admit it was the warmest moment of that day. I was greedy about the fireplace, the warmth from it, and the quietness of that moment. Not many moments of warmth like this happened in my life. Even though there was a little bit of uncertainty and worry about the intentions, I was guided by that greed and enjoyed the moment for 5 minutes. I will always remember that 5 minutes near that fireplace. Then I sneaked away without telling him. The Ultimate Sweetness: Hafiz Mustafa 1864 A bit scared about getting found, I rushed into the old town’s main street — I needed to find somewhere familiar. That is when I saw the green signboard of Hafiz Mustafa 1864, the famous candy shop. Bling-bling. It looked like my home of that day somehow. I entered the shop; it was a world away from the gray streets outside. The air was filled with the sweet scent of Turkish delights; the fresh colors of the candies were like pure love and hope wrapped in sugar. Everyone was busy, so no one paid attention to me, the “rare and beautiful Asian girl.” Only one of the candy makers, busy at his work, looked up just long enough to notice my thin shirt. “You must be cold, girl; stay for a while.” Then he smiled heartily and soon returned to his tasks. I felt a true sense of belonging in terms of human interaction for the whole day. I felt normal and safe. No one gave me anything for free like the childhood story does, but I cheerfully bought the one and only thing of that day—a box of Turkish candy. As I stepped back out into the rain, the sky was darkened while the lights were on. The city does not seem so wet or cold anymore. Istanbul had shown me its heart. It was beating with dynamic vibes, with sensual texture hidden in the tea, the scarves, and the sweet candies. There was no story for me in this city filled with stories—just a normal rainy day.

sh5tvo

A Scotttish enlightment

“So that miserly bastard has eventually agreed to hand it over…” Aoife turned up the volume on her earphones to block out her aunt’s shrill voice emanating into her bedroom from the kitchen below. She had been dead right to scarper upstairs when her dad’s sister Therese came trundling down the drive. “That woman is completely nuts,” she informed the empty room before stretching out on the bed and concentrating on her music play list in the hope that whatever crises was going on downstairs would not include her. It was a vain hope as within minutes her young 11-year-old brother Declan came bursting into the room, launched himself onto the bed, grabbed her earphones and shouted gleefully into her ear “Mam needs you downstairs now…code double red emergency, come on” and he grabbed her arm and dragged her out the bedroom door. That had been three weeks ago and in fact the bastard had not agreed to hand “It” over at all. What he had agreed to, was an exchange, and she had been given the short straw of hauling the object of that exchange all the way from Co. Wexford on the southeast of Ireland to some God forsaken old broken-down pile in the highlands of Scotland. She remembered reading the review for a book about someone travelling around Europe with a piano, or was it a fridge? Anyway, the object of her ire was just as big but far less streamlined. I mean no-one in their right minds would expect her to “walk” those items that distance, but the single wheel on the case of the biggest of all stringed instruments, the double base, meant, she was assured by her family eager to appease mad aunty Therese, the task was perfectly doable. “Why can’t you just put it on a plane and fly it over,” she had enquired innocently of her hyper excited aunt, only to receive a 40-minute lecture on the humidity and temperature sensitivities of such a venerable instrument. None of them owned a car big enough to drive the thing in and anyway it was a 9-hour drive from Fishguard, which was the terminal in Wales for the nearby Wexford ferry, to Fort William the final destination in Scotland. So, the plan was conceived that, “With all her travel experience” which in fact consisted of one interrail trip in Europe, four years previously in her teens, she was a suitable custodian of the instrument. The proposed itinerary was for her to take the ferry as a foot passenger and get a train from Fishguard to Cardiff in Wales, and another train from Cardiff to London, and then the sleeper train from London to Fort William, “and sure Donal can come with you as a helper”. Great! Double trouble! It was 7.30 am and Aoife had just wheeled “Betty the behemoth” down the enclosed gangway onto the deck of the huge Irish Ferries boat, with Donal and their wheely case straggling behind her, when the captain began to speak over the PA system. The wind had picked up significantly in the 40 minutes the extra-large taxi had taken to get them to the ferry terminal. It was now so strong that the captain’s disembodied softly spoken Irish accent wisped around her and murmured the good news personally in her ear, “As to the weather forecast for the passage, in case …. not aware …Eunice threatening across the Irish sea today. We are in a lull, but we do expect the winds to strengthen on passage.” “What did he say Fee,” Donal enquired as they queued up to present their boarding cards. “Oh, only that we are heading into a hurricane”  “Really! .. Cool . “Declan watch out ..Oh I’m so sorry” she apologised to the lady in front of her as “Betty” with Declan’s help tried to run over her handbag. Eventually reaching the reception desk she was cleared to board the ship proper with a stern warning that given the weather situation “the instrument” was to be well secured, flat on the ground where it would be of no danger to fellow passengers. Aoife awoke from a sound sleep sometime later and panicked momentarily not being able to see Donal, but looking around saw him stretched out on a nearby couch and relaxed again. She looked at her watch which read 11am, so just 45 min before she had to take up her burden again and walk. She considered buying some sandwiches but still full from their huge breakfast and lethargic after sleep she was disinclined as yet to move. There was a certain majesty about a force 9 gale, she thought, especially when viewed from the comfort of the club lounge on deck 11! The whole world reduced to a monochrome maelstrom. It was like one of those immersive movie shows they had gone to in Disney land. You could both see and feel the power of the undulating grey waves at the same time, and it had a strange anesthetising quality about it, and she needed that so much… Her head had felt like a sack of cats for so long being dragged this way and that. “But you can sort this”, she told herself, “Can I really?” came the dubious reply. She shut her eyes again and concentrated on the sound of the wind and rain and roaring water and was just about to dose again when the ship gave an almighty roll and she was thrown out of her chair and landed in an unruly heap on the carpeted floor. Then before she could right herself there was another roll and Betty’s bloated body sailed past her and down the angled deck taking every four pinned chair in her path with her… “OMG! That was hilarious, who would have thought a musical instrument could cause such carnage! “Donal laughed as he danced up and down in an attempt to keep warm on the Fishguard railway station platform, his April weather attire not quite a match for the sudden artic conditions. Aoife was sure that it would make a hilarious story to tell at parties someday, but just now she couldn’t be less amused. Because of the storm their berthing had been delayed by an hour, so they had missed their train to Cardiff, which meant that they would also miss the train they had booked to London and possibly the night train, so she was within a hair’s breadth of tossing Aunt Therese’s “venerated instrument” onto the railway track and taking the next boat home. Thankfully at least the attendant in the ticket office had been more than helpful and worked out another itinerary for her, all be it a very tight one, that should get them to Paddington station in London about 40minutes as opposed to a leisurely two hours, before the Caledonian night train to Port William departed. Their good fortune continued as the next local train to Cardiff arrived on time, was almost empty and had a large area for buggies and baggage at the front of each carriage to deposit Betty in. They both sat down with a sigh of relief to get in out of the foul weather and immediately looked at each other and burst into laughter. “Who would have thought that travelling with a beast like Betty could be so much fun,” Aoife raised her eyebrows in mock irony as she rummaged in her bag for some munchies and the new itinerary plan. Declan responded by grabbing a packet of crisps and racing up and down the empty carriage making gorilla noises and throwing in the odd karate kick. Aoife looked out the window at the windswept scenery and then at her watch which read 2.53pm, it would take an hour and fifty minutes to get to Cardiff and then they would have only 30min to find the express train to London she fretted, before she just gave up on it all and stared out the window praying fervently for the day to end. “What does the train look like?” Declan shouted as he darted a look around whilst helping Aoife hauled Betty the behemoth out of the narrow opening and down the steep step to the wet platform. “Like an angry bee, with a pointy orange head” she shouted back at him, eyeing the huge number of passengers pushing their way through the station with dismay. Where the hell had they all come from, then the large station clock gave her the answer. Five pm on a Friday evening, Jesus, could they have picked a worse time. “Over there, I see it” Declan pointed to the double platform off to the right, but as yet she had no idea how to get to it apart from dashing over the railway tracks with Betty like a bunch of bananas balanced on her head. “Hiya alright pet”, at last she had found one stranger that did not ignore her plea for directions to the correct platform. But the train ride to London was not a happy one and she was definitely not in the good books of British Rail, having seriously infringed all their rules by sitting on her suitcase clutching Betty to her bosom and blocking the entrance to the toilet. Declan meanwhile spent the two-and-a-half-hour journey walking through the train from top to bottom with various other restless youngsters and munching his way through their food allowance money.  Paddington station when they arrived was absolutely massive with a bewildering amount of information flashing on screens and by the time she figured out the correct platform, found the right train and right carriage and had shunted Betty in front of her down the incredibly narrow corridor to their cabin, she was almost in tears. Then just as she tried to balance the beast against the sink at the end of the tiny room so as to collapse down on the lower bunk Declan declared “Fee,I don’t feel well”, and proceeded to vomit all over the carpeted floor. “Shouldn’t we tell someone that I barfed all over the floor” Declan piped up as Aoife was once again shuffling Betty down the narrow corridor in a long line of passengers disembarking the train at 10.30 am the following morning. She gave him an annoyed “shush” and it was only when they were safely on the platform that she turned on him to say caustically… “Yes, if I was a model citizen I should, but I don’t feel like behaving as a model citizen at the moment after spending the night with such a foul smell. Really Declan you’re like that bloody pigmy shrew on the telly the other night.” “Which one was he again?” “The one that eats three times his body weight in food each day”  “Oh, yea cool.”  Aoife threw her eyes to heaven and shivered in her parka jacket as a light sprinkling of snow started to descend on them. It’s all this lump’s fault though she grated and gave Betty what she thought was a light tap with her foot, well maybe it was a bit more than a tap as the giantess fell over and started to slide along an icy patch which to both their horror was taking her on a direct path off the platform and onto the tracks. Immobile with shock for the moment, they were even more surprised when a dark-skinned young man raced forward out of the crowd, jumped onto the empty track and caught her before disaster could strike. Gingerly stepping across the icy platform to thank him, and expecting a rather engaging encounter with their gallant handsome hero, she was taken aback when he turned on her, brown eyes blazing saying...  “Have you any idea just how precious this instrument is, what the hell were you thinking, kicking it across the platform, what a criminal … a wanton act of mindless … With that, words failed him so Aoife filled in the space with a belligerent “I have no idea who the hell you are…only to be interrupted by Donal’s rather panicked voice... “The train, Fee, there’s a train coming!”  The three of them looked around in horror and then there was a mad scramble as Betty was shoved back non too gently onto the platform with their new acquaintance jumping up athletically after her. Aoife really had had enough at this stage and turned on the young man, obviously of Indian origin and continued as previously, “I have no idea who you are, but if you have any connection with our uncle Ralph, until he hands over Aunty Terese’s, Stradivarius violin, this is MY family’s instrument, and I can do what I bloody well want with it” The stranger’s eyes passed from the bright eyed, wild haired pretty girl to the gleeful excited face of her younger brother before announcing with irritating calm, “I am your uncle Ralph’s stepson and the intended owner of this precious instrument, and if it is not to be ruined altogether, we need to get it out of the weather now.” With that he picked up Betty as if she was a flyweight and headed off in the direction of the carpark, and his bedraggled step cousins had no option but to race after him. “Now don’t you mind Romesh” his mum Amrita soothed an hour later when Aoife and Declan were being served a delicious brunch in the cosy kitchen of her lovely sprawling country house. Seemingly the dilapidated ancestral home of the Lacey’s of Argyll had been sold to a Canadian millionaire five years previously when Amrita and Ralph were married. “Music is his life. It is how we met your uncle, Ralph was giving a doublebass master class, and Romesh well, why he was taken with that huge instrument I don’t know but it mesmerised him even from an early age. They were quite a famous musical trio, your dad, and Therese and Ralph. He went a bit mad I think when your dad met your mum and moved to Ireland. It broke the group, broke his heart, made him bitter. Kicked them all out, like, such silliness and Therese having his doublebass and he her violin all these years and he not agreeing to swap. I made him see sense like, he’s not a bad man, just a bit funny in his ways.” She finished her monologue and looked with satisfaction at her rapt audience, “now you eat up and go have a rest, your uncle will be back at 7 and we can all have a lovely dinner together.” Romesh stopped his practice for a moment, his ear picking up another melody and stepped outside and followed the high-pitched notes of a tin whistle. He found Aoife sitting under a briar in a patch of welcome sunshine. It was a pretty scene, the sun rays picking up the mahogany tints in the girls’ curly brown hair as her fingers danced merrily over the silver pipe. But then she stopped playing and looked so forlorn that he surprised himself by blurting out “What’s wrong.” She started at his voice and looked at him pensively before simply saying “everything”. “That bad eh,” he responded in a melodic Scottish drawl, and went over to sit beside her. “Sorry about my rudeness at the station by the way.” “Right back at yea,” she replied with a weak smile that did not reach her eyes.  “So, step cousin, why is ‘everything’ wrong.” She released a breath, and with the thought that who better to confide in than a complete stranger, shrugged and said “It’s just I thought I had my life figured out, but then Covid came and it changed everything” “How so.” “I don’t know, it’s just I was always so eager for adventure, most of my many cousins are all in far-flung places, America, Australia, New Zealand and all over Europe. I couldn’t wait for it to be my turn, and now it is. I have just qualified with first class honours in a biotech degree that I could travel the world with, but I just don’t want to go now.”  “And what part did Covid play in that?” She laughed mirthlessly “a long period of deep introspection, I guess. I discovered the meaning of the word introvert”  Then she stopped speaking for a while, so Ramesh prompted. “Which is?” “Which is” she hesitated and then rushed on” the discovery that all my bright college days before being incarcerated by covid, when I was the sunny popular “ready for anything “fun girl was really all an act that took a lot out of me, and that the two years I spent isolated with just my family and a few close friends were some of the happiest I spent. But as there isn’t anywhere remotely near home I can use my degree, if I stay at home I’ll just be a pathetic out of work recluse.” “And what about your music.” “My music” she looked at him. “You seemed to be pretty happy on your tin whistle just now.” “Ahh that’s what I do for fun. That’s what was so good about covid, we had a covid music pod and we met up regularly to play rather than in a crowded pub. There is such fantastic buzz in the trad music in Ireland at the moment. I know your dad doesn’t improve of our diddly i tradition, but to me it’s just magic. She beamed back at him.” “Doesn’t your dad teach trad music.” “Yea” “And you love trad music” “Yea” she replied hesitantly her brows furrowed. “So don’t you think it’s just possible that there might be room for one more trad music teacher where you come from.” Aoife turned to this lovely boy she had just met and replied smilingly, “you know what, I think I am going to like having you for a step cousin.”And he answered “Right back at ya”

w4uhf7

My escape from home

When I was nine years old, my parents decided to send me to visit my Granny and Grandad in South Benfleet England. We lived in Newport-on-Tay, in Fife in Scotland. My parents bought me a train ticket from Dundee to London Kings Cross. This was the days of the steam train. I caught the local train from Newport East to Dundee going over the Tay Railway Bridge. Then my dad put me on the train direct from Dundee to London Kings Cross. This was a huge adventure for me, travelling over five hundred miles by train. I found myself a seat on the train in one of these compartments with six seats. I made friends with a lady who was going to London as well. We left Dundee and waved goodbye to my hometown of Newport-on-Tay as we crossed over the Tay Railway bridge. Soon we were zooming through Fife and then over the Forth Railway Bridge. On to our first stop Edinburgh. We stayed there for a while the engine got watered and more coal was taken on board. Eventually, we left Edinburgh at ten o’clock on the dot and headed towards the borders. The engine pulling the train was the Flying Scotsman. The speed of the train was amazing, the countryside just flew by. My parents had given me enough money to purchase my lunch on the train. One of the restaurant staff knocked on the compartment door and announced that lunch was served. I followed the man to the restaurant carriage and eagerly waited to be served. The first course was delicious tomato soup, then roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Something I had never tried before, but it tasted good, and since I was young, I was being offered a few more potatoes and another Yorkshire pudding. The pudding was apple crumble and custard which was great. After my lunch, I made my way back to my compartment. By this time, we were approaching Newcastle the only station the Flying Scotsman stops at. The train stopped at Newcastle; it amazed me how busy it was. I had never seen crowds of people like this before, I come from a tiny village in Fife, with a population of just about 6,000. The train left Newcastle and crossed the Tyne Bridge, it looked very spectacular. Once we left the Newcastle area, we got back up to speed again. With the good lunch and having been up for a while I fell asleep and woke up to see York station. It is a very classical station with a huge curved arched roof. Once we left York, I saw Doncaster and Peterborough. We now had sixty miles to get to Kings Cross. The speed of the train over the last sixty miles was incredible, houses flew by, and we shot across level crossings with lots of cars waiting to cross the railway. I watched as the countryside flashed by at great speed. Then we started to slow down as we approached London. We entered the tunnels to get to Kings Cross, and the platforms appeared. At last, I arrived at Kings Cross station, which is a magnificent piece of architecture. It was full of steam engines waiting to go to different destinations. I saw lots of different steam engines some gleaming and others covered in soot. Walking down the platform towards the ticket gate I was amazed at how big the train was. At the front of the train sat the Flying Scotsman steam engine, it looked hardly out of breath. I was amazed at the rate the train had been going. Not only that but we arrived on time. The ticket inspector took my ticket from me. Walking into the station, the realisation that I was in this huge metropolis of London and still had a distance to go to get to where my grandparents lived. Then my grandfather appeared in the crowds and gave me a huge hug. After relating my experiences of my journey, we made our way to the underground to get to Tower Bridge Station. It was my first experience of the underground. The moving star cases were amazing, but they were so dirty, and wooden. I was still getting used to the crowds. Having never been in such a busy place before. Then on reaching the underground platform and waiting for the train to arrive, it was strange to feel the wind as the train pushed a mass of air out of the tunnel. The train arrived at the station. We got on the packed carriages and held on for grim life as the train weaved its way under the streets of London. We caught the train from Tower Bridge and got off at South Benfleet. My grandmother welcomed me with open arms. Showed to my room that I was going to sleep in for the next two weeks. That night I slept very well after my adventure travelling from Scotland to England. The next morning, I started on the task I had been sent to do, paint my grandparents’ house. It was enjoyable being able to do things as I wanted to do them. I started painting, the house was very high and the ladder I climbed since to reach the stars. After making sure the ladder was stable I climbed up to the top of the ladder to paint the house. After making good progress for two days the next day it rained. That meant sitting in the house waiting for the rain to stop. Gradually timely I got used to being away from home and adapted to the lifestyle of my grandparents. My granddad took me to visit Southend and went for a ride on the train to the end of Southend Pier. Bering a great fisherman my Grandad took his fishing rods with us and we spent a few hours fishing off of the pier. Caught plenty of small fish but the big one I wanted eluded me. The following day it was back to painting again. The rain kept off for most of the second week. I got the painting finished. My grandmother was delighted with my efforts. After two weeks Grandfather and I went back up to Kings Cross and I caught the train back to Dundee. It was not such an adventure this time, but my time away gave me the taste of being on my own. A few years later I left home for the Royal Air Force, in Buckinghamshire. But that is another story. Only the train journey north was not such an adventure to someone who had done it before. 

3iet19

Live a Little

The grand carriage waited poised, its elegant woodwork, four black horses, and delicate label, Queen Marie’s NOLA Ghost Tours , out of place against the dirty, plaster smothered brick wall and rusted iron gate separating the living from the dead. A confident young woman leaned against it, matching the angle of the sign post proclaiming the corner of Basin and Conti streets, and watched me approach with bright eyes. She took a puff of her slender vape and smiled as she warmly took my hand in both of hers. Her top hat and vest matched the elegant carriage, and her tattered jeans and mid-calf boots matched the rest. A colorful scarf trailed playfully out from under her black silk hat and she said, “Hello Roger, I’ve been expecting you,” her eyebrow quirked up. “Well, well. You’ve been in New Orleans for a week, and the most adventurous food you’ve had is red beans and rice? You can’t vary too far from that comfortable cheese burger huh? Monsieur, you must at least try some etouffee, jambalaya, and gumbo while you’re here. Lord knows it will open your mind.” She read the confusion on my face and said, “I’ve got a feeling about these things.” I stumbled back as a large snake emerged from under her vest and coiled comfortably around her shoulders. She took another drag from the vape pen. Smoking wasn’t for me, but she seemed made for it in a timeless sort of way, emphasized by the slender cigarette holder shape. She smiled again around the vape and said, “Let’s go honey, it’s time for me to show you NOLA like few ever get to see.” I scrambled onto an empty bench and smiled at the other guests as Queen Marie flicked the slender driving whip and said, “Welcome monsieurs, madams, and mademoiselles! As you well know, I am Queen Marie, and this beautiful snake is my friend Zombi, and it will be our pleasure to guide you this lovely evening through a night of frightful adventure, exposing the very spirit of New Orleans, and of course, getting nice and lush! First stop will be Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop!” I crossed my arms against a slight chill as I watched the white mausoleums roll by in the deepening twilight. I should have stayed in the hotel. Queen Marie wrapped up her history lesson as we clomped up to the hunched form of the little pub. Revelers on Bourbon Street stumbled away from the large horses with delight, and an excited young woman rushed out of the dark doorways of Lafitte’s to flash some bystanders on the other side of the street for a shower of beads. Music, whoops, and hollers rolled all around us and I was amazed the horses were so calm; the chaos almost put me into a frothing frenzy and I was supposedly on the top of the food chain. “Now keep a look out for some of Lafitte's usual paranormal denizens- the Lady of the second floor, perhaps some demonic red eyes,” she clutched a crucifix hanging around her neck at this one, “or maybe the spirit of Jean Lafitte himself!” She looked right at me, “Enjoy yourselves! Keep yourself open to the experience!” I looked skeptically at the old building. It was small with dark doorways flanked by large gray shutters and large swaths of brick exposing itself under the white stucco. It was dingy and clearly leaned into its historical roots. I ordered something with rum at the bar as my eyes adjusted to the gloom and the bartender complimented my choice; rum had been a staple here since it opened. I moved around the tight space wondering if people had been shorter in the past and frowned when my shoe stuck in the dried up remains of someone's overzealous celebration. I turned in the corner and saw Queen Marie near the door watching me. She smiled and tapped her temple, looked around the Shop with exaggerated wonder, and then took a deep breath and let her shoulders relax. I followed suit. My drink was sweet on my tongue. I savored the rich flavors of the Caribbean. I looked around the pub again and tried to see the history, to feel it. The Lafitte brothers had been pirates and smugglers, and the Lafitte Blacksmith Shop had suffered only minor changes since their time, so I tried to imagine what it would've been like. My eyes were caught by a figure next to the fireplace. He leaned over it with his hand braced on the mantle, over which hung a saber I hadn't noticed before. The firelight glinted off his dark curls and accentuated the ruddy, sunburned and wind scoured skin of his face as he turned and saw me watching him. I squinted and rubbed my eyes; his clothes were out of place, out of time. He wore a red silk shirt with a pointed collar, and a white cravat. His pants were high-waisted with a double row of buttons and he wore black pirate boots. The sounds from outside the pub shifted subtly and I followed as he stepped across the room. I stooped out of the haze clinging to the ceiling and noticed a bunch of candles in sconces around the room. The crowd had apparently cleared out and the bartender must have gone to the back because suddenly I was the only onlooker as the redshirted man joined another at a wooden table, hunched over a large, thick piece of paper. They talked in hushed voices I couldn't quite make out. I took a few steps closer and took another drink of my punch. The second man said to the first in a thick French accent, “Jean, your brother sends word- Jefferson's blockade has closed tight around New Orleans. We must find a new port, yes?” Jean nodded and peered down at the paper, a map, and after scrutinizing it for a moment, jabbed his finger down confidently. “I know these waters better than the body of my favorite mistress! Eh? This island in Barataria Bay will suite us very well I think!” The door smashed in with a startling crack. I stumbled backwards against the wall, wondering when the door was closed, while the two men at the table burst into motion. A tall man in a blue coat and trousers and a black top hat fired a large revolver with a loud burst of flame and black smoke. I cowered away as the second man went down. Jean burst towards the assailant and ducked under the next shot, which exploded the plaster wall uncomfortably close to my head. The assailant said in a nasally voice, “You are under arrest Jean Latiffe, for high crimes of piracy and smuggling!” Jean grasped the assailant's arm and smashed it against the doorway. The gun flew into the dim room. The man jabbed Jean, drove two fast strikes into his nose and drew his saber, slashing towards the staggering Jean and blood splattered the wall. Jean rolled backwards over the table and scrambled up as the navy man pursued blade first. Jean smashed the sword aside and bashed the man in the face with a clay jug still spinning on the floor. Jean looked at me, “Roger, get in the fight!” He blocked the sword with the jug and it shattered in his hands, showering him in rum. Jean kicked the man in the chest and looked to me again, “Roger, the sword! Throw me the sword monsieur!” I shook my head confused as he tackled the man, and grappled his sword arm, grunting with the effort. I looked at the sword over the mantle and shook my head. Jean strained, turning the blade away from his neck. He kneed the man in the side and looked to me again, “Roger!” I started as my punch splashed over my sneakers, bringing me back. I looked around in shock, no trace of the violence from a moment before, and the sounds of Bourbon Street at night filtering in from the open doorways. Queen Marie twisted around and looked back at me from the driver's seat of the carriage as the horses began pulling us to our next location. “Well my dear patrons, we're off to our next stop. I hope you enjoyed yourselves; it's always a fun time at Lafitte's! My, my, dear Roger, it looks as though you've seen a ghost!” She smiled again as I squirmed in my seat. She scratched Zombi's head with a twinkle in her eye and I rubbed at my brow. This couldn't be happening. Ghosts weren't real. With the thought, Queen Marie turned back to me again and raised her brows incredulous. I spent the next few attractions in a daze. I wondered if I had eaten something- a piece of bad potato, humbug? Maybe I had been drugged? I felt normal. The boisterous brass of a marching band filled the air with “Oh When the Saints” as our carriage rolled past the iconic Cafe Du Monde. I had almost tried the coffee and beignets that morning, but the line had been so long. I focused on men with handfuls of beads looking down from the second story balconies, devious grins plastered on their faces. I avoided focusing on a woman in a wispy white dress as Queen Marie told stories of the madams of the French Quarter and Mae Bailey's sister, who now stood vigil over the balustrade. Perhaps she was looking down at the ghost of her soldier lover. Perhaps she was just wishing to join the party, the living, outside the sporting house as she had never done in life. Zombi curled around Queen Marie's shoulders and she watched me, lips pursed around her elegant vape. “Alright mes amis!” Queen Marie said as she got the horses moving again, “we are moving on to our last stop of the night!” She drove the carriage through a manicured square past a pristine white cathedral with three sharp steeples overlooking a proud rider on a rearing horse, immortalized in bronze. “Tonight we have witnessed the dead in pubs, cemeteries, hotels, and brothels. Now we see that even the wealthy are left wanting for the mortal realm, likely wishing all their money and means could buy them their way back. It's a fine reminder to cherish this life while you have it.” Queen Marie looked over her shoulder at me as the carriage turned a corner. “This lovely building was once the Orleans Ballroom, a place where high society would mingle and dance with passions as high as their class. If you look just right at the second floor, you might see ghosts of beautiful belles waltzing around in their fine dresses.” I'd always wanted to go to a ball. They seemed beautiful and fun. I swallowed. Queen Marie looked at me with her shaped brows raised and kind eyes encouraging. I took a deep breath and focused on the second floor. The dark windows came alive, brightening panes marching down the length of the balcony. I saw them, the ghosts of women long past swaying to their phantom music. One stopped and threw her head back in joy; even in death they lived more than me. Then I was there. I passed a hand over my carefully gelled hair and stood straighter in my high collared tail coat. I looked at the embroidered cumber bun and ornate rapier at my side. Women in fine dresses with low shoulders and bell shaped sleeves danced around the room, or clustered in small groups talking and laughing at the periphery of the fine ballroom. Their hair was up in elaborate curls and braids, or covered with beautiful scarves, tignons, that complimented the colors of their dresses. Similarly, men clustered around the room in fine suits, separate islands from the women. Occasionally one would flow around to break a woman from her bunch and join him in the swirl on the ballroom floor. I took a deep breath and dove in, lifting a delicate glass from a passing waiter and downing the strong alcohol in one gulp. I trusted my body, feeling more confident than ever before, and made my way to a beautiful woman chatting at the side. I took her hand with a questioning bow, inviting her to dance. She swept me up eagerly. We spun and twisted around the floor, carried by the music, and submerging completely into the joy and passion of the dance. Then we ran aground. A man surged out of the motion and broke us apart. He spat at my feet and said, his voice seething, “Away scoundrel, this is my woman!” She frowned and I did as well. “I’m sure she can decide who she will dance with.” The man's face contorted with rage as he dropped all pretense of civility and rushed me. I trusted my body to a very different dance. I flowed back with him, twisted, strained, and sent him tumbling around me, causing an eddy of dancers to spin in his wake. He rolled up with a snarl and drew the sword at his side, sprinting forward, he lunged. I slapped it away. He slashed twice. I ducked, felt the blade through my hair, and stepped back. “Roger, your sword!” My dancer said. Her calm voice wiped the earlier image of a blood spattered wall from my mind. I retreated into the hallway, a step ahead of the furious man as he advanced to close the distance, jabbing. I drew my sword. Its weight was familiar in my hand. I watched the man leap towards me and into a lunge, his eyes bulging with madness. I swallowed my fear, feeling more intensely than ever before. I parried the furious lunge, and thrusted, my sword sliding into the man's chest. He stumbled onto the floor, my rapier quivered in its new home, pinning him to this moment forever. Red pooled around him. I came back to myself in the carriage, gasping. I gripped the hardwood of the bench seat and took some deep breaths. The other guests asked if I had seen a ghost as Queen Marie looked at me knowingly. She smiled. Queen Marie’s parting words echoed in my head as I joined the party on Bourbon Street. “Mes amis,” she had said, “I sincerely hope you enjoyed this ghost tour around the great city of New Orleans. I do hope that after this night of living among the dead, you will strive even more to live among the living.” I smiled and squeezed past some drunken patrons of a bustling restaurant. I wanted some etouffee.

5sb9s0

My Darling Sarah

To say Peter was nervous would be an understatement. As he sat in the car alone, white-knuckling the steering wheel while Johnny Cash’s country tunes sang through the stereo, he was cautious not to let his eagerness take control of the wheel. He was a good driver. There were times that he went over the speed limit, but he’d never been caught doing so, and it was always at reasonable speeds that were safe enough on relatively empty roads. ‘And it burns, burns, burns…’ Peter’s destination was Stansted airport. His boarding pass was readily printed and he didn’t have much luggage with him, nothing that wouldn’t fit in his rucksack to take with him onto the plane; just a few necessities that he needed to have on him in the case of an emergency, a change of clothes to make himself more presentable when the time came, and a stuffed monkey. It was a capuchin. Those seemed to be in every ‘Top 10 Cutest Animals’ list, according to the internet polls. Surely it would be loved. It even had Velcro on the hands and feet so the little bugger could hang onto things - Peter actually considered attaching it to the headrest of the car seat, at least for the ride. ‘Don’t take your guns to town, son-’ Cash’s voice was cut off mid-verse when Peter parked the car and turned the engine off. The parking tariff was going to be a little hefty, but likely less than getting here with a taxi. Following the signs to the ‘Departures’ zone, he got through all the mundane routine of the airport. Scan the pass, belt and jewellery off, liquids in a bag, everything into the tray, and he stepped through the scanner. Peter moved on autopilot as he gathered up his things and went on his way to board his flight. The worst is over, he thought to himself as he buckled up in his seat, his rucksack, gently coaxed under the seat in front of him with his rugged boot. The thoughts that flooded into his mind as the plane took off were not of a consoling nature. Anxiety burned in his chest and he began to wonder which had the greater likelihood to combust into flames - himself or the plane engine. In truth, he wasn’t worried about the flight, he was fine with flights. He was equally terrified as he was excited about meeting Sarah… What if she doesn’t like me? What if she’s afraid of me? Who wouldn’t freak out if a middle-aged man with dirty hair, muddy boots, and a jacket that looks like it was pulled through a time portal from the 80s walked toward them? Taking a deep breath, he looked to his right, to find a woman staring at him with a sympathetic expression. Pete thought he probably looked pathetic, still clutching the fastened seat belt in his hands. “Nervous flier, hon?” the stranger asked, presumably carrying years of experience on planes on every flight she boarded. She must be the flight-guru . She wasn’t much older than him, though Pete couldn’t tell by how many years. She carried a smile that reminded him of his mother that was disarming and sort of comforting. “No, I’m not,” he began to reply, but immediately regretted his choice. He regretted a lot of things these days, and frequently came to the repeated epiphany that if he’d just learnt to throw honesty out the window and give whatever answers he suspected people wanted to hear, life would be simpler. He could have simply smiled and nodded… but that wasn’t Pete’s way. “I’m flying to Malta to meet someone for the first time. Her name is Sarah, and I’m afraid that she might not be as excited to meet me as I am to meet her, you see.” Peter could tell from the way the woman looked at him that she was already trying to gauge his age and speculate on how old Sarah might be. Compelled to clarify to avoid any further funny looks, he raised a hand with a finger pointing toward the ceiling of the plane, gesturing for her to wait. “I have a photo of her with me, hold on… she’s beautiful.” It didn’t take long to rummage through his bag and fetch the photo - it was exactly where he put it, safely protected behind a transparent plastic film in his wallet, which he had a tendency of carrying in his inner jacket pocket, close to his heart. Upon laying eyes on her, he could see it in the woman’s eyes how taken she was by Sarah’s gorgeous smile, the gap in her teeth and plump cheeks, the cute little dimples, and the large brown eyes that suppressed as much trauma as they did excitement to explore the world and her future. The rest of the time spent during that flight was far more pleasant than he’d expected it to be. A good three hours or so were spent talking about the gorgeous Sarah that he was flying out to meet and hopefully take back home with him to Bedford. The passenger sitting next to him had a lot of wisdom to share that Pete gratefully thanked her for as she offered him her own personal experiences, tips and tricks on how to survive the first meeting. Coincidentally, she found herself in a similar situation fifteen years prior. What were the odds? It wasn’t until he sat in a taxi leaving the Malta International Airport that he realised he never got the woman’s name or number. It was a shame, a woman like that was a fountain of knowledge and advice for somebody as lacking in experience as he was. The ride was not long at all, yet it provided more than enough time for Peter to wallow in his thoughts. His concerns were creeping back into his mind, now that he no longer had the woman’s company to quieten them, so he decided to try and strike up conversation with the driver, though the music blasting through the speakers made that challenging. Not quite his favourite track, it was something contemporary that could be heard at most convenience stores as a trending song of the 2020s. The small talk started off strong - as a British citizen, Pete was quite the expert at talking about the weather, pointless holidays, and other mundane subjects. Then the inevitable question was put forward to him: “So why you are here? Work?” The accent was thick and it was clear that English was not the driver’s native tongue, though Pete appreciated the effort. It didn’t really matter to Pete, he had accepted long ago that the world was an ever-growing multicultural playground. Everyone and anyone was invited to play. “No, not work…” their eyes met in the rear-view mirror for a few seconds and an awkwardness washed over Peter, causing him to shift in the back seat and look away before he continued, compelled to fill the silence. “I’m meeting someone.” Immediately, the driver’s facial expression changed into a knowing grin and his head bobbed to show that he understood. I don’t think he understood anything… Pete thought to himself, but sighed and looked out the window in silence, letting the conversation die there. It wasn’t going anywhere anyway, and he had no interest in bringing it back to life. He was on his way to a hotel in a central area where he’d be staying for only one night - hence the rucksack on the seat beside him being his only luggage for the journey - and will be meeting Sarah that afternoon. It was only about noon now, having caught an early flight to make sure he’d be here on time for the meeting, scheduled for 2pm. He’d take Sarah anywhere she wanted to go, buy her anything she wanted, and make sure they got off on the right foot. A good start will be the foundation of their relationship, and first impressions were very important. He would have to take her to the hotel for the night, which he wasn’t particularly happy about, but perhaps it was better that way. She could get used to his company while still in familiar land, her own country, before they both fly back to England the following morning. Pete paid the fare and was dropped off just outside his hotel. It wasn’t too fancy, but just charming enough not to scare Sarah away. He knew she wouldn’t be expecting anything as grand as a countryside villa, but he did wish for her to be comfortable. This place had everything that they’d need for that - a restaurant on the ground floor and their room had a television and wi-fi for entertainment a couple of floors up. The hotel was all that it promised to be - no more and no less. Far from impressive; some might even consider it ‘shabby’, but Pete was sure that was only by the snobs’ standards back at home. He had asked for a second opinion from his colleagues, until he got tired of being called stingy for going for the cheaper hotel. The journey itself wasn’t expensive - neither was this simple accommodation, as his lovely workmates happily pointed out to him - but he knew that the real journey, the one with Sarah, that he will be embarking on for the rest of his life was going to eat away at his savings. With this in mind, he’d rather spend his money on her than on a room that he’d only be in for a few moments and just one night. Pete couldn’t think of anything better to spend it on. Bathroom was clean, towels were freshly washed and neatly folded, bed was made and looked more or less comfortable. Wi-fi connected without issues and the television functioned. Everything was looking good. After freshening up, there was no time left for exploring anywhere in the area or even testing out the hotel restaurant, undoubtedly overpriced. Having thought ahead and downloaded a local phone app for hiring taxis - Pete was particularly proud of his resourcefulness during this trip - he got a ride to his destination, the reason that he was here. The place he would finally meet Sarah in person. The Adoption Agency. The butterflies in his stomach felt more like starved rats, clawing and chewing at his insides, eager to get out. Pete had once watched a documentary about a torture method that involved frenzied rats eating through the victim’s stomach… When the taxi came to a halt outside the building a quarter of an hour early, Pete looked up at the large print of the building’s name. The signage was not in English, although that didn’t stop Pete from trying to pronounce it, mentally. Ah-gen-zee … whatever it was, common sense told him it translated into ‘Agency’. He had tried to familiarise himself with a couple of Maltese words, that was the language spoken here, to aid with communication, but the different symbols in the alphabet were extremely confusing to a meager monolingual such as himself. He took a deep breath and held it… flattened his tie and smoothed some creases out of his shirt, before pushing the door open and stepping into the air-conditioned waiting area. Putting his best foot forward, he approached the desk and offered his best impression of a ‘dad-smile’ all the while over-worrying about having overdone it with the tie. Perhaps he should have worn something more casual to show how hipster he could be… was that something they looked for in candidates? “Hi, good afternoon. I have an appointment with Ms Cremona?” The Briton grimaced at the sound of the foreign name rolling off his tongue in what he presumed to be purely broken fashion. The confusion on the receptionist’s face confirmed that presumption, and Pete smiled sheepishly before deciding to carry on before he’d crumble into a fumbling mess. “We’ve been communicating via email correspondence for the better half of the past year.” The receptionist stared at Pete, and Pete stared back. For a moment, he began to wonder if he was in the wrong place. They do speak English here, don’t they? “I’ll need your name, sir.” The request hit him like an anvil dropping through the ceiling, ‘DUMBASS’ sprayed along its side. “Right, of course! Pete- uh, Peter Jameson.” The receptionist’s typing was slow, each click taking him one step closer to his appointment. The hammering of the keys echoed in his head and his chest as Pete leaned on the desk. He didn’t move; he was frozen like a statue, his heart racing and his shoulders tense. He wondered if he’d gone as white as he felt. “Okay, Mr Jameson, please have a seat and Ms Cremona will be with you in a minute.” So that’s how her name is pronounced… With a nod, Pete absent-mindedly tapped the desk perhaps to reassure himself that his body hadn’t quite turned to stone yet, and moved to sit on an empty chair. There were some other people sitting in the room, some looking excited while others were just as anxious as he was, he could tell. They all sat there united in some way by their purpose for being there. The wait was excruciating, torture even… his mind went back to the rats and he felt like he was going to be sick- “Mr Jameson?” Pete looked up at the sound of his name being called to see a woman with blonde curls weighed down with hair gel, granting the woman a playful but respectable appearance. She wasn’t very tall, and had a stocky frame with wide hips, but she carried herself well with confidence and had a warm approachable air about her. He supposed that was a necessary trait in this business. Pete rose to his feet as his gaze now shifted past the suited woman and through the open doorway to the small cubicle of an office behind her to see the most beautiful young girl with large brown eyes that reflected an entire future in them. He smiled, and she smiled back, kneeling on an office chair and shyly peeping over the back of it. The dimples that were visible in the photo were now right before his very eyes, in the flesh… he loved her so much already. “Come inside and meet Sarah.” With teary eyes, his mouth cracked into a wide smile, he entered the office to move forward with the adoption process. In his bag, the support monkey waited, ready to exchange hands from his to little Sarah’s.

22kv77

It's time to meet your cousin!

 My mom came back from her sister's funeral. I expected her to be heartbroken. To be sad at least. She had the opposite opinion. She came happy, smiling, telling me about my cousin, aunt, and uncle and how much fun they had together. She showed me a picture of all of them standing close to each other, smiling at a person with a camera in front of them.   "You look so much alike with your cousin. Can't understand why though? Can it be because you have the same name?" my mother was sharing her observations with me.  It is funny but not just my cousin's and my name were the same but my dad's and her dad's, together with my mom's and hers. It sounds weird but it is true.  I looked at the picture, trying to find anything similar between my cousin and myself. Nothing was matching. Just the name we shared. She was 13 years older than me. I was 14 then. I thought about her like an old person. Her kid was a Grade 2 student! How are we similar? In which way?  "You have to go to meet your cousin," my mom said.  Me? Go where? We lived at the end of the world. We could see the Arctic Ocean from the highest point of the town. It will take a few days to get to my cousin’s.  "She is nice, you will enjoy staying with her," my mom said once again, remembering the good time they had together.  A few days after school was finished for the summer, my mom returned home from work. She came to my room smiling at me. "Summer is here. You are going to see her soon,” she announced loudly. Her voice went up and vibrated a little. It reminded me of a singer who forces the voice after getting to the desired note.  “Who? My grandma? I don't want to. Can I stay home?”  If you asked me what was the worst vacation I would say to go to see my grandmother. It never was optional, we visited her every summer.  “No. You are going to meet your cousin,” Mom said. “I got you a ticket.”  “A ticket? Am I going there by myself? Who is watching me?”   It sounded suspicious. During 14 years of my life, I had never gone to a different city by myself.  “Nobody. You are a big girl. You will travel by plane and your sister will meet you on arrival.”  Easy, right? Although it was better than the trip to my grandmother.    “How long is a flight?” I asked, picturing myself getting on the plane at the airport, which was 80 kilometers from the place we lived.  “Not long… One hour and twenty minutes until your first stop where you will stay for a couple of hours, and around the same time to get to your cousin’s city.”  Nice! There is a stop in between. Still better than going to visit Granny. “OK, fine, I will go,” I said. “Of course you will. I can’t bring a ticket back and I'm not losing my money.” My mom was a thrifty person, I bet.  I was excited to go without anyone. It gave me a feeling of being an adult who is never scared to travel. That is not really true but I didn’t know much about it. There is a lot to think about while traveling. Is the plane on time? Where to go next? Where is a passport? Where is the luggage? What to eat? - you call it. But I didn’t worry about any problems that might occur on the way to meet my cousin.  “What if my cousin is not there? How will I know it is her? I have never ever seen her. Oh, my God!” Again, I tried to review the process of my cousin's recognition with my mother.  “Don’t worry, she will meet you.” And here is my mom, letting me go to the customs.  It wasn’t bad on the plane. Some food was served. It was included back then. It was freezing though. I was shivering until we landed. I realized that I made it to the first stop! It wasn’t hard at all! Now I had to wait a couple of hours for another flight. Excited about how easy the traveling was, I placed myself in front of the departure display. I enjoyed watching lines switching, going from the top to the bottom, making a rattling sound like a kaleidoscope makes when it changes a picture. My bag was beside me and I was ready to get aboard in a couple of hours. Approximately in an hour and a half the line displaying my flight changed to the announcement about the delay for another hour. Great! Could I go somewhere? No. I had to stay and wait. In another hour the delay time increased. The plane was behind for 3 and a half hours in total. Panic just covered me. Was my cousin staying on her side waiting for me? I was scared that not.  When I got on the plane, tired I fell asleep not thinking about my relatives, including my mom. No more imagining what to do there, where to go, how to find anyone…. I was in the “whatever” stage, forcing myself to the finish.  I didn’t recall what helped me not to leave my bag on the plane, I didn’t know what time it was. I got out of the plane and followed passengers going somewhere. I was walking and walking, confused, exhausted, and lost in the fog of being half asleep after the landing.  Someone grabbed me and turned hard.  “This is the end of me.” I felt the fear in my stomach. It took a second to fill me up from head to toe. It numbed me, suffocated me, and tightened all sounds in my throat.  “Lenka, it’s you for sure!” I saw a cute young woman with blond curls. She was smiling. “I am your cousin! So freaking tired of the airline services!”  I don’t remember much about the way to her place. Her husband was driving us there. My cousin was humming all the songs coming from the radio. I always do it too. We are so much alike, is it not true?

7um05r

The Emerald Egg

           Deammesia, the great fae capital, is known for its beautiful crystal towers, green trees, and flowers of all colors. Even the raindrops appeared to sparkle here. The children giggled as they played by the crystalline creek and skipped across the bridge. It was a joyful, peaceful time in Deammesia.            Deammesia’s great prosperity attracted others drawn to its wealth and glamour. Elves, angels, and dwarves made their homes here. Occasionally, someone would spot a changeling, but if they caused trouble, they wasted no time banishing them.            Then one day the flowers wilted, and the once sparkling creek turned dark. The leaves began changing colors, painting the countryside with hope, but hope and the leaves tumbled swiftly to the ground.             Cao Li, Queen of Deammesia, and the fae council gathered to discuss these unusual changes and concluded that a changeling had probably stolen the emerald egg. The egg, elaborately decorated with several jewels, opened to reveal a flawless diamond. A changeling would not understand the magic the egg possessed and more than likely intended to sell it.            Cao Li ordered her fae army to search the kingdom for the thief and return the egg. The army scoured through the fae country, but they found no trace of the egg or changeling. After a few days, Cao Li and the fae council became despondent and lost hope of ever recovering the egg. They assumed the changeling had taken the egg to the human realm because there it would bring a larger sum. It would be almost impossible to find a changeling in the human realm. Other than their incessant greed, the changeling’s other magical power was to shapeshift, to change its form to any other species it chose.            The fae, aware that going to the human realm was strictly forbidden, worked vigorously on polishing their city, only to see the sparkle fade before their eyes. To make matters worse, an ugly troll had taken up residence under the bridge and tormented the fae attempting to cross it.            The fae worked vigorously in polishing their city, hoping to restore its sparkle, but they were disappointed to see it fade before their eyes. Then the worst part of the curse revealed itself; all the female fae became barren.            Ashera had just entered child-bearing age and the thought of never having children troubled her. Also, she witnessed her own parents aging faster than ever. Her father could barely fly.            Ashera walked outside to sit on the mushrooms. Mushrooms thrive on decay, so they began sprouting all over the kingdom. She worried about what was to become of her home. What could be done? The lifetime of a fae was about three hundred years, but her parents, who were only ninety, appeared to be two hundred and fifty years old. What would the point be of marrying if she could not produce children? Over and over, her thoughts tore through her head, but no solutions came. Her wings flittered with anxiety, and she found her whole body beginning to shake. It was midnight before she calmed herself and drifted to sleep. Upon awakening, she decided to venture into the human realm to hunt for the egg. She must get it back to save her parents and Deammesia.            Telling no one of her plans, she left immediately. She floated up towards the moon and followed the dark river. She had only heard of this mythical portal and was not sure it even existed. According to superstitions and legends, historians suggested the portal was near the waterfall, downstream from Deammesia. So, she followed the river through miles of twists and turns until she heard the roar of the water crashing ahead.            At the bottom of the waterfall, she saw a golden glowing oval. Her wings started jittering and her stomach felt funny. She started to turn back until an image of her elderly father appeared in her mind. She darted through the oval.            When Ashera came to herself, a few earthlings were looking at her and pointing in disbelief. She quickly folded her wings behind her to more closely mimic their appearance. A car whizzed by, and the exhaust made her cough. Ashera wondered why anyone would want to come to this place. Look at it, dull concrete and stone everywhere, not a crystal any place. Trash tumbled by and the smell.            She sat on a bench to gather her thoughts and devise a strategy. One thing she knew was a changeling could copy the appearance of humans, but their actions would appear uncommon, and their eyes would look unusually large. With so many people, how could she expect to find him? It all seemed so hopeless. She wondered why she came to such a nasty place.            A day passed, and Ashera had not eaten, but now her belly rumbled, and she noticed she was feeling faint. She walked to a vegetable stand and began talking to the merchant, waiting for him to be distracted before putting a couple of strawberries in her pocket. This was not nearly enough to satisfy her, but it generated an idea. Working in a restaurant would allow her access to food, to meet people, and to gather information.            A couple of days passed before she landed a job at The Roundabout Café, where she served unhealthy, greasy food to people who were way too busy to cook. She couldn’t believe that people ate like this, and how her feet hurt after a shift.            One day, when she was topping off a customer’s coffee, she overheard someone talking about an auction for a jeweled egg.            “Did you say someone is auctioning off some sort of egg?” Ashera asked.            “Yeah, someone is asking a million dollars for this emerald egg. It’s going up at the Panderini’s Auction house tomorrow night. It’s right here in the paper. Who spends money like that on a silly egg?”            “Can I see it?”            “Sure, it’s right here on the second page. They took out a big ad for it. I guess some idiot will buy it.”            Ashera could feel her wings begin to quiver. She folded her wings back tightly against her back before she became exposed. Humans seemed so self-centered and rude. It would be hard to tell how they would treat the fae.            “When is the auction, sir?”            “Tomorrow night, at Panderini’s. You going to buy the egg?”            “Not for that amount. I am just a poor waitress.”            What Ashera knew was she had to be at that auction. She no longer concerned herself about the changeling. Sure, the changeling would be there hoping to cash in big. She just had to get the egg.            On the night of the auction, Ashera showed up early for the viewing. She cased the place for exits, cover, and security systems. She especially noticed open windows near the balcony of the auction house. That would be her escape. Humans were not used to fae; they wouldn’t expect her to fly. The changeling would certainly be there waiting to cash in on its stolen item. She had to take precautions not to be spotted by him, so she put on a suit jacket and hat to better disguise her wings and ears.              People started filling in the auction house, and the viewing began. Ashera waited for her opportunity to examine the egg. She needed people to feel comfortable and settled. She noticed a man walking down the far-left side of the room. He wore a black suit and black frame glasses that concealed a pair of protruding brown eyes. She suspected this was the changeling.            Fifteen minutes before the auction, Ashera made her way towards the egg, which was sitting on a velvet black display stand with the lid open. The auction house had maximized the lighting to showcase the refraction of light and the sparkle of the clear diamond inside. When Ashera approached the egg, she examined it and turned around. But when she turned back around for a second look, she passed fairy dust over the egg, causing it to disappear.            “The egg is gone!” she yelled.            The crowd rose from their seats to see if there was any truth to the statement and started murmuring amongst themselves. Security scrambled, looking for the egg or perpetrators of the crime. During the commotion, Ashera dropped a duplicate egg to the floor while she snatched the original.            A moment later, a security guard yelled, “False alarm, the egg is here!” He picked up the fake egg, holding it high for everyone to see, and put it on the display. Security asked everyone to sit in their seats while they authenticated the egg. Ashera’s wings began twitching. It was only a matter of time until they caught on to her trick. She walked as if she was going to her seat and just when she started to sit down, she took off her coat, dropping it on the floor, and flew towards the balcony and the open window.            The crowd gasped in shock, which is exactly what Ashera expected. The changeling ran for the door, but it remained locked. She breathed a sigh of relief; this would buy her some time. Security came to their senses and screamed for her to halt. They fired a few shots, breaking the glass window. All missed the mark, and Ashera zipped through the opening and out of the building. She climbed into the night sky, putting as much distance as she could from her pursuers.            Traveling as fast as her wings would flutter, she headed directly towards the fairy portal. She descended onto a rooftop, only to see that the changeling had transformed itself into a wolf and paced back and forth in front of the portal. She noticed the wolf sniff the air. The wolf had caught wind of her and began to snarl and gnash its teeth.            Ashera ducked down behind the ledge of the rooftop and took a deep breath. What would she do now? Then she envisioned the nasty decay of Deammesia and her parents aging. She might already be too late. She looked over the edge, gathered her courage, and flew right at the wolf. The wolf’s jaw snapped. She darted to the left, out of the reach of its nasty-smelling mouth. She flew at him again; this time she zipped early, causing the wolf to overextend itself. This allowed her to circle upward and kick the wolf’s eye.            The wolf howled in pain. Ashera retreated to catch her breath. The wolf circled, snarled, and showed its teeth in anger. Then she noticed a lamppost near the portal. If she could pull the wolf towards it, and just before it snapped, dart behind the light post. It may give her enough time to pop through the portal.            Ashera took off towards the wolf, flying circles around its head to anger him. As she headed towards the lamppost, she saw the wolf getting ready to pounce on her. She cut behind the post, causing the wolf to hit the lamppost headfirst. She sprinted towards the portal, and just as she was about to pass through, she looked over her shoulder to see the wolf shaking its head. Ashera entered the doorway to the fairy realm.            Ashera tumbled and splashed through the river below the waterfall, which helped her come to her senses much quicker than when she entered the human realm. She stood up, shook herself and fluttered the water off her wings so she could fly. Just in time, the wolf landed in the river, shaking the water from his fur, and snapped at her, tearing her clothing. Ashera flew to the waterfall’s peak, but the wolf climbed up the sides so fast that she feared its imminent attack. The wolf jumped towards her, missing her by inches. Immediately, she headed for the cover of the forest, bobbing up and down between the branches. The weight of the egg was causing Ashera to tire, and the wolf was getting closer and closer. She grabbed a branch, pulling it and letting it go, smacking the wolf smartly on the snout. The wolf yelped and pawed at his nose before resuming the chase.            Ashera panted with exhaustion and her side hurt. Unsure of how long she could avoid the wolf, she buzzed her wings swiftly, heading towards home. The wolf gained ground every few seconds. Ashera attempted to go faster, but her wings were stinging with fatigue. Right before she got to the bridge, the wolf lunged—the troll’s heavy fist landed hard and square on the changeling’s head, smashing him into the earth.            Ashera spiraled uncontrollably towards the bottom of the decaying Deammesia tower.            When she woke up, the bright sparkle of the city blinded her like the first rays of a sunrise. When she focused her eyesight, she could see a crowd of fae looking down upon her. Her parents flew over the crowd and landed next to her. Her father looked young again.            Ashera stood up and wobbled a moment before Cao Li steadied her by placing a hand on her shoulder.            “How did you find the Emerald Egg, Ashera?” Cao Li asked.            Before answering, Ashera hesitated and admitted, “I went to the human realm and stole it from an auction. I know I did something forbidden, and I am sorry.”            “You did what?” her father asked.            “Sorry Papa.”            “I believe we can pardon this one transgression.” Cao Li pointed her finger at Ashera and smiled.            Ashera could see that Deammesia had regained its sparkle, her parents their youth, and the plants bloomed again. The magic of Deammesia had returned. Unable to tolerate the city’s sparkle, the troll abandoned his bridge home, dragging the changeling into the forest.            Ashera looked at her parents. “I think I need to rest.” Then she fainted.            Two years later, Ashera was married and expecting a baby.

32qhbq

The Call

It started as an echo, less than a whisper, static in the back of my mind. But no matter how quiet, consistency is hard to ignore. This quiet farmland with nary a sound stood no chance of providing solace. No herds or flocks. No birds or insects. Just quiet. The last visitor was ages ago, so long I can’t remember their face, their name, their voice. Even my own voice had begun to fail me; my sight turning black; my limbs growing heavy. As I contemplated, a large gust blew through the farmhouse, accompanied by a cold chill; dust scattering everywhere. Then I heard it, for one brief moment the echo was clear, the static gone. I could not make out the words, but I knew its direction. Eastward. I knew that I could not ignore it. Curiosity would eat away at me until insanity took its place. And so, with nothing on my back and no possessions to my name, I left my old farmhouse, my once bleating flock, my still and silent windmill. Eastward I would go, where the echo called me. I hope beyond hope that someone awaits me there.  As I marched east, I came to a place I knew all too well. A blinding sea of lights, but through the rays I could tell, I’ve been to this city. I sold crops and wool, knew the locals, attended meetings. We held festivals and danced the nights away. But the lights were much dimmer then, and the stars far brighter. It’s people, who once greeted me with warm smiles now disregarded me without as much as a glance, as if I were a shade not even worthy of a fragment of their time. And in all honesty, right now I wouldn’t even want it. The echo has become a voice. I do not know whose. It is alien yet familiar at the same time. But I know what it wants. It beckons me again, but I cannot focus. The sounds of the city are as deafening as its lights are blinding. It is torturous trying to listen in these streets. I must find somewhere quiet, somewhere like home, to get my bearings. I tried to remember the city from the time I still craved interaction and companionship. How I would pass the time and enjoy the company of my fellows. Then, it came to me. A theater. I passed through some new alleyways and arrived at my peace and quiet. An overstatement to be sure, as I could tell the theater had been abandoned some time ago. The walls were riddled with holes, the windows broken, and I can even see part of the roof had collapsed. This once home of plays and music now belonged to the rats and rodents of the city, and I joined them. Here I could focus on my objective, my purpose. I strained once more to listen to where the voice was coming from. But as I did, I could tell something was different. A voice? No, this was a song. It was beautiful. Somber and joyful; love for the old with the desire for something new. It came from the east once more. How I wish I could just stay and listen to the song like I used to. But the melody cried out for harmony, and I knew I must be the one to join in. I was tempted to stay and listen, but I would not dare make it wait. I pried myself from my spot and resolved to move on once more. I left the city behind. The blinding lights, the excessive sounds, the listless people, and I thought to myself, perhaps in another life I could find comfort in these things too. After a full day setting out from the farm, I finally saw my destination. I am sure. At the edge of the setting sun stood a small fishing village, boats barely visible on the horizon. The smell of salt coming in from the coastal wind. This place was home, but not. It was quiet and friendly. People talking in the streets. The market was abuzz with people haggling over today’s catch and meal. Families enjoying themselves together, despite their meager lot. A place where people knew each other, but they did not know me. It was not my place to be known; I was here for a greater reason. Now I could hear it clearly. It called to me . A song asking for me . This was different than the cacophony of the city or the gentle winds in my fields. It was sad; looking for another. It was joyful; the future it could find. It called to me . The salt permeated the air and mixed with the smell of fish. The docks creaked under the boots of the workers preparing for the night fish. From here I could hear the song out to sea. I knew I must go. I approached one of the workers asking for passage. He paid me no heed nor glance, continuing with his work. Assured in my mission, I took his indifference as a sign of acceptance. Climbing onto the boat, I looked out towards the now set sun preparing myself for what was to come. Out in the ocean, beyond the lights of the town, I found myself humming the song, joining in its melody. Despite never having been on the open water, I was sound of standing. Perhaps I have natural sea legs, or perhaps no legs at all. It didn’t matter now. I was close. In the middle of the night, the boat anchored looking for its catch; I had found it. The song, their song, had enveloped my very soul. I had taken my time, prepared my harmony, knew what I would say and sing. I gazed up at the stars one last time before turning my gaze downward. And there, in the mirrored sea of night, I saw them. A shadow. Joyful. Sorrowful. Quiet. Boisterous. Beautiful. Melodious. Harmonious. Me. Whole, for the first, and last, time.

lbybjm

Master Said He'd Marry Annette

Trigger warning: mild gore. The apples were rotting on their branches, encircled by an aura of fruit flies. The buzz of the garden vibrated through Annette’s being, burrowing through her ears like termites, eating away at her insides as though they were wood – only she didn’t have any insides, and she was, in fact, wooden. Given her hollowness, she was propelled forward only by an innate knowing – a curious something that animated her wooden legs, ridden with termite holes, to rise and fall with a featherlike frailty. A gust of wind could have toppled her over, a tug at the strings in her back, but tonight something else was guiding her, something else had tempered the breeze. Forward – she need only move forward, even if it meant on hands and knees.            The garden reeked sickly sweet of fruit rot, a waft of vinegar fluttering through the garden where butterflies ought to have been – she saw one pinned to a paperbark trunk, its blue swallowtail wings ending in black teardrops. Annette lifted a hand, and with two expertly carved whitewood fingertips, plucked the butterfly free – it floated to the ground like a withered leaf, dry and unmoving amongst crisp brown foliage. Annette pulled back the paperbark, slow and stiff, her ball and socket knuckles denying her leverage. Mounds of bark dropped to the ground, shed like snakeskin, revealing a trunk teeming with green and white caterpillars. Annette blinked, eyelids like roller blinds, and carried on, sparked by that unknown something abuzz in her metal joints. Her head still rustled and clicked with termites, and her strings dragged behind her like a muddy wedding train. Master always said he’d marry Annette, then he’d scooped out her heart and locked it in his chest – and though Annette had not the ears to hear her heart’s muffled scream resonate through the garden, she had the hollowness to sense something was missing, and this hollowness growled with hunger, this hollowness trailed ahead of her like fish bait on a line – through the garden, over a hill, around the acne-ridden apple trees and their oozing spots, through hoops of flies and the stench of fruit rot. To the beat of Annette’s heart, the clouds above expanded and contracted like dancing white gloves, strings of rain falling to the earth, and she found herself, as though of someone else’s volition, prancing from the garden into a cave as the dirt turned to mud; the leaves to mulch; the puffy white clouds, like beaten egg whites, to grey. And there in a dark and dusty corner lay Master on a large stone slab—a headstone? —his slick black hair like a raven’s head, his hooked nose like its beak, and his under-eyes as hollow as Annette herself, wine-coloured like her painted cheeks. And as she observed him sleeping restlessly, his eyelids fluttering as though in a nightmare, something seemed to glisten in her eye – maybe it was a raindrop, maybe it was the tiny white dots so precisely painted between her empty pupils and stagnant irises, glazed to perfection. But you would think she’d felt something – you would think she’d felt something with that stiff yet pensive head tilt. You’d think there was recognition in those watery eyes, as though the memories had come flooding back. And then she blinked that wooden blink, her rigid neck turning incrementally as she scanned the cave. There were wooden clear-view caskets like doll packages, marionettes within tangled in their strings. They were so finely carved—their lips, Cupid’s bows, eyes—one would swear they were alive. And then something spoke to Annette, vibrating like a voice through string and paper cups – she couldn’t hear it, but she could feel it, and it felt like an echo, an echo tied to her chest, to the hollowness, tugging her towards Master, to the stone slab, to the wooden chest beneath it. As she approached, light as a feather, Master stirred and rolled over, revealing a list of names inscribed on the slab – Annette’s the penultimate. She would have gasped if she weren’t numb – if she’d been made of flesh and bone, if there were feelings behind her face carved into beautiful apathy. She unlatched the chest on her third attempt, her wooden fingertips trembling with the energy of the living, with anticipation, with knowing – a knowing that animated her limp limbs, that filled her hollowness. The rusted hinges creaked as Annette pushed open the chest. Her heart! Her heart was in his chest, maggot-ridden and grey! There were many of them in fact, none his own, and it was hard to fathom that he, Master, was made of flesh and bone. Was his own heart not enough? Why steal from the poor to give to the rich? He was Robinhood subverted, and Annette twitched with something that can’t have been consciousness – she was wooden, after all. Within the chest, she found a a wooden cross, a marionette controller, connected to hearts—five, six, seven? —with strings like veins, pulsating. She tore hers free—she knew it when she saw it! saw its stubborn beat, the occasional fluttering— and it pumped crimson all over the cave floor, staining her hands like cherry wood. It was intuition that animated her jaws, which chomped away, toothlessly, at the oozing, maggot-ridden heart. She’d have cringed if she weren’t deadened, she’d have vomited it all back up. But even the halo of flies, encircling her head like stars of dizziness, failed to deter her. And as she licked her wooden fingers clean, her own blood dripping from her chin, her wooden knuckles popped out of their sockets and bounced across the cave floor, revealing pale, white skin, a hint of blue beneath its translucence; Annette could see life again, life flowing through her. She clenched a hand, two, and traced the lines on her soft, white palm. And then her eyes darted around the room, recognition, shock, tears (not raindrops!) and settled on the stone slab, on her name erasing itself as though dusted from a chalkboard. And there lay Master, his slick black hair like a raven’s head, his hooked nose like its beak. He always said he’d marry Annette, then he’d scooped out her heart and locked it in his chest…

fduwgi

Hope Deferred

I miss the days of rolling rubber bands off the newspaper, circling classifieds and dotting my map in red ink. Even so, I am old and bored at times, and I know my librarian’s yard sale starts tomorrow, so I open the online marketplace to locate her address. I never find it. I’m detoured by someone cleaning out a storage unit in California. A stack of framed art, tied with twine sucks me into the ad. I refuse to hope. I’ve looked through hundreds of framed pieces over the last twenty-two years with nothing but dead ends and despair. But in this photo, on the left corner of the third frame, my eye lights upon a blemish in the wood. A small chunk missing from mahogany edging. A sliver of trim that might just be wrapped in a scrap of velvet in the bottom of my jewelry box. I message the seller, asking for photos of the individual artworks.  He replies that he bought  the key to the storage unit at an estate sale, and already returned home after taking pictures. He will be on site Saturday for the sale. The address listed is 887 miles from my home. Today is Thursday. If I drive, it will take me almost two days to get there. I could fly, but how would I get something that size back home on a plane? Jack is out of town on business until Sunday afternoon. I can make it there and almost be back before he checks in with me. He will not be happy with his mother. From under my winter bathrobe at the back of the closet, I dig out an overnight bag and dust off the top with a stray sock. My toes tingle and my chest flutters. It’s been too long since I left this house for more than a trip to the grocery store or church on Sunday. I feel like a teenager sneaking out the back window at midnight. But it’s 10 a.m., and I need to hit the road if I’m going to make it to this sale on time. A few toiletries, my best pajamas, two t-shirts an extra pair of capris, appropriate undergarments, my bag is packed. I load up on snacks, a thermos of black coffee and a jug of water. My trusty map of the western states lives in the glove box, and Jack showed me how to use the Maps App.  He even bought me a holder for my dash ( a decision he might regret once he discovers his mother’s escapade, but better to ask forgiveness than permission at this point.) The garage door closes behind me and I blow a kiss to my little house. Gas enough to get me out of town, so no need to raise eyebrows at my station here. Once I hit the road, I turn up the radio and start singing along. I would open the windows and let my hair fly in the wind, but I just had it done yesterday, so I resist. The road feels good under my tires. So many trips from years past ribbon through my head. Family vacations, conferences for work, any excuse to hit the road. 126 miles from home, I pull off the interstate and under the canopy of a full-service, two -pump station to fill up. I leave the attendant to manage my tank while I empty my own in the corner restroom.  I return renewed with an extra-large cup of ice cold unsweet tea.. Only 772 miles to go. The route to California is straight West on I-80. Tough to get lost, but not your scenic drive like the back roads we used to take on our cross-country trips. I remind myself I’m on a mission, and it’s not grimacing at truckers when they box me in during their turtle races up the hills. It won’t help for a mad little grama lady to be honking or giving them the stink eye on the mountain pass. The Travelodge in Elko seems a good place to stop for the night. $65 with my AARP discount gets me a room and coffee and breakfast in the morning. As long as the sheets are clean and bug free, it works for me. I lay my cash on the counter. “You don’t want to put this on a card?” “Well, no I don’t. That’s why I gave you cash. Is there a problem?” “Uh, I guess not. I never had anyone pay in cash, that’s all.” “I’ll still take a receipt, please.” “Yeah, okay.” “And a recommendation for a good place to eat nearby?” “Shake shack right across the road. Burgers and shakes.” “Well, that certainly sounds like a place I need to try. Thank you, dear.” She smiles a little as she hands me my receipt and a room key. I make my way down the hallway to room 107. It’s definitely nothing fancy. The bedspread fabric is reminiscent of the decade Jack played sports in junior high and high school, and I followed the school bus to so many away games. I set my bags on the desk and feel the buzz of my phone in my purse. “Hello?” “Mom, are you okay? Why didn’t you pick up the first time I called?” “Oh, Jack, hello. I’m sorry, I was…busy. How are you dear?” “Busy with what, Mom? I’m fine, I wanted to check on you before my dinner meeting tonight. Is everything ok? “Well, aren’t you a sweet boy? I’m fine, Jack. Just working on a little project.” “What kind of project? “ “Oh, I’ll show you when I’m done, dear. Now, you go get yourself ready for your dinner and don’t you worry about me.” “Ok, Mom, but keep your phone ringer on so you can hear it next time. I don’t need to be sending Sandy over to check on you, right?” “Nope. All good. See you when you get back. Bye now, Dear.” Guilt makes it impossible to order a gut bomb, though the bacon double cheese on the menu looks divine. I settle for a small cobb salad and a chocolate malt with whip. I didn’t lie to Jack. I am working on a project. I am fine. I just left out details of my current location and destination. He’s a good boy, he really is. He constantly reminds me he’s not a boy, but he is my boy. The Sandy factor is not one I’d considered, but as long as I don’t provide any reasonable cause, my absence should remain unnoticed. My daughter-in-law doesn’t really consider me any of her business, which is fine. She seems to keep Jack happy, that’s enough for me. I leave a ten on the table to cover my ticket and a tip, then head back to the hotel, brush my teeth, don my pj’s, call the front desk for a wake up at six, and I’m out for the count. --- The phone jangles, shaking me out of my sleep, I have no idea where I am. It takes a few minutes to slow my heart rate from banging in my ears to reassemble my thinking. Last thing I need is some small-town headline reading that a little old lady passing through town dies of a heart attack in bright yellow pajamas. I regather my nerves and escort my bladder to the bathroom, splash my face, and change into my Day 2 shirt. I gather my things, make sure my phone volume is turned up before I put it in my purse, and head down to the lobby. Laying out my paper map to get a better overview of my drive for the day, I sip slightly burned coffee as I trace the route with my finger. I don’t plan to stop for lunch until Reno. I need to fill up with gas. I should make it to Sacramento before rush hour, and on to Elk Grove by supper time. The road is not nearly as familiar or friendly today. Sagebrush and nothingness. And heat. Radio stations are intermittent, and I feel like I am pedaling up the inclines. My sense of adventure and independence give way to second guessing and a growing regret for going this alone. I send up a few breath prayers, hoping the Lord will chalk up these transgressions on the “we’ll talk about it when you get here” side of things, which I prefer to be after, rather than because of this trip. I promise myself to send a message to Jack when I get to Reno. A semi passes me. I have to laugh at the Lord’s humor. A verse imprinted on the back of his trailer reads ...”If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.” And so I do. The rest of the way to Love’s truck stop in Reno. “Hi Jack. It’s your crazy Mama. Just want you to know I’m taking a little road trip. I might have found Grama’s painting. Sorry for not telling you. I’m fine.” I pause on the send button, then close my eyes and send the text off into Jack’s world. Fifteen seconds later it buzzes back. “MOM. Do NOT move until I call. I’m in a meeting, Ten minutes.” I shrink into a booth. A busy waitress asks what I want. “A menu would be nice, and a glass of water, please.” She grabs a menu off the next table and slaps it on the table in front of me. “Lunch special is meat loaf and mashed potatoes with green beans.” “Thanks,” I mumble, more concerned with the impending phone conversation. “Actually, if there is any left, the special sounds fine.” My phone buzzes angrily. “Hello, Jack.” “Mom, where ARE you? What on earth is going on?” I face the window in hopes my flushing face won’t attract attention. Or the tears forming on the ridge of my eyelids. Which of course makes my nose run. “Well Dear, I am in Reno, on my way to check out a sale at a storage unit in Elk Grove, California tomorrow morning. I think Grandma’s painting is there.” “Mom, how many times have you said the same thing? You’re in Reno? By yourself? What were you thinking?” “I thought it would be an adventure. I was afraid you wouldn’t let me go.” “Oh, Mom. What am I going to do with you? How many road trips have we taken together? You couldn’t wait for me?” “Well, no, the sale is only tomorrow. I have to check. You know I do.” I can hear him sigh and imagine him shaking his head. “How much farther do you have to go?” “A little over two hours.” “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. You need to share your location with me. I’ll walk you through how to do it on your phone. You call me as soon you get there and let me know where you’re staying. I’ll figure something out from there.” “Ok Jack…” The waitress plunks a plate on the tabletop and a glass of water from the crook of her elbow. The beans and mashed potatoes run together, but the home-cooked smell of meatloaf makes up for the lack of presentation. I let Jack navigate me through the technology needs, make my promises, then hang up and dig into my lunch. “Excuse me, ma’am, I hope you don’t mind if I interrupt…” A burly trucker stands at the end of my table. “Can I help you?” I try to swallow my green bean. “Well, Ma’am, I couldn’t help but notice you tailin’ me the last hundred miles or so. I wanted to make sure your vehicle is ok. “Why don’t you sit down and join me?” “I already ate, ma’am, but I’ll sit for a minute. Where are you headed, anyway? “Just outside of Sacramento.” “Well isn’t that just the Lord smiling down?  I just happen to be finishing my run just past there this afternoon. Would you mind escorting me another few miles? “That is so thoughtful of you. I’m afraid the Lord has too many of my shenanigans on His list to be smiling much. I am grateful for your kindness. What is your name, young man?” “My name is Josh, Ma’am. Joshua Walker.” “And mine is Matilda. But most people call me Matty.” “Well, Miss Matty, I’m going to run through my safety checks. When you finish your supper, I’ll meet you outside and check your engine fluids for you.” “I’m going to let my son Jack know an angel has come my way.” I text Jack and let him know I’m in good hands. Josh lays on his horn as I take the exit to Elk Grove and he waves goodbye out the window. “Lord, bless him!”  I spring for more modern accommodations and pull up to the Hampton Inn. Since Jack knows what I’m up to now, I don’t mind using my card to check in. A fresh room with clean white bedding and a big window overlooking the town helps my weary body to let go of the tension of the road. I let Jack know where I am and where I’m going tomorrow for the sale. It’s so nice here. I might just stay an extra day. Saturday sunshine wakes me instead of a phone call. Today’s the day. Jack’s right, I’ve hoped through hundreds of estate sales, garage sales, sidewalk sales, even art gallery sales. Hundreds of disappointments. But I still hope. I pull up to the gate of the storage place and down the rows until I finally spy the one I’m after. The contents spill out on the concrete between the rows, semi-organized and arranged, more stuff emerging from the back of the unit. I park, walk, search. I rub the velvet scrap in my pocket. Behind a rocker and a big steamer trunk, I spy the bundled frames from the photo online. “Morning! I’m Matty, I messaged you last night.” “Yeah, sale starts in 10 minutes.” “Could I at least look through the artworks?” “10 minutes. I need to finish pulling the stuff out.” I position myself close to the stack of art without getting in the way. Seven frames. The mahogany frame is third in from the building, but the tell-tale corner faces away from me. Several customers gather and I cement my stance to prevent anyone cutting in front of me. “It’s 7:30, here’s how this works,” the seller shouts to everyone. “Like an auction, I’ll hold up or point to an item with a starting price, and you can bid on it. Cash only. I’m out of here in two hours, so don’t mill about and gawk if you aren’t buying. Once you pay, you can take your items or take a label for a hold. You have one hour once the sale is closed to pick up your purchases. “Can we look through them before we buy things?” “No time to cherry pick. This is a bulk sale.” I’m determined to get to that piece, even if it means buying 6 more I don’t need. By 7:45, he’s already sold off a third of the contents of the building. At 7:50, he starts with the steamer trunk. “Anything inside?” someone shouts from the back. “Don’t know. Bid starts at fifty bucks.” There’s plenty of interest in the trunk, and it tops out at $250. The rocker is next and sells for $75. “A set of framed paintings and photographs. Bids begin at $45.” I miss the bid but jump in next. More volleys. It seems to pause at my bid of $125, holding my breath, but then someone raises the bid to $130. I only have $175 left in cash thanks to Elko. I am willing to part with all of it. Within a few elongated seconds, I cast my final bid at $175. “$185” I try not to cry. I came so close. “$200 closes the bids,” the seller shouts. “$200.” A new voice in the mix of the crowd. “Sold!” I know this voice. I turn and see my Jack behind me, the new owner of 7 mysterious pieces of art. “Jack? How? What are you doing here?” “You think I’m going to let my crazy mother do a road trip without me?” He grins. He puts his arms around me and squeezes tight. “I’ll be back. I have a purchase to secure.” Jack pays for the framed works and heaves them up on his broad shoulders. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. I’ll meet you at the hotel.” I practically race to the hotel. “I flew into Sacramento this morning and rented a car. We’ll return it tomorrow, then I’m driving home with you.” “Oh, Jack…” “We need to see what we bought. Let’s take a look.” He pops the trunk and unties the twine binding the pieces together. The first is a cheap Van Gogh print. The second, a photograph of a fawn in a field. The third frame is the mahogany with braided wood trim. Aged. Dusty. I hold my breath as my Jack turns it toward me. Brushstrokes in the style of Monet. Muted colors reflected as if seeing the scene through a glass. A scene by the park’s riverbank, a picnic blanket, a young mother beneath a tree with baby boy crawling at her feet. My baby boy.  My feet. Sculpted in oils by my grandmother’s hands. Her last painting. A frame grazed by Jack’s toy airplane at the braid edging. I hid the chip in my pocket. The painting disappeared when Gram’s death was liquidated.  Her estate swept clean of everything, including the artworks left in her apartment. I feel for the velvet in my pocket. The chip of wood braid. I hold it up against the faded spot on the corner. And it fits.

4wp0ej

Agatha’s footsteps

*As this is my first story on this website I am unsure if this is a sensitive theme. Mention of religious beliefs (not necessarily mine)* The first snowflakes made their way down to the remains of a once fertile ground. I had seen them do the same dance for twenty winters now, never setting foot outside these grounds. I had been faithful to Arch all my life but had yet to receive any of the things that he had once promised. The doomsday that he had once mentioned never came to pass after all. Our farm that was once used to seeing new faces on a regular basis only had me left as company. Although I had familiarized myself with the cold, I could not help but long for the day when the warmth would find its way back. Her smile, her golden locks befriending the wind on an early spring day, her eyes creating rivers late Autumn and her steady feet making their last performance mid-winter, leaving nothing but perfect footprints outside the wooden door.  I was fooling myself by thinking she would find herself back here eventually, even if she was simply driven by curiosity. That damn curiosity of hers, if only she had less of it maybe I wouldn’t have been stuck in this farm for this long. I should have left a while back, but I was in denial for a long time and courage is yet to completely embrace me. How could I love her when Arch existed? He was supposed to be my whole world, I wonder if God accepted him with open arms like he said he would. But maybe, and just maybe, Arch is burning in the deepest part of hell. Whatever it is, he is probably having a better time than me right now. Arch, that name was like a crown of thorns piercing my brain whenever it found its way back. Once upon a time his name could fill rooms with determined souls, Souls longing for a paradise promised by his mouth. He knew it all, I thought. She on other hand walked down a different path, always questioning him, never completely submitting to his illuminated mind. She was the darkness to his light, yet somehow, I can still clearly recall that late summer evening when the flowers showed their prettiest petals, the bird sang my favourite song, and I felt her warmth for the first time. I should probably get going, I have nothing left to do but to find her, I want to be released from my chains once and for all. I have tried everything to get rid of them on my own but as life would have it, she is the only one with the key. I know this, but even now I can’t help but hesitate while standing on the front porch. Just one step, one step and I can get going, but what if she never made it out of the forest? What if she left this earth long ago? Would I really be alone till the end? No, there was no point for me to dwell on such thoughts, I would simply have to find another solution if that was the case. I took my first step and walked, I walked all the way to the fence for the first time and what probably was going to be the last. I closed the fence behind me and continued walking. Once I made it to about 30 km west, I had my first encounter with people from the outside. The corrupt creatures were partaking in an extremely shameless and intimate moment behind the naked oak tree. Had I been a few years younger and more energetic, I would have made a scene, but after all these years I have come to understand that screaming or just talking overall requires an unnecessary amount of energy. Believe me, those cursed crows would know, so instead I simply walked past them, letting the stars and the moon be my only light for the night. Two Years. I had been walking and searching for two whole years. The world truly is corrupted not a single soul seems like it will be saved if it continues going at this rate. With every passing step I picture the old table in my kitchen and how I missed the years I spent doing nothing but looking out at the sparrows trying their best to survive. Regardless of my deep attachment to my previous house, I knew that there was no going back now. I had to simply keep walking. People constantly flooding the streets that my bonny legs wondered. Oh, my poor blue feet that wanted rest, my sorry eyes that had peeked into every home they had come across, not once had I taken a break. The flowers had just started to show their faces and the town I found myself in was not too bad. I had finally grown accustomed to people outside and their loud nature. I passed by a park with children chasing bubbles they would never catch, when I finally decided to sit down on a well-kept wooden bench. My eyes were fixated on the swaying trees when I heard her familiar voice yelling at a kid on a swing to slow down, and in the same breath scolding a man for not paying enough attention. My neck swung to the side in a matter of seconds. Then I saw her, the most beautiful woman on this earth bringing spring whenever she smiled, making every nightingale full of envy whenever she talked. She once again redirected her gaze towards the book in her hand and simply continued her task. The urge to cry was overwhelming and I could not resist to hug her one last time. For once in 23 years, I felt the warmth coming back, consuming my whole being. My Warmth, my Sarah, my baby, how I wish I could embrace you forever. That’s when I finally saw the light, and it was calling for me with such force that I could not help but feel like following it. I turned back one last time exiting with the only phrase that had been stuck on my mind for years “I am so sorry for not being a better mother.”

qyxvme

In Death, I Felt Alive

The wheel sank into the wet ground beneath us. The rain had pursued our wagon since we left town, relentless as if the sky itself had closed its eyes on us. The waggoner, an old Catholic man, did not stop, convinced this was his challenge from God. We sat in silence, chained to the wooden walls, lost in thoughts of what we had left behind and what awaited us at the end of the road. Our fate was to be forgotten, cast away in a prison meant for our kind. We had not earned this punishment through crime or sin, but simply by existing. We were not criminals; to many, we were something far worse. The sickness marked us, turning us into the walking dead. We were lepers. I had never left the town before. I had everything there; my parents, whose love got me to the academy, or "house of learning" as they called it. There I found my friends, my colleagues, and my love. I never felt the need to leave; my life was there.I studied herbology, anatomy, and other sciences, but my true passion lay in books about monsters—cruel beasts with sharp fangs and deadly claws. Were they truly as ferocious as described, or perhaps more misunderstood by the same people who saw us as monsters? Heavy raindrops fell on the roof of our wheeled prison. There were no windows to look outside. I did not know where we were. Maybe on the king's road, which was lined with statues and lanterns pointing the way for the waggoner. Maybe we were driving in the mountains, where lightning struck the top and the stone giant answered by shoving large rocks down, destroying everything that stood in their way. Or maybe we took the route near the coast, favorite roads of merchants and sailors who carried exotic goods. I tried to imagine the sea, which was certainly showing its displeasure in this storm, through the waves that were crashing higher and through the cries of the pirates on the ships who were trying in vain to escape their fate. It was a funny idea as I have never been near the sea. I have read about the smell of the sea, the feel of the sand. Never have I understood why I did not come to the beach. I had never felt the need to swim in salty water, but as I sat in the wagon that was taking me away, it was the only thing I could think about. But I knew I would never feel any of that. The lightning struck and illuminated our room for a brief second. It woke up the elderly woman beside me. She did not speak. Nobody in this wagon ever spoke a word. Her face was scared and tired, her hands were big and shaking. What could have life been like for her? I never met anyone outside the academy except beggars and occasional travelers from far away lands. My community was full of intelligent people, high class elite. Never have I ever talked with someone like this woman. What could I have learned from her? Was she a worker in the fields, carrying heavy tools every day? Maybe she was an old adventurer, a heroine from my favorite legends. Or maybe she was something so simple yet beautiful as mother. I never cared if people have children or not. Maybe because children never came to my mind. Funny, how those thoughts crossed my mind from the moment I was diagnosed with this grim illness. Maybe the leprosy was not my prison. What was life in books? Maybe I was chained in a golden cage, surrounded by other blind prisoners unaware of our lack of freedom. Comfort in the university chambers, tables always full of food in our dining rooms. We were never bored, not because of the thrill of our work, but because we were not allowed to see adventures as something more than just reports in the books. Is it possible that I felt more alive chained into wooden walls of our transport than inside my lecture room? The rain got angrier, the howling of wind screamed at our unholy company. Every moment when lightning let me see a glimpse of the faces of my travelers created new questions. Who was the man with black beard in the corner? Maybe he was a knight, a gentle nobleman, who devoted his life to spreading good. Or maybe he was a bandit, foolhardy rogue, living every day in a cutthroat environment. Who was the young woman with fire hair? Maybe she was a herbalist, a merchant, or even a witch. Could she save us from our destiny? Was she punished by God for her witchcraft? What did her daily routine look like? Picking herbs in the morning, making potions at noon and performing dark rituals at night, all while hiding from the torches of the Inquisition. And who was the waggoner? Was he something more than a religious warden, leader of our journey into oblivion? Maybe he had a family. Maybe they were waiting for him, maybe they were dead and he had no one except us. Was this his last journey? Is he different from us? The roof was soaked, chains were colder and gloomier, air was so cold that you could see everyone's breath. I never noticed those feelings. But they made me smile. The lightning hit our wagon, and I felt the violent jolt as the storm roared above us and the bolting of frightened horses. The waggoner tried to calm them, but they started running, not listening to any of his words, not feeling the bloody whip in his hand. The wagon lurched forward, the wheels skidding in the mud as we were tossed against the walls like ragdolls. The waggon swerved wildly, the rain blurring everything outside. Then, with a sudden, sickening tilt, it tipped. We were airborne for a heartbeat before everything turned upside down. The wagon crashed, rolling over and over, before plunging into the abyss below, swallowed by the stormy darkness. Raindrops woke me. It was ironic—back in the city, I used to flee at the first sign of dark clouds, never appreciating their cold, calming embrace. But there was no time for such thoughts now. I stood up amidst the wreckage, surrounded by shattered wood and broken chains. The man with the black beard lay motionless, his chest impaled by a splintered plank. Is this how he imagined his end? Nearby, the red-haired woman lay lifeless, her arm torn away, her body broken on the sharp stones. Did she see God in her final moments, or had she been damned long before? As the world settled into an eerie silence after the crash, broken only by the relentless rain, a low moan of pain cut through the darkness. I recognized the voice—it was the elderly woman who had been sitting beside me. Her groans were weak, each one a struggle, and they sent a shiver down my spine. I tried to help her; I felt like all those years of studying had led me to this moment. But this was the first time I was without my tools, without other lecturers. My mind raced through memories of lessons at the academy, searching for something, anything, that could ease her pain. I had to save her. The heavy thud of boots on wet ground broke through the night, growing louder as they approached. The waggoner was coming, his steps deliberate and heavy, splashing through the mud with a determined pace. The sound sent a fresh wave of fear through me, but I kept my focus on the elderly woman, her breaths growing more frantic. “Leave her, it is no use.” The cold voice of the waggoner sent a shiver down my spine, freezing the air in my lungs. I tried to ignore him, to stay focused on helping the woman, but his presence grew more menacing as he closed in. With a rough shove, he pushed me aside, and I stumbled, fear rooting me to the ground. My body refused to obey as I watched him approach her, a cruel dagger gleaming in his hand, catching the faint light of the storm. He knelt beside her, his face expressionless, as if the act he was about to commit meant nothing. Her eyes, wide with terror, locked onto mine, silently pleading for help I couldn’t give. With a swift, merciless motion, the waggoner drove the blade into her chest. The air left her in a choked gasp, and life drained from her eyes as quickly as the blood-soaked the ground beneath her. He looked at me, with a look of disgust. “She was just a leper, nothing more.” Then I realized it. All the years I learned about creatures hidden in the dark, the foolhardy beasts and monsters from nightmares, were wasted as I was already living with evil around. It was not animals, nor folklore threats that imprisoned me, manipulated me to see only beautiful things, ignoring the rest of the world, the suffering of people. If I was still at university, I would be the same as this evil waggoner, judging lepers as nothing more than pieces of corrupted flash. The rich and powerful, the ones that decided how life should work, were the real monsters. They tried to convince us that we are damned, that we are already dead. Funny. At that moment I felt alive for the first time. Maybe we were monsters after all, but they made us this way. They forced us into the shadows, preserving their illusion of a perfect world. Banished us to distant leprosariums to erase our existence. Did they expect us to obey like dogs? That was never my plan. If they wanted us to be the creatures that haunt their nightmares, so be it. We were just lepers, touched by death, with nothing left to lose. I thought of this as I strangled the waggoner with the remnants of my chain, the cold metal of the chain digging into his flesh. As his breath faltered and his life drained away, I felt nothing but a cold, quiet satisfaction. I was free, at least for a moment. The storm did not bother me anymore. I could go whenever I wanted and do whatever I wished. But all I wanted was to look around, smell nature, and gaze into the deep forest. Maybe I will be ambushed by bandits. Maybe I will find a coven of witches. Or maybe I will become one of the monsters I always read about. It was my moment of freedom. The moment I cherished until the end.

bpi7iy

There are More Things

Dressed in his white suit, Wally Fitzhugh sat alone at a table in the bar car of the train. He liked his space. The immense scenery rolled slowly by. How many had ridden by the ancient hills and taken them for granted? Adapting to the rocking motion, other passengers strode back and forth. Three teenagers played cards at another table. Their laughter filled the car. ‘Don’t they know gambling’s illegal? A Conductor should stop them.’ Though about their age, Wally preferred watching the scenery to socializing with strangers. It was a given. Whether he’d fit in or not, Wally felt the outsider. Why fight it? Wally never mastered social skills. Always treated like the odd kid, he saw himself as the sole adult surrounded by hyper-hormonal idiots. Why wade in the runoff? He’d never ridden a train or been anywhere. He’d barely left the campus where he grew up, the foster child of the Psych Department Dean. This trip had an urgent purpose. He could have flown, but he needed time to sit alone and think. And he’d never been on a train. Wally didn’t know anything of his real family until a letter arrived from Houston Busker claiming to be his brother. He lived a few hundred miles away. The letter read… Dear Wallace, let me introduce myself. I’m your (long lost) brother, Houston Busker. I hope this finds you well. Sorry for contacting you so late, but our father has died. I thought you should know. It took time to find you. Please come here ASAP so we can meet and address certain legalities. Look forward to meeting you, Houston Busker p.s. You’re mentioned in the will. Houston included his contact information and address. Their father had died, and Wally was named in the will of the man he’d never known. He has a brother? All new information. He always figured he’d had parents but knew nothing more. Having a brother was a wild card. Older? Younger? Twins? Who is Houston? What’s he like? So many questions. His foster father was no help. Why leave his comfortable existence in a dorm room protected by a wall of books…? Nothing could prepare him for this mysterious adventure. Approaching the station, the rhythm of wheels over rails slowed. Anticipating what would happen, Wally felt a quickening. His foster father suggested he travel light, ‘but plan for contingencies.’ When the train halted, everyone retrieved their luggage. Careful about his white suit, Wally joined the throng pressing to exit. Once on the platform, the crowd moved as one toward the main building. The PA echoed. It was chaos. ‘How will I know him? And once found, what then?’ What had he undertaken? And why? Leaving his safe seclusion in pursuit of what? This could be a scam. Houston was the least of his problems. Alone in a strange city, he could fall prey to any number of predators and thieves. Walking with the crowd, Wally became aware of a disheveled young man in desperate need of a haircut. His beard seemed infinite. Wearing a garish, half-tucked shirt, and baggy pants held up with suspenders, he approached and matched his stride. Wally realized it could be himself had life sent him down a different path. The stranger said, “Wally, right?” “Do I know you?” Grinning, he said, “Houston Busker, bro. At your service.” Contrary to his appearance, Houston bowed. Wally nodded, aware that people were streaming around them. “Uh, hi. What now?” He offered his hand but feeling silly, retracted it. Houston grabbed the rollaway. “Follow me.” Wally ran to keep up. The whole world awaited outside the station. Horns honked. Brakes squealed. Engines revved by. Sirens soared. Music thumped from car speakers. A helicopter hovered. Keeping Houston in sight kept Wally from seeking refuge. He shouted. “Where are we going?” “My place. A few blocks down.” “Walking?” “You got a car?” Houston deftly navigated the sidewalk populated by panhandlers, dog walkers and tourists. They entered a street market filled with banners and food booths. Buskers entertained at every corner. An army of entrepreneurs hawked souvenirs. ‘Where’d he go?’ Houston had disappeared. Adrenaline fueled his frantic scanning of the crowd. He flinched from a hand slapping his shoulder. Houston leaned close. “This way, buddy…” Houston pulled him toward a stairway leading upward. They ran up. Houston opened the door and let Wally into the cramped apartment. A bird fluttered about. Houston snapped a kitchen towel at it until it flew out the window overlooking the street. “Damn bird…” “Could always close the window…” “You kidding? In this heat?” Making space, he moved a pile of laundry from the couch and directed Wally to sit. “Don’t mind the clutter. Make yourself at home. Coffee?” Looking about in amazement, Wally nodded. At least it was quiet. He brushed off the cushion before sitting. He’d heard of clutter, but Houston’s apartment defied description. Overflowing the sink, unwashed dishes lay everywhere. A tall stack of pizza boxes supported a table lamp. Covered with guitar picks, a pitch pipe, and an ash tray filled with short cigar butts, a cable spool served as a makeshift table. Several piles of sheet music rested on the stained carpet. The walls were papered with unframed photos and posters for musical acts from a local jazz club. Wally spent his life in an austere, white dorm room. A clock and calendar adorned one wall. He couldn’t sleep if a pencil lay askew on his desk. Houston’s living room was dominated by a variety of musical instruments, some in cases. Most leaned randomly against a weathered upright piano. Its varnish had bubbled and peeled from years spent outdoors. One of its pedals was absent. The keyboard looked like an ad for teeth implants. A violin bow lay across it. He realized the piano’s tilt came from the floor’s sloping into the corner. There were no books. Sensing movement, he turned to see a cockroach perched atop an empty take-out container. Carrying coffee, Houston said, “Don’t mind him. They don’t bite.” He sat and handed Wally a cup. Wally hesitated. ‘Is it clean?’ But he didn’t want to be rude. Sitting face to face with Houston, his situation stood in stark relief. ‘ What have I done?’ Houston asked, “Cigar?” “Naw. Don’t smoke.” They looked on in silence. Neither knew where to start. Each bought time by sipping coffee. “Good coffee…” Houston smiled. “Wow! So much to say.” He gestured to the room. “My home. My life. Grew up here. You’re sitting where I slept most of my life.” Wally wanted to leave. “Now I sleep in what was Pop’s room.” “Tell me about our father… Our mother?” “Yeah, she died young. Never knew her… But…” Houston laughed as memories surged into his mind. “He was… great. The best.” He gestured to the room. “One of the great musicians. Legendary. Taught me everything. Everything… We’re buskers… Street musicians, you know… But he played on so many records. Sat in with everyone. Could play any instrument, any style. He was a national treasure.” “Wish I’d known him. He played the violin?” Houston grabbed the bow. “Yeah. Mainly… Countless hours fiddling… You play?” He passed the bow to Wally, who examined it. “A little… I didn’t bring…” Houston pulled a violin case from the collection. “Check it out.” Wally opened the case to reveal his father’s violin, used, but well loved. Plucking the strings, he found it in tune. He held it up to his shoulder with reverence. Drawing the bow slowly, he played a pure note. Though precise, it had no more heart than a file drawer squeaking open. It had been a while. He’d missed it. Houston nodded. “What do you play?” “I’m not good. Love Mozart. He was wild.” Houston nodded. “Go for it.” Wally played a few phrases from Sonata 24, his favorite. Out of practice, he felt stiff. He set it down. “I’m rusty.” “That’s cool. If you don’t play every day… Yours if you want it.” Wally shook his head. “Might as well… Part of your inheritance…” Wally stared at the instrument in awe. The weight of things began to settle on him. Houston said, “Pops was the fiddler. Our full-time gig. Every day. When he played a combination, you’d grin while tears rolled down your cheeks.” He paused at the memory. “And funny! We were always laughing. And playing music. Once we got going, we’d forget to eat. I’m a guitar guy. Some mandolin… the uke.” “I can’t imagine. Spend my time studying.” “You in school?” “Yeah, prepping for my bar exam.” “You’re kidding. You’re what? Eighteen, like me? We must be twins.” Wally nodded. “My foster parents saw potential. Encouraged me. I want to be a prosecutor.” “That’s incredible. I barely graduated high school, and you already got a degree?” “Basically, only know my foster parents from attending seminars and campus workshops. Being busy with careers and stuff, they left me to my own devices.” Houston shook his head. “Don’t get it. Why would they…?” Wally shrugged. “The timing of your letter was… I’m between semesters. Wouldn’t have been free to come…” “You must be rich.” He looked around. “We were never rich but did alright.” “Hardly… I live in a room on campus. Keep to myself. Own a bunch of books.” “I have a book. By the bed. Read it every morning.” “Oh, that one? I read it. Any lawyer needs it to know the law.” Houston nodded. “But college… Lots of girls though. You’re young, smart…” “I’m the odd ball. Don’t fit in, so…” “Yeah, but…” “I’m ‘the kid…’ When I was fourteen, some frat rats pranked me. Snuck a girl into my room when I was asleep. She must have been twenty!” “Wow, man!” “I was clueless.” ‘Still am…’ “The resident went nuts when he found out. Don’t think she got pregnant though.” “Was she naked?” “Don’t think so.” “Think you’d know. Probably don’t have to worry then.” “Shoulda’ heard the nicknames they gave me… Thought they’d never give it up. Never touched a girl before that.” Wally thought, ‘Or since…’ He said, “Guess I’m a loner. Getting here today was crazy. So many people jostling each other... Don’t like hallways crammed with students. The street was nuts.” Houston laughed. “That’s where it happens, man. You’ll get used to it.” Wally looked at him, uncomprehending. Houston said, “We should get going. Go play. Get some tips. Eat…” “No, I can’t play. I’ve got money. We can buy something…” “No you don’t. You’re Pop’s kid. Can’t refuse to busker. That’s our name, man. Live the life, if only for a minute.” He hadn’t signed on for this. Wally stood and brushed off his pants. “I’m not a fiddler.” “It’ll be great. Follow my lead.” “Should I change?” “No. You’re stylin’… Come on…” With foreboding, Wally took Pop’s violin and followed Houston down to the street. They found an unclaimed corner. After pulling his guitar from the case, Houston threw a few dollar bills and some change into it. “Gotta prime the pump…” Wally pulled a twenty out, but Houston stopped him. “No, man. I said prime it. Don’t scare people off.” Wally nodded. Houston slung his guitar over his shoulder and strummed. He tweaked the tuning for a moment and said, “No pressure. Join in as the spirit moves you.” He played a chord and then stopped. “You sing?” Wally laughed. “Don’t bet on it.” Houston played his intro and began to sing. His voice was good. It drew people. Though completely out of his comfort zone, Wally tapped his foot. After the first verse, he got a sense of the song and set his bow to harmonize with Houston. Hearing the violin, his brother nodded. People gathered, swayed and clapped along. Wally relaxed. Down the way, two kids grabbed some pastries and ran helter-skelter through the crowd. Yelling, the vendor pursued them. “Stop! Thieves!” One kid tripped and fell into Wally. The stolen pastry burst onto his white jacket. The other kept running. The vendor came up. “Thieves! They stole my pies.” Desperate and in tears, the boy clung to Wally. “I’m sorry. I ruined your jacket. I’m sorry.” Houston took the violin from him. Shocked, Wally looked around. ‘The kid’s desperate. He stole. He ruined my suit. Is this for real?’ “I didn’t mean it. We were just playing. What can I do?” Restrained by the crowd, the vendor screamed at them. Wally held up his hands to quiet him. He patted the boy’s head. Strangely moved, Wally felt something new. No one ever held him. Or needed him. No one ever apologized. Nothing he’d done had ever mattered. He spoke to the vendor. “What do they owe?” The vendor saw an opportunity. “Ten dollar. Two for five. They stole three…” Wally pulled out his wallet and handed him a twenty. “How many pies do you have? Back at your booth?” “Oh… a couple dozen…” “Leave the kid alone. I’ll buy them all.” Everyone cheered. The vendor laughed and ran back to his display doing a fist pump. The kid couldn’t believe what happened. “I’m sorry, man. Thanks…” Wally examined his suit jacket. A big purple smear stained the left front panel. Houston said, “That’ll never come out. It’s done.” Wally reached down for a chunk of the ruined pie. He daubed the right side of his jacket with the blueberry filling leaving countless purple spots. No one could believe it. He grinned. “It needed balance… Like my new busker jacket?” The vendor came back with two boxes of pastries. Wally gave him five twenties and passed the boxes to the kid. “Make sure everyone gets one.” Laughing, the kid started distributing pastries. Everyone applauded. Houston strummed the intro to another song. The brothers grinned at each other. Wally realized the world wouldn’t end if he broke some rules he’d always gripped tightly. He picked up the fiddle. No longer striving for perfection he let loose. Going wild, he made outrageous attacks on the strings. It wasn’t perfect, but it was great. The crowd loved it. Houston stopped playing and watched with a broad grin. “You’re playing like Pops!” He yelled, “Ladies and gentlemen… The Busker Brothers!” The crowd grew. The guitar case filled with tips. In celebration, they played into the night.

n1m827

Reunion at the Theatre

Part I: The Pyramid’s Arrival Beatriz Chanoyu stood on the bridge overlooking the stream that meandered through the urban landscape of Nazca. The water below reflected the late afternoon sunlight in shimmering, golden patterns. The river, with its mix of clear currents and patches of discoloration from upstream debris, flowed lazily under her gaze. Nearby, a great kiskadee with its bright yellow underparts and rusty brown wings swooped down to snatch an insect near the water’s edge. The surrounding greenery, a mix of lush vegetation and patches of scrubland, provided a soothing contrast to the concrete buildings lining the riverbanks. But Beatriz’s mind was far from tranquil. As a journalist tasked with covering the most enigmatic and bizarre occurrences in the region, she had grown accustomed to strange phenomena. Yet, the recent discovery had unsettled her. A pyramid had appeared on the Nazca Plain—five meters on each side, its presence unreported and as mysterious as the ancient geoglyphs that surrounded it. It wasn’t just the pyramid’s sudden materialization that disturbed her; it was what the government had declared about it. A low buzz emanated from her pocket, pulling her out of her reverie. Beatriz took her phone out and saw the notification that was broadcasted on every major news channel across the country. Beatriz’s fingers hovered over the screen as she hesitated to open the video. She knew the contents well enough—had even helped draft parts of it for the Ministry of Cultural Affairs—but seeing it on her phone screen made it feel disturbingly real. Taking a deep breath, she pressed play. The familiar voice of the Minister of Culture echoed through her earbuds, the weight of his words pressing down on her like a physical burden. “We regret to inform the citizens of Nazca, and the world at large, of an unprecedented discovery on the Nazca Plain. A pyramid, perfectly formed and radiating a peculiar luminescence, has appeared on a remote section of the plain, nestled between the ancient geoglyphs of the hummingbird and the spider. Initial investigations by our top scientists reveal that the pyramid’s surface is smooth to the touch and emits a low-frequency hum that defies conventional explanation. “We are consulting with international experts and scientists to better understand the implications of this ‘reality-changing’ artifact. “We ask that the public remains calm as we continue our investigation. Until more is known, the area surrounding the pyramid has been declared off-limits. Unauthorized individuals attempting to approach the site will be detained. “In the meantime, we urge everyone to be vigilant and report any unusual occurrences or phenomena to the local authorities. Together, we must face this challenge with the courage and resolve that has defined the nation of Peru.” The video ended, leaving Beatriz in stunned silence. This was no ordinary archaeological discovery, obviously but she was still unaware of how personally implicated she was to become. She tucked the phone back into her bejewelled bag and began the short but dangerous walk to her apartment. Each step tempted her to look backwards as a mystery now seemed to grow more complex and frightening for those aware of the communication with each passing hour. Part II: The Play and the Revelation The theater was small and intimate, the perfect setting for the amateur production put on by the Escola de Belas Artes. Beatriz sat in the back row, her mind still reeling from the government’s announcement. She had hoped the play would offer a distraction, a brief respite from the looming mystery of the pyramid. But as the lights dimmed and the actors took the stage, she found her thoughts drifting back to the Nazca Plain. Evidently the cast and audience were not connected to the internet. The play, a whimsical take on construction workers discovering a hidden world beneath a bustling city, was charming in its simplicity. The actors, clad in makeshift builders’ outfits with stapled-on parts of furniture, stumbled through their roles with an endearing earnestness. The dialogue was filled with hesitant queries of, “Is something there I need to know about?” and awkward pauses, but the amateurishness added to the play’s charm. As the story unfolded, a commanding voice from the back of the theater announced the entrance of the Spirit. The crisp narration brought a sense of solemnity to the scene, elevating the humble production. Then, as if by some strange coincidence, a video projection illuminated the stage, showing several seconds of copyrighted dancing from a global superstar. The unexpected addition gave the performance an air of sophistication, a reminder of the world beyond the theater’s walls. But Beatriz’s mind was elsewhere. The pyramid, with its reality-altering potential, loomed large in her thoughts. The play had been written before the pyramid’s discovery, its themes and storylines a subtle nod to the mysteries of the ancient world. Yet the audience, unaware of the real-life enigma just beyond their city’s borders, laughed and clapped, oblivious to the anthropological performance that was building a pyramid outside as well. As the play concluded and the audience began to disperse, Beatriz checked her watch. Her regular clients would be waiting for her back at her office. In small print below her name sign it read: Reporting on the enigmas of science, ancient archaeology, and DNA discoveries. Fixed behind the glass door, a sign read: Appointments on the hour, Monday to Friday, and her schedule, much like the cosmos she explored, oscillated between Closed and Open, depending on when she chose. She felt a pang of guilt until she realized that everyone had dispersed. The city’s lights were twinkling around her. The sloping streets, with their handrails and narrow walkways, led her to the next street out of curiosity. “We’re ready to eat, Ms. Chanoyu,” one of them said. “Care to join us?” Spanish hospitality was touching. Beatriz joined in and found the food still palatable. As she reached for the last container, she spotted something moving inside—a small, wriggling creature. An assassin caterpillar. She grimaced and quickly squashed it, disposing of the remnants before returning to the theater. The experience left her feeling unsettled. Back at the theater, she joined the audience in the makeshift dining area, eating quietly as she mulled over the day’s events. When the meal was finished, she wiped her mouth with a paper towel and stood up, addressing the room. “It was a fine play, all of you,” she began, her voice carrying over the low murmur of conversation. “But you must know that a strange signal has arrived where the Nazca lines and geoglyphs intersect.” The room fell silent. Some of the guests exchanged uneasy glances, while others stared at her with a mix of confusion and annoyance. Beatriz knew she had violated an unspoken rule—bringing up such a serious topic at a social gathering was seen as inappropriate, almost taboo. But the pyramid weighed too heavily on her mind to remain silent. Beatriz regretted her outburst, knowing she had alienated herself from the group, but the pyramid’s existence was too important to ignore. Part III: A Chance Encounter The following day, Beatriz sat in her office, her eyes scanning the waiting room. The magazines and newspapers scattered across the tables were filled with the usual headlines—politics, celebrity gossip, local events. But tucked away in the corner, almost hidden from view, was a small black-and-white photograph of the pyramid. The image showed the pyramid nestled among the geoglyphs, its smooth surface reflecting the harsh desert sun. To the untrained eye, it might have seemed like a trick of the light, a mirage created by the shifting sands. But Beatriz knew better. She leaned back in her chair, her mind replaying the events of the previous night. The announcement, the play, the strange sense of unease that had settled over her. It was all connected, she was sure of it. But how? A knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts. She looked up to see a young woman standing in the doorway, her frizzy hair framing a face filled with curiosity. “Excuse me,” the woman began, her voice tinged with nervous excitement. “But I couldn’t help noticing your captivating presence at the theater last night. I find myself intrigued, wondering if perhaps fate has granted me the opportunity to share this moment with someone as enchanting as yourself. Would you perhaps have a conversation over a cup of coffee?” Beatriz blinked in surprise. The woman’s words, spoken in flawless Spanish, caught her off guard. She had expected a client, someone with a question about the pyramid or a lead on a new story. But this was different—unexpected. “I… sure,” Beatriz replied, still processing the woman’s sudden appearance. “Coffee sounds nice.” The two women left the office and walked to a nearby café, the streets bustling with the midday crowd. As they sat down with their drinks, Beatriz studied her companion, trying to make sense of the encounter. “My name’s Flora Moxie,” the woman said, offering a warm smile. “I’m an archaeologist, here in Nazca to study the geoglyphs.” “Beatriz Chanoyu,” Beatriz replied, shaking her hand. “I’m a journalist, specializing in ancient mysteries.” Flora’s eyes lit up at the mention of Beatriz’s profession. “Then you must have heard about the pyramid,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s all anyone in my field can talk about.” Beatriz nodded, feeling a sense of kinship with the young archaeologist. “I’ve heard more than most,” she admitted. “The government’s announcement… it’s hard to know what to believe.” Flora leaned in closer, her expression intense. “That’s just it,” she said. “The pyramid isn’t just some random anomaly. It’s connected to something much bigger—something ancient and powerful. I’ve been researching the Eternals, a group mentioned in some of the oldest legends and texts. They were said to have the power to alter reality itself.” Beatriz felt a chill run down her spine. The Eternals. She had come across the name in her research but had dismissed it as myth, a product of overactive imaginations from a bygone era. But now, hearing Flora speak of them with such conviction, she wasn’t so sure. “Do you think the pyramid is their doing?” Beatriz asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Flora nodded. “I do. And I think the government knows more than they’re letting on. This ‘reality-changing’ declaration… it’s a cover for something much more dangerous.” Beatriz felt a surge of adrenaline. This was it—the lead she had been waiting for, the missing piece of the puzzle. If Flora was right, then the pyramid wasn’t just an archaeological curiosity. It was a threat, one that could change the course of history. “We need to investigate this further,” Beatriz said, her mind racing with possibilities. “But we’ll need to be careful. If the government is involved, we can’t afford to draw attention to ourselves.” Flora nodded in agreement. “I have some contacts who might be able to help,” she said. “But we’ll need to move quickly. The longer we wait, the more dangerous this becomes.” Beatriz’s heart pounded in her chest. She had come to Nazca in search of stories, of mysteries to unravel. But now, it seemed, she had found herself at the center of something far more significant than she had ever imagined. As the two women left the café, the weight of their task settled on Beatriz’s shoulders. The pyramid, the Eternals, the government’s secrets—it was all connected, and it was up to them to uncover the truth. Part IV: Uncovering the Secrets The next few days passed in a blur of research and late-night meetings. Beatriz and Flora worked tirelessly, piecing together the fragments of information they had gathered. The more they uncovered, the more convinced they became that the pyramid was no ordinary structure. Flora’s contacts provided them with access to restricted documents and classified reports, many of which confirmed their suspicions. The pyramid was emitting a strange energy, one that seemed to warp the very fabric of reality. Objects near the pyramid would shift and change, sometimes disappearing altogether. Even time itself seemed to behave differently within its proximity. But it wasn’t just the physical anomalies that troubled Beatriz. The reports hinted at something darker, something that sent a shiver down her spine. Several scientists who had studied the pyramid up close had fallen ill, their minds unraveling in ways that defied medical explanation. Beatriz and Flora knew they needed to get closer to the pyramid if they were to uncover the full truth. But with the government’s tight security, that was easier said than done. The area surrounding the pyramid was heavily guarded, with soldiers patrolling day and night. Unauthorized access was impossible, and anyone caught trying to get near was immediately detained. But Beatriz was determined. This was her story, the one that could define her career—and perhaps even change the world. One evening, as they poured over maps and satellite images of the Nazca Plain, Flora looked up with a gleam in her eye. “There’s a way,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “There’s an old tunnel system beneath the plain, dating back to the pre-Inca era. If we can find the entrance, we might be able to get close to the pyramid without being detected.” Beatriz felt a surge of excitement. It was a long shot, but it was their best chance. Together, they gathered their supplies—flashlights, ropes, cameras, and notebooks—preparing for what could be the most important journey of their lives. They set out before dawn, the desert air cool and still. The entrance to the tunnel system was hidden in a rocky outcrop, concealed by centuries of wind and sand. Flora’s archaeological expertise proved invaluable as she carefully unearthed the ancient stone slab that marked the entrance. The tunnel was dark and narrow, the air thick with the scent of earth and decay. Beatriz felt a thrill of fear and excitement as they descended into the darkness, their flashlights casting eerie shadows on the walls. As they made their way deeper into the tunnel, the air grew cooler, and the walls seemed to pulse with a strange energy. Beatriz’s mind raced with possibilities—what would they find at the end of this journey? Would they finally uncover the secrets of the pyramid, or would they meet the same fate as the scientists who had come before them? After what felt like hours of navigating the twisting passageways, they reached a dead end. But Flora, undeterred, examined the walls carefully, her fingers tracing the ancient carvings that adorned the stone. “There’s something here,” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the silence. Beatriz watched as Flora pressed her hand against one of the carvings, and with a soft rumble, the wall began to move. A hidden door slid open, revealing a chamber bathed in a strange, pulsating light. Inside, the pyramid loomed before them, its surface glowing with an otherworldly luminescence. The air crackled with energy, and Beatriz felt a strange sensation, as if the very fabric of reality was shifting around her. Flora took a step forward, her eyes wide with awe and fear. “This is it,” she breathed. “It’s the Astronaut sculpture.” Beatriz raised her camera, capturing the sculpture which was too heavy for the pair of them to lift before her. The pyramid’s surface was smooth and featureless, yet it seemed to ripple and change as they watched, as if it were alive. Essentially what the Astronaut was was a rendering in three dimensions of the Nazca geoglyph known as the Astronaut, wrought in fine granite with rubies encrusted into its shape which had no openings and was obviously one piece of stone. Beatriz recognized it first but Flora Moxie knew something else. It had been in the auction in Cahuachi – the same auction which her farther the drug smuggler had attended to sell his own works of art in order to finance his coup upon the Peruvian government. The Eternals were attempting to change history by offering it to her possession. Suddenly, the ground beneath them shook, and a low, humming sound filled the chamber. Beatriz stumbled, her heart racing with fear. The pyramid’s light grew brighter, and for a moment, she felt as if the world around her was dissolving, reality itself unraveling at the seams. But then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the shaking stopped, and the light dimmed. Beatriz and Flora stood in stunned silence, their minds reeling from the experience. “We need to get out of here,” Beatriz said, her voice trembling. “Whatever this is, it’s beyond anything we can comprehend.” Flora nodded, her face pale. Together, they hurried back through the tunnel, the weight of their discovery heavy on their shoulders. As they emerged into the daylight, the sun rising over the Nazca Plain, Beatriz knew that their lives would never be the same. They had uncovered a secret that could change the world—a secret that the government had tried to keep hidden. But with that knowledge came a terrible responsibility. What they had seen in the chamber beneath the pyramid was not just an anomaly—it was a force capable of altering reality itself, with consequences that could be catastrophic for some individuals, even if done for the greater good. As they stood on the edge of the plain, the pyramid’s dark silhouette looming in the distance, Beatriz felt a sense of dread. The world was on the brink of something unimaginable, and it was her fate that must decide her what to do next.

jnelto

New Beginnings

Chapter 1 I stand in the departures lounge at SSR International Airport, surrounded by my family's warm, familiar faces. The air is thick with emotion, and I can barely see through the haze of my tears. With his strong, comforting presence, my father is holding me tight as if trying to shield me from the flood of emotions crashing through my heart. His hug is familiar, steady, but today, there’s a tremble in his grip, a quiet fear he can’t hide. “Papi, I’m going to miss you so much,” I whisper, my voice breaking. His eyes glisten with unshed tears, but he stays silent, just nodding, pulling me closer. My younger brother, Arjun, stands beside us. His eyes are red and puffy, reflecting the sadness that washes away his cool persona. “I’ll see you soon, Arjun, I promise,” I tell him, ruffling his hair in the way that used to annoy him. Yet today, it brings a small, sad smile to his handsome face. His lower lip quivers as he tries to be brave for me, for Papi, and himself. My extended family—uncles, aunts, cousins—surrounds me, offering their well-wishes, their smiles tinged with sorrow. They’ve all come to see me off, to send me on this journey that will take me thousands of miles away from everything and everyone I’ve ever known. Their voices blend in a chorus of encouragement, but the pounding of my heart almost drowns out their words. “Ria, you’ll do great things in London. We’re all so proud of you,” Auntie Meera says, pressing a kiss to my cheek, her eyes brimming with pride. I manage a smile, a shaky, tear-stained smile, but inside, I feel like I’m being torn in two. Part of me is desperate to stay, to hold onto these people, this life, but the other part— the part that made this bold decision—is pushing me forward. My mother isn’t here. She’s in England training to be a nurse after divorcing Papi because of his affair. When she left, I thought I’d lost something essential, a piece of my heart that would never heal. It was Papi's fault, of course, and I've told him time and again how I feel- but no matter how angry I was with Papi, it was Mami's absence I felt the most. I'd always planned to study abroad, and life began to make sense when I met Don, my English boyfriend, on Match.com. I decided to study and begin a new life with Don, but also to be close to the woman who raised me. Yet, now, standing here, about to board a plane that will take me away from everything I’ve ever known, I start to have doubts. The final call for my flight echoes through the loudspeaker, a jarring reminder that time is running out. Papi loosens his grip, stepping back just enough to look at me, really look at me. He brushes a tear from my cheek, his touch gentle, almost reverent. “Ria, you’re going to reach the very top of whatever it is you choose to do. Don’t ever doubt yourself,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “And remember, no matter where you go, you’ll always have a home here." “I know, Papi." "And bring Don to Mauritius, it would be nice to meet him in person." "I will." I don't want to say goodbye, and I don't want to leave. "Papi. I-" "Off you go. Quick, before you miss your flight." "But-" "You'll never know if you don't try. And remember, God is always at your side." One last hug, one last kiss on Arjun’s forehead, and I turn to go. I don’t look back—I can’t. If I do, I might not be able to leave. My feet carry me forward, towards the security gate, towards my future. But as I hand over my boarding pass, the reality of what I’m doing crashes over me again, and I feel the tears welling up once more. When I reach the gate, the plane is already boarding. I walk down the jet bridge, feeling like a part of me is being left behind with each step. I want to cry, scream, turn around, and run back to my family. But I keep walking, my legs heavy, my heart heavier, my emotions in a tumultuous storm that rains down my cheeks. I finally take my seat on the plane, and buckle my seatbelt with shaky hands. The tears keep falling, silent and relentless. I stare out the window at the island that has always been my home, my safe haven. The engines roar to life, the plane begins to move, and that’s when it hits me—I’m really doing this. I’m leaving Mauritius. I’m leaving my family, my home, my life as I know it. But as the plane ascends, lifting me higher and higher above the land I love, something changes. The tears slowly dry, leaving me feeling strangely empty but also... light, like a burden has been lifted, even as the weight of the unknown presses down on me. I’m going to London. To study, to explore, to live. And yes, to finally meet Don. Just the thought of him makes my heart skip a beat. Don, who has been my rock these past six months, who has listened to my fears, my dreams, my every thought. He’s waiting for me, and the idea of finally seeing him, touching him, fills me with a nervous excitement and warmth that pushes back the sadness, igniting a spark of anticipation. I pull out my phone and, without thinking, snap a quick selfie. My eyes are still a little red, but I force a smile, trying to capture the mix of emotions swirling inside me—fear, sadness, excitement, hope. I type a simple message: *On my way.* I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly as I settle back into my seat. The plane levels out, the island disappearing beneath the clouds, and I close my eyes, letting the excitement build slowly but surely. I’m ready for this. I’m ready for everything. London, here I come. Chapter 2 The cold air hits me as soon as I step off the plane, a sharp contrast to the warm, humid breeze I left behind in Mauritius. The grey skies, the drizzle—everything feels so different, so foreign. But through the crowd at Heathrow, I see her. Mami's face lights up the moment she spots me. I rush towards her, my suitcase clattering behind me, and as soon as I’m within reach, I’m wrapped up in a warm embrace. “My Ria,” Mami whispers, holding me so tightly I can barely breathe. I bury my face in her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume, and suddenly, all the fears and uncertainties of this new life seem to melt away. I’m home—at least, as close to home as I can be with her. The coach ride to Oxford is a blur of countryside and quiet conversation. I watch the scenery change from the sprawling city to green fields dotted with sheep. Everything feels surreal—like I’m living another life. Mami lives in a modern block of student flats. For the next three days, we settle into a comfortable routine. Mami fusses over me, cooking all my favourite dishes—dal puri, rougaille, gateau piment—and we talk late into the night. For the first time since she left Mauritius, Mami opens up about the divorce. It’s a conversation we’ve needed to have for so long, but neither of us knew how to start it until now. “I just couldn’t stay, Ria,” Mami says on the second night as we sit together in the living room. The house is quiet except for the sound of the rain tapping against the windows. “Everyone knew about it, about us. It was like living in a glass box. I needed space to breathe, to figure things out.” “I missed you, Mum. A lot. I needed you.” Mami reaches out, taking my hand in hers. “I missed you too." "But you left." It sounds harsher than intended. But I've been thinking about it since the day she said goodbye. "I knew you’d be okay, Ria." "How can you say that?" "Your dad has his company and the means to give you a bright future. I had nothing, and moved back into your Nanna's. I felt worthless." "I'm sorry." "No, I'm sorry." Mami let go of my hand and pulls a tissue from her jacket pocket. "What you don't understand is, I left school at sixteen because your father told me I'd never need to work- and I believed him." She dabs her wet cheeks with her tissue. "Now I'm forty-six and back at college." "Well, if it makes you feel a little better, Papi is full of regret."  "A good man who let his success feed his ego." Mami squeezes my shoulders and stares at me. "Never take your eye off the ball. I did, and look what happened.” The following day, it’s time for me to head north to meet Don. We get the bus to Oxford train station, and the mood gets a little heavier now that the goodbye is imminent. As the bus approaches the station, Mami hands me a large wrapped package she has been carrying since we left. "This is for you, Ria." “What’s is it?”. “A winter coat,” Mai smiles as she watches me unfold the white padded Parker coat. “You’ll need it here. The weather’s nothing like Mauritius." "Niiice."  "Westgate is more expensive that Port Louis Market- so look after it.” I feel its weight. “It's perfect.” “Take care of yourself, Ria,” Mami hugs me tightly. “And don’t forget to call us when you get there. And give my love to Don.” “I will,” As I turn to leave, Mami reaches out again and drags me into one last embrace. "I'm glad you have forgiven me," The train pulls into the station with a rush of wind and the smell of hot engine oil. I step aboard, my heart pounding with excitement. It’s my first time on a train, and I can’t help but smile as I settle into my seat, watching the English countryside blur past the window. The fields, the villages, the rolling hills—it’s like something out of a storybook. A couple of hours into the journey, I need to use the toilet. I make my way down the narrow aisle, feeling a bit unsteady as the train sways. When I reach the toilet, I step inside, and hit the close button, hearing the door sliding shut behind me. Just as I’m about to finish, the door slides open, and a young man stands there, his eyes wide with shock. For a split second, we just stare at each other, both frozen in embarrassment. "Oh, sorry." He covers his eyes with his hand, "The door wasn't locked." Only now do I see the big red button that screams LOCK. "My mistake." I lean over and press the close button, and the door slides shut once more. This time, I hit the lock button. I sit there, mortified, my face burning with embarrassment. When I finally leave the toilet, the young man is nowhere to be seen, and I feel immense relief. Surely it can't get worse, can it? Back at my seat, I still feel the heat of embarrassment in my cheeks. But soon enough, the rhythm of the train lulls me into a light sleep. I dream of green fields and open skies, of Don’s voice, warm and comforting, telling me everything will be okay. The sound of the train announcement wakes me suddenly. “Next stop, Wigan North Western.” I jolt awake, disoriented for a moment before I realise where I am. I grab my bag and my luggage, my heart racing as I prepare to meet Don for the first time. But as I step off the train, something catches my eye—or rather, something doesn’t. My coat is still on my seat. I watch helplessly as the train pulls away, taking my new coat. I'm suddenly transported back to my childhood and fear my mother's wrath. “No, no, no!” There’s no time to dwell on it, though. I need to find Don. My heart pounds with a mix of anticipation and nerves as I scan the platform, looking for the man I’ve been dreaming about for months. And then I see him. Tall, with his brown hair and fair-coloured skin that I recognize from our video calls. He’s right there, just a few meters away, but he’s not alone. A woman stands beside him, her skin the same shade of brown as mine. They’re talking, their heads close together, and before I can call out to him, they start walking towards the subway. What the f- A wave of confusion and fear washes over me. Who is she? Why is she with him? My heart sinks as I watch them disappear into the subway, my mind racing with a hundred questions. I try calling Don, but it goes straight to voicemail. I dial again, hoping he’ll answer, but nothing. What do I do? My mind is spinning, and I just stand there, frozen. But, a resolve builds within me. I can’t just stand here and do nothing. I need answers. Taking a deep breath, I start walking towards the subway pulling my luggage, following Don and the mystery woman into the shadows. Chapter 3 I hurry down the steps into the subway, my heart pounding in my chest. The walls are cold, grey, and the air feels heavy with anticipation. I’m running on pure adrenaline now, driven by the fear of what I might find. As I round the corner, I see him sitting on the stairs, his head in his hands. He looks shaken, as if the world around him has just come crashing down. “Don?” I call out, my voice trembling. His head snaps up, and our eyes meet. There’s a moment of confusion, a flicker of disbelief, before he quickly puts on his glasses, almost fumbling with them in his haste. “Ria?” he asks, his voice a mix of relief and anxiety. I nod, taking a tentative step towards him. “What’s going on? Who was that woman?” Don looks at me, then glances around as if trying to piece everything together. He runs a hand through his hair, clearly embarrassed. “I... I’m so sorry, Ria. I—” “What happened?” “As the train approached, I realised you'd not seen me with glasses on. So, I took them off. Wigan's kinda white, like. So when this a young Indian-" "I'm not Indian." "I—I thought she was you. I went to hug her but she recoiled in horror..” He rubs his temples, clearly frustrated with himself. “I thought you rejected me.” I stare at him, letting the story sink in. For a moment, I don’t know how to react. The whole situation is so absurd, so far from what I had imagined our first meeting would be like. But then, something inside me shifts, and I start to laugh. It’s a small chuckle at first, but it quickly grows, bubbling up deep within me. “You’re laughing?” “I’m sorry,” I say between giggles, covering my mouth with my hand. “It’s just… of all the things that could have happened..” “I know, it’s ridiculous. I just didn’t want you to think I looked different from what you’ve seen online. You know? Feel cheated, like. The truth is, I'm blind as a bat.” I can’t stop laughing now, the tension of the past few minutes melting away. “Don, you’re such a goof ball. But I’m glad you're mine.” He grins, and the sight spreads a warm feeling through my chest. “I’m really sorry. This isn’t how I wanted our first meeting to go.” I step closer, the last of my laughter dying down, leaving us standing just a few centimetres apart. I can feel his breath on my lips. “It’s okay. It wasn’t the grand romantic moment I’d pictured, but… it’s still ours, isn’t it?” Don leans in, closing the small gap between us.. I can feel the electricity in the air. Don gently tilts my chin up, his thumb brushing lightly against my skin. For a moment, time seems to stand still, the world around us fading away. Slowly, he leans in, and our lips meet for the first time. The kiss is soft, tender, and everything I’d hoped it would be. There’s no awkwardness, no hesitation—just the pure connection we’ve built over the past six months, finally taking shape in this simple but perfect moment. As his arms wrap around me, pulling me closer, I feel a sense of safety and belonging that I’ve never felt before. When we finally pull apart, we stand there, just holding each other, neither wanting to break the spell. I know that this is only the beginning and that there will be challenges ahead—cultural differences, the distance from home, and the realities of a relationship that started online. But right now, in his arms, I feel like we can face anything together. “It wasn’t the first meeting I dreamed about,” I admit, resting my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “But this… this feels right.” Don presses a kiss to the top of my head, his arms tightening around me. “It does, doesn’t it?” And in that moment, I know that we’ll figure it out together whatever the future holds. Because with Don by my side, I have a partner, someone I've learned to trust, someone I can build a life with. Hand in hand, we walk out of the station into the grey, drizzly day, and I know that this is just the beginning of our love story. And won't be taking my eye off the ball.

acwqk0

Heart of Pearl

Call me sensitive, I don’t care. The ache still hurts a decade later. An ache that accompanies pain that drives the wedge between me and my family. I don’t think forgiveness is in my future, even if I do find it, it won’t be theirs. But at least maybe after today, I’ll have closure. I-5 is a nightmare at noon. Traffic rarely stood still unless there was a cop doing road splits, but I got lucky today because an accident had me stopped at the Presidio exit. It had been months since the last time I drove this far north. I no longer went to school and there was no reason for me to be go to RSM, save for the pawn shop. To be honest I had given up hope of ever finding it. I left work early after receiving the call. 12:24pm. Ugh . My stomach hurts. A mix between anxiety and hunger. I checked my phone again. There it was. My pearl ring. The ache bloomed painfully in my chest, but I swallowed it down, changing my music to something with a little more… razz . The picture of some lo-fi channel my friend sent me popped up in my recommended list. Its gentle sway accompanied by a pink frosting doughnut and a cup of coffee. An artists rendition of white foam swirled inside the cup to make the channel more appealing. “Oh, I could really use a doughnut.” I was right there, near an old favorite shop. Pulling off the exit, the draping hills green with winters rain turned into colorful shops of pizza and fashion. Age decorated the small city well, with old buildings maintained the way you dreamed they would, and new buildings matching the adobe-like structures and theme of this lovely little beach town. RittoShak was on the main road. The parking meters on either side was jam packed with cars, dull compared to the lively blue greens and sunset blends of the buildings. The parking lot was full as well, and there happened to be a line. Slight irritation wormed its way from a pinch in my chest to buzz my brain. A quick massage to my temple and a puff of air out my nose followed by the dull sharp ache of an empty stomach. I’m just hungry. I found a spot a little further down the hill towards the beach. Not that far a walk, and the sidewalks were maintained wonderfully. Tourists don’t flock here unless they are part of a timeshare. The foot traffic was nothing compared the cities up north and down south. A few kids, armed with a guitar, a set of drum sticks and a massive yo-yo looking thing walked past me, heading down the hill to the beach. One kid caught my eye, meeting my gaze as we walked past each other. While I was trapped in the exchange, confusion bypassed my brain and went right to my face as he grinned revealing a missing front tooth. His brown eyes glittered with specs of gold, the noon sun hitting us just right in between white fluffy clouds. The corners of his mouth spread, squinting his eyes and pinking his cheeks in a polite, yet kind smile. “Is that a cat on your shoulder?” “Totally is, wanna pet him? Names Roscoe.” The cat, purring loudly and eyes shut in contentment barely blinked up at me from his spot on the boys backpack. “I used to have an orange tabby too, they’re feisty and fun.” I say, “you guys play?” The boy pet Roscoe with one hand and took a bite of his burrito with the other, “yea down at the retaining wall.” “Very cool,” I say with an enthusiastic nod, definitely showcasing my age. “Have fun, it’s a beautiful day!” Sorry kids, but I’m hungry and can only be so polite. I get slight waves and nods as I continue walking past them, hurrying to the door of the busy shack. The bell dinged, loud and dramatic as I pushed open the door, just as another patron was walking out hurriedly and their face in their phone. By the time I get in there, there’s only a few people ahead of me and I am hungering for more than just a doughnut. California, shredded chicken, surf n’ turf? Oh the possibilities to quell the acidic anger in my gut. It isn’t until I’m in line looking at all the food that the smells hit me. Sweet chocolate glaze, tangy fruit jams, savory meats, fresh tomatoes and cheese . I have to swallow my spit as I finally get to the register. “Good afternoon, how are you?” She asked with a bright but tired smile. Her name tag read ‘Amanda.’ “Hungry, you?” “Tired,” she answered, her smile less but her eyes still bright. “I’m off in like, 45 minutes.” “Lucky,” I say, really extending the ‘ee’. I rub my neck with one hand and reach for my wallet with the other. “I won’t keep bugging you then. I’ll have a surf n’ turf burrito, extra shrimp and a glazed doughnut.” “Anything to drink?” I thought about the water I had in my car and shook my head, “no, thank you.” “Does your order look right?” I glance down at the card reader. The tablet attached read my order back, with the total being $20.77. I groan. Amanda’s face changed from exhausted customer service to worried customer service. “Are you okay?” “Just…feeling myself die a little inside, that’s all,” I mutter as I tapped my card onto the reader. She offered a sympathetic smile, “one hours work doesn’t even pay for a burrito anymore.” My lips pursed into a grimace, “what a world, what a world,” I quote. I sat down at a table, looking out into the light street traffic and clusters of people eating, walking, laughing and drinking. Solace. A moments peace. I looked at my phone again. I almost couldn’t believe it, but there it was. A pretty little pearl ring with two tiny diamonds on either side of it anchored by a white gold band. My mom gave me that ring when I was little. She gave each of us a ring, but in the middle of a rushed move I thought I had left it behind or lost it. I had friends and family ask about it, but never any luck. The old room mate claimed she had never seen it. In my heart of hearts, I know she was lying. Yet, ten years later, long after I abandoned the search and gave up hope I received a call from an older woman who had found a note with my number somewhere, she didn’t say where. Her voice was old, yet cheery as we made small talk, and turned into empathetic broken words when I began to cry at the picture she texted me. Beyond the manic excitement in my chest, hope flourished. The door bell rang two more times before my order was called. Rubbing the heat from my eyes with scratchy knuckles, I thanked the Amanda for my order, “get some sleep!” I call with a wave, as the bell jingled for my departure. I love burritos. They are the perfect meal. The texture of the shrimp was crisp and plump, mixing with the juicy thin steak in a blend of cheese and sour cream that made the mouth feels go: Wowza . The Mexican rice was top tier, their blends of spices and peppers bound with the perfect amount of queso. And what’s better than having a hand held meal? Can’t snack and drive with crunchy tacos. Makes a mess. But burritos? If you make a mess, you’re the problem. Easy. Happy for food I munched the rest of the way up to Mission, the traffic having cleared somewhat by the time I got on the freeway. It only took twenty more minutes. Time wise that wasn’t bad. I didn’t start to feel that feign vein of excitement and nervousness until I pulled into the parking lot of Meema’s Pawn Shop. The blend of the two were getting to me. Like steeling myself for disappointment. This had never happened before, what if it really wasn’t her ring? What if this was just a cruel prank? I couldn’t imagine anyone wasting their time like that. But, I’ve known some insane people. Out of habit I readjusted the rearview mirror, glossing over my blue eyes down to my tongue working through the food stuck to my teeth. Once clear, I reapplied my lip gloss, blowing myself a kiss in the mirror. The shop was a large, well lit room. Long glass display tables lined the room, filled with jewelry, knives, and the occasional trading card. There was a stale smell in the air, not quite moth balls, but definitely not fresh. “Are you Charlotte?” None to gracefully, I screamed. A little old lady with a large wrinkled forehead and even larger hair smiled up at me from behind the glass display. “Yes!” I gasped, my face and ears burned. “I…sorry, I didn’t see you.” Her laugh lines deepened, and her crows feet scrunched. Wrinkles were a wonderful thing. Lines formed by our very own skin to tell the stories of our lives, the good, the bad, and everything in between. The tension in my shoulders eased. She waved me over to the counter. I got there before her, being as jittery as I felt, and suddenly my stomach was very heavy. I wish I hadn’t eaten that whole burrito . I could feel it coming up as she bent over, and then placed a box before me. I found myself frozen with my hands on the glass, slight perspiratory fog lining my fingers. “Kind of like the cat in the box, you won’t know until you open it,” Meema whispered. I swallowed the mass building up my throat, the outline of my hand already disappearing from the counter as I picked up the box. It was light, as I expected, dark red with Meema’s logo etched in gold. “Ten years,” I whispered, closing my eyes and flipping the lid up. Exhaling I opened them, and had to cover my mouth when I saw it. There it was. Untouched. Beautiful as the day mom first put it on my finger. It didn’t fit anymore, my ring finger had grown, but, here it was. In my hand. A pearl, shimmery and clean, its two diamonds on either side and the white gold band. I didn’t realize I was crying until Meema handed me a tissue. I sniffed, wiping my mouth. “How much?” “Oh, sweetie, with a face like that I think it’s yours.” “Thank you.” I almost didn’t want to ask. As she said, like the cat in the box, you won’t know until you open it. But there was a power in the unknown. The possibilities were endless in how my ring got here, and it’s been so long I don’t even think it matters. Looking at my treasure, I decide I don’t care. My life won’t change whether or not I know. And I’m okay with that. Meema meet’s my smile, warm, with some light sparkles in the corner of her eyes. “Can I have a hug?” I ask. “Of course!” She was already bustling around the counter. As tight as a woman of her size could, but it was the warmest, most loving hug I’d had in a long time. It was like hugging my mom again. And it felt good. I felt good. I was okay. And I’m going to get my ring sized. 

cj70fp

Chicago. Amsterdam. Naples. Cairo. Edinburgh.

Chicago , Amsterdam, Naples, Cairo, and now Edinburgh. What did all these cities have in common? They were all the cities that Lawrence’s wife had sent him to as a cruel cat-and-mouse game that she decided to concoct instead of divorce papers. They were only twenty-six, but it seemed that Lydia was having a full-blown quarter life crisis. Out of the blue, after a year at her dream job, Lydia had quit with no explanation and took off around the world, leaving only subtle clues for Lawrence to follow. With the fifth city coming into view of the bus, Lawrence only felt more weary, and though he hated to admit it, he was only dreading what elusive message that could come from his wife at this stop.            When he first awoke to Lydia’s absence to one extra plane ticket to Chicago on his nightstand, he assumed that this was some reckless way that she was coping with her mother’s recent death. Her family had lived in Chicago before moving down to Louisville, Kentucky years later, and he assumed that maybe this spontaneous journey was one of nostalgia and closure.            He was wrong.            That was nearly 6 weeks ago, and he was no closer to finding Lydia in any of the four previous cities as he was in his empty apartment before this vicious game began. After two weeks of searching for her in her hometown, only another ticket was left in her wake. Tucked in the latch of her childhood mailbox was a ticket to Amsterdam addressed to Lawrence with an elusive promise:            Find me and take me back if you wish. If you find me and don’t take me back, I will give you this ring.            Now, Lawrence was on a bus heading towards Edinburgh, determined to get the heirloom wedding ring back and serve her makeshift divorce papers he had written up on a pair of napkins from the airport. It was in no way legally binding, but with six years of history together, Lawrence could leave it no other way. He needed the closure. He needed the to get the ring and to see Lydia for one last time.            With every ticket left behind for him, there were directions to a hotel or hostel booked for him. Lydia was never at the end of the invitation. Instead, she seemed to be as elusive as a ghost, floating and bestowing small hints at each stop. He assumed that she had been using her mother’s will to fund this extravagant escape, and he often found himself cursing her for using it so recklessly when he hasn’t been able to publish a book in the past three years.            Lawrence was a mystery author, but when his mother-in-law got sick, the mysteries and tricks he used to think up were replaced with a dreary black-and-white view of the world. Any wonder of life he had was replaced with a feeling of dread that hovered over their house until the day she passed.            Once in Edinburgh, he visited the modest hotel room ordered for him and put up his luggage. He had made an itinerary of different sites he believed Lydia may be interested in hiding out. The city in Scotland was beautiful in its own elusive way. Historic stone buildings still sat in bustling towns like a moment frozen in time. Lawrence’s heart was torn while walking the stone streets of the old town. Lydia sent him on the adventure of his life, but the cost was constant failure and abandon.            The death of her mother was what set Lydia off onto this crazed journey; thus, Lawrence thought it was fitting to search for her in the Real King Mary’s Close first, a clustered square known for its ghost stories of a civilization that was buried away in secret. The site was relatively empty with most people not wanting to explore haunted ruins in the safety of the daylight. A guide offered him some information, but once he showed her Lydia’s photo, she was silent.            His heart raced. She must have been here. It likely wasn’t respectful to the graves in that place, but he began to race through the old ruins, paying little attention to the homage made to the ancestors who had fallen years ago. Towards the end, a familiar figure was staring at a homage made to a young girl who died of an illness.            It took everything in him not to call out to her, and he was afraid that if he called out to her, she might disappear again. He grabbed her shoulder and spun her around, suddenly coming face to face with the tear-stained face of his wife that he had been searching for. His heart was racing and bubbling up into his throat, unable to form the millions of questions he wanted to ask her. Closure he told himself. I needed to find her so that I had closure and could take the ring back.            “Lawrence,” she breathed out, in awe that he had found her.            His will had been broken, and he collapsed into her arms, holding her hard so that she could not escape again. Tears were welling into his eyes, falling onto her shoulder.            Her laugh was broken up by a cry, “I thought I planned it out so well. You weren’t supposed to find me until the next stop.”            He pulled her back, and a swell of anger stirred in him, “Lydia, you were going to-”            “Rio de Janeiro,” she ignored him. “Did you figure out the puzzle yet? Do you know what I was trying to tell you?”            He shook his head, “You’ve been so reckless. What do you mean puzzle?”            Before she could answer, the detective mind that set up mystery stories within him set up the clues. Chicago. Amsterdam. Naples. Cairo. Edinburgh. Rio de Janeiro. C.A.N.C.E.R.            “Lydia, this isn’t how you cope with your mom…”            “Lawrence, this isn’t about her.”            His heart stopped, “No-”            She nodded, more tears flowing, “Yes. I saw how my mom fought and suffered. I saw how you fought and suffered, even though she wasn’t even your mom. If you found out about me too, you would’ve insisted that we use her will for my treatment, and I didn’t want to spend a fortune only to suffer and die in the end.”            “So, you spend it all on this extravagant trip to spend your last moments away from me? Lydia, I lost you before I lost you.”            “But you have a story now, don’t you? A mystery. And if you still want me, we will finish out this adventure with enough memories to last me three lifetimes.”            His initial motive seemed to be a distant memory now. A small part of him knew that as soon as he saw her again, it was all over. She was his treasure that he had been searching for, and now that he found her, he was never letting go.            He grabbed her face and kissed her. “Let’s go live a thousand lifetimes.            “The first book of mine that Lydia ever read was the one she inspired me to write. She often is moving too quickly to the next thing to focus on sitting down and reading a book, but for this one, she just kept smiling and saying that she wanted to know how it was going to end. I think that’s part of why we’re so good together. She’s such a ray of light that would bounce around from one opportunity to the next, that in all my years of writing mystery novels, I never quite would figure out what she would end up coming up with. She’s the greatest mystery, adventure, and love of my life. I told myself when I was going to look for her, that I would get my heirloom ring, closure, and move on. But when I saw her,” Lawrence finally stole a glance at his wife, seemingly peaceful and asleep, still brandishing his ring. “I knew that there was nothing else I needed to look for. Lydia was the kind of girl that would make the 6 weeks she was gone seem like a lifetime, but when you caught up to her again, she would replace that time with what felt like a million lifetimes. And that, my love, would make me take you back, every single time.”            Tears filled his eyes as well as the eyes of everyone in attendance. In the end, it was never about the ring or the closure, but it was about chasing the thing that was most valuable to him to the ends of the earth. Once he got it, he never dreamt of letting go again until the harsh reality had finally reared its ugly head.

phirqn

Rain

“Do you think the weather will clear?” someone asked of no one in particular, a tinge of nervousness in their voice. I ignored her and continued to read my newspaper. We were fighting the Italians and Germans near someplace called Tobruk and there was still speculation on whether the Americans would enter the war. All of which meant nothing to me. Meanwhile, sheets of rain continued to fall outside. I glanced at my watch. Four hours since I arrived at the airport. Three hours after the scheduled departure. I had been in Malaya long enough to know that schedules were merely advisory, benchmarks to measure your frustration and aggravation against. When I had booked my plane ticket to Singapore, two days prior, the agent had warned me about the weather and asked if I wouldn’t rather travel by train. The trains, however, were even more unreliable than planes and the last thing I wanted right now was to be stuck in some backwater village with no way to continue my journey other than to wait for whatever malfunction caused the delay to be repaired. With any luck, I would get to Singapore by the morning of the 10 th . Plenty of time to catch the evening departure of the Star Line. I would be back in England in time for Christmas. I shifted in my seat, trying to ignore the fact that my once starched shirt was plastered to my back.  Although mild by Malya standards, the heat and humidity in the lounge were oppressive. I had worn my one good suit for the flight. I had discarded my suit jacket as soon as I entered the lounge, but I was still longingly thinking about a long soak in a cool tub. Maybe I would be able to get the last of the dirt out from under my nails. “Visit Malaya,” my associates in England had suggested, “make some money, have an adventure.” Maybe the adventure was surviving the weather. I couldn’t complain about the money-making opportunities. I had scored far bigger than I expected, enough to set me up for years when I got back to England. The past eleven months had been hard, the heat and the insects nearly driving me crazy, but the planning and work had paid off and now it was time to leave, if only the rain would stop. Holding my paper as a screen, I scanned my fellow would be travelers. Six other passengers occupied the room. Next to the window was the only woman in the room, a whisp of a girl in a big hat and a wrinkled silk dress. Her youthful face, mostly hidden by the hat was marked with swelling under one of her eyes that her makeup couldn’t quite disguise In addition to the lady staring out the window, a man who had to be her husband was hovering on the edge of the room, pacing with uncontrolled energy. He was a thin man in a well-tailored linin suit who appeared to be considerably older than his bride. His face was fixed in a grimace, the sort I had seen people with a perpetually dyspeptic stomach wear. More interesting was the fact that he was the only one in the room that didn’t seem to be suffering from the heat. Sprawled on one of the lounge chairs, hat over his eyes, quiet snores raising up occasionally was a local, probably a second-generation plantation owner, used to the vagaries of travel. His dirty clothes and worn shoes indicated that his plantation wasn’t thriving. The sleeper and the married couple had already been in the lounge when I arrived. The final two travelers arrived about two hours after me. While the couple were almost definitely tourists, these gentlemen were harder to classify, a pair of non-descript men, in similar but not matching suits, who had not spoken to anyone since they arrived. I decided after considering them for close to thirty minutes that they had to be working for a government agency, but which one and for which country it was impossible to guess. As small as our lounge was, it comprised almost half of the little airport. Outside the lounge doors was an even smaller entrance hall. Two airport employees, locals in traditional dress, had taken my bags and checked my ticket after my taxi had delivered me, the five-mile drive taking forty minutes through the crowded, flooded streets. I hadn’t been able to get a straight answer on the chances of departing today.  The inability to get a straight answer something to a simple question was a frequent experience in Malaya, but today was not the day for double talk. At the opposite end of the lounge, a door led to the small patch of tarmac where our plane was parked. The runway itself was just a strip of red mud. The waiting plane taunted me, poised for takeoff but going nowhere. Needing to move, I stood up to walk over to the window, pushing my case just a little further under my seat as I stood.  The lady in the silk dress took my approach as an invitation to ask more questions. “Does it always rain like this?” “Not always. Sometimes it rains harder.” I was studying the large puddles covering the sodden runway. It certainly never rained like this back in England, an incessant deluge that felt like it would never end. The type of rain that turned a small stream into a raging torrent, turned hard packed roads into quagmires. A ceaseless pounding on tin roofs that eventually drove nails into your brain. English rain was taciturn in comparison, coming and going, as if it couldn’t decide whether to stay. This rain gave no impression of ever going away. Pulling a pack of Camels from my shirt pocket, I offered the lady one out of habit more than politeness. She smiled and took one of the three remaining. “Thank you, Mr.?” she asked politely. “Smith.” I lit our smokes. My open expression must have indicated that I cared about her name. “Nancy. Nancy Andrews,” she said, introducing herself. “What brings you to Malaya, Mr. Smith?” “Delusions of grandeur.” “Young man, out to make his fortune, I take it?” I grunted something that she construed to be a yes. “Reg and I are on our honeymoon. He planned it all himself, thinking it would be great fun. But it hasn’t been fun, has it, Reg? Nothing but rain and mud everywhere we’ve gone. I’m ready to get home.” There was no anger in her words, but the reproach and bitterness were palpable. I glanced over at Reg to see if he had taken offence at his wife’s comments. His expression hadn’t changed but his eyes had gone dark as he stared at everything but his wife. Not wanting to risk getting involved in a domestic spat, I changed the subject. “You see anyone moving out there?” “I can barely see anything,” she said, distractedly, “but I haven’t seen anything move other than leaves blowing in the wind.” I nodded and returned to my seat, not interested in more conversation. I watched Reg walk over to his wife and put a hand on her back that she shook off with a slight twitch. He didn’t say anything, but I got the message. He was marking his territory, master of the pride.  As I sat, wondering if I should go talk to Nancy again just to mess with Reg some more, one of the government types asked, “You done with that paper?” “It’s almost a week old, but you’re welcome to it.”  I handed him the paper when he leaned close. My cigarette had done nothing but make my throat raw. The little lounge had a small, unstaffed bar at one end. I walked over and looked at the drink options. I was surprised to see several bottles of beer sitting in a tub of melting ice. I hadn’t seen an ice cube in almost a year. “Hello,” I shouted toward the front room. “Can I get some service here?” Almost instantly, one of the natives appeared through the door. The bar man was able to understand my beer order plain enough, but my questions about the plane received a glassy eyed stare. While I sipped my pleasantly cold beer, I heard a car driving up to the airport. I’m pretty sure no one saw me tense up as I listened to the sound of the new arrivals and the extra beads of sweat dripping down my back certainly went unnoticed. It wasn’t until the door to the lounge opened and two additional passengers entered that I could begin to relax. As opposed to the other travelers, the new arrivals were gregarious and talkative. “That looks grand,” one of them said to me in a broad, northern English accent, eyeing my beer. “Plenty more cold ones at the bar.” I drained the last of my bottle. “My treat. Would your friend like one as well?” “Never known Nev to turn down a drink, have you, Nev? “Ta, very much,” Nev replied, his accent much closer to my London roots, although probably not as working class as the accent I had tried hard to lose. As the three of us stood at the bar, the first man, who informed the room that his name was Stanley, kept up a running monologue, occasionally interrupted by an aside or laugh from Nev. Despite trying to convey a complete lack of interest, I soon knew that Stanley and Nev were salesmen for the world’s largest provider of gutta percha processing equipment. The mention of gutta percha grabbed the attention of the government men. They introduced themselves as employees of the War department who had been in Malaya to produce an estimate for the size of the gutta percha crop because, as one of them put it, “it’s going to take a lot of tanks and planes to beat Hitler, and we need rubber to make them.” The four were soon involved in an extended conversation about the market for gutta percha versus synthetic rubber, the number of new plantations that were being cultivated. I quickly tuned out the conversation, sipping my beer and daydreaming about a pint of good bitter at my local. It took me a minute to register the new voice entering the conversation. “I said, I think the rain is stopping,” Reg repeated, speaking for the first time. Sure enough, the first rays of sunshine came poking through the clouds and the downpour had subsided to a light drizzle. All my fellow travelers migrated to the window, as if their gaze would dry the runway faster. I was much more interested in how long the sun would stay. I had seen enough of Malaya to know that the blazing sun could bake mud into brick-like solidity in just a few hours. I was trying to do the math in my head to calculate when I might reach Singapore when a commotion from the street interrupted my thoughts. Within moments of the sound, three military officers entered the lounge. I slumped in my seat, trying to make myself small. My pulse raced at the sight of the trio surveying the room.  Fortunately, they weren’t looking for me. “Where’s Captain Wilcox?” a grey-haired officer with a bristle mustache and close-cropped hair asked. “I was told he was here.” “Here he is, Major,” one of the junior officers pronounced, roughly shaking the sleeping passenger. Wilcox woke angrily. “What is it? Is it time to depart?” The Major looked at Wilcox with contempt. It was easy to understand his distaste. Now that he was standing, I could tell that the man was apparently our pilot, but his unshaved face and wrinkled and stained uniform didn’t inspire confidence. “How quickly can you get your plane ready to depart?” “The plane is ready. It’s the runway that’s the concern.” Wilcox walked to the window and evaluated the scene. “At least six hours, probably closer to twelve before I can even think about attempting to fly. Any sooner and we’ll slide into the jungle, or worse. What’s the rush anyway? You chaps know that the flight schedule always is driven by the weather.” “Didn’t you hear? The Japanese landed at Kota Bharu this morning. Best guess is that we have a day, two at most, before 20,000 Jap soldiers are knocking on our doors. We are hoping that you can evacuate all the women and children from the Embassy before they get here. How many passengers can you take?” “The Douglass has seats for 21,” Wilcox replied, his attitude transformed, but if people are willing to travel without luggage and sit in the aisles, I can probably squeeze in 30.” “Excellent,” the Major replied. “Hasting, return to the Embassy and identify 29 passengers. Children first. Elderly women second.” “Why 29?” Wilcox asked. “I think the lady deserves to keep her seat,” the Major replied. “Hey, what about us? I have a ticket for this tub that I intend to use!” I was royally pissed. If I didn’t get on the plane, all my planning would be wasted. “I have just voided your ticket, Smith. You are not a priority,” the Major barked. “A fit lad like you should already be in uniform. I know your type. When your friends joined up in ’39, you said they were fools. When you thought you might get drafted, you hopped a ship to the farthest reaches of the Empire thinking you’d be safe. Well, sir, the war has found you.” “War is for fools. My Pa signed up in 1914, came home on leave long enough to sire me and then got blown up at the Somme. They couldn’t find enough of him to put in a coffin. All those dead didn’t accomplish a thing.” The Major started to speak but Stanley interrupted him. “I served on the Somme as well. And I agree that the entire war was a waste. The idiots in charge blindly throwing men against machine guns and barbed wire, exhorting us for just one more push.” I eyed the Major, who was none too happy with Stanley’s comments. “But this war is different. The Nazi’s are bad enough, but the Japs are something else. You must have read about Nanking or seen the newsreels. You think they’ll be any different here?” He gave me a look that I couldn’t quite interpret. “Major, Nev and I might be a bit long in the tooth, but we both know the shooting end of a gun. Let us know how we can help.” The two war department men immediately added their willingness to join the fight, but I wasn’t swayed. “No one is paying me to care about the over-pampered children of Embassy employees or their wives or anyone else for that matter.” “Why Mr. Smith, I would have taken you for more of a patriot. I’m sure Reg is happy to do his bit, aren’t you Reg?” Nancy said, almost daring Reg to say no. I could see that Reg wanted to fire back a retort, but he chose to save face. “Wouldn’t dream of anything else.” The Major overruled the possibility of me continuing to object. “Excellent, we are all agreed. Weatherby, take these men to the rally point and have them issued weapons.” Weatherby, a lieutenant who looked too young to have started shaving, motioned for us to follow him to the truck waiting outside. “Just a minute, lieutenant.” I grabbed my hold all from under my seat and handed it to Nancy. “Could you see that my mum gets this? Address in on the tag,” I shoved the bag in her hands and trotted to the truck. The six of us entered the back of a canvas topped Army truck. The sides and back of the canvas were rolled up, so we had a good view of the streets and buildings as we drove. We did not stop in central Kuala Lumpur like I expected but joined a long line of trucks and other vehicles heading out of the city. The rain appeared to have stopped for good and the sun was quickly drying the puddles on the side of the road. The convoy came to a halt about twenty miles outside the city at a spot that had a view of the broad expanse of road leading to the east. Instead of being given a rifle, a shovel was thrust in my hands and we were told to dig as deep a trench as we could. My fellow would be travelers with split up among different squads and I lost sight of them. Surrounded by a group of affable Australians, we dug until the trenches and mounts of dirt in front were shoulder height. It was well past dark at that point and my good suit and shoes were ruined beyond repair. As NCO came by and passed out cans of bully beef which we all ate straight out of the can. Nervous laughter and bad jokes accompanied our dinner, the typical humor of soldiers who might be facing death. From somewhere off to my right, I heard someone say, “Hey Tom, did you hear that someone robbed the Coutts Bank last night? Lucky bastard picked the perfect night to rob a bank.”

qmnn0p

The Lost Eye

I hate airports. It’s all too much—the enormous lines, the crush of people, and the tangible stress of schedules hanging in the balance. Nevertheless, I make every effort to see my parents since that is the one thing I truly love. Today is no different, except for the uncomfortable tug in my chest as I approach security. "Please remove any metal items," the security officer's voice cuts through the noise. I bite my lip, hesitating as my hand reaches for my wrist. The bracelet, L'œil de Sainte Lucie , has been my constant companion for over five years. I rarely remove it. Originating from Corsica, legend has it that it is more than just a piece of jewelry—it is protection, guarding me against the misfortunes of the world. Whenever I removed it in the past, something bad always happened. But this is airport security. I don’t have a choice. Reluctantly, I unclasp it, running my fingertips over the smooth shell before putting it into the gray basket along with my phone and suitcase. I pass through the scanner, glancing nervously back at the basket. After gathering my things, I reach inside for the bracelet, only to find nothing there. I feel my heart sink to my stomach. I look once more, rummaging in the basket. "No, no, no," I mutter under my breath, lifting each item in a frantic search. My bracelet is gone. I turn to face the security officer. "Excuse me," I murmur in a tense voice. "Did you see a bracelet? It was in this tray." The officer gives me a sidelong glance. "Everything that came through should be in your basket." "Well, it’s not." My voice has a hint of panic. "It's a little bracelet with a silver clasp and a white shell. I just put it in here." The cop, clearly used to stressed-out travelers, sighs. "It could have been misplaced if it's not in the tray. Check the lost and found area." "But—" I swallow hard, trying to maintain my composure. "It was right here. Can’t you check the cameras or ask someone if they saw it?" "Ma'am, there’s a line behind you. If it turns up, we'll let you know. You can check with the information desk in the meantime." The officer motions for me to move along. For a moment, I wanted to argue some more, but I had little option given the growing line of passengers behind me. I move to the side, my heart pounding in my chest. Where could it have gone? Did someone take it? My gut twists at the thought. I look around, my eyes darting from passenger to passenger, wondering if someone had taken my bracelet. *** By the time I reach the counter, my nerves are shot. “Please tell me you’ve found a bracelet,” I say, clutching the edge of the desk. “It’s a white shell bracelet with a silver clasp. It’s very important.” The woman behind the counter glances at a stack of lost items and slowly shakes her head. “Sorry, nothing like that has come through today.” My heart sinks. I thank the woman and turn away, gripping my suitcase tightly. My head throbs with worry. Without that bracelet, I feel exposed and vulnerable. And even though it's only been a few hours, it feels like a lifetime. This is the longest I've gone without wearing my bracelet. The gaping hole in my arm seems like an obtrusive emptiness, a continual reminder that my protection is gone. Time crawls agonizingly, with each minute seeming to stretch into days. My mind races, thinking of all the horrible things that may happen while I'm without it. Paranoia swirls through my head as I walk away from the counter. What if someone took it? What if the security officer pocketed it when I wasn’t looking? Or maybe the person who passed through security just before me? I'm unable to let it go. It didn't make sense for the bracelet to just vanish into thin air. My gaze lands on a man with a large jacket pocket near the seating area. Could he have it? I march over, my voice trembling but determined. “Excuse me,” I say, trying to sound calm. “Did you happen to see a bracelet in security? A small white shell bracelet with a silver clasp?” The man blinks at me, startled by my sudden approach. “Uh, no? I didn’t see anything like that.” I narrow my eyes. “Are you sure? It was right there, and now it’s gone. You passed through security right before me, didn’t you?” The man shifts uncomfortably, glancing around as if looking for an escape. “Lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t take your bracelet.” “Can I check your pocket, then?” I blurt out, my suspicion outweighing my manners. “If you’re innocent, you won’t mind proving it.” His face reddens, and he takes a step back, clearly offended. “I don’t have to prove anything to you. What’s your problem anyway? You think you can just accuse anyone?” “I’m not accusing,” I snap, though I can hear the desperation in my voice. “I just need to know. That bracelet is important to me, and it’s gone, and you were right there—” He raises his hands defensively. “Look, I didn’t take your bracelet, okay? Back off before I call security.” He brushes past me, leaving me standing there and feeling a growing sense of embarrassment. I take a deep breath, but my suspicion only grows. I spot another woman, a young mother struggling to keep her child calm. Maybe she took it when I wasn’t paying attention. “Excuse me,” I say, my voice tense. “I know this might sound strange, but did you happen to pick up a bracelet by mistake in the security line?” The woman looks up, flustered and already stressed with her crying child. “No, I haven’t. I’m sorry. I have my hands full here.” Her tone is sharp, irritated by the accusation. I press on, my voice desperate. “Please, just check. It’s really important, and I’m sure I had it before I went through security.” Her eyes flash with irritation. “Do you seriously think I’d steal your bracelet while I’m trying to handle my child? You think I have time for that?” “I’m not saying you stole it,” I stammer, taken aback by her anger. “I just… Maybe it got mixed up with your things. Can you at least check?” She glares at me, the baby crying louder in her arms. “I said no! I don’t have your bracelet, and I don’t appreciate being accused. Now, please, leave me alone!” I mumble an apology, retreating as heat flushes my cheeks. Now I'm just making a fool of myself. But my mind refuses to stop racing and obsessing about the possibility that someone has stolen my precious bracelet. Frustration clouds my judgment, and my rage begins to boil over. I start glancing around, eyeing everyone like a potential thief, my stress escalating. *** On my way to a café to get some water after running around for so long, I am nearly knocked over by a rushing passenger. I stumble, catching myself just in time but twisting my ankle in the process. "Ow!" I gasp, leaning on a nearby table. "This can’t be real…" Determined not to give in to superstition, I limp to the café. Just as I reach the counter, another passenger crashes into me, spilling a large cup of iced coffee all over my shirt. "Are you kidding me?" I groan, wiping futilely at the dark stain spreading across my chest. The man apologizes repeatedly, but it does nothing to quell my growing frustration. I find a bathroom and attempt to clean myself up, but my shirt is ruined. With a heavy sigh, I lean against the sink and look into the mirror. My hair is a mess, my ankle hurts, and my clothes are covered in coffee stains—all because I lost my bracelet. No, because someone has stolen it. I narrow my eyes as I think about the security officer who had been watching me closely. I can’t shake the feeling that he had taken it. Perhaps he was pocketing items from distracted passengers. Fueled by suspicion, I limp back to security and find the officer who checked my basket. "I need to speak to someone about my bracelet," I demand. The officer raises an eyebrow. "Ma'am, we've already checked. If it’s gone, there’s nothing we can do. Please, take it up with lost and found." I open my mouth to argue but stop short when a hand lands firmly on my shoulder. I turn around to find a stern officer staring down at me. "Miss, we've received complaints that you've been bothering other passengers," he says, "I'm going to have to ask you to come with me." My heart sinks. "But my bracelet—" "Let's discuss it in a more appropriate setting," he interrupts, directing me to a small office off to the side. The room is cramped, with white walls and a single desk overflowing with paperwork. As we enter, a second officer, most likely the police chief, sits behind the desk, looking displeased. "What's the issue here?" he asks, glancing at me with a raised eyebrow. "My bracelet is missing," I say, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. "It must have been stolen. I've been trying to find it, but no one is helping me." The director leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "And that gives you the right to harass other passengers? Do you realize the trouble you're causing here?" "I'm not trying to cause trouble," I argue, feeling my frustration bubble over. "That bracelet is important to me. I know someone took it, and I can't just let it go." He sighs, clearly unimpressed with my reasoning. "Ma'am, I understand you're upset, but you can't go around accusing people without evidence. This is an airport, not a crime scene." My chest tightens as I realize how hopeless this situation has become. "Please, you have to help me. Just check with security one more time, or check the cameras—anything!" The director stares at me for a moment, then reaches for the phone on his desk. "Fine. I'll make one more call, but if they haven't found anything, that's it." He dials a number and speaks briefly with someone on the other end. My heart races as I listen, but the answer remains the same: nothing has been found. "Your flight is about to board," he says, hanging up the phone. "I suggest you head to your gate and stop bothering people, or we'll have to take further action." I nod numbly, feeling utterly defeated. "Thank you," I mutter before turning to leave. I can barely keep the tears from falling as I walk away, my feet dragging toward the gate. All hope feels lost—until, midway to the gate, I hear someone call out behind me. "Miss, wait!" I turn around to see another officer hurrying toward me, holding something small and shiny in his palm. "Is this what you were looking for?" he asks, holding out my bracelet. I gasp, relief coursing through my veins as I take it from him, my fingers trembling. "Yes! Oh, God, thank you! "Where did you find it?" "It had fallen behind the X-ray machine," he explains with a smile. "One of the maintenance crew found it while cleaning." Tears of relief prick my eyes as I fasten it back onto my wrist. "Thank you so much," I breathe, overwhelmed with gratitude. As I walk away, bracelet secure on my wrist, I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the day's events lift off my shoulders. Everything that had gone wrong seemed to vanish into the background. Maybe it was all a coincidence, or maybe the bracelet really did protect me. Either way, I have no intention of taking it off any time soon. I smile softly to myself as I make my way toward my gate. Whatever awaits me on the other side of my journey, I will be ready.

cwjbda

The return of Josepth

The return of Joseph Joseph lived in a town where all the houses looked the same. People walked around with their arms wrapped around themselves, or with hoods over their heads or stared at the ground. People walked the same circuits day in and day out. They never changed, spoke out. They were comfortable and kept to themselves. One day, Joseph smelled something on the breeze. It was a scent he had never smelt before. Then he heard the cry of an animal he had never heard before. This bothered him, it disrupted his routine and his circular thinking. There was an itch in his mind now, a curiosity that just wouldn’t go away and in fact grew stronger with each passing day. What was that smell and sound? Where was it coming from? The itch grew so strong that he started unravelling his arms, tilting his hood back and before he knew it, he had stepped off the circular path and was heading out of town! He was like a bloodhound, following the scents and sounds, determined to get to the source of this disturbance, this interruption to what was familiar. As he approached a hill he could tell that the scent and sounds were strongest on the other side of it. He hesitated momentarily. Did he really want to know what was on the other side? Could he go back? But he knew that even if he turned around he would never be able to get the scent out of his nostrils nor the sounds out of his ears. Best to get to the bottom of this! As he crested the rise, before he could get a look at what was causing the commotion, he tripped and stumbled, rolling down the other side. When he finally landed, bruised and worse for wear, he stood, brushed himself off and looked up. What he saw made his eyes burst wide open, to copy his mouth’s reaction. He was completely shocked, stunned into disbelief. He was rooted to the spot, numb to his core. For what was before him was a scene that he had never heard described in his life, it defied all logic and reason and all he had ever known. Before him there was a riotous explosion of color, a cacophony of sounds, too impossible to take in at first. There were trees whose branches appeared to be dancing in time to music that appeared to be erupting from blowholes of whales, swimming in seas of glittering flowers. There was a table made of grass with hairy legs, with field mice racing on laughing crickets. There were hundreds of tiny glowing winged beings, flying leisurely while weaving outfits out of shimmering cobwebs. The land itself couldn’t make up its mind if it wanted to be soft as velvet or rough, with rolling granite; it undulated and shook as it changed. But this didn’t bother the natives at all, they simply adjusted to every change as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As a fish floated by, having a chat with a well-dressed rhinoceros who held it aloft on a ribbon, he caught a whiff of an enticing perfume trailing in their wake. All this and more came crashing into Joseph’s mind, eyes and ears, completely overwhelming him. Suddenly, a mermaid who was dancing on golden water spurting from a many-trunked elephant turned her brilliantly silver eyes onto him. That shook the boy out of his awe-struck rapture, suddenly feeling v vulnerable and alone. Then the raven conducting the orchestra with her impossibly large vibrating wings squawked at him, alerting the field mice who hopped off the table to race towards him. This inspired the tutu-touting grinning octopus to spin towards him at great speed! With squawks, thumps, whizzes and whirls cannoning right at him, the boy was rigid with terror, if his body could do anything else, he would have been fleeing for his life! As they all crashed into him, tentacles wrapped around and lifted him, feathers tickled his body, tiny feet scurried over his face, scales slid down his back. He didn’t know what to feel. Disgusted? Shocked? Pleased? But then the sounds that accompanied them sounded not unkind, in fact they made him feel light, and a slight smile started growing on his face. They took him to the center of their gathering. Buoyant, cheery music started playing from underneath, above and all around. All the weird and wonderful creatures started dancing. Pirouettes, stomps, slithers, shakes and vibrates. They held his hands and it was impossible to not move with them. He still wasn’t sure what he was feeling, vaguely aware that his body was just doing its thing, totally out of his control, so long as they held onto him. Unbidden, a laughter burst out of him, as he spied a trio of red-booted sparrows darting into the mouth of a gargantuan elephant, shooting out of its three trunks with a Boom! Boom! Boom! His laughter was the signal for the creatures around him to let go of the boy and he actually found himself still moving and he didn’t quite mind. As the moments passed, indicated by the rainbow-trout hands of the clock hanging from the moon, colors started blooming in random spots on the boy’s body. At first just tiny dots, then, as he kept moving and not minding, the spots became splotches, then rivers. When the boy closed his eyes to smell the scents even better, little horns appeared on him, a stub of a tail twitched at the base of his spine and his skin rippled with scales, feathers and an oily film, changing back and forth. Gradually, Joseph noticed the music had stopped. He opened his eyes and saw that every single being was looking intently at him, smiling widely and brightly. The raven spoke with a cawing voice, “You are the most wondrous creature we have ever seen, with your colors and features growing on you, changing from one thing to the next. Will you lead us?” All the Impossibles quickly chimed in and nodded, shook, stomped in agreement. All the joy Joseph had felt rushed out of him, a burning of embarrassment burned in his face. A coldness swept through him, turning him rigid with fear. His stomach flipped and gurgled and he thought, “Who am I to lead? All these gorgeous dreams are infinitely better than me! I am nothing compared to them!” “How can you possibly ask me that!?” he cried. Sweat dampened his scalp, his lips started trembling and he felt miserable. It was so much better when he was swallowed up by the crowd, didn’t have any responsibility. His eyes started welling up and he wished he could be anywhere, anyone, other than crying in front of them, so powerful was his shame. Then, he felt a powerful stillness in the air. The crowd started parting from the back. An elderly woman stepped forth. No, at first he assumed she stepped, but then he noticed she had no feet and she was floating. She floated in a dress made of a gently cascading pale blue waterfall, which matched her pale blue eyes, which had a calming effect on everyone present. Joseph felt his heart slowing down from the speed of a hundred-foot stamping elephant to a gently loping horse. His stomach was no longer twisting and turning like the eels he saw earlier. The old Grandmother, for that is what he assumed she must be, spoke. But he didn’t hear her with his ears or even in his head. He felt her words through his whole body. “It is perfectly normal for you to be overwhelmed and terrified of us, then at the idea of leading. But, it had to be done this way. If you were told about what was over the hill, would you believed anyone? If anyone had told you that you could lead, would you have believed them?” Joseph managed a chuckle at the ridiculousness at that and said “No”. “You had to experience truth. All the wonders of this land are reflections of what has always been inside you. But now is the time for you to find the original. Explore and live what is inside you, no need for reflections”. He didn’t quite understand what she was saying but he could feel the truth of it. She put one waterfall-arm around him and gently led him away. After a short walk, where there were no stars or moon in the sky, the Grandmother took him to the lip of a dark pool. But it wasn’t a pool of water. It was a pool of nothingness. He could sense that it wasn’t merely nothing. It was a void. He could feel it was alive. There was a sense of expectancy, like it was waiting for something to happen, it wanted something more but it couldn’t give it to itself. The Grandmother took her arm away and softly said, “This is where you will find yourself”.. Joseph still didn’t understand but her calm, serene presence was so palpable he knew he could trust her. He stepped towards the void, fully expecting to fall in. Instead, surprisingly, his foot stepped on a surface. He walked till he was in the middle. It was soft, warm and inviting. He sat down. And waited. And waited. He started becoming fidgety, restless, then frustrated. He wasn’t used to being on his own, and definitely not without his normal routines. He thought to himself angrily, “It wasn’t fair! Why is he here anyway? What was the point of all this? Find himself? Stupid woman, I’m right here! What’s there to find!? Uh!” He punched the black ground angrily and this fueled more anger. “Why the hell did they ask him to lead!? Who they hell do they think they are!?” his thoughts heated up. The more his anger grew the more his thoughts became scattered and erratic. “I hate this!! I hate being on my own! I hate here! I hate this! I hate that I left home! I’m so stupid! Why did I do that!? Why did you make all those stupid sounds and smells!? Why did you entice me!? I hate you all! I hate me! I hate this!!!” Joseph stood up, ripped at his clothes, punched the air, kicked and stomped at the void. He screamed and roared at the top of his lungs, he kept screaming and flailing, pouring out every ounce of his being. “Aaaaaarrr!!!!” Tears of grief, the loss of all he’d known and been, poured out, mingled with his rage. He screamed till his throat was as hot as a phoenix, and dry as the desert, too painful to barely draw breath. Finally, his body completely spent, he collapsed into a puddle of exhaustion. There was nothing left. There was no sign of the boy, only the void. Gradually, his consciousness returned. There was no more anger or sadness. Now, a curiosity, a self-reflection.  “I don’t know who I am anymore. I know I definitely don’t want to be who I was. Who else can I be?” With that awareness, his memory leaped to when he first saw the Miracles and now his memory is sweet and gives him gladness. Then, as if picking up speed, his mind jumped to when they held hands/tentacles/feathers together. His heart beat faster and his smile widened. He remembered the smells and how good they made him feel. Then, as the moment when they asked him to lead arose, he stood up and an explosion of marvelous energy bursts within, and transformed him. He grew to seven feet tall. Beautiful, thick brown horns curved out from his forehead. Majestic earthy brown wings sprang out from his back, beating furiously, eager to take flight. A long, thick red tail whipped out from the base of his spine and thumped the floor with passion. His entire body swim with all the colors of the rainbow, they melted and morphed through and around each other. He leant back and let loose a primal roar of celebrating who he truly is, at the same time as his mighty wings propelled him into the sky with a mighty Woosh!!! After many moons of feasting and dancing with his fellow Myth-Makers, Joseph turned his attention to where his journey began. The revelers had transported to several dream lands throughout the realm. Joseph knew the journey back would be long. He danced, pranced, skipped and flew for many a mile, the jubilation of his brothers and sisters strong within him. But, as time went by, even that joy started to wind down till it was just a whisper, leaving him with quietness. After a time, this quietness turned to restlessness and his slowed footsteps turned to irritated feet shuffling and troubling thoughts. “Crap, what if the people at home don’t like how I look? What if they don’t accept me? What if they kick me out? What about my family?” “What are they going to be like? Are they going to be doing the same boring stuff?” Worried thoughts turned into angry ones, fists clenched tight and feet stomped as he walked. “I bet they are going to be the same! I bet they’re really boring! Who cares what they think! I’m so much better than them anyway!” He imagines his giant size squashing buildings and people, his anger starting to engulf him. Then, somewhere inside him, a gentle voice reminded him, “This is not all that you are”. As soon as he heard this, he remembered all the beauty of the Dreamlands. He stood still, soaking up the memory. He remembered the gift of transformation he is bringing back to his village. The boy-turned-man took a deep breath, accepted his fear, anger and beauty. He smiled a gentle smile to himself and continued walking on in a leisurely pace. He didn’t need to know anything about the people ahead, how they were or how they lived, he was okay with himself and that was all that mattered. When he entered the town, the people initially ran around in terror then quickly hid in their homes. Joseph kept the gentle smile on his multicolored face, his tail slowly swung back and forth, his wings hung quietly on his back. He entered the middle of the town and sat beside the water fountain, played lazily with the water for a few minutes. He then settled into a comfortable seated position, closed his eyes and waited. After a long while, the townspeople poked their heads out of their windows and doors. Seeing nothing stirring from this alien monstrosity, they ventured out timidly, huddled tight together for support. Another step. Still no movement. Two steps. Only the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and wings and the occasional flick of his tail indicated he’s anything more than a statue. When they’re about halfway to him, several cries of “No!” were uttered, as all the children, bored with the endless waiting, rushed out to touch the magnificent wings and traced their fingers over the shifting colors on the skin. Darting away and back again, the children, seeing no reaction, grew bolder and stayed longer, sighing at the softness of the feathers, oohing and aahing at the colors, giggling at the tail that seems to be playing with them. The adults, having overcome their horrified imaginations of little children being torn asunder, finally took in the truth, that no harm was coming to the children. As they got closer, they started to feel the calm, soothing essence that emanated from this strange creature. Oh! People suddenly recognized the face of the boy who disappeared all those moons again. With this realization all their fears evaporated and a growing curiosity developed. Joseph slowly opened his eyes and his smile grew wider, beatific, eliciting uncontrollable smiles from everybody. He shared his story with them and they marveled they can hear it, not with their ears or minds, but from somewhere else inside them. Such is the rawness and authenticity of his sharing that the people could not help to feel inspired and oceans of dreaming grew within them. After that day, whenever Joseph returned to the water fountain and sat in silence for a while, others joined him, inspired by his peace. As they sat there, in the stillness of their own being, their own magic unfolded.

zpo6aj

Where Time Overlaps

WHERE TIME OVERLAPS “Ugh…” Paul moaned. He felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. He wasn’t sure where he was, but it was warm and bright. He struggled to take a few breaths before he sat up and hugged his arms to his body. He looked around. Wherever he was, at least it wasn’t raining. He was glad for that. The last few days, or maybe hours, it was hard to tell…had been something of a nightmare. He tried to remember all the things he’d been through. He remembered leaving his home in Toronto with his canoe on the top of his car. He remembered the way he felt with each passing kilometer as he made his way north of the city. He remembered pulling the canoe onto this lovely island on Grey Lake, and that was when everything had changed. He remembered falling asleep in the sun and waking up to a new landscape. His canoe was gone, and everything seemed different. He’d met two boys who left him stranded and alone. He remembered wishing for adventure, which made him smile now that he realized his wish had come true. He adjusted his backpack while he saying aloud, "Be careful what you wish for.” Paul could sense a presence behind him. “I thought I heard someone talking,” a female voice said. Paul was on his feet in an instant. "Where did, who are…?” he stammered. “I’m Grace Suki,” she answered. “And you are…?” “Paul. Paul Mackenzie.” Paul eyed the person standing before him from head to toe, a slight Asian woman with straight chin-length black hair. He could see she was a little over five feet tall to his almost six feet. Her voice was welcoming. He was afraid to trust his instincts that suggested he had been found and should be happy, since so many of his recent experiences had been mysterious. He felt guarded and unsure. “Nice to meet you, Paul Mackenzie.” Grace held out her hand and shook Paul’s. She took note of his appearance and tried to offer an aura of calm, although her heart was racing and her mind was spinning with thousands of questions. Could this be the person Phillip had met long ago? He certainly fit the description he’d given her. “Do you know who I am?” asked Paul. “Have they been looking for me? Am I back?” Grace took a deep breath and sighed. She was trying to find the right words to comfort Paul, but how could she explain his circumstance? She started with the most obvious concern. “You’re not hurt, are you?” Paul shook his head. “Not unless you think falling through time is a reason to be worried.” He expected Grace to be shocked at his response but was even more surprised when she offered no reaction, almost as if this was not unexpected. “That’s good. I mean it’s good that you’re not hurt. Do you want to tell me how you got here?” Paul looked around and noticed a light in what appeared to be a tent-like structure standing behind Grace. He wasn’t sure where to begin. Could he trust this person? What was he getting into? He decided to explain what he knew. “I, uh… This will sound like I’ve lost my mind. I don’t know where to begin.” Paul shook his head and ran his hand through his hair. Grace nodded, and he felt encouraged to continue. “I remember canoeing to this island, and the next thing I knew I was somewhere — as if I went back in time…” Grace motioned to the tent behind her. “Why don’t you come and sit down? I have a feeling this might be a long story. If you’re hungry, I have a sandwich and a Coke.” “That sounds good,” admitted Paul, comforted by the thought of something as familiar as eating a sandwich. They walked to the tent, where he noticed a table covered with notebooks and some dated lab or science equipment. Grace was wearing bell-bottom jeans, a jean jacket, and hiking boots, clothes suited for the bush that were a bit dated. She brought him a sandwich wrapped in wax paper and a Coke in an old-fashioned bottle. “I have a very weird feeling about all this,” said Paul. “I saw two boys a while ago. They weren’t from the year 2004, and by the looks of you, I mean by what you’re wearing and that bottle of Coke, you aren’t either.” Grace eyed Paul carefully. “It’s 1967.”  “Wow!” Paul paused to think. “Thirty-seven years! This can’t be happening… I think I’ve had a stroke or maybe I bumped my head.” He looked at Grace and noted her serious and sympathetic expression. Her dark eyes shone with understanding. “Oh, I have a feeling there’s nothing wrong with your mind. You might be just a tad confused but be assured that we share that state of mind.” “Carry on, please while I eat that sandwich…and drink that Coke,” said Paul with a bit more confidence than he actually felt. There was only one chair near the tent. Grace noticed there was nowhere for Paul to sit, so she suggested they sit on a rock in a clearing where she had found him. Paul used his backpack as a backrest and unwrapped the sandwich while Grace sat cross-legged and faced him. “As I said, this is 1967,” began Grace. “I think the two boys you are talking about would be Tim and his brother Phillip…” “Tim, yes, Tim was definitely one of them,” said Paul. “So, you know what happened to me?” “I have known Phillip, the younger of the two you met, since 1960. I’m a physicist working as a professor at the University of Toronto. I have spent many years studying singular events such as the Bermuda Triangle, where things have disappeared without a trace. I had known for many years while talking to my colleagues that there was an interesting man who worked at the bank and had amazing stories about a particular island not too far away from Toronto where very strange phenomenon were taking place. He even had a twenty-dollar bill and a two-dollar coin minted in 2003…” “I gave a kid a twenty and a toonie,” said Paul. “Could that have been mine?” “Without a doubt,” continued Grace with more confidence now that this stranger did appear to be the person Phillip had met years before. She suddenly felt more alive than she had ever felt. Years of dedicated research and determined effort had led her to this moment. She could hardly contain her excitement knowing that at last there was a breakthrough in this important research, and she was living it. All the years she’d spent working and studying were paying off. Here was the  Paul she’d heard so much about. It had taken her a while to buy in to Phillip’s story, she admitted. As a true scientist, she needed proof before she was convinced. It had been the twenty-dollar bill and the coin that ultimately convinced her, and now this. She continued with her side of the events that unfolded over the years. “It didn’t take me long to become fascinated with Phillip and his stories. With Phillip’s help, and the help of other associates, we came here to explore. We took some equipment with us to gauge the seismic activity as well as radioactive emissions but were soon aware that we had arrived completely unprepared for what we found. We had no equipment to record what we noted, so we headed back to the lab to update. This was the most exciting thing any of us had ever experienced. I mean, in all of history, nothing like this had ever been noted. There appears to be a seam or a wave that passes through the planet, and perhaps the universe where,” Grace took a deep breath and looked at Paul, “and I know this sounds wrong, but where time overlaps…” She waited for Paul to catch up, knowing that this information was a lot to take in. Grace continued, “The ‘shifting’ you experienced is an overlap that is frustratingly unpredictable. We have been researching here every day for eighteen months, four weeks of which have happened here on the island and are hoping for another shift so we can try to figure it out. Much more research is needed, of course, but I have a theory that there is a spot here where time hiccoughs or burps and then realigns itself. It happens sort of like an earthquake with no fault line. There could be a vein that holds a combination of minerals, metals, and chemicals that combine with electromagnetic components. When the Earth’s crust moves, the vein is disturbed, breaking the connection. When the components find their way through again, we see another shift. We are confident it will happen again and are praying that we are on the right track to uncover some of the mystery. We just needed another shift to happen. Seems it did, and here you are!” “You said this is a place where time overlaps. Does this mean time can move forward and backward?” asked Paul. “Well, that’s what we’re trying to figure out. An overlap would indicate that time could move in both directions, but as I said, the shift is unpredictable.” “But I found the island in 2004,” said Paul. “It didn’t seem to be a place of research or interest. In fact, it was, or is, the most unremarkable place… If it was such an important place, why wasn’t it guarded more carefully?” “That is concerning, coming from my place here, in 1967,” responded Grace. “There must have been a development that I’m not aware of… What year did you say you are from?” “August 2004.” “Whoa…and I’m guessing that you haven’t heard anything at all about this phenomenon, have you? I mean, something about mysterious disappearances, time shifting, singularities or anything?” “There have been some unexplained disappearances, sure, but nothing that would explain something like this, no.”  “It must mean that they haven’t made any progress. It’s taking them longer than I thought it would, and not only that, and if I’m reading this right, your appearance here seems like it didn’t even happen.” Grace leaned back and looked around her. “Why…?” Paul was eager to hear more. “You said you worked with Phillip. What about his brother?” “Tim went back to the island the day after he’d found you to bring you some clothes and food and was never seen again. Not as far as 1967, anyway,” said Grace, “but I’m still on his case.” Paul stared off, lost in reflection. “Poor guy. I hope he landed somewhere safe.” He changed the subject. “You’ve missed a whole lot since 1967.” “Yeah, I do have some questions for you! Like, the Vietnam War… How did it end?” “Badly…lots of lives lost. Ended in 1975… You missed Nixon’s presidency and impeachment…Watergate is still an open sore. Oh, and they landed men on the Moon…way back in ’69. Canada had some drama too…” Paul continued. “Separatists in Montreal got out of hand, and Trudeau had to impose the War Measures Act . And we now have adopted the metric system…” “Yikes… Sounds like a lot of drama, except for the metric system…yay Canada!” “So, what happens now?” asked Paul. “Well, for starters, I’m going to record your arrival. A lot of my work has to do with recording every detail, and your arrival here is a rather big one! I’ll do that while you finish your sandwich. First chance we get, we’ll head back to Toronto to see if we can add another piece to the puzzle, now that we’ve found you.” “I was five years old in 1967,” said Paul. “So weird…” “Welcome to my interesting world,” answered Grace as she unfolded her legs and stood on the rock. “Aren’t you afraid you might shift out of this place one day and be just as lost as I am?” asked Paul. “Are you kidding?” exclaimed Grace. “That is my absolute goal. I am just waiting for the moment to come…” Before she could complete her thought, the ground beneath them began to hum. A beam of sunlight penetrated the greenery, landing on the rock, making it appear translucent. Grace had a chance to glance in the direction of the tent before a falling sensation overtook them both.

xuu2w7

An Escape, I Mean Heist, I Mean Spy Mission

      They’re close behind me as I burst onto the roof, quickly realizing there’s nowhere to go from here. I sprint to the edge of the building and look down, seeing the street 30 stories below. As I contemplate my next move, I hear the door open behind me and turn back to see three imposing men in matching suits scan the roof. It takes only a moment for them to see me and suddenly I’m out of time. I eye the gap between this roof and the one across from me. I can make it. I head towards the men for a moment, getting just close enough to get a running start. I barely outrun their grasp, my coat tail brushing the fingertips of the one out front as my feet leave the roof. I glance down at the cars passing below for half an instant before locking my eyes back to the roof ahead. As I reach the other roof—            As I reach the other roof—            I don't reach the other roof. Suddenly I’m suspended in mid-air, like I’m paused. Wait, would a real person be able to make this jump? Is it believable? All at once, like a rewind, I’m pulled back to the roof. The men are sent back through the door and I’m not far behind them. Now I’m back where I started, about to burst through the door, getting a redo. I don’t have time to hesitate. The men are still behind me and I still have to get away.            They’re close behind me as I, again, burst onto the roof, still with nowhere to go from here. I start to sprint to the edge of the building but this time, I know I cannot make that jump, so instead I look for somewhere to hide, ducking behind a nearby air conditioner, at least that’s what I think it is. The men burst through the door and scan the roof. They don’t see me right away, so they fan out to search the roof. “He’s got to be up here somewhere, and he can’t hide forever!” I hear one call out. He's right. Of course they’d find me on the roof. And then what? I’m supposed to take on three guys twice my size all by myself? Again, they go back through the door, in reverse, and I’m not far behind them. Again, I find myself back on the other side of the door, about to burst onto the roof. This time I see a ladder next to the door and I climb up over the door. From here I can get the drop on them. It would be even better if I had a gun. But that wouldn’t make sense because I haven’t had a gun this whole time. I’d have to go way back and have a gun at the party in the first place, but I didn’t. So now how am I supposed to take them all out? I may have the drop from up here, but is it enough for me to take all three of them out in hand-to-hand combat? This time the goons don’t even make it to the roof before I’m back down the ladder and inside the door.  It’s been about a week that I’ve had this power. Every time I get into a situation that I can’t get out of or start to question if I can actually achieve something, I get a redo. It’s like my first attempt never happened and I get to try again until it feels right. So I burst through the door again, this time I’m frozen on the roof, no idea what do next. Why did I run up to the roof in the first place? No sooner does the question enter my mind than I reverse back through the door. This time I go all the way down the stairs, back to the bedroom I was in before security caught me rummaging through the wall safe. I hear their footsteps and this time, instead of running, I close myself in the closet with the safe. The three mountainous men burst into the room and do a quick scan. “I swear I heard someone in here,” one says. “Check the safe,” another says, because obviously the ambassador’s security would check the safe if they were concerned about a security threat. And in doing so, they’d find me in the closet. Again, the world goes into reverse and I hear their footsteps, once again in the distance. This time I close the safe and relock it, this time closing the closet door from outside of the closet. I roll under the bed just as the bedroom door opens. “I swear I heard someone in here.” “Check the safe.” At least they remain consistent. I watch a pair of shoes go to the closet and swing the door open. “It’s locked.” The three men take another beat, presumably scanning the room for anything amiss, then head back out the bedroom door. This time I got it right. Now all that’s left is to get back down to the party and walk right out the front door. I roll back out from under the bed and exit out the bedroom door. The same door security just went through. Why would they hurry back to the party and leave the hallway unattended if they were suspicious? The security people are of course right in the hallway and see me immediately. I reverse back into the bedroom, back under the bed. If I can’t go the way security went, I’ll have to sneak out the window and back into the party. I start to climb out the living room window when I remember this bedroom is on the second floor. I’m back inside the window before I know it and this time I start fashioning a rope from the sheets. But then they’ll know I was here, which defeats the purpose of the mission. The sheet rope unravels and I’m climbing back out from under the bed for a third time. This time as I climb out the window I find a trellis to climb down. I reach the ground and the guards who of course are circling the perimeters see me immediately. I am pulled back up the trellis and back through the window, under the bed yet again. Sneaking out the window and back into the party would absolutely be more difficult than sneaking back down the hall and stairs. The guards wouldn’t hang out in the hallway forever, would they? One might stay on the door to the bedroom, but the other two would return to the party after a few minutes. I am a world class secret agent after all; I can take out one giant man. This time when I find myself under the bed, I wait. I roll out after a minute and listen at the door. I hear footsteps in the hall at first. After what feels like an eternity but my watch tells me is just a few minutes, I hear talking. It’s too muffled to make out much, but the words are followed by steps retreating down the hallway. I peek under the crack in the door and see exactly what I expected, a single pair of shoes posted outside the door. I count to 30 to make sure the other two are out of ear shot before I act. I know that I’ll have only an instant before Goliath draws his weapon once I open the door, so I have to act fast. I try to picture the guards I saw when I was at the party and where they keep their guns. My instincts tell me it will be holstered on his right side, but I wonder if that’s colored by what most security people do or if it’s actually memory of these guards. I close my eyes to picture the guards and I’m glad I do, because I see the gun tucked in the back of the waistband, no holster in sight. I open my eyes, take a deep breath, and spring into action. I swing the door open and grab the gun before the guard can even react. I shoot him in an instant and the sound of a gunshot brings the rest of the security team running. I can’t just shoot him; it’s too loud. The clock turns back to before I took the shot and this time I push the gun into the back of his neck and whisper in his ear, “You make a sound, you die. Now turn around, slowly.” I walk around as he turns, staying behind him so he never sees my face. I remove his earpiece and radio, so he can’t call for help, then hit him hard in the back of the neck, knocking him out. He hits the ground hard, causing a guard to radio him asking if everything is okay. I rustle my shirt over the mouthpiece as I radio back, saying everything is fine through the rustle so they won’t notice that my voice is different. “Jesus, Smith, your radio is giving a lot of feedback, but Roger that,” he responds. But at least he’s not suspicious. I start down the hallway to the stairwell and return to the party. Though there are guards blocking the stairs to make sure guests don’t go upstairs. I would need to get them away from the stairs to return to the party unnoticed. I reverse back to the top of the stairs and this time I throw the radio in my hand, hoping the guards will rush towards it when it lands. But the guards see where it came from and turn around, spotting me immediately. The radio returns to my hand and I need a new plan. I push the button on the radio and start to make up an incident across the ballroom, but the guards don’t know my voice and immediately grow suspicious. Time turns back again. I reach for my shirt to rustle it again, but they know Smith is upstairs and wouldn’t know about what’s going on in the ballroom. Maybe it’s time for the other guards to find Smith. I duck into the room at the top of the stairs and throw Smith’s radio down the hall back at him, hard. It makes a loud noise hitting the wall and I pull the door almost closed behind me. The guards rush up to check on the bang and run past me down the hall towards Smith. I slip out the door and down the stairs quickly, blending back into the party crowd just in time before the guards upstairs radio for backup. I breathe a sigh of relief and grab a glass of champagne off a passing tray. Now I just have to enjoy the party and walk out the front door later in the night. I finally got it right this time.

xg3ctg

New Neighbor, a Black Bear?

Abandoning his 20-year-old sports car which suffered from a serious oil leak at the San Francisco International Airport was Jeff’s first real step outside his home town. He decided to embark on a flight to the capital of America’s last frontier, a city which he researched years ago during a grade school homework assignment. After paying cash for his one-way ticket, he could only count on what remained in his wallet, a mere five hundred dollars. This freedom to get away from it all unfolded only after the brute realization that he and Maria were just no longer good for one another. Breaking up spontaneously like this was a numinous experience, a liberation he had never dreamed of before. At the same time, it was heart-wrenching to admit that love was not enough to overcome the insurmountable differences arising between two young persons so attracted to one another. If only Maria had taken to heart the sound advice of first lady Nancy Reagan: “just say no”, they might have been able to weather the storm together. The first leg of the trip landed at Seattle where Jeff was to benefit from a blessing in disguise. You see, the airline was offering a free round-trip ticket voucher to anyone who would volunteer to give up their seat on the now overbooked connecting flight. Jeff, in no rush and who was just now embarking on this uncharted adventure, accepted the incentive to continue to his destination on a later flight scheduled to leave in just a few hours more! It was a late August Sunday afternoon when the aircraft’s pilot performed the expected smooth landing at Juneau International Airport. Because of the State of Alaska’s northerly position on the globe, the sun was still very high in the sky this time of year. Jeff travelled light this day, not having even brought his toothbrush. The total of eight hours in the sky had now taken him 1,500 miles from home. Jeff was the first person off the plane to summon a taxi, which took him downtown during an economical 15-minute fare. The foremost thing on Jeff’s mind was to rent a room for the night. And before his money ran out, he would need to quickly find work somewhere or other. Having not researched the local accommodations beforehand and without having the energy to run around town aimlessly, Jeff checked into the first place he found, The Alaskan Hotel. This well-preserved Victorian building on South Franklin Street was erected during the Alaska Gold Rush and would have to make do for now. After purchasing a few bathroom items at the pharmacy and grabbing a bite to eat, Jeff called it a day. The bed, linens, and furnishings appeared to be newish and plenty comfortable. After breakfast on Monday morning, Jeff took a short walk to the local branch of the state employment service. His last job was making deliveries of cash to commercial banks via an armored truck. When Jeff spied a job announcement of “bank teller” posted on the bulletin board, it naturally caught his attention. Jeff’s Great-aunt Gertrude had tutored him in arithmetic even before kindergarten, so Jeff felt he had the skill set and integrity necessary to work efficiently and correctly with any and all financial transactions. He filled out the appropriate form to discuss his interest in that work offer with an office staff employee. After a brief wait, arrangements were made over the telephone with Doug, the credit union manager, to interview Jeff the following day. As he checked out of his hotel room, Jeff had faith that things were already looking up for him here in Juneau. But before he left, he asked the front desk clerk if, by any chance, the hotel offered a weekly rate for a longer stay? The answer was “no”, but the same gentleman suggested Jeff might have better luck at another place just around the corner. Jeff headed right over to the Imperial Bar on Front Street. The Imperial, established in 1891, was known as the oldest operating bar in the State of Alaska. When Jeff introduced himself to Sandy, the bartender, he was not yet aware of the history of the structure and its business reputation as a dive bar. Sandy explained to Jeff that the two upper stories of the building were rooms for rent. The only room available at the moment had plumbing installed only to accommodate a small wash basin. Any resident living there would need to share a shower and toilet located in the hall. When Jeff found the rate was less than a hundred dollars a week, he made arrangements with Sandy to move right in! The deal for the room was completed about noontime. Before Jeff could even walk upstairs to inspect his new home, one of the few local gals in the bar offered to buy him a beer. Jeff was both surprised and suspicious at the offer, but politely accepted the come-on. Jeff soon forgot whatever chit-chat took place between them while sipping his drink. But he will never forget what happened in the end. When the conversation concluded, the girl’s true intentions came to light when she asked Jeff for cab fare. Jeff did not want to upset the natives, so he gave the lady a twenty dollar bill. She left (never to be seen from again). That turned out to be a pretty expensive beer after all! At the time, Jeff did not recognize the bartender or his new “drinking partner” as native Alaskans of the Tlingit tribe. Later he would learn they are well-known for their woodworking skills, especially with respect for carving the legendary local totem poles. Jeff found his bare room had no refrigerator, kitchen, or microwave; furnished with only a bed and a chair. For the moment, he could not afford any more restaurant meals either. He walked over to the local “Super Bear” market on Mendenhall Mall Road to find some items to eat that he could store without refrigeration. He decided on some baby food in the glass jars with the twist-off lids and soda crackers. Then he purchased a new pair of slacks, shirt, and tie to wear for his job interview the following day. Tuesday’s interview with the manager and assistant manager (Cindy) at the credit union could not have gone better. Jeff was asked to report for work and training the following day (Wednesday). Jeff’s room had no television or telephone, so after the interview he walked over to the public library on Marine Way to do some reading. During this first visit he picked up the newspaper and looked over a few magazines. In the coming weeks, he would take some books back to his room to read during the evening hours. The first day training as a bank teller was stressful. Leif, the young man (head teller) performing the orientation was charming and easy going. By the way, Leif is a Norse name meaning “heir” or “descendant”. The pleasant credit union members were all Alaska State employees who worked in the large government building across the street on Willoughby Avenue. Thanks be to God, by the time Jeff’s cash on hand had run out, it was payday! Jeff was taken aback the first time he encountered a black bear roaming a downtown street at night. He was informed this species of bear were rather small and habitually raided the garbage cans while leaving the human population alone. Nonetheless, Jeff wanted nothing to do with this aspect of summer Juneau “nightlife”. Fortunately, the larger and more unpredictable brown bears reside on nearby Admiralty Island. When his fellow co-workers at the credit union discussed seeing the Aurora Borealis the evening before, Jeff felt left out of the exciting conversation. His room at the Imperial had a window, but it lacked a view of the skyline. Regardless, it might be difficult to see the Northern Lights clearly from downtown thanks to the bright street lights. The second month in Juneau, a larger room which included a small kitchen and a private bath became available just down the hall at the sane Imperial Bar. Jeff was ready and willing to pay a higher weekly rate for more amenable lodgings and moved right over. Sometime later, one weekend afternoon, Jeff heard a loud rustling sound coming from another room down the hall. He walked over to investigate. The noise was due to a lady cleaning out the inside of the room with a snow shovel. However, the room was not filled with snow. The room was filled with hundreds, maybe thousands of empty beer cans! Every square inch of floor space was covered in aluminum beer cans to a height of a foot or so. The bathtub was filled with empty cans also. How could anyone walk, let alone live, under such conditions? Safe to say the last resident living there had a drinking problem. Utilities were included in the rooms rented at the Imperial. Winters were the most uncomfortable time of the year indoors, but not for the reason you may be thinking. It was actually so warm inside that Jeff had to leave a window partially open even in the month of December. You see, individual rooms did not have a thermostat and it seemed the heating system (wherever it was controlled) was constantly in operation during cold spells. What happened to the voucher Jeff had been given from the airline for a free round trip anywhere the airline serviced? Well, Jeff flew back home to California on vacation without having given any prior notice to his family. They had no clue of his upcoming visit. When he walked in the door to see his parents, they were in for a shocking, but sweet surprise! Back in Juneau, eventually a family on the uppermost floor of the Imperial who lived in the largest room in the building was planning to move on. They offered this “penthouse suite” to Jeff, who would have been amiss not to accept such an opportunity to upgrade. Not luxurious by any definition of the term, but the most spacious room available nonetheless. Another increase in rent was required, but still well within Jeff’s budget. Jeff’s four years living in Juneau became an exploit of sorts and a pleasure. Not everyone is willing to fly to Alaska on a whim with literally just the clothes on their back. But then again, thirty-five years ago it was a whole different world we lived in. Even today, in order to insure a successful relocation in a faraway place, it’s best to bring plenty of ambition, confidence, and adaptability rather than just pack a suitcase full of garments and bathroom necessities.

esr5ld

A Thousand Ways to Die in Costa Rica

Follow a group of strangers touring a city on some kind of vehicle — a bus, a duck tour boat, a party bike… anything that transports passengers! A Thousand Ways to Die in Costa Rica As the morning sun rose, my wife Linda and I were the first to climb aboard the small, gaily painted tour bus at the San Juan bus depot in the heart of Costa Rica’s throbbing commercial district. The bus looked like it had seen better days—a lot of them. The windows were all wide open. We had booked a three-day excursion to Playa Quesera beach on the Caribbean side of the country. The bus ride would consume most of day 1, then we'd spend all of day 2 on the beach, and then the bus ride back on day 3. The accommodations for both nights were included. The brochure photos were all exotic and beautiful. The hotel on the Caribbean side was supposed to be on the ocean and first-rate. “It’s not air-conditioned. Jake.” Linda was right. Even though it was early morning in mid-November, it was hot and stifling. I moved to the front of the bus to speak with the driver, who, according to his nametag, was "Thiago," a middle-aged man with leathery skin. “Hi, Thiago. My name is Jake.” “Si. Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence from New Jersey. Correcto? “Yes.” We shook hands. My palms were wet and sweaty. Thiago’s were dry as a bone. I guess it depends on where you're from. “Thiago, can you please turn on the air-conditioning?” "She is broken, Senor. But don't worry. Once we're in the mountains, it will be much cooler. In fact, we have a supply of blankets for your comfort on board.” Mountains? Blankets? We hadn't bargained for any mountains or blankets. Thiago noticed my frown. “Si Senor. To get to the Caribbean, we must go over the Central Mountains. They are very high. There is only one road over them. On some parts of the road, we will be above the clouds. But don’t worry. I have made this trip many times. As you say in the States, 'I got this'". He smiled, revealing three gold teeth and not much else. I wished he hadn’t. I went back and took my seat next to Linda. “Is he going to turn the air-conditioner on? “It’s out of order. Let's re-think this. “Why?” “We have to go over a mountain range to get to the Caribbean. Some parts will be above the clouds. They have blankets so we don’t freeze to death. I don’t have a good feeling about this.” “Oh, Jake, don’t be such a worry wart.” Just then, the side doors to the bus opened, and two young men climbed in. We introduced ourselves and learned they were Jody and Nick, two stockbrokers from New Jersey. They seemed like a couple of really nice guys, excited about the upcoming ‘adventure’ (their words, not mine). They lugged two surfboards onto the bus and sat down. "Hey! What is this, the torture bus?" Jody bellowed in Thiago's general direction. "Hey, driver, where's the freakin’ A/C?” Nick added. Thiago ignored them. "The A/C is broken," I explained. "But we have to go over a mountain range later, and the driver says we'll need blankets instead of A/C." “Blankets?” Nick laughed. “We don’t need no stinking blankets!” A minute later, the doors on the side of the bus opened again, and an elderly couple came aboard. There were handshakes all around, and we all learned they were Edgar and Nancy Buchanan, two retirees from, you guessed it, New Jersey. "Hot in here," Edgar commented. “Yeah, the A/C is broken,” I explained, “but Thiago says we won’t need it once we get up into the mountains.” "Good to know," Nancy said, fanning herself. “All aboard!” yelled Thiago as he jammed the bus into gear with a grinding sound that rattled the seats. The minute we pulled out of the bus depot into San Juan morning traffic it started to rain. “What the hell is this?” Nick yelled. “It better not rain on the Caribbean side tomorrow!” "Not to worry, senor," Thiago shouted back. "This is the tail end of the rainy season." I put my arm around Linda in an attempt to shield her from the raindrops blowing in through the open bus windows. Shutting the windows was not an option due to the sticky morning heat. Thiago maneuvered the old bus through city traffic. As we got outside of town, things opened up. The city traffic was replaced by a seemingly endless procession of eighteen-wheelers. The rain continued. Steady and wet. As the trip progressed, I noticed we were definitely going up. It wasn’t steep, but the incline was steady and constant. The road was heart stopping. It was a three-lane road with one lane dedicated to each direction and the center lane used for passing in both directions. This meant that due to the endless procession of eighteen-wheelers, we'd occasionally get behind one creeping along the upgrade with a load of cinderblocks or some other heavy material. Thiago would stick his head out the window to see if it was okay to pass the slow-moving vehicle. This was tricky. The trucks going the other way had no such difficulty because they were going downhill. If one of them decided to pass a slower truck they would go by us in the center lane at what seemed like the speed of light. Moreover, if Thiago chose to go for it, he had no way to be sure we weren't following a platoon of slow trucks traveling together. In other words, if he decided to venture out into the passing lane, there was no guarantee he'd be able to get back into our lane before being obliterated by a fast truck passing in the other direction. Every time Thiago pulled into the passing lane I thought of Clint Eastwood's warning: "Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?” The rain continued without letup as we ascended higher and higher into the Central Mountains. It was easily 15 or 20 degrees cooler now than in San Juan when we left. Jody got a supply of blankets from the back of the bus, and we all gratefully accepted. Thiago advised that we should all move to seats on the driver’s side of the bus. He also requested that all luggage and surfboards be transferred to the driver’s side. When I asked him why, he said the remote parts of the road over the Central Mountains had no guardrails, and redistributing the weight was done to minimize the chance of the bus sliding off the road. “Some of the turns are banked the wrong way. It’s a mile straight down,” Thiago said. Terrific, I thought. I looked out the window, and we were above the clouds. It was beautiful. This was the first time I had seen anything like it. It almost made the trip worth it. Almost. Nancy Buchanan must have thought the same thing because she got out of her seat and moved to the passenger side of the bus to take a picture with her phone. “Please sit down on the driver’s side!” Thiago yelled from the driver’s seat. There was panic in his voice. Edgar jumped to his feet in an effort to pull Nancy over to the driver’s side. I could feel the driver’s side wheels of the bus coming off the ground. We were going over! Just then, the side doors of the bus opened with a whoosh, and Nancy and Edgar fell out into the clouds. The bus settled back down on all four wheels with a thump. The four of us stared at Thiago with our mouths agape. “I had to do it!” He cried. “We were all going over!” Thiago kept driving. The bus kept rolling, “How far to the floor of the canyon?” Jody asked. “About a mile straight down. Maybe a little more.” Thiago replied. “What are the chances they’ll be found?” Jody continued. “None. It’s heavy jungle down there.” Thiago said. “A few years ago, a bus full of tourists went over the side right around here during a monsoon. The authorities organized search parties. It went on for days. The only thing they found was the gas cap from the bus. No bodies, no debris, nothing. It's amazing what Boa Constrictors can do when they’re hungry and pissed off.” “Are we sure we want to play it this way?” I asked. There was stony silence in return. We all sat deep in our thoughts until we arrived at Playa Quesera on the Caribbean coast a few hours later. When we checked in, the desk clerk asked about the missing tourists. He had expected seven quests, not five. Thiago explained in Spanish that two guests, the Buchanans, had canceled at the last minute. The desk clerk was unhappy and reminded Thiago that a 30% late cancellation fee had to be paid. We all agreed to chip in and cover the difference. When we got to our rooms, it was the first time I noticed that the hotel had no screens covering the windows. It was all open air. The brochure had neglected to mention that. A howler monkey visited our room at one point and scared the shit out of Linda. Me too. Thiago warned us to avoid leaving anything shiny, like phones, coins, watches, glasses, etc. out in the open. The monkeys would steal them. He also advised that the mosquito nets over the beds were not decorations. They were essential for survival. Dengue Fever was the chief concern. Given the absence of a bar and a TV, Linda and I turned in early. I slept fitfully, worrying about monkeys, mosquitos, and dead bodies, not necessarily in that order. The next day was beautiful, and the hotel's breakfast was excellent: fresh fruit, a selection of fresh juices, and the best coffee I ever had. However, this did little to lift our spirits as we headed for the beach and the chaises provided by the hotel. Jody and Nick were already in the water, paddling far offshore on their surfboards and catching waves. They were outstanding surfers. We spent the whole day on the beach, and, at suppertime, we were treated to the hotel’s specialty: Costa Rican Shimp Ceviche, one of the best shrimp dishes I’ve ever had. After dinner, as we were returning to our rooms, Thiago asked that we be on the bus, ready to roll, about an hour after dawn. The following morning, Linda and I were on the bus, all packed up and ready to go, when we saw Jody screaming and waving his arms from the beach: “Help! Nick’s been bitten by a shark!” It turns out that Jody and Nick got up early and hit the waves, looking to get a couple more rides before returning to San Juan. Unfortunately, Nick crossed paths with a shark looking for breakfast. We all ran down to the beach, including the desk clerk and the rest of the hotel staff with some first aid gear. The chunk the shark had torn out of Nick’s leg was big and bleeding. Thiago and the desk clerk were engaged in an intense discussion in Spanish. When they'd finished, Thiago approached Jody, Linda, and me to discuss the situation. Unfortunately, the medical facilities in the area were very limited. They recommended we clean and dress the wound, stopping the bleeding as much as possible, and then transport him back to San Juan in the bus so he can get proper treatment in one of the major hospitals. They said it was Nick's best chance of survival. “Okay, let’s get to it,” Jody said. A half-hour later, we were underway. Nick lay on the bus floor on his surfboard, his leg freshly bandaged. We tried to make him as comfortable as possible. We proceeded uneventfully for a few hours until we were near the top of the Central Mountain Range. It was slow going on the upslope. There were plenty of eighteen-wheelers to keep us company. Suddenly, the side doors to the bus burst open, and two men charged aboard. They had bandanas over their faces and carried pistols. They were yelling in Spanish. Thiago brought the bus to a stop. "It's all right," Thiago said with his hands in the air. "They just want our money. They're not going to hurt us." Just then, there was a loud BONK as Jody clobbered one of the bandits with his surfboard. The bandit fell to the floor, and his gun slid to my feet. I grabbed it. The other bandit pumped three shots into Jody, who fell backward against a window. I returned fire, hitting the bandit twice. He fell to the floor on top of Nick. I heard moans. It was the first bandit recovering from the surfboard clobbering. I fired a round into his kneecap to incapacitate him. His screams were somehow therapeutic. When we finally arrived in San Juan, Thiago drove straight to the Hospital de Dios, supposedly the top hospital in town. The bandit I shot was dead. So was Jody. Nick didn't make it either. He apparently expired on the trip. The bandit I shot in the knee survived, albeit with a limp and a lengthy prison term. The police held my passport for a couple of weeks while they sorted things out. I probably would have been in trouble without Thiago. He went to bat for me and made me a hero instead of a villain. I invited Thiago to come to New Jersey the following year. He was surprised Linda was no longer with me. I explained I had lost her to Dengue Fever a few months earlier. Thiago and I remain friends to this day.

3zvmzo

Sunny Cycle

I’ve never been the athletic type. In high school I was more into the arts, performing arts I mean. I can’t draw worth shit. I joined the Drama Club and discovered I have a passion for musicals. I’ve been told I have a good voice. I’ve also been told I sound like Barry Manilow which is ironic because I’ve been told I look like him too. I had to Google him to confirm that tidbit. Tall, lanky, brownish curly hair. Confirmed. Being on stage is where I felt the most comfortable. It’s also where I met my best friend, Bootsy. That isn’t her real name of course, her real name is Barbara, but I think Bootsy fits her better. She convinced me we needed a trip for my twenty-first birthday. She tossed the idea out tentatively because she knows my sense of adventure lands somewhere between going to check the mail wearing only socks and going down the grocery store aisles in random order. Reluctantly, I agreed and now here we are in sunny Palm Springs, California. Sitting on the motel bed, Bootsy spread out the pamphlets she nicked from the lobby like a deck of playing cards. Each containing an opportunity for disaster behind its enticing glossy photo. She holds each one up and studies my face as she offers it. “What about hiking? There’s a waterfall!” she says with wonderment. “I didn’t bring shoes to hike in, besides, you know I can’t be out in the sun for very long, I’ll burn. Plus, I’ve heard there are rattlesnakes.” I add that last part because I know Bootsy hates snakes. She tosses it aside and grabs the next one, “Oooohh, there’s an outlet mall!” She waves it side to side as if the movement will entice me like a kitten on a laser dot. “Bootsy, we could barely afford this trip to begin with.” She humphs but doesn’t give in. “Ok, I’ve got! Sunny Cycle!” “I don’t even know what that is, but if the sun is involved, you know my answer,” I say, pushing my glasses up the ridge of my nose to get a clearer view of the pamphlet. “It’s a bike but there’s eight people, and it has a cover over the top to protect you from the sun, see.” She flips open the trifold pages revealing a group of excessively happy people with their heads tossed back in mid-laughter. “I don’t think you actually have to peddle if you don’t want to. And there’s a DJ playing music.” She’s reading now. Whether it’s to gain knowledge or to convince me this would be fun, I’m not sure. I weigh my options and while I’d be just as happy sitting in this wood paneled motel room watching seventies sit-com reruns, I know she’s going to be relentless until I agree to something. “Done! Let’s do it!” The excitement in my voice surprises her. “Are you sure? I mean, it’s YOUR birthday,” she touches my knee bent beneath my leg as I sit on the edge of the bed, “I want it to be fun for you.” “Yeah,” my hesitancy creeps back in before I push it down with all the other internal tortures stowed in my irritable gut. “Yes! Sunny Cycle it is!” Did I mention I’m not athletic? It turns out you actually do have to peddle this monstrous metal beast through the streets. Bootsy lied, or the brochure was wrong. The thought occurs to me that if no one else shows, we’ll be forced to cancel this dreadful adventure. My chicken legs are too weak to propel this multi-wheeled death trap alone, and Bootsy’s legs are too short to reach the peddles. Mentally crossing my fingers for a forfeiture, I prop myself up on the padded seat molded with curves around the edges for support. Not that it would prevent me from falling to my death, but I have to admit the pressure against the sides of my butt cheeks feels comforting. I smile at Bootsy, she smiles back. “Is it just us?” I ask watching her smear a gooey wand of bright pink gloss across her duck lips. “No, I’m sure there will be others,” she says after smacking her lips together. “Want some?” She offers the slender bottle of glimmery gloss. “Ha ha, you know that’s not my color,” I joke as she stows the bottle inside the tiny purse strapped over her chest. “Oh, here comes someone!” she says excitedly clapping her chubby hands together. I drop my head as the hope of escaping this shrinks like an aging prune in my chest. “Hi, I’m Tanner!” His voice is deep but cheery. I already hate him. “I’ll be your guide today.” I hear Bootsy giggle in the way she always does when she’s smitten, “I’m Bootsy.” “Bootsy? That’s an interesting name! Welcome to Sunny Cycle Bootsy! And who’s your friend?” I’ve yet to look up. I refuse to let anything deter me from hating this. I stare at my pale skinny legs protruding from my khaki shorts and pick at the worn hem, stalling until Bootsy elbows me in the side. I finally lift my eyes and meet his gaze. Black wavy hair, tan skin, perfectly white teeth, muscles defined beneath the tight fitting t-shirt printed with a giant sun and the words sunny above it and cycle beneath. “This is Ti,” Bootsy jumps in to save everyone from the uncomfortable awkwardness settling around us like a fog. “I’m Barry," I interrupt her. "Barry,” I freeze, “Mantelope.” I have no idea what part of my brain decided to create a fictitious name, and why on earth it picked that one. “Oh. Wow. Almost like Barry Manilow, you know he lives here in Palm Springs!” Tanner accepts my fallacy without question. Bootsy turns her head toward me so Tanner can’t see and mouths WTF. “Well, it’s nice to meet you Bootsy and Barry,” Tanner announces. I’m fully regretting the new name. We sound like a really bad burlesque act. “Is anyone else joining us?” I ask then send my next my words out to the universe, “I’m assuming two of us isn’t enough to move this heavy thing. Bootsy’s legs don’t even reach the peddles.” I point down causing Tanner to look beneath the polished wooden counter that surrounds the middle of the cycle to where Bootsy’s legs dangle aimlessly. “Oh! That’s no problem.” Tanner walks around the end of the bright yellow contraption and squats near Bootsy’s seat. He pulls a lever releasing the peddles beneath her feet. His biceps flex against the fabric of his shirt sleeve as he pulls the peddles up then pushes the lever back, locking them in place. “There! Give that a try, Bootsy.” She squeals with delight as her feet do a tippy tap dance against the peddles. My prune of hope shrivels further. “But, two of us can’t be enough to move this thing, right?” I ask, feigning disappointment. “Of course it is! This isn’t like a regular bike. The chain wraps around four separate gears that distribute the…” Tanner continues to explain the mechanical miracle that enables this eight seat bicycle of doom to move but my brain tunes him out. I focus instead on his jawline then move to his lips before landing on his dimples. Tanner is every high school jock that ever shoved me in a locker, but prettier. I shake my head to snap out of it just as he finishes, “Besides, I’m here, I’ll be peddling as I steer.” “Oh boy,” I say under my breath. “Ready?” He asks garnering an excited head nod from Bootsy. The dread in my stomach churns like a tumbling boulder, “Wait! Shouldn’t we have seatbelts?” I blurt out then immediately regret it when both of them look at me questioningly. Tanner slides gracefully off his elevated captain’s chair at the rear of the cycle and walks over to stand behind me. I glance over my shoulder confident he’s about to yank me from my seat with his muscled arms and toss me off the ride. I get distracted by his cologne; it arrives a second after he does. It’s woodsy, with cedar, and a hint of smoke. I inhale drawing the aroma into my nostrils and nearly jump out of my seat when his hands touch my hips. “You seem pretty square in your seat, Barry, you should be fine,” he says. I start looking around for Barry then remember it’s me. “If you feel off balance just hold on to the counter.” His body presses against me as he leans forward to slap the wooden counter in front of me like a used car salesman. It turns out, I am athletic. Or I’m convincing myself that I am as we peddle our way down the bike lane of Palm Canyon Drive. It’s a quaint shopping district with a towering mountain as a backdrop. The presence of such an imposing structure behind the colorful shops and restaurants is beautiful if not unsettling. I shout at Tanner over the wind noise asking if anyone’s ever died from falling rocks and he assures me it hasn’t happened. Bootsy points at an oversized piece of art sitting in front of a store. It’s a giant pink gorilla so I scratch under my arms and grunt like an ape causing her to laugh so hard she wobbles in her seat. It reminds me we could die any minute. Tanner guides us through winding streets of expensive neighborhoods that purportedly have homes behind the tall Ficus shrubs that protect them from prying eyes. He points at some of them and calls out the names of famous celebrities who’ve lived there, most of which I’m only vaguely familiar with but it’s interesting all the same. We peddle out of the neighborhood and onto a back street behind the shops of Palm Canyon. It’s shaded which is nice. We have the cover of the cycle thank goodness, otherwise I would’ve already burnt to ash like a vampire in this desert sun. There’s something special about the shade of these giant trees though. The air feels cooler here, comforting. My shoulders relax and I realize I’m actually enjoying the ride. As we exit the respite of the shade, we arrive at a small park filled with palm trees and other native plants. I assume they’re native, but it’s California so is anyone or anything really native? It’s a lovely park but something is amiss. A giant Godzilla like creature stands in the center, its head visible above the tops of the palm trees. It’s not Godzilla though. Tanner informs us it’s Marilyn Monroe positioned in a classic pose with her dress blown up. He decides this is a great place to take a break which I’m thankful for. I don’t know about Bootsy, but my ass is starting to get numb and I’m becoming increasingly concerned that sitting for this long may lead to blood clots in my legs. We wait in line behind a group of foreign tourists taking pictures beneath the gargantuan statue. Each of them looks up Marilyn’s skirt and giggles. As the group ahead of us wanders away, I tell Bootsy to go ahead, I’ll take her picture first. She positions herself in front of the statue as I hold up her phone zooming the screen with my fingers to get both her and the deceased movie star in the picture. A voice behind me breaks my concentration. “You should take it from over there, you can get the mountain in the background.” It’s Tanner, giving me unsolicited photography advice. He points to a spot centered in front of the statue which, I will admit, would add more drama to the photo. “I don’t want to take it from there,” I reply. “Why?” He asks, wondering why anyone wouldn’t take the picture from the most advantageous perspective. “The statue might fall.” “And kill you?” he asks with a chuckle. As if he doesn’t know that’s the exact risk I’m trying to avoid. I don't answer him. “Are you always like this?” “Like what?” I lower the phone leaving Bootsy posing with her hip pushed out and one arm up but no one to take her picture. I turn around and make an indignant face to show him how offended I am but behind my glare I can’t help but notice his eyes. They’re the color of emeralds, and could indicate he’s susceptible to malaria, or so I’ve heard. “I don’t mean it offensively,” he puts his hands up to repel the negative energy emanating from my body. “It’s just, it seems like you’re always expecting the worst.” “You don’t know anything about me.” I snap back. “Look, I’m sorry, it’s none of my business. You seem like a good guy, and you deserve better than living a life of fear.” He thinks I’m a good guy. His sincerity creates tiny cracks in my shield of despise but I hold my ground. “I don’t live in fear.” “A seatbelt for a bike? Falling rocks? Being crushed by a statue?” “All those things are plausible,” I respond but with less conviction than intended. “Hey, guys! My arm is getting tired!” Bootsy yells from beneath Marilyn’s dress. Tanner steps closer and puts his hands in his pockets making his triceps flex. “It’s also plausible that you can have an entire day full of joy and experience new things, and nothing bad will happen.” “GUYS!” Bootsy bellows this time. Her words echo off the boulders and buildings surrounding the park. A flock of birds flee a shade tree. “You better take the picture,” he tells me and looks over at the precarious spot where I can visualize my crushed body splattered beneath the plaster face of Marilyn Monroe. I hesitate, then walk to the center of the park and focus the rectangle screen of the phone on Bootsy, Marilyn, and the mountains behind. I look at Tanner before taking the picture. The remainder of our excursion goes by like a fleeting moment. We laugh so hard Bootsy snorts which just causes all of us to laugh harder. I glance at Tanner through eyes blurred with joyous tears. He sees me looking and gives me a nod and smile. As we turn the final corner our starting point comes back into view. The boulder of dread remains in my stomach, but now it’s the fear of this day ending. Standing on the sidewalk we say our goodbyes. Bootsy wraps her arms around Tanner’s waist as he squeezes her against him. They rotate their bodies side to side until it finally becomes evident she isn't going to release him. “Bootsy,” I call out her name indicating it’s time to release Tanner from her vice grip hug. I approach him awkwardly, unsure what to do. I stick out my hand to shake as he opens his arms for a hug. I don’t hesitate and wrap my arms around him in a hug but unlike Bootsy, I release him quickly. “What are you all doing tomorrow?” Tanner asks. Bootsy tries to explain the limitations of our options until I interrupt her. “We’re going hiking.” Tanner smiles, “I know some great hiking trails.”

vnr42q

A new beginning

Leah had always considered herself a beloved member of her family. She'd grown up surrounded by the love and affection of her parents, believing they were her biological mother and father. But on her eighteenth birthday, that illusion shattered. As she unwrapped a beautifully wrapped gift, her mother's voice, heavy with a mix of sadness and relief, delivered the devastating news: "You're adopted, Leah." The words hung in the air, a silent bombshell that exploded within Leah's mind. Her world, as she knew it, crumbled around her. The familiar comfort of home, the sense of belonging she had always taken for granted, vanished in an instant. She felt a wave of disbelief, followed by a deep, aching loneliness. Leah's mind raced with questions. Why had her parents kept this secret from her for so long? Were her biological parents still alive? How would she cope with the realization that she didn't share the same blood as the people she had always considered family? As she struggled to process the overwhelming emotions, Leah felt a sense of betrayal and abandonment. She had always trusted her parents implicitly, believing they would never lie to her. The revelation of her adoption shattered that trust, leaving her feeling adrift and lost. Her stepmother and stepfather, despite their own grief over her mother's passing, demonstrated remarkable compassion and understanding. They knew how important it was for Leah to connect with her biological father, especially after such a traumatic loss. With a heavy heart but a kind intention, they purchased a plane ticket for her, allowing her to embark on a journey of discovery and healing. Leah's biological father had a troubled past, marked by addiction. This unfortunate circumstance had led him to make difficult choices, including relinquishing custody of Leah. However, after years of struggle, he finally managed to overcome his addiction and rebuild his life. With renewed determination, he set out to find Leah, driven by a deep longing to reconnect with the daughter he had missed so dearly. And now he finally got a hold of Leah's step parents and although they weren't her biological parents they still didn't want to let her go so they left the choice to Leah and Leah choose to go live with her biological father Leah's father, having tracked down her stepmother and stepfather, approached them with a mixture of hope and trepidation. He explained his desire to reconnect with Leah, expressing his deep regret for the past and his newfound ability to provide for her. While the couple had grown to love Leah as their own, they understood the importance of her biological connection.  With a heavy heart, they decided to leave the choice entirely up to Leah, allowing her to follow her heart and make the decision that felt right for her. Leah, faced with this difficult choice, weighed the pros and cons of living with her biological father versus staying with the family she had known for so long. Ultimately, she decided to go with her father. She was eager to learn more about her biological family and to explore a new chapter in her life. Today was the day that she was leaving she had to take a flight from Austrilia to where her biological father lived which was the outskirts of Texas where its very peaceful and quiet. Today was the day Leah would embark on a new journey. She had to pack her belongings, bid farewell to her stepmother and stepfather, and prepare for the long flight from Australia to the outskirts of Texas, where her biological father lived. As she stepped onto the plane, a mix of excitement and apprehension filled her heart. She was leaving behind the familiar, stepping into the unknown, and embracing the possibility of a newfound family. Leah was too nervous to sleep throughout the flight so she watched a movie and listened to music to calm her nerves and soon she arrived. The long flight to Texas was a whirlwind of emotions for Leah. She was too nervous to sleep, her mind racing with a mix of anticipation and uncertainty. To distract herself, she immersed herself in a movie, allowing the fictional characters to take her mind off her own worries. She also listened to her favorite music, letting the familiar tunes soothe her nerves and provide a sense of comfort. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the plane touched down in Texas. As Leah stepped off the plane, she took a deep breath, feeling a surge of excitement and a hint of trepidation. She was about to meet her biological father, a person she had only known through stories and photographs. Leah's heart pounded in her chest as she boarded the train to the final stop on the map. She gazed out the window, taking in the unfamiliar scenery, her mind racing with a mix of anticipation and nervousness. When the train finally arrived at its destination, Leah disembarked and began walking, following the directions her father had given her. After a ten-minute walk, she spotted it: a small, yellow house perched on a hill. Her breath caught in her throat as she approached the house. A man stood on the porch, waving at her with a wide, welcoming smile. As Leah drew closer, she recognized the man's face from the old photograph – it was her father. Leah's father, his eyes filled with a mixture of love and joy, stepped forward to greet her. "Hello, sweetheart," he said, his voice warm and welcoming. "It's so lovely to finally meet you. You look just like your mother." He gently took Leah's hand and led her into the house. “Thank you so much dad-” Leah stopped mid sentence “ Sorry I shouldn't have called you that” Leah aologized  “No it's alright you can call me whatever you wish. Do you want to order some pizza? Your step mother told me you like those” he offered and Leah nodded Leah stepped into her father's cozy home, her heart filled with a mix of excitement and uncertainty. She was eager to get to know her biological father, but also apprehensive about the changes this new chapter in her life would bring. As the days turned into weeks, Leah began to settle into her new life. She explored the peaceful countryside, made new friends, and discovered hidden talents she never knew she had. Her father, meanwhile, was overjoyed to have his daughter back in his life. He spent countless hours sharing stories of her mother, teaching her new skills, and simply enjoying their newfound bond. One evening, as they sat together on the porch, watching the sunset, Leah turned to her father and said, "I'm so glad I came here. I've found a family I never knew I was missing." Her father smiled, his eyes filled with love and pride. "Me too, sweetheart," he replied. "Me too."

vgq09y

Go tell it to the dolphins.

It was my first trip to Brazil. The flight from Rio to Manaus in the little twin-engine Cessna Skylight seemed to last forever, and the constant turbulence made me feel queasy. I flipped through an old in-flight magazine promoting the Sugar Loaf while sipping lukewarm whisky, but my thoughts were drawn to the dossier the newspaper had put together on Manaus Mayor Inacio Oliveira. I was to interview him and find out the truth about his alleged involvement in a corruption scandal. Oliveira, an ambitious businessman and takeover tycoon, emerged victorious in the local elections on the strength of his campaign slogan, "Mayor of the people, not of animals and the jungle." Progressive Brazilian media accused him of following through on his vow to restore prosperity to Manaus, the impoverished capital of the nineteenth-century rubber boom—at any cost, even if it meant destroying the local flora and fauna. International human rights organizations accused Oliveira of paying bribes to local police to remove all types of "troublemakers" from Manaus, including ecologists and wildlife experts. Despite Oliveira's denials of any wrongdoing, NGOs began monitoring his movements. However, their powerlessness was apparent as there were no overt attacks on foreigners, and embassies and consulates were hesitant to intervene without hard evidence. The local Indigenous leaders fared differently, though – their mutilated corpses had washed up on the Amazon's banks, their tongues removed as if to signal that their protestations should not continue. They had been silenced for opposing the development of a new dam and power plant upstream from Manaus, a project backed by Oliveira and his cronies. The project would flood thousands of hectares of fertile land, forcing residents to relocate away from the city, where they had access to education, healthcare, and sources of employment. It was not exactly Pulitzer Prize material, but it was better than my recent assignments: the tedious coverage of Washington D.C. political fundraisers and reports on how to properly groom your pet llama. I kid you not—the llama grooming piece was the lowest point in my career. But this new story had the potential to be a scoop, so it was a welcome change. When I started at the newspaper three years ago, I hoped that my background in environmental studies would boost the daily’s editorial line. I believed that I could bring a fresh perspective and make a difference. I was wrong. I tried to write articles about the true impact of global warming, seeking balance by interviewing scientists, environmental specialists, and climate change deniers. But the editor returned my pieces peppered with scything comments and exclamation marks. As a result, I battled wave after wave of self-doubt, knowing I only had two options: stay put and bear the relentless battering of my ego or move on. So, when I was offered the trip, my first ever abroad, I saw it as an opportunity to produce an impartial piece that would win the praise of both my colleagues and my readers. The Manaus airport, an impressionist picture of sharp brushstrokes, greeted me with heavy rain that blurred the outlines of buildings. It reminded me of Degas's " Rainy Day in Paris " as I hurried to find shelter under the awning of a nearby cafe. When the downpour finally relented, I collected my luggage and took a taxi to the Tropicana, an old five-story hotel with a flashing yellow-and-green neon sign shaped like a giant pineapple. The receptionist, a moody teenager with pupils so black they melted into the whites, handed me a clumsy-looking key and directed me to the third floor. I decided to unwind for the rest of the evening. After all, there was no rush. I took a shower to get rid of the clammy sensation that comes with being in the tropics, then settled in front of the TV with a can of Caxias do Sul to watch a Brazilian soap opera. It was like watching an old episode of Dallas, where beautiful women with full makeup and puffed-up hair yelled at each other about a betrayal and an inheritance. Only it was in Portuguese! My eyes were battling to stay open when a knock on the door drew me back from the brink of slumber. “Miss Almeida? Someone to see you.” It turned off the television. The receptionist's face, visible through the crack, was a mixture of admiration and fright. His black pupils dilated, spilling even further into the whites. “Two gentlemen,” he whispered. Somehow, I didn’t like the sound of the word ‘gentlemen’. “Kate Almeida?” one of the visitors asked. He was tall and gangly with a pock-marked face. His midnight-black hair and deep brown eyes betrayed more than a drop of Indigenous blood. “Yes. What can I do for you?” “You could start by inviting us in.” Reluctantly, I let them pass. They entered with the confidence of owning not only the Tropicana but also the rest of Manaus. Then, they sat on the bed, taking inventory of the room, scrutinizing me in the process. I had the impression that they liked what they saw. “I didn’t get your names,” I said, breaking the silence. “No need for names. Besides, what’s a name? Just a handful of sounds,” the man with the pockmarked face chuckled. Although my grandparents on my father’s side were Portuguese, I struggled to understand the gun-fire rapid Brazilian version of the language. “I guess I’ll have to remain at a disadvantage,” I muttered. The man smirked. “I guess you will.” Something about their demeanor made me uneasy, and I felt safer standing against the window and maintaining constant eye contact with them. "Did you enjoy your trip? Those Cessna planes can be bumpy..." The other man inquired. He was squat like a coal scuttle, and his cheap, synthetic suit seemed even cheaper and more synthetic on his bulky frame. “Not bad,” I lied. “Let’s talk about what brought you here,” the squat one said. His puffy lips looked like they had been injected with Botox. “Let’s not. I guess you’ll have to remain at a disadvantage here.” He chopped off my protest with the wave of his hand, raised his brows, and made a clucking sound with his tongue, making his puffy lips look even puffier. “Not a good idea to start with a disagreement. In fact, a terrible idea. Senor Oliveira was hoping you’d view things his way. Because... that is what you’ve come here for, isn’t it? To write an article about Senor Oliveira.” Manaus suddenly seemed small. And Oliveira in charge. “You seem to be very well-informed,” I observed. He smiled indulgently, as one might at an underachieving student who needs explanations for facts as basic as two plus two is four. “We know what’s to be known. Senor Oliveira makes it his business to be well-informed.” “His business is multifaceted, then. Mayor, politician, trade expert, private eye. Have I missed something?’ “No need to be sarcastic,” the pock-marked man said. “No need for names... No need to be sarcastic. So, what is there a need for?” I asked. “The mayor would like to know what you are planning to write,” he said, casting a probing glance at me as if measuring my breaking point. “First and foremost, it’s none of his business. But if Senor Oliveira is really that well-informed, he should already know,” I replied harshly. “Maybe he does. Maybe he knows, and he doesn’t like it. Maybe all he needs is a confirmation. Confirmation that you’ve come to snoop about the power plant.” "I'm not going to confirm anything! Not for the mayor and not for the Pope!" I exclaimed, getting angrier by the minute. The squat one sighed with exaggerated sadness. “ Kate, you don’t mind me calling you by your first name, do you?’ He continued without waiting for my response. "Let's get one thing straight. As you correctly observed, the mayor knows a lot of stuff. He’s aware that you are a journalist with The Washington Gazette. But your boss believes you're becoming too caught up in the nonsense about climate change and all that crap. He fears, and I have it straight from the horse's mouth," he winked at her, "that your feelings for some environmental groups are, how shall I describe it... Too warm; no pun intended. As a result, your professional judgment may be somewhat misguided. Should I continue?" My mouth filled with a harsh tang of outrage. Or perhaps it was fear. “Senor Oliveira would be glad to help you. If you believe in God like I do, he is the answer to your prayers. I have faith in both God and Senor Oliveira. Perhaps in the last one, even more. Neither one makes mistakes. But they can also be spiteful. You know the saying: if you can't beat them, join them and all that blah blah... Join Senor Oliveira's winning band. If you have a good story, he'll pay well. A story in keeping with his lines," he babbled in extremely fast Portuguese, which I was finding increasingly difficult to follow. "It was good chatting with you, but now I'd appreciate it if you got out of my room," I said, looking at them with more resolve than I felt. The beer I had drank earlier on was burning in my gut, and I was worried I would vomit. “You’ve overstayed your welcome. By a full ten minutes.” A nasty laugh gurgled from the squat man's mouth, now twisted into a sneer. "I still don't think you understand it, so let us put it bluntly. You are the mayor's guest. The Tropicana belongs to him.” "The damned newspaper!" I cursed silently. With dozens of hotels in Manaus, they’d chosen this one! But then it dawned on me. It wasn't a coincidence. I’d been set up as yet another way to test my loyalty to The Gazette. Oliveira's arms reached far. And so did my editor's. The man removed an envelope from his jacket pocket. "Ten thousand dollars. It should cover a few weeks of sunbathing. Rio de Janeiro, perhaps? Or Miami? Restaurants in Miami are known for their exceptional huevos rancheros and tequila margaritas. And then there are the beaches. Just a few pen strokes, or do you, reporters, use only computers nowadays? It's as simple as that. I wish I could write,” his mouth curved downward in mock pity for his lack of writing skills. Sweat broke out on my forehead. “What’s my other option? The tall man laughed and got up. “Try answering it yourself. You have the whole night.” The squat man tucked the envelope into his jacket pocket, approached me, and grasped my hand in his sweaty palms. “Until tomorrow, then,” he said, blowing me a noisy air kiss. As soon as the door closed, I began to shake. I desperately wanted a drink. I popped open another Caxias do Sul. It frothed over the edge and onto my trembling fingers. Despite the alcohol's numbing effect, the bitter taste in my mouth persisted. Outside, the rain was debating whether to become a drizzle or a cloudburst. Ten thousand dollars. Rio sounded fantastic. And I’d never been to Miami either, not even on my college spring break. My vintage Toyota Corolla was in desperate need of a tune-up. My student loan could also use a helping hand. And my job would be safe. That’s what they wanted me to do, wasn’t it? To conform and show my loyalty. Others had done worse things for less. Who gave a damn about the Amazon, anyway? And perhaps the things they said about the mutilated bodies were false. The power plant also seemed like a good idea—cheap electricity for the locals. And jobs. I walked out of the room past the receptionist, who bowed his head and pretended I was merely a gust of wind blowing through the open door. Manaus was deserted, and the rain finally decided to stop. Pools of water steamed on the sidewalks while frogs croaked a throaty concerto. The Amazon's spilled ink reflected a woolly balloon of the moon. The same river would soon flood hundreds of hectares of land, submerging everything beneath its surface. The whispers of waves lapping the shores begged me to move closer. I stood in semi-silence, watching what seemed to be a cheesy set for a Wagnerian spectacle. The Nibelungs, perhaps. Or Lohengrin. A massive plaster swan would appear at any moment, the orchestra would blare, lights would chase away the darkness, and a black-clad soloist would intone the 'Grail Aria.' “Beautiful, isn’t it?” A voice behind me startled me out of my trance. I spun around. It belonged to a small woman whose white triangular face peered out of a moist sleeker. "Dolphins come to the riverbank on nights like this one. I've always wondered what makes them feel safe here.” "Dolphins? I thought they were sea creatures,” I replied. “The Amazon is teeming with pink dolphins - adorable creatures that are both small and incredibly agile. You know what the legend says? After the rain, they transform into humans. It is rumored that many children born out of wedlock in Manaus have been fathered by them.” A tingling sensation rose from my toes, as though I were standing barefoot on ice. The woman’s physical presence made me nervous, and I was sure her round, piercing eyes could see right through me, into me, and touch my heart that was cantering violently against my ribs. “Do you come here often?” I finally asked. “Like the dolphins, only after the rain,” the woman laughed. Her laughter was infectious, making me feel instantly more at ease. She added after a pause, "Is there something worrying you? A problem?" “Not really, it’s just...” I stammered. An overwhelming need to tell her everything, to unburden myself, and to relieve myself of the suffocating shame washed over me. "Yes. There is something. You see..." “There! They're here!" The woman interrupted me. "The dolphins!" The river rippled. A pointed nose emerged. Then another one. More and more of them disturbed the black surface, their gay chatter joining the frogs’ guttural tune. "You know why I'm here?" the woman asked, then continued without waiting for an answer. "To talk to them, to know I’m not alone. They are the only ones who understand." Her raincoat rustled as she inched closer. “Maybe that’s what you should do. Tell it to the dolphins.”  I gazed at her, perplexed. Her small, round eyes glowed like blazing cinders on a bed of extinguished ashes. “It helps to tell someone, you know. They can’t respond, but they will listen. And it will be up to you to make the final decision.” Her hand rested on my shoulder, gently propelling me towards the Amazon. "Go on, tell it to the dolphins."  I felt compelled to take a few steps forward. Part of me thought it was ridiculous. I was a no-nonsense journalist, a factfinder. My world was not inhabited by mystical dolphins playing in the waves. But there was something about their joyous chatter that drew me in. As I watched them frolic in the water, I felt a sense of peace wash over me, reminding me that sometimes it's okay to embrace the magic of the moment. Part of me did want to believe in castles in the air. Or dolphins chattering in the water. Everything was black, and only the stars, like tins of condensed light, blinked in the now cloudless sky and reflected in the river. The dolphins babbled, poked their noses through the surface, and sank again amidst a whirlpool of bubbles. I began to speak. Suddenly, everything became clear. No matter how hard Oliveira and others like him tried, some things could not and would not be changed by human action. Some things would always remain sculpted in the bark of trees, marked on the sky by comets that passed every hundred years, engraved in every leaf and every blade of grass along the banks of the Amazon. And scribbled on the water by dolphins. I also realized I couldn't continue on the path I'd been on for the past few years. I had to let go of the idol who wore Armani suits, smelled of Issey Miyake, and whose name sometimes was money and sometimes betrayal of principles. I could see his feet—they were made of clay.  I turned to thank the woman, only to find her gone. I could hear the whisper of her raincoat in the mist, but perhaps it was the last raindrops falling from the trees. I started to walk back to the Tropicana. It was nearly midnight, yet I was eager to begin. At once, before it all blew up in my face. Before I was seduced into conformity again. I was glad that I had told everything to the dolphins. I knew exactly what kind of article I was going to write, and I was well aware that my editor wouldn’t like it. And neither would mayor Oliveira.

5k2lk8

Matatu Express

“ Matatu, mtatu, mtatu! Join the Matatu Express for the special tour of the most vibrant city in East Africa!” Jinja, who arrived first, is in the front passenger seat snapping photos onto her insta post as the public minibus-turned tour van circles the junction outside one of Nairobi’s biggest supermarkets, looking for idling travellers or confused wannabe customers who have signed up online but cannot work out where the moving target for embarkation is located in the 3D dust-infused urban mayhem. Finally, the 14-seater matatu minibus parks in a sun-streaked spot by a gateway between the supermarket and the bus touts. Shomari, the tour guide, hands a small Nokia to the driver to deal with an urgent logistics matter and simultaneously dials another number on a large red smartphone, after which he jumps out of the vehicle and runs to the other side of the car park. He comes back with a lost-looking assortment of strangers whom he shoves through the small side door and tells them to “wait here”. “Ciao, my name is Antonio, I am from Italy, what are your names?” asks the olive-tanned mid-50s man to the group of Asian-looking youngsters, as he settles into a single seat behind the open door. The one with thick-set eyebrows responds. “I am Guan, we are from Beijing. These are my friends Wei and Xin, and my sister Mei. We come with a tour group but today we travel separate to visit the city ourselves” he explains. Antonio smiles encouragingly and he and Guan dabble in conversation. Guan quizzes Antonio about the nifty R5 around his neck, the camera he almost purchased himself before the trip, but which he forsook for the EOS R10 which his cousin lent him, on the promise that Guan would scout out opportunities for the LV handbag import/export business. Antonio tells him about the article he is pitching about wildlife-culture interactions in East Africa with a focus on animal-based artefacts, from fish-leather belts to buffalo horn dog chewies and the recent obsession with zebra-inspired social media memes. Shomari comes back with another trail of multi-hued tourists who are all drawn from a similar archetype, with sports packs and matching water bottle, hiking sandals and dusty caps. The tall blond man in the front has to stoop half his body over to fit through the doorway and they eventually all accommodate themselves to the hard seats, lack of neck rests and limited leg room. Antonio notices the blond man’s discomfort as his long legs stick out sideways on the two-seater chairs across from him. He graciously offers to swap, so the tall man and the less-tall lady both climb back out of the matatu, Antonio rustles over to the window seat across from him, the lady takes the aisle seat and the tall man spreads his legs out in front of the doorway. This leads to cordial introductions all around: John and Alice, from Wales, on the last day of their honeymoon; Deepti and Pushpa, business exchange students from India; and Jinja, from the western city of Eldoret who cranes her neck round from the front to perfunctorily introduce herself as “Jinja, the adventure ninja with a difference, I organise tailored sports holidays in the Kenya highlands. I’m joining today to discover more of Nairobi”. Shomari steps in and sits next to her in the front row as the vehicle manoeuvres out of the car park: “Welcome aboard, intrepid travellers! Thank you for signing up to Matatu Express, Nairobi’s number one authentic tourism experience. Today we will visit the historic market street of the Central Business District, collect souvenirs at the famous Maasai market, learn the tricks of Nairobi driving, and come head-to-head with giraffes. We start at Biashara street, the textile centre of the city. Here you can find any colour, any design you want. You have thirty minutes to buy as many cloths as you can to make skirts, beach dresses or even cushion covers”. The passengers spread out across both sides of the bustling commercial street, trying not to trip over sunglass-wielding street vendors and phone charger merchants. Half an hour later, with bright blue and red bags dangling from their fingertips full of creased linen and geometric ethnic prints, they gather back together by the street corner. Shomari leads them to a tea shop where they sit on slim wooden benches under a canvas roof and sip on thickly sweet cow-rich milk tea. Whilst Alice and John soak up the city’s exuberance, Deepti and Pushpa hotly debate the virtues of Kenyan tea compared to their home-brewed chai. Jinja interviews Guan, Wei, Xin and Mei about their travel preferences and whether they would consider an urban-hiking combo tour as part of their visit. Back in the vehicle, Shomari tells them to strap themselves in tight because they are going to experience road-rage Kenyan style. “If you ever got scared on a roller coaster, you haven’t seen nothing yet”. Pushing its way past street markets and four-lane roundabouts, the matatu arrives onto the famous Ngong road. Abedi, the driver, pulls his sleeves up, turns the music on high, and presses on the pedal. There are matatus on both sides of them, motorbikes overtaking from the left and right, high speed zones followed by sudden speed bumps and the occasional traffic lights. The gang leans back in the seats wide-eyed whilst Jinja laughs and Antonio tries to capture the towering metallic sculptures of elephants, giraffes and wildebeest that line the road. After a hair-raising ride, Shomari invites them out of the bus. Antonio notices the Ministry of Health symbol on the side of the van with a large, black and white spray-painted image of a woman wearing a face mask, with the words “Your safety is our priority” strewn across the side. The irony of reading the motto after the recent drive makes him smile. Shomari explains that matatus were subsidised to promote public health messages during the Covid-19 pandemic, and that the post-pandemic tourist boon convinced him and an investor friend to launch the Matatu Express. “And Bob Marley?” enquires Antonio, pointing at the larger-than-life cartoon-like caricature on the back of the bus. “Ah, matatus are known for their unique artwork. This one is sponsored by a famous graffiti artist. It keeps the cars behind us alert” he says with a cheeky grin. Shomari walks the group over to the gate for some giraffe petting. Here they will climb onto a tall platform, see the savannah landscape on Nairobi’s doorstep, and mouth-feed the Rothschild giraffe orphans whose long black tongues are as eery as their eyes are endearing. The morning freshness has given way to a searing sun, and the group rests for lunch at a café serving greasy chapati flatbreads of the best kind. The group probes Jinja about growing up near the training grounds of the world’s fastest runners but she instead incites them to dream of treks through rainfed valleys, moon-like summits and gazelle-filled plains. By the end of lunch, Guan, Mei, Wei and Xin are following the Insta page “Jinja Ninjas” tagged with a zebra hiking meme. The last visit of the day is the ethnic Maasai market. On the way, Shomari hands round bottles of cold water in the bus and explains that Nairobi was christened out of the original Maasai name Enkare Nyrobi meaning cool water. He then urges them into the market stalls and incites them to buy generously and take souvenirs back for their nephews, nieces and friends. Alice falls in love with a metal sculpture of a warthog and convinces John that it is smaller and easier to carry than a giraffe. Antonio is snap-happy surrounded by animalia artefacts, and the rest of the group browse and buy with the ultimate satisfaction that they know how to get a great bargain, rewarded for their savvy with free zebra keyrings and fridge magnets. Every good adventure must come to an end but to celebrate their odd and endearing new friendships, the gang invites Shomari for a cold beer before waving goodbye to Alice and John, straddling the warthog between them, who are headed for their flight home through the night sky with authentic memories Kenyan-style.

ri34a0

The Ghost Tram of Budapest

It was a damp, misty evening in Budapest when a group of strangers gathered at a discreet tram stop near the banks of the Danube. The tour was billed as "The Ghost Tram," a ride through the city's lesser-known haunted locales. Most of the group had signed up out of curiosity, drawn by the strange allure of the city's dark history, while others hoped for a thrill or perhaps even a brush with the supernatural. The tram itself was ancient, a relic from a bygone era, marked as *Tram No. 19*. Its faded red paint was peeling from the wooden panels, and its brass fittings had long tarnished, giving the vehicle a ghostly, spectral presence. As the passengers boarded, they exchanged nervous glances but said little, unsure of what to expect. The guide, a tall man in a long coat, introduced himself as Márton. His voice was deep and melodious, and he spoke with an air of mystery that immediately captivated his audience. "Üdvözlöm, welcome to the Ghost Tram," he began, his eyes scanning the group. "Tonight, we will visit places where the past lingers, where the veil between our world and the next is thin. Some of you may feel things, see things, or even hear suttogások (whispers) of those long gone. But do not be afraid—this is a journey into history, not a horror show." The group consisted of a diverse bunch. There was George and Evelyn, an elderly couple from England who had been visiting Budapest to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary. They were quiet and reserved, holding hands tightly as they boarded. Sitting across from them were Amanda and Rachel, college students from the United States, excited but nervous, clutching their phones as if seeking comfort from the glowing screens. Katalin, a middle-aged Hungarian woman with a somber expression, sat near the back, her eyes occasionally drifting out the window as if lost in thought. Next to her was István, a local man in his late forties with a skeptical smirk, seemingly unimpressed by the idea of a "ghost tour." And finally, there was Anna, a young girl with striking green eyes who seemed much too calm for such a tour, her expression serene and almost knowing. As it creaked into motion, the mist outside the tram thickened, shrouding the city in an ethereal glow. The streets of Budapest, normally bustling with life, appeared desolate, the shadows of the buildings stretching out like dark fingers. The tram's lights flickered as it trundled along, and the air inside grew colder with every passing minute. Their first stop was an old, abandoned opera house. Márton recounted the tale of a celebrated énekesnő, singer, who had perished tragically on stage many years ago. "Néhányan azt mondják (Some say)," Márton continued, "her voice can still be heard on quiet nights, echoing through the decaying halls." As the group peered out through the windows of the tram, they could almost hear a faint, haunting melody carried by the wind. The next destination was an ancient cemetery, overgrown with ivy and moss. Márton spoke of a legend that claimed those buried there were nyugtalan, restless, cursed to wander the earth as spirits. The tram stopped, and the group was invited to step out and walk among the sírkövek (tombstones). As they did, the temperature seemed to drop even further, and several passengers swore they felt the brush of unseen hands on their shoulders. When the group returned to the tram, there was a noticeable shift in the atmosphere. István was no longer smirking, George and Evelyn held hands even tighter, and Amanda and Rachel whispered nervously. But Anna remained unchanged, her expression serene and almost knowing. As the tour progressed, Márton told stories of ghostly katonák (soldiers) of lovers lost to time, and of the unsolved rejtélyek (mysteries) that still haunted the city's dark corners. Each stop added to the growing tension within the tram, but no one spoke of turning back. The ride felt like it was no longer just a tour, but a journey into the unknown. Finally, they arrived at the last stop: Szabadság híd, or Liberty Bridge, which spanned the Danube. Márton spoke of a legend that claimed the bridge was átkozott, cursed, that those who crossed it at éjfél (midnight) risked being taken by the river, their souls trapped beneath the waters forever. The tram halted in the middle of the bridge, and the group was left in silence, the only sound being the faint lapping of the víz (water) below. Márton stepped out and beckoned the group to follow. One by one, they disembarked, their feet heavy with trepidation. The fog had thickened, enveloping the bridge and the tram in a dense, almost impenetrable shroud. As they stood on Szabadság híd, Anna walked to the edge and looked out over the water. The others watched her in silence, sensing something they couldn't quite explain. Then, with a calmness that seemed out of place, she turned to them and said, "Ez az, ahol véget ér—This is where it ends." Before anyone could react, the tram's lights flickered one last time, and the mist seemed to swirl around them, thickening until it was impossible to see even a few feet ahead. The group felt a strange sensation, as if the world was shifting beneath their feet. And then, just as suddenly as it had come, the mist began to clear. The group found themselves back at the original tram stop, the city around them now alive with the bustle of nightlife. *Tram No. 19* was nowhere to be seen. Márton had vanished as well. The passengers exchanged bewildered looks, unsure of what had just happened. Anna was gone, her presence lingering like a faint echo in their minds. They had been gone for hours, but no time seemed to have passed at all. As they dispersed, returning to their lives, each of them was left with a lingering sense of unease. Had it all been a dream, a strange hallucination brought on by the köd (fog)? Or had they truly crossed into another world, if only for a moment? None of them could say for sure. But one thing was certain: they would never forget the night they rode the Ghost Tram of Budapest.

gv5xc2

Tenochtitlan Time Travel Tour

The intercom system didn’t work, for a start. If it had, it would have broadcast a recorded message regarding the history of the Aztec Empire: what was known about Aztec culture, fashion, system of government, and cuisine. This message would have prepared the six passengers onboard for what they were about to see while their pod traversed the dark “time tunnel” bringing them to the distant past. But the system didn’t work, and so broadcast wailing static and jumbled speech. Only the occasional word proved decipherable through syllabic structure, most notably the name of their destination: Tenochtitlan. That the pod was lit by a single, small bulb built into the ceiling, and the tunnel outside was as pitch dark as could be imagined, contributed to the eerie feel of the journey. Lydia Carson wasn’t too upset by this. She hadn’t been afraid of the dark since childhood and she trusted the safety records of Time Travel Inc. She also didn’t mind missing the history lesson, as she’d earned a minor in Central American Culture back in her school days. In fact, she thanked the stars that she wouldn’t receive a surface-level, commercialized depiction of a subject she knew. After all, it’s possible to hurt yourself if you roll your eyes too hard. Lydia never thought she’d get this far, to the point of taking a trip back in time a full millennia. When she first heard scientists had “cracked the time barrier” she’d been skeptical. And her skepticism had turned to horror as dependable news sources began reporting on the progress of the project. Could someone go back in time and change everything? Would she wake up one morning to find that the Nazis had won WW2 or that a dinosaur empire now ruled the globe? Would she wake up one morning to find she never existed? Was that possible? Fortunately, time travel turned out to be limited. You could only travel to the past, and you couldn’t change anything, as temporal physics wouldn’t allow it. Some daredevils and revolutionaries had tried, and the rumors of their grisly ends were best left to tabloids in Lydia’s opinion. One witty scientist once quipped: “You can’t change the past… and for your own good please don’t try.” There were only two things time travel was good for: history and tourism. You could go back to observe, learn, and correct the historical record. Or you could go back to have a jolly old time. As long as you kept out of sight, you almost certainly wouldn't get swallowed up in Mother Nature’s “temporal fixing.” This led to a new industry: “Time Vacations.” You could now travel back to any period of time, take in the sights, sounds, and culture, then hop back to your own era a split second from when you left. For most guests, this meant transport in light-reflective (and thus effectively invisible) “person pods” that guided guests on pre-planned trips around their requested landmark of choice. Popular destinations include Leonardo’s Workshop in its heyday, Angkor Wat at the height of the Khmer Empire, and the 2005 Champions League Final in Istanbul. The only real limitation, apart from the total prohibition on interacting with the setting in any way, lay in what the industry deemed “crowding the past.” Sending a few customers back to watch the last stone of Khufu’s Great Pyramid slide into position wasn't a big deal, but if you keep sending people back to that exact day without proper safeguards, then eventually a couple of these pods are bound to crash into each other. As a result, the industry is mandated to keep careful track of every pop they send, cataloged to the exact trajectory in spacetime. With thousands of years of history to travel to, it was unlikely that any but the most famous days in history would grow crowded, but who knows how long temporal vacations would be a thing? Early vacationers from the 23nd century risk bumping fenders with futurists from the 30th. And who knows what crazy customs people from that far in the future might have. They probably wear tin foil clothes and listen exclusively to techno music. Best to do everything you can to keep your distance. Lydia herself had scheduled a trip to exactly one thousand years ago. The travel companies liked sending people back in large, round numbers of years to make keeping track easier, so they gave a discount if you picked that option. This meant Lydia would get to see the legendary lake city a couple hundred years before conquistadors arrived bearing bibles and plague. Lydia hadn’t planned on interacting with her fellow passengers at all during the trip. She was paying good money for a one hour experience, so she was going to use the full time to take in the sights her imagination had been conjuring since she was a little girl. It was a knock to her skeptical persona that she was even taking this trip, so she intended to enjoy every second of it. But with the incessant static coming out of the sound system, the other passengers were getting antsy, and something would have to be done. “Is there any way to turn that blasted thing off?” An older woman in a knit cap asked. “Probably ma’am. Probably.” This was a tall, middle-aged man with a London accent. “I think that large, white button is for contacting technical support, but then I guess they might not be any more decipherable out of this machine than the recording.” “And we’re not supposed to contact them while in the tunnel,” the older woman added, “not unless it’s an emergency, which sadly I don’t think this counts as.” A young boy, perhaps eight years old, started to cry, and pressed his face into his mother’s welcoming hug. Lydia realized he hadn’t made a peep up until this point, through a considerable wait in line and at a counter, and counted that to his credit. Best to get the situation sorted before they arrived. “The controls are listed in this pamphlet I believe,” she said, pulling out a thick leaflet she’d received with her original promotional materials. She flipped through the tiny pages, her mind just briefly glancing over a set of safety instructions: Your People Pod is your friend. Do NOT attempt to leave your People Pod while in motion. No one from outside your People Pod can see or hear you. Do NOT attempt to contact them in ANY way. Phones and cameras are prohibited. Do NOT attempt to take pictures of your trip. Tell all your friends and family about the great time you had. The past is a big place, and welcoming of visitors. Lydia skimmed to the proper page, bearing a picture of the controls featuring a set of knobs and that distinctive white button, plus a metal panel with an old-fashioned keyhole. She scanned over the labels. “The center knob is volume control. You can’t turn off the recording but you can turn the volume all the way down.” “Center control.” The tall man repeated, moving his hand to the correct knob and giving it a twist, the wrong way at first which filled the pod with an intense howl of static, including that distinctive four-syllable, garbled “Tenochtitlan”, until he swung it back again. The static didn’t disappear entirely, but it was now so muted that all six passengers sighed with relief in concert. “Thank the stars for that.” This was the sixth passenger, an old man with a distinguished gray beard who caught Lydia’s eye. “And thanks to you for sorting this out. I’m wretched with machines. Born in the wrong era I suppose.” Completely against her plan going in, Lydia smiled at the man and asked his name. “Arthur Covington,” he said and smiled back. And as they emerged from the time tunnel into the bright sun of one thousand years ago, Arthur mentioned that he was a historian who had become “somewhat addicted to trips of this type.” “Look! Look!” This was the young boy, who just then leapt up, taking his mother’s hands in his and pulling her to her feet such that they might get closer to one of the Pod’s great clear windows. For suddenly a city on a lake sprawled below like nothing they’d ever seen before. “Have a look at that,” the tall man said, and waited 'til all the shorter folk had chosen viewing spots before he stood. “Built right over the lake, and into the lake even. Look at the gardens.” Lydia knew a few things about this, but felt the urge to get everyone involved. “Arthur, since our radio narration is out, perhaps you can fill in.” “Oh?” Arthur said, his eyebrows raised, “Yes I suppose I could.” Then he cleared his throat theatrically, and began: “Tenochtitlan is a beautiful city, but building on the lake was a practical decision. The Aztecs didn’t have horses or oxen for carts. Imagine having to carry every single object you ever needed to move. But with a city surrounded by water, you can bring most goods in and out on canoes. You see, there’s more people on boats than on the bridges in and out.” By this time, the young boy was pressed up against the window, gazing down at the hundred little boats in the crystal water. At last he let go of his mother’s hands such that he might shade his eyes for a better view. “Use the ocular young man, it’s that clear glass piece next to you. Here I can show you.” This was the older woman, then she caught the eye of the boy’s mother. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I suppose I’m just so happy to see a child enthused. My name is Martha.” The mother smiled back at her. “I am Itzel. My son is Aapo. You may show him.” The two women shook hands, and then Martha moved off to show Aapo how to affix the glass ocular device. They were closer to the city now, and Lydia found Arthur’s narrative fading from the front of her mind. At first she followed a canoe, laden with beans and squash, as it arrived at an indented nook near a market. People crowded around, men and women, to scout the produce. Lydia noted the clothing they wore, she’d always imagined more visible skin in the hot central american sun. Yet most Aztecs wore a robe of some sort, mostly white with dashes of color: predominantly red but also brown and gold and sky blue. Only male laborers went bare chested. She’d seen far more skin on a visit to Miami. “... there, look, you can see a warrior practicing now…” Lydia snapped to follow Arthur’s direction. They were swooping toward the central area of the city, with its grand pyramids and temples. The historian was gesturing towards the side of one building. “That’s the house of song. I’m trying to remember the Aztec name… cuicacalli if I’m pronouncing it right. It’s just a single warrior without his regiment, there by the outer wall.” “He’s got a shaker stick, like a maraca. And he’s singing, you can see his mouth. I can just barely hear him. He sounds like a crooner!” This was Martha. The singing man spun and leapt in the air, and shook his stick around in a wide arc. He wasn’t dressed in full warrior garb of jaguar skin and plumage, but he held a single, large blue feather in his off hand as he shook the stick. He also had spectators: a couple of women, a young girl and two boys. Family out to see their cousin practice, Lydia guessed. She took up an ocular set, suddenly intent on reading the expression on the man’s face. His skin was dry despite the activity. He was dressed far lighter than he would in full battle regalia, so this must be light exercise for him. And his eyes were so focused they appeared endlessly brown. Yet at the same time, she noticed his mouth turn upward, and then his pupils suddenly flick to the side. She cast the viewer in that direction, to the onlookers. One of the women held an intense gaze to match the warrior, and she made no motion to suppress her smile. Lydia felt herself gasp. She set down the ocular and backed away from the window. Four of the other guests were still staring down at the city. Arthur was saying “... some might find it unlucky that there’s no ceremony today. But I’m not sure I’d have had the stomach to watch a human sacrifice. As I understand it, they aren’t common.” “Those days must be in high demand, then. I know a few blokes who would pay good money to see a bloody execution legally.” This was the tall man. Lydia felt that her eyes were wet. She was overwhelmed, but why? “Are you alright?” Itzel was at her side. “Yes, I think so. I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it’s the voyeuristic nature of what we’re doing. Or that, or that the people we’re watching…” Lydia considered what she wanted to say, about how these people were doomed, basically already dead. That in one sense they were right there with them, not 100 meters away, but at the same time they were gone forever. “It just struck me how strange this is, to be watching people that we’ll never get to meet, people who will vanish the second we return to our own time. Does that make sense?” “It is a lot.” Itzel replied calmly. “But you know, I brought my son here to see his roots. We are from Guatemala with blood that goes back to this time. These people will never know us, but they’re helping keep us alive and we’re helping keep them alive.” In the moment, this all made perfect sense to Lydia The two women chatted for several minutes, about family and trips and school and history. For those minutes, neither cast a glance outside to the majestic world playing out below them. By the end of their talk, Lydia felt much better. And for the rest of the trip, she chatted easily with the other passengers while watching city life play out below. It turned out the tall man’s family had given him the trip for his birthday, and that “I’d better come back with some fun stories or they’ll think their gift was rubbish.” His name was Jim. Martha also felt pressure to enjoy her trip. She and an old school friend had planned this vacation together, but that friend had fallen ill with the flu. Martha had intended to cancel entirely, but her friend insisted Martha go ahead without her. “She said she’d unfriend me if I didn’t. I wasn’t willing to take that chance!” Together they soared over the three great bridges of Tenochtitlan, watching the faces of traders and visitors in various states of awe or comfort with the grandest city any of them would ever know. They floated past the large red-roofed houses that held extended families, and the smaller, yellow-thatched houses that served as homes for the poor. And just as their Pod rose again for one last loop around the city before slipping back toward the time tunnel, a procession of priests emerged from one of the central temples wearing masks. Aapo rushed to the viewer to get a better view. “Birds! Bird masks! All colored feathers!” He shouted. The other passengers cheered. “A Huitzilopochtli ceremony perhaps. Oh to think we almost missed them!” Arthur said. “Great eye Aapo! And so fast!” This was Martha. Aapo rushed to hug his mother. They beamed at each other. Within seconds they were back in the darkness of the time tunnel, with only the small bulb in the ceiling illuminating the pod. That low light, which had seemed so eerie on the trip out, now felt calm, relaxing. An odd feeling struck Lydia that she normally would have dismissed as mawkish, about how nice it was to form connections with people, whether or not you’d ever see them again. An impulsive thought tugged at her. “This is a silly idea but, would any of you like to exchange contact info? Oh I don’t think I ever said my name. It’s Lydia. And I’ve had a very nice time meeting all of you.”

js6p20

The Legendary Dancer of the Ship Destiny's Dreams

Under the blue summer sky, the sails of the clipper ship called the Destiny's Dreams glowed against the ocean like white clouds. The sleek design of the ship moved swiftly through the gentle waves of the sea. The sound of people singing on the ship floated over the waves. "The sun shining on the ocean...The ship rolls with the motion..." The salt air carried the sounds of seagulls cawing, and also of music from a violin, a flute, and a guitar, along with the voices singing. "Step and spin, twirl and sway..." Above the singers rose the squawk and odd voice of Foresta the parrot, who rode on the shoulder of the ship's captain. "aaawwwk....twiiirrrl...an...aaaayyy." Adding to the party, a small Capuchin monkey scrambled among the dancers, with his lips pulled way back in a smiling grimace and his long tail waving to the music. Seagulls flying overhead soared closer and began chattering to each other. "What is going on here? " "Did you hear that?" "Why is everyone down there hopping around?" The gulls had never seen or heard anything like it. They made a lot of noise discussing the odd thing on the seas below them. Then they flew onward in their journeys. It all began a few weeks before this, when two people who were searching discovered each other. The new era for the Destiny's Dreams was born. In 1898, anchored off Buenos Aires, Captain Alfonse realized he was searching for something. But he did not know what it was yet. But he did feel the mood on the ship after the last long voyage had become a little too quiet, with the sailors looking tired and solemn. He watched the sailor called Adelberto, who was high above the ground, in the clipper ship’s rigging. "Careful, Adelberto." The captain's voice drifted up to the sailor. Rio, the captain's rescued red, blue and yellow parrot echoed the captain's words. "aaarrr-ul..aadeeelbeeerto." Nearby another of the captain's rescued pets hopped up to swing from one of the thick rope halyards. "Rio," called Captain Alfonse. "Here." He patted his other shoulder and the rescued Capuchin monkey galloped over and jumped up. On this day, despite being tired, and going against Captain Alfonse's recommendations, the sailor called Adelberto decided to work on the white oiled canvas of a tangled sail. "I hope he is alright." Adelberto's wife, Isabella, spoke with concern. "I can't wait until he is finished and back down on the deck." A fall from that high would be serious. "I'm fine." Adelberto's voice sounded far away. From up in the sky, next to the tallest mast on the Destiny’s Dreams rigging, Adelberto looked down at the group on the boardwalk next to the ocean bay. The clear morning air of summer on a February day in Buenos Aires, Argentina, in 1898, carried the sweet sounds of a violin playing, as if it was speaking and telling a story. Adelberto twisted to see where it was coming from. One of his hands grasping a wooden boom slipped. His other hand was wrapped around the thick rope of the woven rigging. Then he lost his perch high on the mast and dangled in the air. "Oh, no." Isabella, his wife, watching from the ship’s deck, gasped. She saw his figure silhouetted against the sunny sky. It swung from the rope he held with one hand. His heart thumping, legs waving, Adelberto tried to grab a wood boom as he swung by it. The world below spun and he felt dizzy. Then his free hand caught hold of the tip of a wood boom holding one of the square clipper ship sails. Shaking, Adelberto held the boom with one hand and the thick rigging rope with the other. His breath came in loud wheezes. His chest felt tight. “Take it easy. Climb down slowly. Come down and rest.” Captain Alfonse Belanger, of the ship Destiny’s Dreams, had a booming but calm and confident voice. “You’re going to be alright. Don’t hurry.” Adelberto slowly got his breath back. Then he felt strength flow back into his hands and arms. He caught the rigging with his feet. Now he felt secure. "I'll be fine." His voice still sounded shakey. Adelberto climbed down the webbed rigging toward the deck. He used slow, deliberate movements. When he got to the deck, he stretched his hands open. They were aching with cramps. Right now, Captain Alfonse knew something was missing. Things were off kilter with his crew. This incident with Adelberto was another sign of it. The crew recently struggled day and night through the tall waves and gale force winds of Cape Horn. Then, they sailed through weeks of monotonous days at sea without sight of land. Captain Alfonse knew the crew of the Destiny’s Dreams was worn out. He let the ship anchor in the bay next to Buenos Aires for an extended time. The crew used one of the surfboats to go on shore each day. Alfonse encouraged them to wander and explore. He wanted them to be revived and rested after the long voyage. Now Captain Alfonse was looking for something he had never heard of before. He did not know what it would be. But Alfonse felt he would recognize it when he saw it. “Adelberto!” It was Isabella. She embraced her husband. One of the other sailors brought Adelberto fresh water and food. “That was close. Sit down. Eat this and get your strength back.” While he was sitting with Isabella, the violinist’s music came closer. The musician must be with the group nearing the ship. "What is that?" Isabella raised her eyebrows. "Let's go find out. I saw a crowd over there, when I was up on the mast." Adelberto pointed. Captain Alfonse, Adelberto and Isabella went over the steps from the ship to the wharf. They walked over, and weaved their way through the small crowd around the music. A woman was dancing and moving her arms and hands expressively.She stepped with swaying motions in a circle around a short, hunched figure with a violin. She wore colorful clothing, with a long skirt, loose blouse, and trailing scarf that flowed. The violinist finished the song and turned to bow to the crowd. Captain Alfonse went up to put money into the hat on the ground. “Wonderful!” He clapped. The violin player looked up and thanked him. Alfonse saw a very short man, standing as if one leg was shorter than the other, with a hunched back, squinting out of one eye, the other eye missing, and cocking his head to one side as if he was trying to hear better. The man smiled but he did not have any teeth. Then the dancer began to tap on a small drum made out of a basket and another musician played birdlike notes on a flute. The hunched man began dancing now. He moved his fingers and hands as if they were telling a story. His flexible arms waved forming shapes in the air. His knees bounced and his ankles twisted and turned while he stepped lightly and spun. He seemed to be transformed into a liquid flowing with ease and grace. A woman next to Captain Alfonse leaned over and spoke. “He’s known as Raphael. So gifted. He was born with many physical issues. But also with incredible talents. He can play almost any instrument. He can speak but with difficulty. He even sings too! He is partly deaf and has only one eye. He is much loved here in Buenos Aires.” The woman continued. “Everyone knows Raphael. He is a legend." “The dancer is also one of our very own locals. Alejandra.” “The flute player often joins them. She is Valeria.” Adelberto felt the tension from his near accident leaving him while he watched the dancing and listened to the music. It was healing him from the trauma that happened earlier. His hands were aching less. His breathing was returning to normal. His face was relaxing. The musicians and dancers paused to rest. Isabella, Adelberto, and Alfonse turned to go back to the ship. There was a tap on Alfonse’s shoulder. He turned but no one was there. Then he looked down and saw the short, humpbacked man looking up at him. The man began talking and Alfonse leaned mmover, straining to understand the words that were formed imperfectly. He understood the man was talking about a passage, on the ship, and thought the name Rio de Janeiro was in there. “Are you asking for a ticket on the ship to go to Rio de Janeiro?” The man nodded and smiled, showing gums without teeth. The man pointed to the Destiny’s Dreams and to himself. A look of hope lit the man's face. He wondered if his search was over. He wanted to find passage on a ship to Rio de Janeiro, around 1,000 miles away over the sea. But he did not have the money to pay for a ticket. Captain Alfonse saw the lopsided figure of the man and the rounded back. He felt a sensation come over him. This man knew something. He was different from other people. Alfonse felt he could learn something from this man that he never knew before. He could not explain it in words. “Your music and dancing are amazing! The best I have ever seen," Alfonse said. The man’s mouth widened into a smile. Alfonse felt a shiver not of fear but of inspiration come over him. He paused. Adelberto and Isabella saw the familiar look of concentration like a trance come over Alfonse’s face. What was he thinking now? A thought bubbled up from somewhere deep, deep inside of Alfonse. It was a daring idea. “What if Raphael and his musical troupe were the inspiration that his crew of the Destiny’s Dreams needed?” Alfonse’s thoughts went from wondering to racing. “That’s it,” he thought. “Something I’ve never heard of before. Someone like Raphael. He has overcome so much. And he seems to fly like a bird, so free and full of song.” Alfonse thought of himself and his sailors. They seemed so strong. But Raphael was way above them in terms of overcoming difficult odds. “Who knows what gifts others have that are undiscovered?” Alfonse kept wondering. Alfonse’s companions saw his face was very still. The trance face they called it. Isabella leaned over to Adelberto. She said, "I know he will emerge from this with some new ideas." Now Raphael was talking but his words came out differently from most people. Alfonse heard “oye…ite…ooosic…lrics…ing..ooo.” Alfonse translated that to mean Raphael was saying something like, “I can write music and lyrics and sing too.” In a high pitched, childlike voice, the man sang a lilting melody. Captain Alfonse thought, “What an incredible person of many facets.” Edelberto and Isabella saw Alfonse’s face taken on his concentrated, trance-like expression. "Look. He's doing it again." Adelberto and Isabella whispered to each other. Then Alfonse spoke to Raphael. “We could use someone like you on the Destiny’s Dreams for a while. It is around 1,000 nautical miles to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, your destination." "Would you be willing to make music, sing and dance on the ship’s deck and in the dining room for the passengers and crew? I can provide you with free passage on the ship if you would like to pay for it by entertaining the crew and passengers.” Alfonse saw Raphael's eyes sparkle and the man's toothless smile spread wide. "oy..oov...it" “I’ve never seen anyone like you. It would be my pleasure to have you on the ship. We can make a special deal for your passage to Rio.” "tan..uuu." So Alfonse and Raphael made a deal. Free passage in return for entertainment provided. Later Captain Alfonse and Adelberto listed the ship’s destination for Rio de Janeiro on the town notices. Local people, tourists, and travelers spread the word. “Did you hear? A special voyage! There will be violin, flute, and other music, with singing and dancing, on the Destiny’s Dreams when it cruises to Rio. Hurry and get tickets before they are all sold out.” "Please, bring your things and move into these cabins on the Destiny’s Dreams." Adelberto's voice was welcoming and Raphael's group settled on the ship. The musician and dancer in the troup known as Valeria related Raphael's story to the Captain. "He came from a family of musicians and actors. His parents split up when he was a small child. His father disappeared. His mother consumed too much alcohol and mysterious other substances." Alfonse, Adelberto, and Isabella listened sympathetically. "One day his mother left him on the side of a road and told him to stay there until she came back.The little boy waited. Hour after hour passed. Finally evening was falling. She never came back." "Oh, no." Isabella's voice was soft. Valeria continued. "Some kind strangers took the abandoned child, fed him, and took him to a type of shelter for homeless children. Someone located his mother but she was drunk." Adelberto shook his head sadly when he heard that. Then Valeria spoke some more. "The little boy at the orphanage had a lopsided, hunched body, eyesight in only one eye. and difficulty speaking with hearing and speaking.But he taught himself how to cheer up other people, and learned on his own how to play many musical instruments." Valeria finished the story. Alfonse said, "Amazing." Isabella saw the change on the ship. "Look," she said to Adelberto. "The sailors are imitating Raphael's dance moves. And they are humming and singing." Alfonse knew he had found what he was searching for. It was someone who brought a new sense of joy to the ship. The sailors and incoming passengers could not resist the contagious fun that Raphael brought to them. Later that week, Adelberto climbed up the webbed rigging again to work on the square sails of the tallest mast. "Don't worry Captain. I've got this." Adelberto's voice was confident. The day approached when they would lift the anchor and sail over 1,000 miles north to Rio de Janeiro. Even Captain Alfonse now often hummed music while he went about his tasks. No longer was the ship filled with solemn faces and serious voices. It was full of merriment. The passengers arriving were enthusiastic. "What an unusual ship." "Wonderful." On the deck, there was music and a short, dancing silhouette. On the man's shirt was pinned an insignia from the captain in the shape of a clipper ship. The lettering said, "Legendary Dancer of the Destiny's Dreams." Raphael looked at it with shining eyes. The sailors and passengers began singing another song. Rio the monkey scrambled up onto Raphael's shoulder, and the dancing began again. Foresta, the captain's parrot added his voice to the music.

2emv4m

Desperate times call for desperate measures

Jane stopped and looked at the question and image on her computer. “Could you live in this cottage in the middle of nowhere for a year with no internet and no city amenities?” Of course, it was a joke, who could do that? But it made her think about her employment situation and worse, the financial abyss she was falling into. Her first phone call was to her bill collector. An arrangement was made to pay at least $1,000 a month until the debt was paid off. After she put down the phone on its cradle, a phone so old, it was called a rotary dial, she rifled through her file called Tuk School and dialled them next. Each number took its time to click in a round-like fashion. Oddly, the receiver in her hand stayed cold although her hand was sweating. She told herself that extreme situations require extreme solutions. She had sinched her financial belt so tight, she could barely eat a full meal at dinner time. The timing of the move could not have been more perfect, she used her damage deposit as her last month’s rent. “Hello, yes, Tuk School? May I talk to the principal?” A gentle voice came across the line and he began with a chuckle. “Yes, thank you, I wanted to say that I accept your offer. I’ll move to Tuktoytaktuk and teach grade 2.” Another gentle chuckle and, of course, an explanation of all the paperwork that would be sent to her immediately as the school year was about to begin. Her cottage would be a ten-minute walk from this northern school and her first day would be August 28th. Jane would have to organize her move rather quickly. She looked at a map again and sighed. She would have to tell her friends that she took a contract teaching Santa’s elves children in grade 2 way up north. Within the week she had faxed all the signed documents required, a voided cheque, a police check, packed her items and sent them to the assigned address ahead of time, and lastly, standing at the airport wondering if a parka and -30C winter boots were good enough for August in the arctic circle. She dressed as if she were going to live in rather large igloo. She boarded the plane with a few others, but as the flight was a milk run up to the far north, many got off and on until finally the last few hours on the plane were just 50 or so people. She looked around to see what they looked like. They looked Aisain, but very tanned Aisain, and a couple of European-decent people like herself. They were dressed in autumn clothes. She was dressed in winter clothes and slowly feeling uncomfortably hot. After twelve hours of flight time and plane transfers, she reached the Inuvik airport. It was small with a tall standing polar bear in the middle as a reminder of who owned this land. She didn’t see any airport security. It was one large room with three airline desks, one small luggage carousel, a bathroom, and behind the bathroom was a tiny fast-food restaurant. Jane checked her purse for any left-over coins but after seeing the price of french fries alone, she recalled once being told that everything up north was doubly expensive. She decided to just buy a coke. $3.00! Nope, everything in her rebelled. Jane gathered her luggage and waited for someone to pick her up as her new principal instructed. Surely he would be holding a sign. Her taxi driver was an Inuvaluate person, with missing teeth, smelled like old cigarettes, and wore a hoodie that was frayed at the cuffs. Then she looked at the pop machine and realized that everything must be expensive up here, even clothes. He just walked up to her and said hello. “How do you know it’s me you're picking up?” Jane asked. He laughed, “I know everyone else," his hand gestured sideways. She got into the taxi cab and the man babbled away with a very thick Indigenous accent combined with lisping due to missing teeth. She discovered her new community was a two-hour drive away further into the north. It was above the tree line he told her.  As they passed the last tree, he pointed it out to her. “Many people think that a strong tree is large, with many branches and leaves. That is wrong. See that tree?” He pointed to a strangely looking thing maybe three feet tall, with two branches, and thinner than a twig, many people would have called that a Charlie Brown tree. “That is the strongest tree, it is the most northern tree and still lives even though our temperatures can reach as low as -62C.” Jane’s heart sank as her head swerved watching the last tree disappear on the horizon. After two hours of watching the rolling landscape, and oddly, the occasional hill that looked like it was formed by an ever-largening balloon, she was told they were pingos and only common in their area.  “Bears? Any polar bears?” “Oh yeah, you have to check your Facebook in the morning. Someone will post if they saw a bear.” “Do I still have to go to work with a bear wondering about?” “Well yeah, you are a teacher? Yes? You kids will be there, some will come by school bus, some by Skido or ATV.” “How can I go to work if there is a bear in the streets?” “You just have to run faster than your neighbour to work,” he laughed, squinting his eyes so tight, he looked like he was wearing Inuit snow goggles with slits. He calmed down and continued. “Do you see the first room that struts out of the houses?” Jane nodded, “Those are called meat rooms. They are never locked. There is another door that leads into the house. You can always go into anyone’s meat room if you think you are in danger. If you are too cold, or being chased by a wild dog, or bear, just run into someone’s meat room.” “Why do you call it a meat room?” Jane asked.  The man just smiled. “You’ll figure that out soon enough.”  “Why are all the houses on stilts?” Jane asked. “All the houses are on permafrost. Nothing is stable here,” he replied. He dropped her off in front of her cottage and pointed to the school, a good ten-minute walk down the street. Then he pointed to Stantons, the closest grocery store a block away. Then he pointed to The Northern, a good fifteen-minute walk to the end of the peninsula and added another couple of points. “The post office is there at the Northern. By the way, Amazon doesn’t deliver this far north. Community events happen at the community centre if they happen at all. There are no bowling centres, movie theatres or cafes here. There is no liquor store, and no drugs allowed in town or the RCMP will arrest you if you are found with either. And Tuk is slowly sinking into the ocean. It won’t be here in 50 years. How long are you planning on staying?” Jane shrugged more at the deluge of information rather than the question. She found the key under the rock she was advised it would be under the front door stairs. The first door was open to the meat room, and the second door was where the key fit. After putting her key in and twisting she began to feel good about her choices. She stepped in and found a completely furnished small home that was perfect for her needs. She took off her sweaty boots and unseasonally warm coat. All the items looked like it was bought in the back of Superstore but it worked. Jane walked into the small abode and checked out each room, especially the kitchen. Immediately she made a cup of tea noting the tiniest of dry goods left behind by the previous teacher. She sat in the rocking chair and did a calculation in her head. Signing bonus, plus monthly paycheck, plus northern pay, plus medical coverage, plus GST tax rebate, and no transportation costs to work and back, no entertainment costs. And my expenses are rent, heat, internet, and food. Jane then started counting on her fingers and figured out that she would be out of debt by July 1st. Then she calculated how far ahead she would be if she stayed two years, then three.  She got up and pulled the rest of her luggage into the meat room. An inebriated old Inuvaluate woman wandered by struggling to get up the road. Two other women, in their middle ages, were linked arm and arm talking about going to ‘Sister Faye’s’ second-hand shop, but the rest of the conversation was indigenous. Children were scooting about on their bikes in the sunshine. Wild dogs that looked like a cross between mutts and Huskeys ran between the houses. Several extremely large trucks raced down the short street heading towards the Northern. After Jane unpacked, she sat down for another cup of tea but decided to open the other cupboard doors to see what she had to buy. There was a letter for the next teacher. “Dear New Teacher, I came here because I needed money to pay off my student loan. Now I am leaving because I am more than ahead in my life. You are probably working at Tuktoyaktuk School. Good luck, it is a wonderful school. There is chronic absenteeism so never expect a full class, then again, we can say that about any school anywhere after Covid. I left you some tea, cans of soup, powdered milk, sugar, and if they are still good, some cookies. I also left several of my books and some knitting supplies. Check out Sister Faye’s thrift shop for any needs, she is one of the last original nuns from the olden days and she lives at the end of the point, near the sign that says ‘Arctic Ocean’. Survival hint, the dogs are friendly but the Indigenous people are rather picky as to who they associate with. Can’t blame them. All the best, Alexandria. PS: It is illegal to bring any alcohol into the community. Jane opened the other cupboard doors in the kitchen and found more supplies. Never in a million years would she have ever thought to survive her challenges would she have to go to one of the far corners of the earth, in the Arctic Circle, where survival was even more extreme. Tomorrow, she would meet her new staff friends. This was going to be a good year! 

0mgutv

Voyage to Greener Pastures

Saffron set the map down. Around him were the deep sparkling waves of the aquamarine waters, glistening underneath the hot sun like thousands of diamonds. Saffron could only look at the waters for so long before his eyes ached. He did not know why he was so fond of the waters that surrounded him, perhaps because he was a pirate, and as pirates were well known for he loved treasure and anything that sparkled. Behind Saffron, around the deck was his crew. They all trudged across the pale wooden floorboards, hauling nets and other objects. He glanced back down on the map. According to the waters, they were on the right track. In two days' time, they would be at the Acosta Islands deep in the Indian Ocean. Saffron had a good feeling about the Acosta Islands. From the darkened corners of pubs, his first mate had heard promising tales about the riches on the islands- if anyone could get past the Sea of Sirens. “Captain,” a flat voice came from behind him. Saffron turned away from the waters and glanced down at the stairs where his first mate stood. Her white blouse fluttered in the sea winds, as well as her shining dark brown hair. A frown was present on her face, yet it never seemed to leave. Saffron could not tell if she despised everything, or in her eyes, everything was always wrong. “Yes, Jeanne?” He asked as he pressed his gloved hands flat on the map to keep it from flying away. “The crew…are beginning to have their doubts about this.” She spoke, her tone even as if it was not the first time. Saffron had grown used to her manner of speaking, and Jeanne never showed any emotion about anything. He liked that about her, one person who was in check with their feelings and one less person who would send him into a spiral of panic. He sighed, “Do they not trust their captain?” Jeanne straightened her back, pushing a wild lock of her hair behind her ear. Her dark green eyes flickered back to the crew below them, one rolling a barrel across. “They trust you, they don’t trust whoever this is.” She gestured to the roll of parchment sticking out from the front pocket of his trousers. “You never do business with faceless people,” she continued, “and it worries your crew.” “Jeanne.” Saffron stepped forward, his hand flying towards the letter. “This is an opportunity of a lifetime. Those islands- you’ll never have to scour the streets again or try living to see tomorrow’s light. I have faith in these tides.” “But I don’t,” Jeanne muttered under her breath. Saffron tried to offer her a look of encouragement, but he could feel it didn’t meet his eyes. Jeanne’s worries were not her own, he shared them with her whether he wanted to or not. Days ago, at their port, he had received an anonymous letter promising an offer he could not refuse. All he had to do was sail to the Acosta Islands, bring them an odd order, and all the treasure they could carry was theirs. It had sounded too good to be true. Much too simple in a world where everyone had their swords at each other's thoughts. Even as a captain, Saffron knew that he could never trust any of his crew, at least not fully. It pained him to understand that he could not bestow his full life and trust in the hands of his first mate or that she could not do the same to him. In the world of pirates, everyone was only taking care of themselves. If given the choice between his survival and the sacrifice of a member of his crew, Saffron was not ashamed to admit that he would sacrifice someone to keep himself alive. What did it matter if one man died so the rest could live? “Check on the crew,” he said, squinting his eyes in the distance behind her. “I sense a storm coming.” Jeanne turned away from him, making her way down the steps before shouting, “Aye!” The crew turned to her, “Set sail towards the windward! Batten down the hatches 'n stow flames. Put the sails down- we be ridin' through the storm.” “Better pray,” Saffron glanced at the now-darkening sky, watching as the grey clouds swallowed the sun. He closed his eyes for a moment and could feel the kiss of the sea. Gods, he thought, this better be worth it. 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 Saffron clutched the rail with one hand. Where he stood, he could see down into the deck, his crew working furiously to stay above the waters. The ship slowly climbed over the waves, only to dip back down. Saffron wiped the rain from his eyes, feeling his hair cling to his face like wet locks of seaweed. The rain poured hard on them as if the sky was weeping. He could hear the roar of the storm in the distance. The sails above him were closed tightly against the wooden masts. Below deck, he hoped that all the cannons were tied down. “Keep at it!” Jeanne shouted at the bottom of the stairs, “Storms be over soon!” And she was right. They pulled past the storm, sunlight beaming down on them like a welcome from the Gods. The dark clouds and angry waves stayed behind them as they pulled across the sea. Saffron allowed them a moment to holler at their success, but the storm was not the real obstacle. Their real problem was the ship that had waited for them on the other side. The Red Executioner was the only pirate crew that Saffron couldn’t stand. Their captain was as cocky as he was stupid, everything was run secretly by his first and second mate. Yet, despite the captain's stupidity, he somehow managed to walk away with the best of things, including that ship. Gods, Saffron loved that ship. The Red Executioner was the jewel of the ocean, with its strong beautiful masts that stood tall in the sky. He loved the dark wood that always seemed to sparkle in the sunlight. Not a barnacle clung to it, at least not in sight. And the one thing that he loved the most about it, was the statue that hung at the edge of the ship, a beautiful mermaid that held a lyre. she was covered in a gold pain, eyes as blue as the seas with a pair of sparkling sapphires. The lyre she clutched was covered in the same gold paint as she was, encrusted with shells from the sea. It was said that on quiet days at sea, you could hear the lyre being played by the wind, and at night, it held the beautiful chorus of the sea. Saffron would do anything to get that ship. Jeanne followed his gaze, spotting the small dark dot floating above the waters. Her frown had grown deeper, knowing that they were in for trouble. Their hot-headed captain wouldn’t let anyone pass his waters without a good fight. They could not afford any damage, now when they sailed into waters they had never explored before. Jeanne had advised Saffron to take extra care on the journey over, so when they hit trouble, they would be prepared. But as it seemed, their journey to the Acosta Islands did not have the intention of smooth sailing. Saffron licked his salty lips, ridding them of the ocean's tears when he shouted. “Be ready, lads!” He thrust his arm out towards their opposing ship. They quickly left to their stations, rolling out the cannons and drying off their guns. Thankfully, they did not have to worry about wet gunpowder, at least not after what happened last time. Saffron still cringed at the memory. He readied himself, fixing his brown tricorn hat before catching the cutlass that Jeanne tossed him. Once it was slid into its sheath, Saffron extracted his pistol, one he had nicked from his old captain. It was nothing fancy like the other captains, where theirs were covered in gold or embedded with jewels. It was a plain regular pistol that got the job done, and that was all Saffron had needed. A loud boom startled Saffron. His gaze shot up from the pistol to find a cloud of smoke drifting from the Red Executioner. He knew that a cannonball was buried somewhere in his ship. Roars erupted from the other boat before Saffron pointed at the ship. “Fire!” He bellowed. A loud orchestra of cannons erupting filled his ears. Saffron heard the shouts and crys from his crew as he stepped down the staircase, finding his place next to Jeanne. He watched as the ships rattled from the impact of the cannons. It didn’t take long before the pirates of the Red Executioner began to use their ropes as swings and glide through the air. They landed on Saffron’s deck without another word, brandishing their swords. Jeanne swung to her right, using her sword to shield her from the blow of the opposing pirate. She was instantly drawn away from Saffron and indulged in a battle of her own. His other crew members latched onto their opponents, battling with whatever they had closest to them. Saffron heard a chuckle and turned around. Behind him, was the caption of the Red Executioner, Benno. His dark hair was tousled from the sea wind, his skin dark from the constant time spent under the sun. “Caught ya by surprise, didn’t we?” He smiled down at Saffron from the steps. “You should know better than jumping ships,” Saffron warned. “Ya never know what could be hiding below deck.” Saffron ran forward, pulling out his sword before he swung it at Benno’s ankle. Benno let out a howl in pain as a large gash appeared on his skin, no doubt the sea air mercilessly biting into his injury. Benno hobbled down the stairs, swinging his cutlass blindly through the pain. Saffron stepped back, going deeper into the battle on deck. “Watch it!” Jeanne snarled as she shoved Saffron away from where he had almost been decapitated by a sword. Saffron stopped backing up and held out his sword, pointed towards Benno whose breathing had turned ragged with rage. “I’m gonna kill yer!” Benno roared as he pulled out his pistol from deep within his coat. Saffron jumped out of the way just as he fired, a pop slicing through the air. He watched as the small bullet flew through the air before loading itself into the main mast. While Benno was busy reloading, Saffron took his chance. He lunged forward, swiping his sword through the air, poised to slice away the gun. Benno dropped it instantly, reaching for his cutlass to block Saffron. A clang rang through the air as their cutlasses clashed. Benno pushed back Saffron, retracting his arm before making a jab. Saffron quickly stepped to the side, swinging his cutlass at Benno blocked it again. Saffron pressed his tongue in his cheek, trying to devise a plan. They were outnumbered, he knew now. Benno’s crew was much larger than Saffron's. He knew that while most of the crew was above the deck, fighting his own, the other portion of Benno’s crew was below, scavenging his goods. Thankfully, they had unloaded anything of value before their trip out to the islands. He glanced over his shoulder, blocking another hit from Benno. It seemed that his crew had completely abandoned the ship, too busy pillaging and fighting. And then Saffron got an idea. “Jeanne!” He shouted over the roar of the pirates fighting. She turned around to him, blocking her opponent without looking. Her eyes flickered back to them before she kicked him square in the stomach, sending him flying back against a stack of barrels. “Aye, Captain?” She asked. “Abandon ship!” He cried out, suitably pointing to the unoccupied ship next to them. Jeanne quickly nodded before shouting out his orders. “Abandoning ship are we?” Benno smiled, revealing a gap in his teeth. “I thought you were better than that, Captain Saffron.” “Alas, every man must admit defeat before they are truly beaten,” Saffron replied before he kicked Benno in the shins. Benno stumbled to the gourd, his cutlass falling out of his hands as he let out a groan. Without another thought, Saffron raced across the deck, dragging onto a rope before he swung himself across the deck and the gap between the ships. He felt the sea air pull away his hat, letting it fall into the ocean. Saffron did not mind much, he would steal another one at the next port they stopped at. When he landed on the deck of the Red Executioner, he let the rope slide out of his hands and fell back to the ship. Jeanne joined moments later, calling for the crew to join. Saffron raced up to the starboard and grabbed the steering wheel as if it had always been his. He smiled to himself. The smile only grew bigger when he saw the color drain away from Benno’s face. It soon turned bright red with rage as he roared at them. As soon as the rest of Saffron’s crew joined him, the ship set sail. Cheers erupted from the deck, thrusting their fists and hats. As they passed, Saffron pressed his two fingers to the tip of his head. When he made eye contact with the defeated Benno, he slowly tipped his fingers toward him, as if he was tipping his hat to him. “Bon Voyage, Benno!” He called out before letting out a cackle. He turned back towards the oceans his crew had never sailed to. A rush of excitement ran through his bones at the promise of a new adventure. In the quiet air, Saffron could faintly hear it, the song of the sea. The mermaid’s lyre played a song as the wind tickled its string. He could not help but grin. It seemed that fortune was on his side. He had gained a new ship with more room for a bigger crew. And perhaps, after they had received the treasure, they could rule the seas entirely. With the mermaid's lyre on their boat and a large sum of treasure, Saffron could see it- he could be the king of the seas. “All hands on deck!” He shouted. “We set sail towards the Acosta Islands!” “Aye!” He reached down in his pocket and pulled out the map along with the letter, reading over it once more. Saffron may not know who waited for him at the islands, or what the islands held in store for them, but he knew that wherever she went with his crew, they could take on anything. Together, they would all voyage to greener pastures. Ah, what a pirates’ life for him.

if9cvr

Bon Voyage, Monsieur Pendleton!

In the quaint town of Villeverte, nestled between rolling hills and the lazy curves of the Rivière Claire, a man of peculiar habits named Monsieur Pendleton lived in peace. He was an Englishman who had settled in France over two decades ago and had become a beloved, albeit eccentric, fixture of the town. His wardrobe, composed almost entirely of tweed suits, his carefully waxed mustache, and his fondness for marmalade on toast, made him a curiosity among the locals, who found his ways both endearing and perplexing. Monsieur Pendleton had one prized possession: a silver pocket watch; an heirloom passed down through generations of Pendleton. The watch had seen every milestone in his family’s history, from weddings to funerals, and its ticking had accompanied him through life’s most significant moments. It was a connection to his past, a tangible link to his roots, and he cherished it above all else. But on a sunny day three years prior, while on a trip to Paris, Monsieur Pendleton had lost his beloved watch. It had vanished mysteriously during a particularly chaotic visit to a café on the Champs-Élysées. Distraught and inconsolable, he had retraced his steps, posted notices, and inquired about every lost and found in the city. Alas, it seemed the watch had slipped away into the vastness of Paris, never to be seen again. That was until, on an unremarkable Tuesday morning, Monsieur Pendleton received a letter. The envelope was worn, the address scrawled in an untidy script, and there was no return address. Intrigued, he opened it with his morning toast, expecting perhaps another invitation to a town gathering or a notice from the butcher about his standing order of bangers. But instead, it read: Dear Monsieur Pendleton, You do not know me, but I have something that belongs to you—a silver pocket watch, to be exact. I acquired it through rather unfortunate means and only recently learned of its proper owner. The guilt has been weighing on me, and I feel it is time to return it to you. However, I cannot bring it to you myself. You must come to me in the village of Douceval, at the foot of Mont Charbon, by the end of the month. Come alone. Bon voyage! The letter was unsigned. Monsieur Pendleton stared at the paper, his marmalade toast forgotten. Douceval was a tiny village, nearly forgotten by time, known more for its goat cheese than for being a destination. He had never been there, but the possibility that his watch might be waiting for him after all these years filled him with hope. The watch had been more than just a timepiece; it was a part of him, a fragment of his family’s legacy. Without a second thought, he packed his leather suitcase, donned his best tweed coat, and set off for the train station. * The train to Douceval was an ancient contraption, one of the few still running along the old rural lines. It rattled and swayed as it moved, the sound reminiscent of someone rolling a bag of marbles down a cobblestone street. With his suitcase neatly placed beside him, Monsieur Pendleton sat by the window, watching the landscape change from the bustling streets of Villeverte to the serene, undulating countryside. As the train chugged along, the humor of the situation began to dawn on him. Here he was, a man nearing his sixties, embarking on what felt like a grand adventure, all to reclaim a pocket watch. It was absurd, really, but the absurdity was what made it all the more thrilling. He could hardly remember the last time he had done something so spontaneous, so utterly unplanned. The image of his half-eaten toast sprang to mind; he shook his head at the image and started to look around. His fellow passengers were a curious mix: an old woman knitting with alarming speed, a young man with a guitar, and a middle-aged couple quietly bickering over a crossword puzzle. They paid little attention to Monsieur Pendleton, who took the opportunity to daydream about what awaited him in Douceval. Would the person who had written the letter be an elderly recluse burdened by a guilty conscience? Or perhaps a young lad, having found the watch in the attic of a departed relative? The possibilities danced in his mind, each more fanciful than the last. As the train neared its destination, a conductor with a thick mustache and an even thicker accent passed by, calling out stations with a flourish that seemed unnecessary given the handful of passengers aboard. "Douceval, next stop! Douceval!" Monsieur Pendleton gathered his things, his heart racing with anticipation. As the train pulled into the tiny station, he stepped onto the platform, greeted by the crisp mountain air and the sight of Mont Charbon looming in the distance. The village of Douceval lay at its foot, a cluster of stone cottages and winding streets that seemed to belong to another century. * Douceval was charming, if a bit weathered. An old fountain dominated the village square, its water trickling with the lethargy of one who has seen too many years pass. A few villagers went about their day, their eyes following the stranger with polite curiosity. Monsieur Pendleton made his way to the only inn in the village, L’Auberge du Chêne , where a plump woman with rosy cheeks and a flour-dusted apron greeted him. "Ah, Monsieur, you must be the Englishman! We’ve been expecting you," she said with a warm smile that put him at ease. "Expecting me?" he replied, surprised. "But how…?" "The whole village knows! The stranger who sent you the letter… they’ve been quite the topic of gossip. I don’t know who it is, though," she added, a gleam of curiosity in her eyes. "But whoever it is, they’ve stirred up a right fuss!" Monsieur Pendleton felt a twinge of anxiety. He hadn’t expected his arrival to be anticipated by an entire village. But the innkeeper, sensing his unease, patted him on the arm. "Don’t you worry, Monsieur . Douceval is a quiet place, but we love a good story. And this one’s a mystery!" She chuckled and showed him to his room, a cozy nook with a view of the mountains. As evening fell, Monsieur Pendleton found himself in the inn’s small dining room, a hearty meal of stew and fresh bread before him. The other diners, mostly locals, glanced at him occasionally, whispering amongst themselves. He was the outsider, the man on a quest, and everyone seemed eager to see how his story would unfold. * After breakfasting croissants and strong coffee the following day, Monsieur Pendleton set out to find the mysterious letter-writer. He wandered through the village, stopping by the boulangerie, the church, and even the tiny schoolhouse, asking discreetly if anyone knew who might have sent him the letter. But no one had any solid answers. Instead, he was met with shrugs, puzzled looks, and, occasionally, a cheeky grin from someone who was clearly enjoying the mystery. The day stretched, and with each passing hour, Monsieur Pendleton grew more confident that he was being toyed with. The letter had been so precise, yet here he was, in Douceval, with no idea where to go or whom to meet. He decided to take a break and found a quiet spot by the fountain in the square where he could gather his thoughts. As he sat, lost in contemplation, an old man with a cane hobbled over and sat beside him. He was dressed in a tattered coat, his face weathered like old leather, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. "Looking for something, are we?" the old man asked, his voice husky. Monsieur Pendleton turned to him, recognizing a glimmer of knowing in the man’s eyes. "You could say that. I received a letter, you see, asking me to come here to retrieve something that belongs to me. But I’m wondering if it was all a wild goose chase." The old man chuckled, a dry, crackling sound. "Ah, you’ve been talking to the wrong people, my friend. In Douceval, the truth is often found in the last place you look. Tell me, what is it you seek?" "My watch," Monsieur Pendleton replied, almost embarrassed. "A silver pocket watch. It was lost in Paris years ago." The old man nodded slowly. "Ah, yes. The watch. I know the one you speak of. But you won’t find it in the village, no. It’s up there." He pointed a crooked finger toward Mont Charbon. Monsieur Pendleton frowned. "Up there? But why would it be on the mountain?" "Because," the old man said with a wink, "that’s where the one who sent you the letter lives. It’s a bit of a climb, but you seem spry enough." Before Monsieur Pendleton could ask more, the old man rose to his feet, gave a nod of farewell, and hobbled away, leaving him with more questions than answers. But one thing was clear: if he wanted his watch back, he would have to scale Mont Charbon. * The path up Mont Charbon was steep and winding, but Monsieur Pendleton was determined. Armed with a walking stick borrowed from the inn and a water flask, he began his ascent. The mountain was shrouded in mist, and the higher he climbed, the denser it became. Soon, the village below disappeared from view, and he was alone with the sounds of nature—birds chirping, leaves rustling, and the occasional rustle of something unseen in the underbrush. As he climbed, he couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here he was, a man of advancing years, trekking up a mountain in pursuit of a pocket watch. If his old colleagues in England could see him now, they’d surely think he’d lost his marbles. But the thought of his watch ticking away in the possession of some mysterious stranger spurred him on. He imagined the face of his grandfather, who had once owned the watch, and the many stories it could tell if it could speak. It was more than just an object; it was a part of his family’s story, and he wasn’t about to let it disappear again. After what felt like hours, he reached a clearing near the summit. There, nestled between ancient trees, stood a small stone cottage. Smoke curled from the chimney, and a soft light glowed from the windows. Monsieur Pendleton’s heart raced with anticipation as he approached the door. He knocked, and after a moment, the door creaked open. Standing before him was a woman, perhaps in her fifties, with wild, greying hair and a kindly smile. "Ah, Monsieur Pendleton, I’ve been expecting you," she said as if they were old friends. "Indeed?" he replied, still catching his breath from the climb. "You sent me the letter?" She nodded. "Yes. Please, come in." The inside of the cottage was warm and cozy, filled with the scent of herbs and the crackling of a fire. She led him to a small table with a teapot and two cups waiting. As they sat, the woman wasted no time as she started to explain. "I found your watch years ago, in a market in Paris," she said, pouring them a royal cup of tea. "I didn’t know its significance until recently when I came across an old book about the Pendleton family. It had a picture of the watch, and I realized it must have been stolen, passed from one hand to another before ending up with me." Monsieur Pendleton listened, his emotions a whirlwind. "But… why didn’t you just send it back?" She smiled gently. "Because I knew it was more than just a watch. I wanted you to come here to see it returned to you in person. And perhaps," she added with a twinkle, "because I wanted to see if an Englishman of your stature would climb a mountain for it." He couldn’t help but laugh. "You certainly have a sense of humor, madame." With that, she reached into a drawer and pulled out the watch, polished and gleaming as if it had just been made. She placed it in his hands, and as his fingers closed around it, Monsieur Pendleton felt a wave of relief and joy. "It’s yours,” the woman said softly, "as it should be." * As Monsieur Pendleton made his way back down the mountain, the watch safely in his pocket, he felt lighter than he had in years. The journey, the mystery, the absurdity of it all had rejuvenated him. He had come to retrieve an old heirloom, but he was leaving with something more—a story to tell, an adventure to remember, and a newfound appreciation for life’s unpredictable turns. Would he return to Mont Charbon? He had no idea. When he returned to Villeverte, the townsfolk noticed a change in him. There was a spring in his step, a glint in his eye, and a smile hinting at untold secrets. He resumed his daily routines but with a new vigor, as if the journey had awakened a part of him that had long been dormant. And every evening, as he sat by the fire, sipping his tea, he would take out the watch, listen to its steady ticking, and smile. Something inside of him had started ticking, too. Was it his heart, growing fond of perhaps a new adventure? He patiently waited, reassured it would find him when the time was right. He had the time. Bon voyage, indeed.

dh9ror

Pink Pigs Play Again

“This is humiliating.” Kate leans out over the prow of the boat and surveys the edge of the river. She’s been in a bad mood all morning. The buildings along the shore are draped with streamers, and music drifts out of the windows, but I know that Kate doesn’t appreciate any of it. “I’m going downstairs and writing my obituary. You can tell people that I died of embarrassment.” “Don’t be dramatic.” I was embarrassed too, at first, but now I can’t help laughing at our predicament. It’s a Saturday afternoon in the middle of summer, and we’re the center of attention. People along the river stop and turn, then stare and point. Kate doesn’t have a problem with the boat itself. She has a problem with the paintings on the side of the boat. I have never seen such a collection of pigs. There are pigs capering across a lawn littered with daisies; pigs eating ice cream cones and laughing at some joke, pigs pushing each other on swings and skimming down metal slides; pigs in dresses, twirling their hair. The worst bit about the whole thing is that these pigs were painted by our dead father. “Come on,” I urge Kate. She’s wearing one of my dresses, and it sets off her black hair beautifully. She was always the prettier sister, but I love her so much that it doesn’t bother me. “We’ll get to that music festival that you care so much about. Plus, we get to see a side of the city that nobody else sees.” Kate gags and then turns around and disappears downstairs. It’s been a rough week. First, Kate found out that her boyfriend was cheating on her. They were in a band together, and they had been performing together for years. Kate was a really talented singer, and her boyfriend was the bass player. She found out that he was sleeping with their drummer. Then, our car broke down and we had no way of getting to a music festival where Kate was supposed to perform. Then – worst of all – our dad died. I scan the edge of the river and see someone waving. A woman and her three children. The children see what’s painted on the side of the boat and nearly bust themselves laughing. After a moment, I start laughing, too. “It’s a pig!” one of them screams. “A whole family of pigs!” “Tell them to shut up!” Kate yells up at me. She has been in a foul mood for days. It’s unlike her, because Kate is so easygoing. I know why she’s upset, of course – it’s because of her ex-boyfriend, on top of everything else – but I don’t know how to make things better. Even though he told her that she was kicked out of the band and there was no need for her to come to the festival, Kate had announced that she was going to turn up and confront him. She’s not performing, because she’s not in a band, but I’m not sure that Kate has realized that yet. I’m her sister, so I’m here to give moral support, even if I think she’s making a mistake. Suddenly I’m distracted by something on the shore. It’s just up ahead. A tangle of limbs and hair caught in a bicycle. “Kate!” I call. “I have to pull over!” The old boat groans as I maneuver it towards the shore. I can’t see anyone moving, but I need to make sure that this person is okay. Steering the boat is really awkward: until a few days ago I didn’t know anything about boats. When Kate and I got the call that our dad was dead, we both exchanged a surprised look. “I thought he died a long time ago,” Kate said. Our mom was dead by that point (she had died three years earlier) but either way, we couldn’t be mad at her. Our dad had abandoned us when we were very young because he wanted to be an artist and travel the world. When we came to Emory to collect his scant belongings, including the boat, we both burst out laughing. “Glad…to see…his career was worth it!” Kate had hooted, wiping her eyes. Our car was gone, though, and we didn’t have any cash to fix it, so we decided to move the boat downstream and try to sell it. It was our ticket home. “What are you doing?” Kate asks now, popping her head up. I point to the bicycle accident on the shore. “Oh, wow! Hey!” she shouts to the hair. “Are you okay?” Gradually the hair disentangles itself from the spokes of the bicycle, and we see that the person on the ground is a young woman. Kate waits until I’m closer and then she leaps from the boat and helps the young woman stand up. “Ouch,” she says, rubbing her head. “I think I broke my violin.” Once I get closer I get off and go over to help them. The young woman is about my age, early twenties, and her violin case is on the ground. I pick it up and hand it to the woman. She unzips it and breathes a sigh of relief when she sees that her violin is unharmed.  “Thank god,” she said. “It’s fine.” “I can’t say the same about your bike,” Kate says, with regret. “Oh no,” the woman says. “I was going to busk outside the music festival. I was hoping to make some money.” Kate and I exchange glances. We don’t even think twice. “We’re going to the festival,” I tell her. “Why don’t you come with us?” When the young woman is on board with us she tells us her name – Tabitha – and what she’s doing here. She’s always wanted to be a musician and play in a band, but she hasn’t found anyone to team up with yet. Also, she plays a violin, which means that a lot of modern bands won’t take her. “I play a lot of classical music,” she tells us. “Most people aren’t interested.” “Why don’t you play us something?” I suggest. Tabitha puts her violin to her chin and starts to play. The music that comes out is the most haunting and beautiful music that I’ve ever heard. Kate and I both have chills. “Hey! Hey, you!” We all turn at the sound of the voice. Someone on the shore is waving us down. It’s a young woman with bright purple hair. “I know that song!” she calls. “Oh my gosh, I love it! It’s Vivaldi, isn’t it? I love Vivaldi!” I slow the boat down so we can have a conversation. “Are you a musician?” I call. “I wish!” she calls back. “I keep joining bands and they keep kicking me out! Everyone tells me that I don’t play a real instrument!” We stop the boat next to the woman. “What do you play, if you don’t play an instrument?” Tabitha asks. “Spoons!” the woman grins. She holds up a big, jangly bag of spoons. “Tell me any note, any note at all, and I have a spoon that can play it! I’m a real whiz at spoons!” Before I even think about what I’m doing, I pull the boat over and ask the woman to join us. “We don’t have a band, as such,” I tell her. “But you might as well play us your spoons as we float down the river.” For the next twenty minutes we sit in silence and listen as Annemarie plays us a variety of Blues and Country music on her set of spoons. It’s hilarious and heartfelt. We tell her that we’re big fans. But we’re not the only ones who like her music: as we drift along, a small crowd of ragtag would-be musicians begin to run along the shore. Some of them are looking for a way to get to the festival. Before the hour has collapsed, we have collected a banjo player, a xylophonist, a marimba player, and a girl with a tuba. The edge of the festival is in sight. Kate and I look at each other. “What if we…” “Could we possibly…” “There’s no way.” I stand on the prow of the ship and clang together a set of cymbals to get everyone’s attention. “Hey,” I call. “Look, we’re all in a similar predicament. None of us have a band. We’re all musicians, but we don’t have a band. So why don’t we join together and play some music together?” “I thought that’s what we were doing!” calls Tabitha.  “No,” Kate explains, coming up to join me. “At the festival! That’s where we’re going, right?” For the first time all afternoon, silence descends upon the deck of the boat. We’re nearly full to capacity. I have forgotten the embarrassment of traveling down the river in a boat painted with pigs. I have been having so much fun that I don’t want it to end, but we’re almost at the festival. “What’s the worst that could happen?” Kate adds. “That we embarrass ourselves? We’re traveling downriver in a boat painted with pigs!” This gets a big laugh, and it’s decided. We’re going to enter the competition. We might not win the prize, but we’re going to show up anyway. “What’ll we call ourselves?” someone asks. “The Pink Pigs,” Kate says, with a shrug. “It’s terrible, but we don’t have much time.” Half an hour later, we arrive at the festival and tie our boat up. We stride up to the judges’ booth and add our names to the list of performers.  “Pink Pigs?” one of the women asks. “Really?” “Really,” Kate says. She’s glowing. I’ve never seen her so confident. It’s great. And then, all of a sudden, she sees him. Rick. Her cheating, lying, no-good ex-boyfriend. Kate stiffens. “Come on,” I tell her. “He’s not worth it.” An hour later, we’re on stage. We haven’t had much time to practice, obviously, but we’re all there, and we all have our instruments. We all start to play as one: the cymbals go clang , the bassoon goes wahhh , the harmonica goes bleeEEEeeet , the spoons go ting , and Tabitha’s violin goes creeeee! On top of it, Kate starts to sing. I can see Rick in the audience, staring up at her in amusement. Kate is unfazed. You thought I was trash, That you could throw away, But you don’t know, That pigs don’t play, Pigs ride again Pigs ride again Pigs ride again That’s right, Rick, I have new friends. It’s terrible. Everyone continues to play for another ten minutes of pure cacophony. When we finish, the audience is silent. Then, “Booooooooo.” We all gather our gear and exit the stage as people start throwing their festival snacks. Kate giggles and ducks a bucket of popcorn. Everyone scrambles and gets onto the boat as quickly as we can, and just as quickly, we make our exit. “Phew,” Kate says. “Good thing we parked so close.”

7qkv2g

Kingdom By the Sea

When little, I lived in a small house of orphaned girls. We were under the rule of a fearful woman named Mabitha. She demanded that we call her Mother, and we did. Why would we not? If you were to have met her, you would have called her anything if she demanded and demanded she did. To her face, we called her this, but at night. In our room, we whispered the smallest of whispers, a breeze of words, "Mab-Witch." Giggles would erupt at the name, followed by firm pressed hands on our lips. Our own hands involuntarily shutting us up in fear of her. Every day at the table, we would sit. The ogres would feed us our gruel, which was barely edible. We would bless the goddess, which would start our day. Scrubbing floors with tiny brushes, cleaning the heath smeared with ash, animal fat, or anything that bubbled over in the old pots. Ah, yes, and the pots stained from overuse were to be clean and brand new. New was different from the word I would use at any part of this place. But in her eyes, it was her kingdom. As the sun would fall, given into the moon goddess that begged to return to her children, we were to draw water from the spring. Fear would creep over us as we knew of the river creatures that roamed. The songs that could enchant children would be lost forever. No one would come looking for us, which was the most frightening for me. Mab-Witch would place the bucket in our hands. She yelled from the old house, "On to an adventure you go." A laugh that certainly matches the name of the old witch. We would always go alone. A single girl. A single pail. A single fear. I can still hear the crunch of the grass beneath my feet. Softening as I neared the river. The sun would fall so quickly that now I walked in darkness. Eyes began to appear in the darkness. Disappearing then reappearing, transfixed on me. There was the river. So perfect. So calm. A stream of silver that slithered within the folds of grass and mud. My shoes, tattered and worn, fought with the mud. That forced my soles to return to the earth, but the soles of my shoes would not give up so easily. Closer now, so close that I was at the edge and pulled my bucket from my side and broke the stillness of the water. I felt the strength of an undercurrent that was not visible to the eye, nearly taking the bucket in my hand. I plunged the bucket in deeper, grabbing as much water as possible. The weight was immense as I brought the bucket towards me. Every muscle in my body strained. With my last strength, I placed the full bucket next to me and sat down momentarily. I should have started home. Mab-Witch hated it when we were late. I should have left, but the river's beauty was something I couldn't resist. What would be my punishment, fewer chores? The forbiddance of grabbing water, but I would miss this. The illusionary sense of freedom. I pulled my shoes off and tipped my toes in the water. The warmth of the water was surprising. The temperature was soothing as it caressed my aching feet. I couldn't remember the last time I felt this. Peace. Before I knew it, tears began filling my eyes, and I hurried them away. I don't even know why I was crying. I wasn't sad. Sadness was a privilege. My life was full of endurance, and I have endured many. I sloshed my feet more, creating tiny waves about my toes. There are few memories I remember. The ones given by my Mother. She loved the water. We would come to the ocean that felt right at the footstep of our door. She would dip her feet in the cool water and show me how to do the same. She would hold me close and tell me tales that are dreams now. "Someday, I will return home." "But you are home, Mommy?" I say in the childish manner expected of children. She caresses my cheek, shaken from the trance she remembers me in, and takes me in her arms. Then tears fall, and I apologize. "Don't apologize, my love, " she would say. Mommy is just tired." That was many nights when Father wasn't home. Going by the water, dipping our toes in, Mother would cry. The night she left was very similar to any night before then. We got up, did our chores, ate, and went by the water before bed. However, Mother wanted to go alone this night—out by the sea. "But I want to go with you." "I know, my love, but where I am going, you cannot go." "But why not?" She stopped and then looked at me. The five-year-old girl is awash in tears. She grabbed me one last time, holding me in her arms to soothe me. I left bed quickly the following day, realizing I had fallen asleep. I went to my Mom's room and saw my Father there. "Dad. Dad. Mom is gone." My Father slowly wiped away the sleep, "Dad." "I heard you. Now, what is this about?" A toddler's frantic and afraid words are hard to decipher. My Dad, realizing this was more than a needy child's tantrum, rose quickly. "She is not with you?" My Mom would often sleep in my room, and I would be nestled in her arms, but that was not the case this morning. "No," I said through an eruption of tears. My Father ran to my bedroom, then to the kitchen, then to the porch. Then his eyes trailed out to the ocean. His eyes widened. "Go inside," he said, gently pushing me back. I fought against him. Demanding to see my Mother. "She went to the kingdom," I scream. "She went home!" I shouted. Pushing all the while against him. "Stop. Stop!" He insisted. The last command, the loudest I ever heard him, gave me pause. He knelt before me. Asking me what I said. I repeated the words. All of it. The last words spoken by my Mother. "She returned to the kingdom of the sea, and I want to go with her." My Father collapsed then. Weeping into his hands. Confused, I watched him. Wondering if he, too, desired to return home. Even now, I may see her. Even now, as my feet wade in the water, the fingers of river foam feel like the strange remembrance of my Mother—her love, her light. At home, in my former village, they say things. Some say she drowned in the waters by her hand or fate. Others say she abandoned her husband and her child. Me, but I like to believe--no, I know she did none of this. She did as simply as she desired. She returned home.

ftr0ct

Macs and the Great Beyond

When he woke up Macs found himself in a magnificently large and dark room plastered in minuscule speckles of white, faint blue, red, orange, and yellow lights. He felt lighter than usual. His paws almost floated over the cool floor. The slightest step propelled him forward further than what he was accustomed to. The air around him was frosty but the cold did not bother him. It was as if a gentle ball of perfect coolness shielded him from discomfort. He heard the echoing clicks of his claws and the jingle of his collar name tag as he made his way toward a door. The faintest light calling him forward outlining a magnificent door. Macs was lost, but not scared. He was intrigued, but not anxious, wondering how he got to this mysterious room. Before he knew it he reached the door. Instinct told him to knock. So he extended his paws out, using his body weight to push against it and slide his claws down the door making a rolling scratch sound. He waited a few seconds and the door opened. A blinding light consumed the dark room. But Macs could stare into it and didn’t even have to squint. He was greeted by an unfamiliar voice. “Hey come on in!” Macs walks into the lightroom. A tall Greyhound kicks the door closed behind him. And asks. “What’s your name, fella?” Macs looks around the room. He sees the light is coming from a lamp in the corner. A pack of dogs of different breeds lounge about the room. One is sprawled out on a sofa. Another watching T.V on the chair next to him. One on the floor reading a magazine. Another smoking a cigar by an open window. One chewing a bone on top of a breakfast bar. Another eating a steak with a fork and knife next to him. Macs licks his chops at the sight of that juicy steak. “My people call me Good Boy.” “Let’s look at your collar tag.” After a quick glance at his shiny blue dogbone-shaped name tag. “Macs it is! I’m Pete, I’m a greyhound!” “My parents were a Scottish terrier and a west highland terrier, But I don’t remember which was which.” “I don’t remember my parents either but I think they were both greyhounds. I used race other greyhounds! Let me introduce you to the crew and then you should eat something.” Pete's tail wags as he walks towards the sofa. Macs scurries behind him. “Hey everyone we got a new club member! His name is Macs with a (CS) instead of an (X) he’s a Scoland Terrier!” Macs sits next to Pete feeling a bit shy and slightly embarrassed. “That’s Charles, he’s a border collie. In the chair next to him is Oscar, he’s a dalmatian. That’s Chloe reading the magazine, she’s a cocker spaniel. That’s Rafa, hey Rafa thanks for cracking a window but I can smell that cigar way over here! Rafa’s an English bulldog. On the counter over there is Henry, he’s a boxer, And the one with the steak is Mr.Fluffy and we think he’s some kind of English sheep dog but he insists that he is an Afghan hound.” “I am an Afghan hound.” Mr. Fluffy mutters with a mouth full of food.” Pete looks at his fur-covered eyes. “Ok, you’re an Afghan.” Pete shakes his head looking and Macs. He smiles. “So Macs do you want something to eat?” “Yes, please! What do you have?” “Literally anything and everything you could imagine. All you have to do is jump up on a chair at the breakfast bar, or on it. Right, Henry? And just imagine any food you want. Even people food, but we got dog food too if you get nostalgic.” Without question, Macs jumps up to the counter and poof! Cheeseburgers, hotdogs, a side of gummy bears. Macs picks up the burger with both paws and takes a mouth-watering bite. “That’s not all. There is this door and we can make it nighttime or day time, we can make the outside be a park, or a beach, or a forest, or a field! Anything we want. We can run and chase squirrels or tennis balls or each other! We can take naps or play all day. You know how fun car rides are? Well, here we can drive the cars. Not just that, yesterday Oscar drove a motorcycle into a swimming pool and Charles was in the sidecar. It was wild. Look at them, they’re still laughing about it. We have a lot of fun here, we’re a pack!” “This is incredible!” Macs stuffs his face and hops down off the stool. Tail wagging. “This club is great my people will love this, they love food, and tv, and dogs, and just hanging out! I got to go get them Pete which way do I go? Pete thank you my people are going to love it here!” Pete looks down. The other dogs glance over. Pete looks at Macs. “That’s the thing Macs, the only catch. This club, like many others, is just for dogs.” “What do you mean? I can’t see my people ever again?” “I didn’t say that. This is kind of like, I don’t know how to put it, a club where you have to wait.” “Like daycare?” “Yes! Like doggy daycare only instead of for a day, it’s for, like, a lot of days. A lot of a lot of days.” “Do my people not like me anymore? Did I do something wrong?” Macs Cries. “No buddy that’s not it at all.” “Then why would they leave me here!” "They didn't leave you here." "Yes, they did! They brought me here and left me!" “They didn’t leave you Macs!” “What?” “They didn’t leave you, you left them.” “What are you talking about?” “It was just your time.” “My time for what? You’re not making any sense!” The other dogs come close to Macs. “I was hit by a car.” Said Charles the border collie. “I drank something blue off the garage floor.” Said Oscar the dalmation. “A heavy bookshelf fell on me.” Said Chloe the cocker spaniel. “I got attacked by a mountain lion.” Said Rafa the english bulldog. “I fell from really high up”. Said Henry the boxer. “I chewed through a power cord.” Said Mr. Fluffy. “And I had a heart attack after a race. Macs, I’m really sorry but you died.” Said Pete the greyhound. “Ha! I didn’t die! I went to the vet, took a nap, and woke up outside in that dark floaty room with all the colorful little dots. Then I scratched on the door.” “You were old Macs. Were you in pain before you went to sleep?” “Yeah I was but the shot was medicine.” “Were your people with you?” “Yes.” “All of them?” “Yes.” “Were they crying or sad?” “Yeah, but that’s just because they don’t like going to the vet.” “Macs, they were crying because they had to say goodbye to you. They loved you so much that they had you put to sleep. After a certain age, no other medicine can help us canines. You were old Macs, really old.” “Not anymore.” Said Chloe holding a little mirror to Macs's face. “Wow, no white hairs on my face, all black, my cataracts are gone too!” “Did you notice that there is no pain anymore?” Asked Pete. “Well, now that you mention it, I’ve felt great since I woke up.” “Welcome to the club Macs!” Said Oscar. “The dead dog club!” Laughed Rafa. “Wow, how about that, I’m a dead dog. But Pete, when will I get to see my people again?” “Truthfully, I don’t know when. One of your people will definitely pick you up sooner or later. There is no doubt about that. But, for one of them to get you they would need to pass through the great beyond to get here. Like you.” “That door you came through, can only be opened when either a new member joins or an existing member’s person comes to pick them up.” Said Charles. “You’ll know the difference too. When it’s a new member you hear a scratch at the door. When it's a member’s person, you hear a knock.” Said Pete. “We’ve been waiting years and years to be picked up.” Said Boxer. “I miss my people terribly, already I love them so much.” “We all miss our people terribly. That’s what makes this chapter of the club so special.” Said Chloe. “What do you mean?” “Macs this chapter has a name.” Said Pete. “What is it?” “The Most Beloved.” Said Rafa. “That’s right everyone here was one of the most beloved and missed pet dogs. You’ve got to be happy about that new member Macs.” Said Pete. “Wow, it almost makes me miss them even more knowing that.” Macs stands a little taller. “Don’t feel too sad about missing them or worry about waiting, most of the time we are having so much fun it makes time go by faster.” Said Chloe. “Speaking of fast, remember Toby the poodle?” Said, Charles. “Oh yeah, kid’s scratching at the door one minute, then we hear a knock on the door before Pete can even explain what happened to him.” Said Mr. Fluffy. “That’s crazy.” Said Macs. “Yup. So, anyway, we had a little thing planned that we were going to do before we turn on the sun in the playroom and I think you should join us. It’s kind of a weekly thing we do.” Said Pete. “Sure. It’s not anything weird is it?” “No, no, no, we’re just going to sit around a green felt table and play cards.” The pack walks to the game room and each takes a seat. Boxer pours Mr. Fluffy and Chloe a glass of scotch. Pete shuffles the cards. “Have you ever played poker?” Pete asks. “No. Can’t say I have.” Said Macs with a slight chuckle. “Don’t worry, you’ll learn as we play along. I’ll teach you the basics. First…” There’s a knock at the door.  

aukm30

The Pirate I Wish I Had Not Met

The Pirate I Wish I Had Not Met I have lived an un-conventual life for the last couple of years. My name is Mark Wallace and my life of crime began very young, starting with stealing hub caps when only fourteen. As I got older, my involvement in auto theft progressed, but everything came crashing down when a robbery took a deadly turn, claiming two lives. The judge sentenced me to thirty years to life. I had settled into prison life when a scientist approached me a year ago with a proposition I found impossible to refuse. Their search for subjects to test their new time machine gave me a chance for me to shorten my sentence. I accepted the offer and have taken three hair-raising adventures back in time as far as the Roman Empire. Dr. Marsh is entering my cell now to discuss a new adventure in his machine. "Mister Wallace, I hope you have recovered from you last adventure. The reason I'm asking you again so soon is because of its historical and financial importance. Are you well enough to try another adventure?" "That all depends on where it is and what you need to know that is of such importance. I still have headaches from the concussion and the two cracked ribs are no fun." "This trip should be much easier than the last one, and the warden has agreed to deduct five years from your sentence as a reward for undertaking it." Now this caught my attention. "I have nothing better to do. Tell me what is of such importance." "Please sit down, as this may take some time. This is the story of James Bellamy. Born in London in 1723, he began his career as a petty thief. The English high court forced him into servitude onboard a ship bound for the Caribbean in 1744. The crew mutinied, and the captain murdered. Within a year, James was captain of a pirate ship named Lonesome, that sailed out of Jamaica. In 1746, they seized a ship that was part of an Indian convoy traveling to the holy land on a pilgrimage. The ship contained vast quantities of gold, silver and precious jewels valued today at 104 million dollars. We know of only one pirate that actually buried his treasure. Most pirate careers spanned 3-5 years before they were either caught and hung or died in battle. The experts think neither was true for Bellamy. A fishing vessel discovered his ship, Lonesome floating adrift thirty kilometers off the tiny island of Barbuda in the Caribbean Sea. Apparently struck by a plague of some sort, the crew were all dead except for Captain Bellamy, the first mate, and maybe two or three others. Some historians suggest Bellamy murdered the crew and fled with the treasure, but where and how did he leave? Despite extensive efforts, the authorities have been unable to locate any of the stolen treasure from the ship. Our company has received a rather large grant to see if we can find out from Captain Bellamy himself where the treasure has gone. If successful, this has huge ramifications for you and the company. I like mysteries and found this on interesting, but could I pull it off? "How do I meet this man whom I have never met and has never met me? I would have to see firsthand what has happened. How can you time that?" "This is the tricky part. We don't want to leave you at Bellamy's mercy any longer than possible. We think we can narrow the time to six days." "If this is successful, what do I stand to gain?" When you are released from prison, there will be ten thousand dollars plus interest waiting for you in the bank. The warden has authorized a five-year reduction in your sentence for this journey. I looked around me. What could lose? Actually, quite a lot, but I foolishly agreed. They outfitted me in typical sailor's gear during that time period. A short tan jacket made of fustian, a linin collarless shirt, and baggy bellbottom trousers. They put a silk sash across one shoulder to keep my antique pistol in. Round toed leather shoes tied with a buckle. They seem to have forgotten my cutlass. Seated within the transparent export container, I pondered where I would end up this time. I still felt a little disoriented from being reassembled, and the motion of the ship and the wind made it worse. I looked around me at men who dressed like me but were a good bit shorter. Being six foot four and 235 pounds, I stand out when I go back in time. Someone was shouting at me over the wind and pointing to another smaller ship following behind. I grasped that they were attempting to bring her alongside and secure her to my ship, which I believed to be Lonesome. I helped others pulling on ropes until the smaller ship was secured. "You there. Come to my cabin." I turned and saw a man dressed much the same as me except for a bright red coat that came to his waist. I could see two pistols in his sash, along with a cutlass and dagger. I followed him below deck into what I assumed was the captain's cabin. Captain James Bellamy, the man Dr. Marsh sent me to meet. He examined me briefly before speaking in a rough, unrefined manner. “I don't believe we have met before. Where did you come aboard?" "Back in Jamaica, sir. Unfortunately, the carpenter in your crew was involved in a drunken brawl and couldn't rejoin the ship. I volunteered to fill his position." "As I am sure you are aware, the plague, or some other disease, perhaps measles, has decimated the crew. No one will survive if we remain on this vessel. You seem to be untouched by the illness. Locate any men who are not sick and transfer the treasure to the other ship. The dead and sick will be abandoned on this ship. I am going aboard the other ship to direct the transfer. The crew on the other ship is disease free and will stay where they are." 'Yes sir. I will start immediately. I left and joined three crew members, heading for the room bearing the treasure. We opened the door, and I stood there in awe. Wooden boxes of all sizes filled with gold bars and silver coins. Assorted jewels were jammed into whatever containers were on hand. It took the rest of the afternoon to transfer the loot to the hold of the other ship. I now understand half of the mystery of the missing treasure. Now I had to find out what happened to it. Captain Bellamy motioned for me to join him. "You transferred the merchandise in record time. That is good because several more of my crew have fallen ill. I have a serious shortage of able-bodied men to crew this smaller ship to Santo Domingo. Do you have any sailing skills other than your role as a carpenter?" I thought for a minute. So, the treasure is going to Santo Domingo. Where on that island will he hide it? I had to follow the treasure. "That all depends, sir. If the sail-master or piolet will be on board, I can assist them. How far are we from Santo Domingo?" "That all depends on the wind. They are strong right now, and we should be there in two days if it continues to blow. I'm afraid the sail-master is dead. The boatswain is still with us and five of the crew. We will have to make do with that." I looked for ways to assist the men suffering on the Lonesome. There must have been thirty dead and dying. I knew immediately it was not smallpox. It was a plague carried by rats or fleas. Some men were bleeding from the mouth. Most of them had large pustules that had ruptured and oozed a pus-like material. I worried because I had protection against smallpox, but not the plague. I transferred to the other boat as swiftly as possible. Captain Bellamy was not a bad sort. He became somewhat emotional as we set Lonesome adrift. The winds stayed favorable, and the captain gave me a lesson on how to steer a sailing ship. The transom, which is connected to the rudder, is fastened by a sturdy rope to the deck wheel. He allowed me to steer the ship for an hour while he took a break. When he returned, I asked where he intended to store the treasure. He told me I would see soon enough.  Late in the evening on the second day of travel, we entered the harbor. Two of the crew rowed the captain ashore, and the rest of us stayed with the ship. It was early morning before he returned. With him was an elderly Spaniard who must have been in his eighties. He had a long grey beard with a black patch over his left eye. He used a cane and walked with a noticeable limp. I later learned his name was Rodrigo de Sevilla, a former pirate captain who retired after losing an eye and sustaining other injuries in battle. He went below deck with Captain Bellamy to view the treasure. When some time had passed, they came back and Rodrigo was rowed ashore. Captain Bellamy informed us that the treasure would be brought ashore after midnight. Midnight came, and we began rowing boatloads of gold, silver and jewels to the dock. Rodrigo was waiting for us with a horse and a long bed wagon. We loaded the first load on the wagon and covered it with a tarp. To my surprise, we headed into downtown and not to some cave inland. We were heading for a church Rodrigo called the Pantheon. Rodrigo told me a story in broken English as we rode in the wagon. "The structure is being built by a man named Geronimo Garcon and will be a Jesuit church. It has taken us over thirty years and we are just putting the finishing touches on the interior. I joined early on to assist in the design and direct the actual construction. I designed a vault under the church at the behest of mister Garcon who unfortunately is now deceased. Over the years, all the workers have died or moved and I am the only man alive today that knows the secret location of that room. It has remained unopened since its construction in 1718." I smiled to myself. This answers the last piece of the puzzle. I still had one lingering question. " Rodrigo, why are you doing this for captain Bellamy? How do the two of you know each other?" Rodrigo laughed. "That is another story in its self, and should be told over a beer. Perhaps we can do that after the job is done. We are just about at our destination." I didn't want to press him and let it lay. A magnificent structure loomed before me. Built of stone, with scattered small windows and at least one small portico. Rodrigo led us on a dirt path along the right side of the building. It looked like the foundation for another building was being dug close to the path. At the right rear corner, Rodrigo stopped and told all of us to turn around while he opened the vault. Of course, I turned back around and watched as he removed a stone that fit perfectly in the wall. He reached in and did something and a section of the wall chest high to me revolved open on a sliding mechanism. I turned back around. We took the stolen items into a room with a low ceiling and organized them into separate piles of gold, silver, and jewels. It took us three trips in Rodrigo's wagon to store all the loot. We were all tired, and the four crewmen returned to the ship. I inquired with Rodrigo if I could stay and hear the promised story while enjoying a beer. He agreed and took me to a bar that had a table outside, providing a view of the ocean in the distance. Here is his story as told to me. "I was a raise by a poor family in Seville. When I was ten, my father, who was a soldier, died in battle. I worked my way onto a merchant ship as a cabin boy and worked hard to learn how to sail a ship. When I was eighteen, I took a position as second officer on a different ship. A mutiny occurred, resulting in the captain and multiple officers being marooned on a remote island. Over the next few years, we transformed into a pirate ship and combed the Caribbean for merchant vessels. We made a living, but that was all. One day, we targeted a heavily armed ship that was loaded with riches. I sustained serious injuries and was taken captive. I knew they would hang me when we returned to port. The following day, our ship found itself under attack from the notorious pirate vessel known as Lonesome. The merchant ship surrendered, and Captain Bellamy released me and my crew. In Santo Domingo, he kindly dropped off me and my crew, and to help me begin a new career, he gave me a portion of the prize. I owed him my life, and we met again several times over the years. In one meeting, I revealed to him the secret vault. You know the rest. The treasure is safe now for him to do with as he pleases." With the sun shining, I searched for the captain to inform him of my intention to remain in town. What I really needed was to stay safe until I they returned me three days from now. The first mate met me at the dock and said the captain and the rest of the crew were back aboard ship. Rowing towards the ship, a sense of uneasiness started to settle within me. Once I stepped onto the deck, they raised the anchor and we set sail again. It was midday when we anchored next to a tiny uninhabited island. Bellamy and the first mate forced the rest of us into the skiff and rowed us to the island. The captain and first mate faced us with their pistols drawn. The captain had one in each hand." I'm sorry, men, the captain said. This is your new home. Trusting you with the knowledge of the buried treasure's location is out of the question. " A crew member swore and attacked the first mate, who shot him in the chest. I knew he had only one shot and launched myself toward his knees. The other two crewmen attacked the captain, and he shot both of them. I managed to overpower the first mate and broke his neck. The captain sprinted toward the skiff. He reached a few feet offshore when I intercepted him and capsized the boat, resulting in him landing on me. We both went under water. A feeling of regret washed over me as I realized I had never taken the time to learn how to swim. I was tall enough, however, to stand on the sandy bottom and the captain could not. I held him under water until he quit struggling. Battling my way back to the beach, I rested in the sand, gazing at the serene blue sky and the four deceased individuals surrounding me. I could see the overturned skiff drifting about two hundred yards offshore. The schooner was too far away from the shore, making it impossible for me to reach it. All I could I do now was hope Dr. Marsh could bring me home. I awoke in a hospital with Dr. Marsh seated by the bed. Well, young man, you must have quite a story to tell. You returned so dehydrated, the doctor said you only had hours to live. I don't suppose you found out anything about the lost treasure? Doctor Marshes face glowed with excitement as I shared my story of the last five days. When I finished, he took my hand. "We are profoundly grateful. Is there anything else I can do for you?"  "Is there any way I can take swimming lessons in prison?" The end

zt6vwp

Standby Travel

“Last call for Lufthansa flight 743 to Bangkok – the last remaining passengers are requested to go to gate number 2 immediately!” “Where was she!” He was more than worried – panic stricken. “Had she been kidnapped by those Arab terrorists! Everyone around here looks shifty!” He thought. She had disappeared into the ladies’ toilets a long time ago. He felt bewildered, lost, jaded from the lack of sleep and the continued long journey, the never-ending journey, to an unknown destination, to an unknown situation. This was the first time he left the shores of his country of birth and cut the umbilical cord of his sheltered upbringing. He felt inexperienced in dealing with the new sights and sounds around every corner. It was the reason he had struck up the conversion with the stranger in the first place. He was desperate for conversion, and reassurance. He was alone, and far away from his comfortable life, there were just too many new events to deal with, so many new challenges, it was eroding his adventurous spirit, his romantic notion and anticipation of his journey to an unknown destination, to unknown people had disappeared in Frankfurt. How many hours ago was that? He looked at his watch, these time zone changes were so bewildering. It had all started as he waited patiently for his name to be called out. The joys of standby travel he thought. Never knowing until the last few minutes whether his long journey would commence, or would he be forced to find a cheap hotel for the night, or even a vacant chair in the airport departure lounge and try again the next day. At the boarding gate that night in Frankfurt he could see for himself, he wasn’t alone in feeling anxious, tense from not knowing the outcome. The waiting standby passengers knew the flight would leave on time, that was the only certainty in the situation, but whether they would be sitting on board when the aircraft doors closed, or left behind at the gate area watching the flashing lights of the jet airline disappearing into the dark night, contemplating alternative plans – it was that imagined reality that caused the increasing tension, and with every passing minute, the tension morphed into panic. He pondered his decision to travel on standby. Travel or not to travel and then wait another day, for the next available flight, the next available seat going to his final destination – Sydney, Australia. He searched around the other faces waiting patiently for their names to be called out, to know their fate, their destiny. When he scanned their anxious faces, a lady with glasses smiled back at his searching gaze. It was an opportunity to strike up a conversation, all the waiting passengers were in the same situation of pending anxiety, his need to speak to someone was potent, to share the anxiety was so vivid, and yet poignant at the same time. It was with sad irony, that every time someone was called forward, and successfully handed a boarding pass, it was one less seat for the rest of the waiting passengers on standby. Watching the passenger step forward from the waiting crowd as their name was called out, and then being handed the treasured boarding pass, seemed like a winning ticket in a raffle, it was felt by those remaining with mixed feelings, but eventually with a feeling of envy. “Hi!” He stammered at the girl in glasses with a friendly smile in the waiting crowd. “Guten Abend!” Was the first reply from the smiling girl in glasses. He had forgotten he was now in a German speaking country, how stupid he thought. It knocked his confidence, assuming everyone spoke English, he felt so untraveled, so inexperienced and vulnerable. The girl must have noticed his embarrassment. She laughed, it was a laugh full of fun and gaiety, a confident laugh. “It’s OK – I’m English; from Canterbury, I live in Koln with my husband Jost. This standby travel takes years from your life – don’t you agree? Where are you trying to get to?” He regained some of his composure, as she spoke, the girl with glasses with the friendly smile, and confident laugh, had cleverly recognized so many things in his awkwardness, his strangeness, his anxiety amongst the waiting passengers. She recognized that there were so many new experiences for him, not just the tension of the standby travel. “Sydney.” He replied. “Wow, you are ambitious – Sydney, that’s a difficult one.” She exclaimed, and then explained. “Well, that’s the end stop of this flight. Before Sydney it has stopovers at Karachi, Bangkok, Singapore and then finally Sydney! You are up against it; the odds are stacked against you. We are travelling to Singapore, which is stretch, but Sydney – good luck!” By the time she had finished the news bulletin, or the facts of life regarding his slim chances of boarding the flight that night, his last remnants of false confidence disappeared. His face showed shock and disappointment at the news from the girl with glasses and a friendly smile. It was truly a reality check. “I thought we were all waiting to board to Sydney.” He said hopelessly. “Don’t worry, I think we all get on tonight, there’s plenty of seats to Bangkok” she said reassuringly. “No one goes to Karachi, it’s unsafe there anyway! But our chances of making it through Bangkok are slim, and your chances of making through Singapore are next to zero. Sorry to break your world. I phoned and checked, I asked someone earlier.” He noticed others in the crowd eavesdropping on the conversation. It seemed he wasn’t alone in lacking information. The eavesdroppers listened, and then passed the information along, as though they had found buried treasure. A tall man with glasses appeared from behind the girl with glasses, also with the friendly smile, and poked out a long arm. “Wie gehts, ich bin Jost!” He shook the inviting extended hand of Jost, he was tall, and his handshake was strong. “My name is Sarah.” Came the introduction from the girl with glasses and a friendly smile. The introductions in the waiting crowd gave him some comfort for some reason, he felt they were all comrades, strangers sharing a connection in a challenging tense situation – waiting for their names to be called forward from the throng, from the crowd of patiently waiting standby passengers. “Mr. Thetford – come forward please.” He was jolted into the present by the announcement over the loudspeaker, as the uniformed lady behind the desk searched the crowd for the person behind the name. As he approached the desk with trepidation, he felt all the eyes of the waiting standby passengers on his back, thinking why him? “Mr. Thetford?” “Yes.” “Can you show me your passport, please.” He did as he was directed. “Mr. Thetford, we have some good news, and some bad news tonight – what do you want first?” The uniformed lady was in complete charge of the situation, she smiled at her own witty introduction. “Good news.” He stammered. “Well – we have a seat for you on the aircraft tonight!” The uniformed lady said it, as though she was offering him a precious gift, she acted like she owned the airline. “What’s the bad news?” He asked. “We can’t take you to Sydney, we can take you to Bangkok instead.” She said it with glee, as though it was a birthday treat. She then said with equal efficiency and sternness. “We need a decision right now, or we will give the seat to another passenger, and offload your bags.” The mention of bags triggered yet another concern. “My bag it’s tagged on standby to Sydney.” “Not anymore it isn’t.” The uniformed lady was efficient and one step ahead, completely in charge, as she showed him, his boarding pass to Bangkok, and a new bag tag for Bangkok. “So, what’s your decision, Mr. Thetford?” “I’ll take the seat to Bangkok.” It was his voice, but it was one of the many unheard and chaotic voices in his head trying to shout to be heard in the internal mayhem, as the tumultuous discussions going on inside his head continued, all his debating thoughts, trying to make the best decision. It would have taken all night to come to a decision, which ever one thought had provoked his vocal cords, it was a decision to go forward, facing whatever consequences. Now he was on course to go to Bangkok, not Sydney, which meant his planned rendezvous with the unknown had already been disrupted. As he entered the unfamiliar noisy environment of the aircraft, the sole focus of the cabin crew was to get all the passengers settled into their seats, including seat belt announcements, safety checks, and stowage of luggage. This was the era of the first intercontinental jetliners, the spacious wide-bodied aircraft of today for long-haul travel was still on the drawing boards. As he entered the aircraft door and turned left into the busy economy cabin, turning right was the first-class cabin. In those days air travel was for the wealthy, low-cost airline travel, with the entrance of Laker Airways into the air travel industry was still years away, in Freddie Laker’s dreams. Intercontinental jet airliners only had a range of a maximum 6-7 hours, and that’s the reason traveling by air to Australia from Europe took a circumvented route, in this instance, Frankfurt to Karachi to Bangkok to Singapore and then finally to Sydney was nearly 24 hours of flying time. He was ushered to his seat by a stressed stewardess. The middle seat in the emergency exit row. He was tall, so having the ability to stretch his legs, was evened out by the disadvantage of the middle seat. At least he didn’t need to wake his seated neighbours in the middle of the night to go to the toilet. The seat pitch in those days was more convenient for people with long legs, nonetheless, emergency exit seats haven’t changed over the years, and he thanked his blessing for this seat for next 7 hours, although he knew it wasn’t going to take him to Sydney. There was no in-flight entertainment in those days, it was either bringing your own book, knitting or sleep. He couldn’t sleep, there were too many thoughts swirling in his head. Life can be smooth sailing for years, and then in a moment, a storm can take you in a direction and place that was never planned. It’s called adventure, but by another name uncertainty. He had always dreamed of adventures, to faraway destinations, but the events and circumstances he was experiencing now made him feel uneasy. He didn’t like to feel out of control. The adventure of going to Sydney, a new destination, and then to meet people he had never met before had been rationalized against his comfortable psyche, but the added jeopardy of the recent standby travel experience, and the result of not knowing when he would arrive, or even whether he would arrive at his final destination at all, was now gnawing endlessly into that adventurous spirit, his confidence was evaporating together with the stuffy hot air of the confined cabin space and being whipped into the air conditioning vents of the aircraft. The continued hum of the outside engines was taking him further and further eastbound, every single minute he was getting further away from his homeland. He must have dozed, when he opened his eyes there were flecks of colour appearing outside the aircraft, dawn was approaching from the east, as the aircraft met the brighter skies from the west. It was the first time he experienced the fast-approaching dawn from 30,000 feet, it remains a wonder of this beautiful world, as it is today and every day. After the experiences of airports in London and Frankfurt, Karachi landing strip was a shock. The lack of buildings, the lack of any infrastructure, just a tarmac runway, and very open and empty apron, their aircraft stood alone, stark against the early morning sky. The engines sighed from the seven hours of flying effort, as they idled to a stop, and there was an announcement that those in transit could disembark if they so desired. He peered outside at the solitary building, which looked more like a school building than any airport arrival or departure building. He needed some fresh air and to stretch his cramped legs. He met Sarah on the bus. They greeted each other like veterans, which in a sense they were. Veterans of the standby boarding experience at Frankfurt. Sarah’s greeting him a hug wearing her glasses and a friendly smile. “We saw you board! We were the last to be called, so many were left behind last night. I’m sure I saw some empty seats.” Sarah always had all the information. “Where’s Jost?” He asked. “He’s asleep. He sleeps on every flight. Did you sleep?” she said. “I guess I did. You were right, they only allowed me to travel to Bangkok. I don’t know what I’m going to do, people are expecting me in Sydney tomorrow morning.” “You’ll need to call them when you arrive in Bangkok, when you know more about your situation.” Sarah, always the sensible one, observed. “Don’t worry. Bangkok is a great place, you’ll see.” She said with encouragement. The old bus suddenly stopped in front of the lookalike school building, Karachi airport building. When they got off the bus, a uniformed man gave them boarding cards. It echoed inside the building, it was empty except for a few chairs that all needed repair, and a small shop, selling cigarettes and tea. “I’m going to the toilet.” Sarah announced “OK – see you at the boarding gate.” He replied. That was 5-10 minutes ago. She must have been kidnapped he thought. He walked to the boarding gate; Sarah was nowhere to be seen. Most of the passengers had boarded the bus, and he lingered in front of the boarding counter. “Sir are you a passenger for flight number 743 to Bangkok?” said the uniformed man politely. “Yes.” he said hesitantly. “You need to board the bus now; you are the last passenger.” The uniformed man informed him. “I’m missing a lady, she in the toilet, she wears glasses. I think she’s been kidnapped.” He stuttered. “Calm down Sir. You are the last to board. She must have already boarded, please hurry sir, we can’t wait forever.” He handed the boarding pass to the uniformed man, and walked to the bus, it was small no bigger than a small transit van. To his utter dismay Sarah was not on the bus, only two other passengers. She must have been kidnapped, where had she gone, he fretted. This must be a conspiracy, maybe the boarding gate agent is part of the subterfuge, concern and panic started to flare in his confused mind. Once he entered the aircraft, after running up the boarding steps, he literally jumped on the stewardess by the aircraft door. “A passenger has been kidnapped in the ladies’ toilets back there in the airport building. You can’t leave yet. They wouldn’t listen to me, but she never boarded the bus.” He blurted out. “Calm down sir. Everybody is on board. We have already counted, everybody is accounted for, except you, you are the last!” The stewardess replied, trying to control her frustration with his ranting. “Please take a seat, we are about to close the doors.” She said finally. “Can I check to see myself; I still believe she has been kidnaped, and there could a suspicious character on board, a terrorist perhaps!” He pleaded Whether the word terrorist triggered the following reaction from the stewardess, anyway she snapped. “You take your seat now and stop these ridiculous accusations. Otherwise, I will call the security services to have you evicted off this departing aircraft. Take your seat NOW!” She shouted. He took his seat submissively, without a further word. Back in the middle seat in the exit row, he suffered obediently for the whole of long daytime flight to Bangkok. As soon as the aircraft stopped, and the doors opened, a small Thai man recking of spicy food, with a bright yellow bib, and a clip board stood in front of the middle seat of the exit row. “Mr. Thetford, Sawadi Kap!” The little Thai man enquired. “Yes.” He said. “You must come with me; we need your seat for a passenger going to Singapore. You must disembark now.” He followed the little Thai man down the aircraft steps into another world. It was night, but the heat and humidity instantly charged his body, moisture was being sucked from his body, ever single pore of his body explored with perspiration. The scenes at Bangkok airport were the complete opposite to Karachi, this was airport and destination that was tumultuously alive, noisy, and utter bedlam. His senses were completely bewildered with new experiences, not only the attack of nighttime humidity, the attack of noise, the attack of pungent smells of diesel fumes, kerosene fumes, the attack to his sight, where the frantic deranged driving of numerous vehicles always moments and inches from collision. Aircraft scattered and parked in haphazard positions, never in neat rows. It was a catastrophic mess. He had arrived in Bangkok, Thailand the region formerly known as Indo China during the Vietnam War. He would remember the moment, that first image, those smells for the rest of his life. ************************************************************ Postscript He spent a week in Bangkok with Sarah and Jost, unimaginable from the Bangkok of today. Eventually, the departing aircraft from Bangkok destined to Sydney was hit by lightning. A frightening experience for all onboard. A pregnant passenger couldn’t wait to have her baby, and the flight diverted to Darwin to take her to hospital. On his delayed arrival in Sydney, he was told that the people he was supposed to meet, had left for Bangkok.

mzeuqg

The End of the Dirt Road

CW: References to sexual activity “I’m the biggest redneck mothafucka ya ever seen,” Chaz said as he swung his hatchet down on another piece of wood in that trailer. How I ended up there, I’m honestly a bit confused myself, as it was a mix of hormones and some thrill-seeking. Whichever it was, I thank my lucky stars daily that I’m still alive to tell the tale. I grew up in the suburbs in a little New York town called Lincolnville, where the one thing notable about it was it had one of the oldest wineries in the country, yet we rarely had any tourism somehow. I doubt the town is even marked on an FBI database map. I was on a dating app called meetme.com one day and I saw a beautiful woman with glasses and pink hair named Carissa. Any kind of unnatural hair color immediately hooked me in, so I couldn’t resist to say, “How’s it going?” I came up with better openers than that over time, but I was 19 and still learning how to properly talk to girls. She replied, as she enjoyed my picture with my pet collie, Windy. After talking about our favorite science fiction films and our love of nature, I popped the question if we could meet up sometime. The answer was a resounding yes. Being autistic, I tend to disclose to my date off the bat so there’s no surprises (as well as to weed out the bigots), and Carissa was totally cool with it, as she had an autistic son herself. We started dirty talking as the night went on, and I told her about a threesome I had not long before meeting her, and she said her and her roommate Chaz were looking for somebody to do that, indirectly asking me if I liked the idea. “That’d be fun,” I said. “Great!” she said. “I’m in Grant’s Pass, Pennsylvania.” She then gave me the address. About two days later, on a Saturday, I was off to… well… you know. It was about a two-hour drive, and I left at 3 P.M. The ride from New York to Pennsylvania was beautiful, because the latter was surrounded by dense trees all along the highway and had way less cars passing through than New York’s did, which allowed me to drive as fast as I pleased. I would slow down whenever I saw an indent on the side of the highway, which was where cops would hide to catch potential speedsters. I passed wondrous mountain vistas and watched birds fly above my car as I got deeper into the state. The further I went, there were fewer and fewer cars beside me. Eventually, as I was about 40 minutes away from my destination, according to the GPS, there were none at all. “Are you sure we’re going the right way?” I asked the GPS in my head. Right as I said that it asked me to pull off to exit 52. I was then on the backroads, and all I could see beside the road were trees, fallen sticks, and dirt. There would be houses here and there, but I definitely didn’t see any other human beings outside. I could no longer see the sun, as the trees covered it well with their dense collection of leaves. “In half a mile, make a right,” the monotone female GPS voice said. It turns out that turn was a one-lane dirt road. The road was two miles long in a straight line, and I couldn’t see a sign of life anywhere, not even a squirrel. Just more trees and leaves on the ground. I made another right turn onto an unpaved road, and then a left. “Your destination is on the left,” the GPS said. As I reached the orange flag which marked my destination, I finally found some life. It was four trailers in a half-circle. Carissa’s was the second one from the left. She heard me approach and came out to hug me. The trailer to the right of it had two rusty cars with their hoods open. “How was the ride?” she said. “Interesting for sure,” I said. Carissa just smiled. She wore black gym shorts and a white shirt. But she was beautiful, as she looked just like her picture and had wondrous hips. I followed her into her house. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said, turning her head back to me as we walked inside.” “Nice to meet you as well,” I said. The interior walls were made of dark brown artificial wood grain paneling, and they didn’t have a floor, as it was just plywood. Next to the front door was a wooden stump. The first room upon entering was the living room, which was dark, as they didn’t have any lights on. However, they did have an amber light in the kitchen, which slightly shimmered into part of the living room. The walls had pictures of Carissa’s 4-year-old son, although he was nowhere to be found. “He’s adorable. Is your son home?” I asked. “Nah, he’s with his dad right now. Would you like some water or iced tea?” she said. “No, I got water in my lunchbox, thanks.” I took that blue lunchbox my stepmom gifted me everywhere, which held up to six bottles. I sat on the couch, and I felt the plywood floor and the entertainment center holding the TV shake underneath me. Someone was coming from the hallway, which was to the right of the front door as you walked in. A large, 250-pound muscular bald man emerged, who had boils and scratch marks on his face, as well as a red flannel and jeans with brown stains on them. In his left hand was a yellow-handled hatchet. My heart started to pound against my ribcage. “Stephen, this is my roommate, Chaz,” Carissa said. He then extended his right hand out to me. “N-n-nice to meet you,” I said. “Nice to meet you too, bud,” he said. “You here to have some fun with us?” “I think I’d like to hang out for a little while first,” I said. His body was in the way of the door, and I didn’t want to upset them by running out the door. Despite my instincts, my hormones made me want to give him the benefit of a doubt. “Alright then,” he said. He then started chopping some wood on the stump as my mind blanked out and he talked to Carissa. “I’m the biggest redneck mothafucka ya ever seen,” Chaz said. This broke me out of my trance, and I basically heard him say it without any context. Carissa then played music videos on YouTube, mainly country rap or hick-hop, whichever you prefer to call it. The videos were mainly men in woodland camo hoodies and trucker hats with beards rapping about their trucks and their hometowns. I was more of a rock and metal person and couldn’t stand it, but I did not want to upset the bald man with the hatchet, so I just kept my mouth shut unless he asked me questions. “Where you from?” he said. “I’m from Lincolnville, in New York,” I said. “Ah, never heard of it,” he said. “Most people haven’t,” I said. Conversation was hard enough in a good mood, let alone while conversing with a suspicious large man such as he in the middle of nowhere. “I got some weed. You guys want some?” I said to break the tension. Their eyes lit up and they immediately said yes. I then packed my swirly glass bowl with some green, lit it up, and passed it around. Believe it or not, I was able to think clearer after doing it in such an environment, as the calming effect helped me feel better. Although I was calmer, I lost the passage of time, and it was pitch black outside before I knew it. All the hick-hop videos made time zip by. “I gotta go help Mitch with the car. I’ll be back later, then we can have some fun,” Chaz said. “Okay, see ya in a bit,” she said. “Bye,” I said. As soon as he walked out into the darkness, I looked over at Carissa and scanned her body lying across the couch. Her legs were thick and bright from her ivory skin in the dark living room, and with the giant man out of the picture, I made my move. I did not want to be on the other end of that hatchet blade, but I also didn’t want to leave without fulfilling the goal my horny 19-year-old self trekked out there for. I sat next to her and asked if I could rub her legs, which she consented to. We then kissed and it progressed from there. I think you could fill in the gaps. Once it was over and we laid on the couch naked together, I looked over and saw Mr. Chaz was still away. So I then leapt off the couch and got my clothes back on like I was late for a wedding ceremony. “You okay?” Carissa said. “Oh yeah, it’s just getting late and I got work tomorrow. Thank you for having me over,” I said. As I zipped my pants up, I bent down and kissed her on the couch as she still laid there without clothes. I then grabbed my lunchbox, ran to my car, turned on the ignition, and backed out of there. The backroads out of that area were just as lifeless as they were before, which, in that case, gave me a sigh of relief. I never spoke to Carissa again after that. I didn’t want to know what would await me in those woods if I ever came back. Whether Chaz was dangerous or not in the end, I wasn’t willing to find out. I then arrived back to my parents’ house and crashed into my bed. Never before did I feel so thankful to be home from a road trip.

yxgxbi

A Bus Ride

It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday, both in reality and in the bar that Billy is singing about in my earbuds. Mine is nine o’clock a.m., but close enough, and I appreciate Bill’s comradery as I pick my way down the center aisle of a tour bus and settle into a seat near the rear emergency exit door. I live in this city and have seen these big red buses making their lazy circuits around the city’s downtown many times, but I have never had a reason to ride one before now. What brings me to this bus, you ask? Doctor’s orders, delivered with a smile and an irritatingly positive choice of words by my online therapist. A change of scenery and routine is a fantastic action step and, I am sure, the anecdote to the monotony and general bleakness of my life. Like it did for so many others, the grey veil of depression settled over me slowly during the pandemic as I stayed safely holed-up in my little apartment that perches on the third floor of an old warehouse building, just above a laundromat and corner bodega. And for a while, I was perfectly content there, keeping company with the daylight that pours through the windows each afternoon, the row of potted plants that adorn the ledge above my sink, and the array of colorful pillows and blankets that liven up the otherwise industrial-looking space. These comforts blunted my reality for so long that it was jarring to realize I had slowly morphed into someone else, someone a little less vibrant and a little more fearful of new people and new things. Not a stranger to myself, not really, but a person who has somehow gotten out of sync with the rest of the world. So, my therapist suggested the bus. For the first half hour, things are quiet in my little corner. Not literally quiet, because the exuberant retiree who is conducting this tour has launched into a monologue about the city’s historical landmarks, followed by all the baseball facts you could ever want as we pass by the city’s stadium. That changes when a group of five boards the bus: an older man and woman who look to be in their early sixties, a 30-something couple, and another adult woman wearing a brown suede jacket and tortoiseshell sunglasses. They sit down across the row in front of me, taking up the seats on either side of the aisle and settle in, with the older woman identifying one vacant seat in their row as the “purse and coat chair” before settling into her seat with her purse positioned squarely on her lap. “Mom, this is the restaurant where we have a reservation tonight,” tortoiseshell sunglasses says as she gestures out the window towards an upscale tapas restaurant with big glass windows dominating the front façade and “The Katherine” painted in gold filigree on the center pane. Beyond the front windows, I catch a glimpse of mid-century modern-style light fixtures that look like brass starbursts with frosted white globes at each end. The bus sputters back to life as our stoplight turns green as the daughter continues to talk about the menu, which she has already reviewed and determined what she plans to order. Meanwhile, the older man, who I am pretty confident at this point is someone’s dad and Mom’s husband, has tuned out the tapas discussion and is unfolding a handful of brochures. One contains a map of the city and the tour bus route, and he is rotating the map in a slow, clockwise circle to get his bearings. Once we are oriented, he sits in silence for a while before announcing to the row that the building that we are passing now is the city library, known for being a stunning example of Beaux-Arts architecture. I catch a slight scowl pass across the face of our tour guide at being beaten to the Beaux-Arts punch, and I imagine him standing up and walking slowly down the center aisle of the bus, thumbs hooked onto his beltloops like an old Western gunslinger, to inform this man that the town isn’t big enough for both of us and our fun facts. Instead, the tour guide gives a small nod of approval and continues on speaking. At this point, I decide to focus my attention on the two remaining family members, who I’ve mentally dubbed the lovebirds. The lovebirds sit very close to one another, their sides practically velcroed together. Now and then, the girl rests her head on the man’s shoulder, and I can’t help but notice that they have almost the exact same hair from behind—long and brown with a slight wave. When they canoodle, the hair seems to merge into one big, wide hair curtain.  All of a sudden, our female lovebird jolts upright and points out the bus window. “See the bar on this corner? This is one of the venues where Turner’s band plays!” I subtly follow her finger with my gaze to a hole-in-the-wall bar that is plastered with colorful paper flyers, presumably announcing bands that would be playing there. I glance back at the group to see my male lovebird—Turner—bobbing his head in agreement and lady bird giving him a big, proud smile. “The last time Pullout Couch—that’s my band—played there it was pretty rad,” Turner tells the whole back of the bus in a voice that’s two or three notches too loud. I wonder to myself if he has hearing loss from his rad band, or if he just wants to make sure that none of us leave this bus unaware that we were briefly in the presence of a very cool guy. “I’m pretty sure that’s a spot that I’ve heard about on one of my true crime podcasts,” tortoiseshell sunglasses says, “like no joke. Sophie, you should be careful, I think people get snatched from around there. Just, like, poof! Remind me to tell you the story at dinner, it’s wild. This college girl walked out of a bar and was never seen again. They think maybe it was a serial killer, but I always like to think that people who disappear like that are out there somewhere, you know, with a new name and living some brand-new life on a beach or something.” Tortoiseshell sunglasses is smiling at this thought, but if looks could kill, the one Sophie just gave her would have been fatal. “I don’t have to worry about that, Anna, because I have Turner. And guess what. I was going to tell you all this at dinner, but…” Sophie says, as she stands up and turns to face the group with a flourish, “me and Turner got married!” You know how they say that timing is everything? Well, it became very apparent very quickly that Sophie had picked the worst possible time to drop this bombshell. The worst possible time for everyone, that is, except me. When I boarded this bus, my hands were a little clammy and I worried that someone would recognize me and try to strike up a conversation. Or maybe I would stick out like a sore thumb for just riding the bus all day, and someone would kindly but firmly ask me to leave. But this drama was more than I could have hoped for, and if I was on their radar at all, I quickly faded into the background as the chaos ensued. I fight the urge to lean forward in my seat as I listen. Sophie is still standing, now brandishing her left hand in a wide circle. Dad lowers his map to his lap and begins to refold it, slowly and carefully. Mom misses a beat, but then loudly says, “Sophie! You are always one to surprise us! That’s wonderful! Very… wonderful.” She looks earnestly around the group, wide-eyed, nodding slightly as if to communicate to the others that they should follow her lead. If Anna got the message, she pointedly ignored it. “Are you joking? You’re joking, right?” “Why would we be joking?” Sophie asks, her face a very confusing mixture of deflated, way too smiley and super pissed. “I know it hasn’t been that long, but we are in love!” “Everyone is in love when they have only been together for three months!” Anna counters back. Oh yes, this is getting good. “When you know, you know! And the wedding was wonderful. It was just a really beautiful experience.” Sophie turns back around and flops back into her seat with a pout. Turner, it seems, is not going to be any assistance. I can only see the side of his profile and a decent amount of it is obscured by the hair curtain, but he is smiling with a very large, very unhelpful smile. “Dad, what do you think?” Sophie asks. “I am, well, I am happy if you are happy, sweetie. I guess I would have just liked to be there.” This was not the unconditionally positive review Sophie was looking for in response to her big announcement, and she sits back further into her seat and looks pointedly out the window.  Now, I am not part of this family, but that doesn’t exempt me from the uncomfortable silence that follows the exchange. My helpful therapist would be thrilled by this real, lived experience , where I can practice putting this cringey feeling into perspective, and acknowledge that I am not personally responsible for the awkwardness that now seems to be consuming this bus. Our tour guide, at least, is undeterred. “Ronald Reagan was a lifeguard and saved seventy-seven people from drowning!” Which is admittedly a lot of people, but the family doesn’t register this new information; instead, they have fallen into a chilly silence with Sophie still gazing sullenly out the window, Anna typing on her phone, and the others sitting with various versions of strained smiles on their faces. We stay like that for a long time, there in the silence. No one moves from their spots, at first, and I wonder if they are playing a slow-motion game of chicken, with no one wanting to be the first to make a concession. Eventually, however, I see Anna put her phone back into her purse, take a deep breath, and stand to move closer to Sophie. Anna takes the seat directly in front of Sophie and twists around to look in her direction. Anna reaches out her hand and touches Sophies shoulder as she says, “Look, I’m happy for you guys. I want you to be happy.” She waits a beat for Sophie to react, which takes an uncomfortable beat, but finally Sophie shifts, appearing to soften, and says, “Thanks Annie.” The two give each other a hug, and Anna returns to her seat. Dad pipes up just then, clearing his throat to get their attention before saying, “The art museum is the next stop, and Anna had thought that would be a good activity for the morning.” Mom nods brightly and begins re-distributing the purses and coats from their designated chair. When the bus comes to its next stop, the group stands to leave, and I feel a tug of something—I am sad to see them go. And we have unfinished business! I watch them exit the bus and stand on the sidewalk for a beat, checking to make sure that all purses, coats, and sunglasses are accounted for while Dad turns in a circle, looking up at the surrounding buildings before pointing northward, in the direction of the art museum. He drops his hand, and turns to Turner, who is standing nearby on the sidewalk. Dad turns and extends his hand, and they shake hands. I can’t tell if they are saying anything, because the bus has shifted back into gear and is pulling away from the stop. I watch out the back windows of the bus as they begin to walk away, shrinking from view as the bus ambles down the road in the opposite direction. I ride on for one more stop before standing and exiting the bus as well. This is not the closest stop to my apartment, but it’s well within walking distance and the sun has broken out from behind the morning cloud cover. I set off in the direction of my apartment, and for the first time in a long time, I look around and appreciate the bustle of the streets and sidewalks as I make my way home. People in groups, people on their own, people headed somewhere in a hurry and people taking their time. Now, I wonder about these people; do they have stories unfolding in real-time, just like Anna and Sophie’s family? They must, I think. We all must, to some degree or another. And by the time I arrive home at my little apartment, I feel a nearly imperceptible shift. My life might be challenging sometimes, but my ride on the bus helped me to see that everyone does. The people that I see on the sidewalks outside of my little apartment aren’t neat characters living out their neat storyline, as I sometimes like to think they are. They are messy and dramatic, but are also forgiving, like Anna’s hug and Dad’s offer of a handshake to Turner. Does that mean everyone in that family left the bus feeling fine? Probably not. But they were trying, just like I am. And with that, the bus has left me feeling just a little bit more in-step with the world. 

ogaqjq

How long can I stay?

People rushed to my right and left, looking pale and nervous, while some appeared astonished or, worse, clueless. Amid the turmoil, I reasoned that putting myself slightly in front of the screen displaying scheduled departure flights would be a smart idea. It was not. With each passing minute, more flights are canceled. That is akin to Russian roulette. And watching didn't make me feel great. Still, I stared. It seemed the screen was holding me in place with a magnet. I didn't realize anymore that people were yelling and weeping around me. I turned my body, the people's voices faded into the distance, and my mouth dried. I sat down on the ground or so I thought. Though the prospect of the Unthinkable made my chest feel like it was going to burst, there was a ray of optimism that my flight would be unaffected. My thoughts went back to the previous night when I journeyed from Homabay to Nairobi by night bus as the only non-Kenya passenger; it felt less bizarre and scary to me than being at the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport. I am struggling to breathe. My hands shook, and I didn't dare to glance at the flight itinerary on the screen. I've already checked in, my luggage has been checked in, I've completed all of the security procedures, and as far as I remember, this is the time to rest in the waiting room at the gate. However, this is not the situation today. Everything seemed different today. People hurried around, children wailed, and their parents were overwhelmed. I heard some folks say, "We're stuck in Africa. What happens to us if we are not allowed to fly back?” I swallowed. I pressed my body with my hands away from the ground, and my legs performed the rest. Fear struck me again. I barely repressed my mounting panic and took a few calm breaths. I didn't feel any better when I observed the people around me. Some almost ran me over, brushing my shoulder and causing me to do a half-turn. And before I knew what was happening, the person was out of my eyesight. I received a text message reading, "Your flight has been canceled." But how could this be? I checked the screen again; the flight was still planned and was ON TIME. I shook my head, feeling a large lump in my throat. I looked left and right. I had no idea what to look for, but I knew I couldn't just stand here and wait. But what happens now? What should I do? I wiped the sweat from my brow. The crowd around me left little room for me to breathe. I looked at the child next to me, and the mother tried to comfort it by taking it up. The mother's voice trembled and she struggled to hold back tears. She kept talking to the child, but the situation escalated. The child's face was already flushed from the crying and wailing. I had to look away, even though I was not the kind to do so. I couldn't handle it any longer. I walked away from this scene. Goal…No Goal, just moving away. Away from All of this. I kept looking at the other screens as I moved through the crowd. I took numerous side steps around folks who didn't want to see another person walking or gazed in bewilderment at screens. My flight was still scheduled as ON TIME. What's up with you guys at the airport? Where's your assistance? Where is your guidance? Don't you see? Then I heard a dull sound on the left side of me. I turned around. I noticed someone at a counter pounding his fist on the desk. I generally say the finest age for a man, but now I say the best age to be a madman. Then I looked at the sign over the desk. It showcased British Airlines. At this point, I noticed I was standing in the thick of a crowd swarming around the counter. The scales slipped off my eyes. I turned around and looked for desks. Someone brushed me on the shoulder again, but this time the person stopped. A middle-aged woman approached me and put her hand on my shoulder. She apologized. As she turned to walk away, I grabbed her arm fast. She looked at me as if puzzled. I asked her whether she knew where the KLM counter was. She nodded, and I thought I saw a brief brightening of her eyes. We started talking, and we realized we were on the same plane. I sighed in relief as if someone had lifted a heavy burden off my shoulders. We ran. I ran again. Why?  The crushing feeling resumed as we slipped through a crowd of people who appeared to be heading in the opposite direction. She paused and gave me a hopeful expression. She gestured in that direction. I had to stand on tiptoes to see above the crowd. I don't believe I've ever been happier to see KLM people. We ran that way and had to wait in line. I only heard parts of the employee's words to the person before me, but they sent chills down my spine. I gulped and stared at the woman, whose name I still don't know. I was relieved not to be alone, but I noticed tears welling up in her eyes. It was finally our turn. We said the words fast, louder than normal, and simultaneously. The employee tried to remain calm, but his hands shook and his responses made little sense. The only constant was the announcement that no further flights from Kenya would be available. The government canceled all international flights because of COVID, he stated. This happened overnight. I told him it could not be real. The embassy coordinated this special flight. He looked at me bewildered and shook his shoulders, saying in a tense tone that we needed to check into booking a flight with another airline before the last flight was fully booked. As we walked away from the counter, I overheard a man in the background ranting at and threatening the clerk. But all of that faded into the background for me when we heard a loudspeaker announce that everyone who didn't have an international flight from Kenya should pick up their luggage from the claim area right now. Then I overheard someone mention that they could still book a flight there and point the way. I told myself that it didn't matter which European country this jet took me to as long as I got out of Africa. We exchanged glances, and I noted the woman's expectant smile. Her name was Anne. We rushed to the baggage claim area to prepare for our next journey. The procedure of acquiring bags went fairly nicely. We went through the security checks once more, but we didn't mind. We looked at each other and were laughing. It felt so damn good to laugh. The escalator was broken, so we had to run up the stairs. Leaving Kenya provided us with newfound freedom, it provided us wings. Carrying the suitcase, we almost staggered to the appointed location before coming to a halt. We exchanged disbelieving looks. When I looked around, I noticed that other people were hurrying there as well, and they had also come to a halt. Nobody knew what was going on here anymore. Was that a terrible joke? I gently approached the counter. The man at the counter smiled thoughtfully. He knew exactly what was in store for each of us. I handed up my passport at his request. The sound of the stamp made my entire body shiver. When I asked how long I could stay in Kenya without difficulties, he replied, "as long as air traffic remained suspended due to COVID."

s0g5tn

Rocket Man

Adam Daedalus Rocket was not born with the middle name Daedalus, or the last name Rocket. He chose his own names. The kids in the orphanage taunted him relentlessly. “You’re a moron to dream you can go to the stars, the shortest kid in the class. Elton John’s Rocket Man  is not even a real astronaut, but some character in a dumb song!” The jeering that stung the most? “ Your parents didn’t even care enough to keep you. You were unloved.” There was no time for anything but school as far as he was concerned. He made no friends and kept to himself. “He’s an odd one,” his classmates would say. “His eyes are more on a comet 50 light years away, an asteroid belt 100, or a galaxy. He’s a joke.” But even the meanest students had to admit, if only to themselves, Adam was obsessed with astronauts to his bones. He worked not just hard, but singularly driven, and he’d make it to NASA Space Academy. By the time he was thirty, he’d blasted off the blue marble of earth more times than anyone. He was the genuine article, streaking away in the early dawn, the curvature of the earth shimmering in the sun. Assigned missions for his skill, but also because he had no one to leave behind, his only ambition was to travel in space, alone. And now he was on a mission with more risk than ever before. When he reached Mars, it would be 500 years into the future and take less than a day. A special engine with never used technology lay waiting in the belly of his bullet shaped spacecraft, Icarus. At first, he ripped through the sky as usual, the rocket fuel roaring behind him, his body riding a bunking bronco. But this bronco was powered by Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, and he was the first man to chase time. Once the fuel engines played out, an unproven gravity control engaged, and the new engine woke. Icarus  reared up and howled. She leaped to her stride. With his chest compressed in G forces sucking his breath, he launched into the future at what felt to him like a million-million miles per hour. But he wasn’t scared. He laughed as the first years in minutes distanced behind him. On earth, time moved fast as well. At first, his heart stirred at the miracle of life; perfect blue oceans, swirling clouds of weather systems, and the shimmering lights from the cities of the eastern seaboard of the United States. The earth was in its supreme glory that early morning. But then the sight of earth pierced his stomach as if stabbed by a Satan’s herald. This terrified him with a grief he didn’t know, his blood rushing like his heart was on fire and would soon burst from his throat. Just a few years had passed compressed into the first hours after launch, and the earth had flashed a different kind of glory. Behind his spacecraft, malevolent evil rose in mushroomed clouds, the lost hope of a nuclear insanity. What would take weeks, or years, or decades on earth, for him was just a few hours, and ended in a hulking dead planet, the last gasping breath of a sorrowful and smoldering wasteland, leaving only debris and death. Ahead of him loomed ever closer the colony of Mars. But as he approached, 500 years unfolded. The colony transformed into a vast metropolis. What looked like clear domes fabricated by giant honey bees covered towers of high rises, their sparkling lights reminding him of London, New York, or Hong Kong. In an instant, he felt the deck beneath him shudder as his ship went into orbit, guided by an unseen force. His communications consul sounded out with what the Commander first thought was the voice of God. “Welcome to Mars, Commander. We’ve been waiting for you.” *** “You were the first sent and the last to arrive,” Dr. Felix Fitzwalter said. A scientist, he had rumpled white hair, an old man. In the earth weeks that the Commander had spent on Mars, from what he could tell, the city stood near exhaustion, trash blowing in the streets, empty buildings, and collapsed schools with Martian sand drifting in doorways. When he saw people, they gathered together like aging denizens of Greece, dressed in robes, and talking in groups like chittering sparrows. “And you’re our last hope,” interrupted Chairman Mathews, his face like a politician, sycophant, and beady eyed. The Doctor glanced at the Chairman, scowling with his white eyebrows, his forehead furrowed. But Commander Rocket’s questions never stopped. “Why the last to arrive? Who came first? And why am I the last hope?” Dr. Fitzwalter chuckled. As he did, his formidable belly jiggled. He wore a scarlet Mars Federation logo on his white robe. “Let me explain.” Again, Chairman Mathews stared down the doctor. “A travesty. This is what happens when humanity has the power to destroy. It’s human nature. Earth is just one more example.” He snapped his fingers. “Gone... But it’s fate and messing with time that’s a sin. Earth paid the price, Commander.” The doctor stood up and towered over Mathews from behind him. “What you don’t know, Commander, is your fellow astronauts came after you and died hundreds of years ago. But they told us about you, the speed of your ship fast enough to come well after them. It’s only you, Commander, who arrived over 500 years from earth’s catastrophe. You’re the last.” Commander Rocket nodded. He’d guessed if he could reach Mars in a few months, others could also. He wasn’t surprised he was the fastest. “Why is everyone on Mars so old? The streets are empty? Where is everybody?” “That’s why you’re the last hope, some of the misguided say,” said Chairman Mathews. “But you can’t mess with fate. Half our population thinks you’re the Messiah. There’s a better place ahead of us.” “You see, Commander,” said the Doctor. “We can’t procreate. We can’t conceive. It seems the DNA alterations we used to extend our lives modified us. A sad irony, given we were pursuing life extension.” “Modified!” Mathews declared. “Just like earth, we’re dying also! We live until 200, but our youngest are nearly 100! It's blasphemy and there’s nothing we can do.”  The Doctor took a seat next to the Commander and leaned in towards him. He gripped the Commander’s eyes with his own. “We can’t seem to complete artificial insemination because of the DNA infection. We’ve concluded we need an uninfected man and a natural birth. YOU don’t have damaged DNA, and we assume, can perform naturally.” The Commander put his hand on his own head as he realized. “So you want me to have a baby? Who with?” The doctor smiled. *** The woman, Evelyn, chosen for the Commander, was over 100 years old, looked 30, and embraced the excitement of life like a sixteen-year-old. She was having no nonsense from Adam. If they were going to do this, they would do it her way, and by golly they were going to have a baby post haste. “You’re doing a heroic service for the continuance of life on Mars,” Evelyn said, snuggling down next to the Commander. They were outside the Mars Interstellar Research Center (MIRC). She scanned the Commander up and down while he fidgeted. “I’m not really sure how this works,” he said. Evelyn laughed. “You’re not sure how sex works?” The Commander turned red. “It’s not that, it’s…it’s...” And so began to everyone’s observation, a love affair. And it worked. After the entire Mars community held their collective breath, Adam, Jr. was born, a bawling blue-eyed boy. The Commander, to everyone’s surprise, became a doting father. Mars City glowed like first time grandparents while he pushed the baby carriage (which he insisted on doing). The gossiping matrons passed him, pretending it wasn’t on purpose. “Good afternoon, Commander. Your boy is quite the handsome young man!” The Commander would light up with the broadest ‘proud poppa’ smile imaginable. “He is, isn’t he?” It wasn’t just Adam Jr. that captured his father’s eye. The Commander and Evelyn were inseparable. He would sneak looks at his wife doing the simplest of tasks, preparing dinner (he cleaned up), painting at her easel with her delicate fingers (she was an artist), and laying out his manuals to help him study the new science. His heart would break just at the sight of her. Dr. Fitzwalter was beyond delighted. “You realize, Mathews, where this is headed?” “Yes. You want this Rocket Man to be a very busy man,” replied Mathews. “It’s a sin is what it is.” The Doctor flicked his forefinger at Mathews, dismissing him. “We’ll marry each of them off if that makes you happy, but there’s an issue. I’ve never seen a man more in love with one woman. How will it go with another woman?” He placed his hand on his chin and his mind on the repercussions. But neither man knew ‘the repercussions’ would shortly become unnecessary. *** The Commander knew something was up when Dr. Fitzwalter and Matthews brought him and Evelyn in. Dr. Fitzwalter stood with his back to the Commander as he gazed out the conference room window, fifty stories high, a purple gray overcast day above the sheen of the clear domes. Behind the glass of each building were fewer and fewer people. The city was dying. “We’ve had our hopes, Commander, but tests show Evelyn has, for lack of a better term, infected you. There’ll be no more babies.” “And you were the last hope, remember?” Mathews said, smirking. “The last DNA from earth. This is written as I expected and caused by our own sin. We will all surely die.” “So what now?” The Commander asked. Dr. Fitzwalter turned. “Now you live your life — you, Evelyn, and your son.” So the Commander did live his life, and what a life it was. For the next fifteen years he was a husband and father. The Martians accepted the inevitable death of the race, not with sadness, but with a celebration of life. Festivals were commonplace, fireworks flared the sky with blues and reds as only the Martians could do. Bursting into space itself was a man-made Martian aurora borealis like the tides of heaven flowing forth. And why not? They were living, and living is about life, not death. But within those rising beacons in the sky were also messages for any civilization to hear. ‘Is anyone there? We are alone and dying. Help us.’ Adam Jr. was sixteen before his father knew it. They both learned together the Martian science of rocket propulsion. With a dying race, the mission was more about building a library of knowledge for whoever might come to a dead planet. The actual engineers with the knowledge of advanced science became ever scarcer. As the Commander aged, he turned gray. He was surprised when Dr. Fitzwalter called him in once again to the MIRC Facility. After small talk, the Doctor said, “We’ve had a turn, an unlikely possibility, but our scientists are telling us you may have one more mission. If you’re willing, that is.” The Commander’s radar tickled the crook of his neck. Why was the Doctor so shy about getting to the point?  “I’m pretty old for missions, Doctor. I’m not the man I used to be.” “Here’s the thing Commander.” The Doctor spoke quietly, but his eyes glinted with excitement. “Our remaining engineers say they’ve possibly rewritten the rules of spaceflight—not to mention completely defying conventional physics. An impossible drive, they call it the EmDrive.” In his gut, the Commander knew his life on Mars was going to end. “So how does this affect me?” “We can send you back Commander, back to the actual day, 24 earth hours AFTER  you blasted off earth. NASA will think you were only gone one day. But after decades, you will return nine weeks and three days before the beginning of the nuclear war. As you know, relativity has been proven to take us forward in time as we approach the speed of light, but going BACK  in time is thought of as impossible. Einstein, over 500 years ago, predicted it was impossible. But our people are hoping to bend, if you will, the space-time continuum. Unfortunately, if we send our own Mars spacecraft back and the future changes just from the simple observation of what we’re doing, our spacecraft won’t make it. We might never exist once the past changes. The only chance for success is to send objects that actually came from the past. You, and your spacecraft, certainly qualify. And we’re hoping, desperately hoping, your memories on Mars will also stay intact.” The Commander hesitated, the pit of his stomach soured as he thought of Evelyn, his son Adam. “That means by returning to Earth I can change the future. But if I’m successful, will everything that I experienced on Mars never happen?” “Precisely. At least not in our plane of reality. We surmise infinite planes, each with their own past and future.” The Commander’s eyes glistened. “Why go back Doctor? To die with everyone else on earth?” “No Commander. Not to die in a nuclear blast. To prevent it. And if possible, send another type of message.” *** Harnessed in the command seat of Icarus, feeling the adrenaline spike in his chest, the Commander guided his spacecraft through space. Mars receded as the centuries unraveled over three years of flight to return to earth. The clear globes covering the planet’s cities faded. Mars slowly turned into the red planet with only a colony remaining. Two photos, the only objects from Mars he brought with him, were taped to the rear monitor. His loneliness grew in the silence of space, and he couldn’t help willing himself back. He couldn’t help weeping for his own death, for a false hope of return. Space turned a cold shoulder as he burned out his fuse, alone in the emptiness . He pressed his hands white against the bulkhead, his forehead pressed against the monitor next to the photos, pleading against the reversal of time. Ahead of him, the dead planet of earth turned from the darkest agony to an aqua blue beneath living clouds of swirling white. It was now three years since he’d left Mars. He was back 500. As the re-entry through the earth’s atmosphere scorched around him, Icarus’ wings were aflame, he rode a comet ablaze in the sky. No, you haven’t gone too close to the sun,  he thought. You have lived, and loved. Touchdown on earth occurred in exactly the three years he was scheduled. I’m old, but not too old , he thought. I’m still a Rocket Man after all. *** “You have about three months, Madam President.” The Commander petitioned his case, spilling his memory to those gathered in the oval office. The President, Secretary of State Forsyth, three others. Why won’t these people believe me? The President shook her head dismissively. “Again, Commander, you’re telling me you SAW  earth destroyed by nuclear war? This seems preposterous, you must admit.” Secretary of State Forsyth, dressed in a slick black suit, the party logo of a black taloned hawk on his lapel, chimed in to the President as if the Commander wasn’t there. “The enemy has ways of injecting disinformation into our people. This man has no background in anything but spacecraft. No world view.” The Commander was ready to give up. Exhausted, he was tired of explaining what he saw when he left earth the day before, but also what he found on Mars 500 years ahead; the dying of life, the infections, Evelyn and Adam. In final frustration, he thrust to the front of his seat, spilling his coffee. “I left one day ago, Madam President. Look at me! I’ve aged at least thirty years.” Secretary Forsyth stared only at the President as he spoke. “You can’t travel BACK  in time. This spaceman could be some sort of double agent for all we know. But for the look of his supposed aging, he’s only been gone one day. That can be faked. Worse, we’d be violating our Preemptive Policy. This could mean your impeachment Madam President, losing the coming election. This is not a time for naïve olive branches, but peace through strength.” “Walk with me Commander,” The President said. The two of them strolled to the Rose Garden. Snow flurries were falling in the early evening but The President ignored the cold. “I can try, Commander,” she said. “I’ll tell your story. But I can’t promise anything. You know Commander, if you’re right, have you thought of what happens if we contact the Mars Colony NOW  with what you’ve told us about their DNA?” *** The Commander approached security in a brisk walk, like he always did. At the desk, a young woman called out to him. “Hey Space Cowboy,” she said. A tiny brunette, her eyes sparkled. “Rocket Man,” the Commander said, correcting her. “You look more like a space cowboy to me. You need to slow down. The world isn’t going anywhere.” The Commander laughed. “Yes, I suppose not,” he said. As he stepped outside the White House, the stars were out. It had stopped snowing, and the night was clear and brisk. I’ve seen two worlds die, he thought. Does that have something to do with why haven’t we seen anybody? Reaching into his pocket, he took out the photos of Evelyn and his son, Adam. The photos began to BLUR,  then crystalize in bright yellow fireflies of flakes rising in the air. He grasped but realized he couldn’t hold a piece of light, a story, a memory. The sparks were soon gone as no more than a dream. Mars rose on the east horizon, a reddish speck of light — the only life a fledgling colony. 

wwjud9

Transport

Excitedly awaken; eerie visuals plus soundings effuse from a recently “ gifted” (mom & dad’s birthday presentation) black 65 inch 4K UHD Hisense Smart TV blaring the “Gen-Z” championed Netflix series, “Stranger Things” . Young Justin, along with his sister, mother and loquaciously-intelligent father are set to embark on a highly anticipated family vacation to Yellowstone national park—A markedly protracted distance from their modest Springfield, Virginia residence. Awaking in Grizzly fashion, as if arising from an extended winter hibernation, JT gives an emphatic yawn followed by an urgent request from dad, “let’s go young amigo, 2hrs till check-in”. He hastily obliges. —On to female sentiments: Mom, (Katey) eases intently into the dimly-lit “ Billie Eilish” infused (through decorated appreciation) bed room inhabited by her feminine treasure; daughter Julissa. “Wake up sunshine, we only have a couple of hours until check-in at Reagan National airport”. She replies “ok mom”, as she eyeballs her poster of the talented songstress; cascading blue hair surrounding the black dye ( Kyrie) “dribbling” (Irving) from her gothically resembled eye-region, leading to the platinum or silver chain-links enveloping her white T-shirt. With all in prepared accordance, the Thompson family is now packed and ready to venture— from Springfield Virginia to the northwest corners of Wyoming they go . They enter their Cobalt-blue plus Cerise trimmed Dodge Caravan equipped with family friendly radio censored tunes. With only one quick stop at “ Micky-D’s”, this proves a short-lived drive as Springfield to Arlington is no extensive stretch. Along the way, as noticed by all family members, the day seems of oddity, dramatic-mystery, or better yet heavenly celestial natures. As such, Justin notices a strange figure imitating seamlessly “The Nicholas Brothers, Mike Jack and CB alike pirouetting amongst the clouds”. He, however pays no “mind” as “tricks” (a “Ghetto Boys” liken) run rampant amongst “Things” and “Strange” viewing. Also along the way, as triumphant as J-Roc’s monumental hit “Win”, blares a horn blown with heavenly “note-precision” the likes of “Giovani Punto” himself. In unison, the entire family searches for the source but remembrance of public ceremony proceedings at Arlington National Cemetery saluting all vets as well fallen soldiers quells the curiosity. With ride now complete, they reach Reagan national with ample time to spare. As they arrive, they notice an ancillary-amounted hour is still available before check-in. In lieu of this “unexpectedly acquired” newfound-time, the family shoots to the enthusiastically community supported “Smithsonian” retail/gift-shop (“Ben’s Chili-bowl adjacent”) equip with jewelry, fossil samples, as well varied reading material, perfect for the upcoming flight. They make purchases then proceed to check-in. As they approach the attendants desk, a sense of disappointing foreboding lives true as a warning now blares through the entire airport monitoring system. Dishearteningly so, it reports: ‘(All flights have been canceled indefinitely due to…) with a slight pause then monitor disconnection as if disturbingly “ forced” to hang up a rotary call.  Due to? Dad (Dan) speaks: “ So their just gonna leave us on the wire like this? “Hold on guy’s stay here, I’ll be right back”… He travels from the South end of the airport to the North where he approaches an attractive Eritrean airport attendant adorned with a highly confused face posture. “ Hey, how you doing”? “Hello sir”. “ Yeah, I was wondering if someone could let me and my family know exactly what is going on”. “ Yes sir, ahh…as of right now, headquarters has not released further information or details as to exactly what’s going on”. All we know is that all flights have been cancelled, as well all passengers, employees of the airport and crew members are currently being held. However we will be updated shortly. Dan thanks the attendant for the information, albeit vague, then walks back to inform his family as well strategize a game-plan. As he walks up the corridor he spots a Starbucks, pondering coffee plus snacks for the children. However, this idea is quickly thwarted as he spots a “supposed” couple talking with his family. As he approaches, loquacious nature tucked aggressive, an interesting conversation involving his wife, (Katey) a tall athletically built Armenian gentleman, and a demurely-dressed freckle-faced South African woman is in full solar-unison. The stated conversation involves talks of the recent “celestial-sightings” captured as well various natural disasters. This leading to further talks of the current phenomenon spotted in Jerusalem. Dan introduces himself, then enters the conversation. They swap stories plus trade theories, as well theorize as to what is delaying flights. Without disrespect or derision, Dan prods with a surgeons precision as to who and exactly why these two anonymous strangers are conversing with his family. In accordance with his inquiry, they provide background: “So basically me and Patti met , (his name of Samir quickly tossed into the conversational fray) a while ago through an organization named “ World Vision International” . “ Ever since, we have Been working tirelessly to combat poverty, hunger, and injustice”. In addition, we also witness to as many willing ears the day will allow”. Justin & Julissa adolescently focus amongst the discussed material in-between cell phone scans, grasping to every noun, verb plus word as “ Saturday catechism” dovetails the strangers verbiage. The two strangers quickly gain the trust of the reluctantly chatty family as they possess a genuine spiritual nature. Then, in a “Sixth-Sense” affixed type reveal (like the gender) comes the unexpected bombshell: “just between us strangers—We know exactly what’s going on! “Reluctance revisited” as the Thompson’s quickly form a laser-like focus; (attached to forthcoming details) as if Mr. Geoffrey Jordan himself scanning 3-point opportunities the likes of Stephen Curry; dominating shrug exacted like its ’92 all over again. They both (Samir and Patti) begin the reveal with a cautious reluctance as the news is quite “ Harrowing” depending on your “ world views” or belief system. Before the two strangers can fully proceed into informative conversation, the airport monitoring system blares once more: “ Hello passengers, we have some disappointing news. We all will be held indefinitely as well quarantined to Reagan National until further notice. Just as this alert is communicated, the two strangers suggest two options: “ you could either try your best to find an exit now before a “full” airport lockdown, or ride it out with airport staff plus security…but either way this world as you know it is done. —Family once again aurally fixated. We aren’t just “World Vision International” members, we are also the beings captured on those very “discussed” YouTube “ celestial-sightings” videos. Dan, Katey, Julissa, and Justin all give a disinclined gaze as the strangers suggest motion; now escorting them past the monitor highlighting plane arrival/departing times to the open window-front displaying various planes. They all (In unison) peer towards the heavens as 46 beings now hover; entire airport aghast at the unconventional sight. Tears began to flow from the eyes of Justin; Julissa plus parents soon following. The two strangers speak: “ Please no, our father has intently watched your works with fever”. “Fret-not as your heavenly spots are more than solidified”. On top of these facts, “Christ” entering your persons has long been accomplished, as such slipping past quarantine or relaxing with airport staff and security in not a needed agenda. Simultaneously in congruence with their comforting dialogue, a light emitts from the two strangers as they shed their telluric garments. Samir, with an arcane ability, visually “ imagines” north-linear, cryptically removing ceiling matter to reveal the paradisiacal skies. With puissant “ gusts” as well motions liken to the aqueous might of the raging seas, both beings eject wings of “ seemingly bronze ”. Bronze implied as, (while solidly alloy formed), they simultaneously “wave” & “flow-limber” like H2O. In two swoops Samir rallies Dan & Justin, Patti engulfing Katey & Julissa. Whole-time, ‘ All a wonder’; the remaining airport attendees, passengers and crew members alike.  

fv1dld

Chicago Surprise

Prompt: #265 Bon Voyage “Write about someone who’s traveling to a place they’ve never been to meet someone they’ve never met.” Chicago Surprise Submitted by: Jacqueline A. Bourland            Emily’s heart was beating so hard she felt everyone on the train station platform that early morning could surely hear it pounding. Emotionally she wondered if her trip to Chicago was a good idea; leaving the comfort of the known [her life in Normal, Illinois] and venturing out into the unknown [the big city of Chicago].  Intellectually she knew she had no choice.  Her beautiful mother, Barbara (known by her dear friends as “Barbie”),  her 10 year old sister Margaret and 6 year old brother, James,  were counting on her , and there was no other answer.            Her Father, highly-respected Professor Robert Holmes,  had been a driving force in the educational curriculum at the University of Illinois, located in their small hometown of Normal (population under 10,000)  until his untimely death 3 years earlier. Professor Holmes had been a much-loved university fixture and a much-loved and respected husband and father in a family who thrived on spending time together and making the very most of their small-town lives by filling their minds with knowledge – at the urging of Professor Holmes – and their lives with service to those less fortunate – at the urging and direction of their kind, generous Mother.            Now, in late 1942, with the residual effects of the 1929 Great Depression  still looming in small town America, and the onset of WWII with the bombing of Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, the remaining Holmes family members were uncertain of their future, as were most other middle American families. With their Father’s untimely death and Barbie’s lack of any formal college education, finding jobs to supplement their meager death-benefit pension income was making it more and more difficult to meet monthly household expenses, to say nothing of providing any additional funds for extra “fun” times for the family.            Their Father had been not only the bedrock of the family from a financial standpoint, but also the driving force in the family’s educational upbringing and, along with their Mother’s influence, the social and community-service-oriented activities for the family. But now, times had changed; circumstances had changed.            As the eldest child, Emily, at only 19, felt the pressure to take over her Father’s role as “provider”, not only financially, but in all aspects of the family’s life and the continued upbringing and education of her two, young siblings.                     Emily had graduated at the top of her high school class and, for the last year, had been thinking of going into teaching herself. She had so admired her Father and the positive affects he had had on so many of his myriad students at the University. She knew she could never be as successful as her Professor Father, but she dreamed of going to University, right there in Normal, and getting a degree so that she could become as effective a public school teacher as she was able to be.             Until the day came when she could save up enough to attend University, she had been able to bring in a modest additional income to the family thru work she was doing at the University, work given to her by dear friends and associates of her Father, out of their kindness and respect for Professor Holmes, and their awareness of the financial difficulties the family was beginning to experience.            Emily and her Mother had been spending long hours, after the children were in bed, discussing what options they had available to them. A decision was made that Emily would forego her college and try to find a substantially-paying job to supplement the family income.            Professor of Economics Raymond Tuttle, one of her Father’s University colleagues, had given her the name and address of a text book distributor in Chicago where he felt Emily might be able to gain a job as a traveling textbook salesperson, with sufficient additional income to provide not only a good life for herself,  but also to provide the needed additional income for her Mother and her siblings. Since it was a traveling job, she would not be spending all of her time in Chicago but would be able to spend time with her family in Normal as well.            She had never been to Chicago and she knew no one at the company she had been referred to. Nonetheless, she was confident that if she gave up her dreams of going into education herself and headed to Chicago, she would be successful in taking over the “bedrock” family position that she felt was her responsibility to her family since the death of her Father.            Thus, she found herself now standing at the station platform awaiting the arrival of the train which would take her to Chicago, a place she had never been, to meet a person she did not know,  but must somehow convince that she was qualified enough to hold down the job of a traveling textbook salesman.            The sound of the train met her ears and her heart pounded even louder. Her impulse was to turn and run home to the comfort and security she had known all her life. She had loved and respected her Father beyond measure. The faith in herself and faith in her abilities for her future had been well-instilled in her by both of her parents. It was a sense of security that she had never questioned, nor had she ever believed she might lose, until now.            That security,  however,  was no longer a reality in her world. But the train, now coming to a screeching stop in front of her on the platform, was now her reality. She knew she must muster the courage to step onto that train and head into a world, and a life, of which she was totally unfamiliar.            Emily turned her shaky head to her beautiful Mother, the only one who had accompanied her to the station,  standing proudly at the station door forcing an assuredly confident smile in her daughter’s direction: “I’m scared to death, Mom” Emily confessed.            “I know, sweetheart, I know. You don’t have to do this, you know”.            “But I do, Mom. Not only for the family but for myself.” The words came out of Emily’s mouth, but her heart was full of fear and trepidation.            “Love you”,  Emily yelled back at her Mother as she picked up the tan and plaid leather suitcase her grandmother had given  her for graduation from high school, and jumped on the train as it began to move down the tracks, leaving Emily’s image of the station a fastly-diminishing security .            The ride was long, but the time flew by because of her fears. It was easier to just be sitting on the train than it was going to be to try to locate Mr. Scott Dunn of the Dunn and Holloway Publishing Company, the name Professor Tuttle had referred Emily to in Chicago. She was going to extend every minute she had in the comfort and security of her seat on the rapidly moving train as it clickety clacked down the tracks from Normal to Chicago.            As the train eased to a stop in Grand Central Station on Harrison Street in Chicago, Emily reached overhead for her suitcase and purse and exited the train car with the other passengers, each with a purpose, each with their own individual story.            “Can you tell me how to get to Van Buren Street”,  Emily impulsively chose to ask a distinguished looking man who was entering the Station through the same door she was. The self-assured way he carried himself, his expensive leather valise and the way he was dressed, quickly flashed through Emily’s mind as comfortably being one of those high-class, big city businessmen she had read so much about, but had never, in real life, met but assumed she could trust.            “Who, specifically, are you looking for”, he asked in return.            “A Mr. Scott Dunn of Dunn and Holloway at 401 Van Buren Street in downtown Chicago” Emily replied.            “They are no longer in business”, he stated in a matter-of-fact tone.            In a mere second, with this unfeeling man’s simple statement: “ They are no longer in business ”, Emily’s world shattered.            She quickly caught her breath leaned against one of the many huge Corinthian-style columns that adored the Station’s interior, afraid that she would pass out and fall to the marble floor making a horrible scene.            “Are you okay”, the gentleman asked as he drew closer to her trembling body leaning against the column.            Without any hope of holding it in, tears began to roll down her cheeks as she realized that she had failed in her efforts and would be returning home, without any promise of financial success for herself or her family. Her hands covered her face in embarrassment as she felt the man’s strong hand pat her back as if he was going to burp a new-born baby.            She twirled around, wiped the tears from her cheeks and, in an effort to thank him for his concern and interest, picked up her suitcase - which she had dropped as she leaned against the column to catch her fall - and deceptively replied: “I’m fine. For a moment I was a bit taken aback, but I am fine. Thanks for your concern. Good day”.            She turned to walk away (having no idea where she was actually headed since she now had absolutely nowhere to go and no return ticket to Normal to take her back to the security of her previous 19 years).            The gentleman again touched her arm and this time she could feel, through the warmth, strength, yet gentleness of his hand, a sincere compassion for her plight, even though he had no idea what her “plight” was.            As he picked up her tan and plaid leather suitcase, he put his arm through hers and led her, with an assurance and confidence of a father figure,  through the terminal and into a seat at the terminal restaurant. “Let’s have a cup of coffee” he suggested.            There was silence between them until the waitress set their coffee cups in front of them. Then, this handsome, well dressed, obviously well educated “stranger” looked her squarely in the eyes and, with a bit more-then-fatherly forceful tone demanded: “Now, young lady, tell me your story. What’s your name, where are you from and why are you looking for a publishing distribution company that no longer exists?”            It didn’t seem like she had much of  an “out” to refuse his request. Taking a deep breath, she began telling him her “story”. But, who was he? Why had he taken an interest in her? Even more importantly, in a big city, where she had never been and in which she knew absolutely no one, why in the world should she tell him her “story”?  No answers came to her mind , but her mouth uncontrollably spewed it all out, as if it were a script in a play she was performing in.            He sat quietly, staring directly at her, without interruption, seeming, to her surprise, to be really interested in what she was saying She couldn’t believe that she was unloading her heart, her hopes and her disappointment to this random person, without a thought about her safety with him or  where she was going next, or how she was going to get there.            She had made no accommodations for herself once she arrived in Chicago.  In her naivety, when considering this trip to Chicago, she had envisioned getting on the train in Normal, getting off the train in Chicago, going directly to Dunn and Holloway on Van Buren Street, and convincing the person in charge that she was qualified and capable for the job; then getting the job. Beyond that, she knew she could handle any other details later.             Never in her version of her “story” – which she was now telling this stranger – did she ever consider the possibility that she would fail . She was not raised to ever consider “failure” as an option. In truth, in her 19 years as the eldest daughter of a prominent University Professor, she could never recall having ever “failed” at anything.            Once her story had been told, her exhausted, emotionally-drained demeanor was obvious to the stranger,  as her shoulders sagged and her head hung low at the table. With much effort, she took a sip of her now cold coffee. After what seemed an elongated silence, she raised her eyes and realized that this perfect stranger she had so willingly, and probably unwisely, opened up to was now tossing his head backwards in a belly-jiggling laugh, loud enough that others in the restaurant stopped their conversations and began staring quizzically in their direction.            Emily’s dagger-filled eyes darted a look at this wonderfully handsome stranger and with blushed cheeks and crackling voice began yelling at him: “How dare you entice me into telling you my “story” and then turn around and laugh at me as if I was some kind of a spoiled little child”!            “ Au Contraire”, his calm and husky voice replied as his hand reached out and touched her arm across the table.            ‘I am not laughing at you , I am laughing at the irony of the situation” he replied.            “What irony?” she asked as she pulled her arm from the table and took another sip of cold coffee from her cup.            “My name is Scott Walker and I am the CEO of McDermid Publications, a Chicago district office of the Scholastic Corporation out of New York. We distribute textbooks to the mid-America states of Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana, Michigan and Ohio.”            Emily gasped and in an almost undiscernibly choking voice asked: “Are you kidding me? Is that even possible? Can you prove who you are?”            Scott opened his expensively-bound leather valise and slid a gilded business card across the table to Emily. It read: Mr. Scott Walker, Chief Executive Officer McDermid Publications, 401 Van Buren Street, Chicago, Illinois  Chicago District Office for Scholastic Corporation, New York, New York            Emily stared at the card for what seemed like minutes before making her overly obvious statement: “Scholastic Corporation is one of, if not THE, largest publishers of school textbooks in the entire country!” “And, your address is the address Professor Tuttle gave me for Dunn and Holloway.   I don’t understand.”            “Dunn and Holloway was taken over by Scholastic about 2 years ago when they almost became insolvent as a result of the depression and beginning of WWII. At that time, I was the lead salesman and, as a result of the takeover, I was made CEO of the takeover company, McDermid Publications. Now, because of the war efforts and economics of war, my Chicago branch is beginning to show a handsome profit, with a very bright future.”            Emily could only stare off into the terminal past the stranger – now known as Scott Walker -  through the haze of the now evening sun streaming through the windows of Chicago’s Grand Central Station and bouncing off the exquisite marble floor.            Could it possibly be that this trip to Chicago - a place she had only heard about and read about -  and this stranger – Scott Walker, CEO -  whom she had met by sheer happenstance, be the beginning of her equally “bright future”?          [Word Count: 2,567]

v0319a

A Cold Case Gone Hot

Edgar read the same line once again. His eyes were pale, his skin paler. His brain had certainly turned pitch white by now. He couldn't stop himself from giving it another look, as a drop of sweat started running down his left temple. "How could it?" His synapses finally made contact, for the first time in the last minute or so. Or was it two minutes? No one could tell how long he had spent on this nightmarish paragraph. He put down the newspaper on the coffee table, and sat back on the couch. Some of the ink had started to run after merging with his sweat. When he realized it, he wiped off the drop that was now reaching the tip of his left cheek. He felt weightless, as if floating in deep space, facing the pitch black void of his own reality. "These people..." he muttered through clenched yellow teeth. He looked around, searching for nothing in particular. It somehow grounded him a bit. As he recovered his senses, he noticed the sweet orange hue of the rosewood flooring. The sun was setting fast at that time of the year. "Damn it," was all he could find to say, before getting up in a hurry. From the point of view of his unfinished coffee cup, the tall man disappeared behind a wall and emerged a moment later clad in black jeans and shirt, which made him look somehow between a mortician and a robber. He then took his jacket and car keys, and left through the main door. And that is all the poor coffee cup could see, before turning its attention back to the newspaper, where we could still read the now smudged article's title "Hamilton Family Mystery : New Evidence Leads Investigators to Reopen Cold Case". *** The engine was pumping at a frenetic pace. The city was already far behind, and the road ahead seemed endless, leading to the setting sun like a portal to another golden dimension. "Hope I can make it on time," thought the concerned driver, while glancing at the speedometer. The Hamilton house was in another province, one he hadn't visited since the events. "It can't be it," was what his subconscious kept telling him. Twelve years ago, Edgar had lost a very valuable object, one that served many purposes, especially in his line of work. "If they find it, I'm done for..." As it struck him once again, he pressed the pedal like a possessed beast. The engine roared in a scary, yet reassuring way. Once a model family, the Hamiltons had suddenly been dealt the wrong cards in life. Their tragic fate had been a topic of discussion throughout the country for months. Even a decade later, people still wondered what had happened, and more importantly, why it happened. The murder weapon was never found, neither was the killer. Some suspected the mother, some the father. A distant cousin was once arrested, but rapidly dismissed. As the series of events played again in the somber man's head, the car continued to swallow the pavement markings one by one at lightning speed. The trees on the roadside were stacking up rapidly in the side mirrors, their leaves reflecting less and less of the now reddish sunlight. The road was never-ending, and so were the surroundings. Soon the trees disappeared to give place to bushes and rocks, growing increasingly small until they merged with the mountains on the horizon. When the sun finally waved goodbye and the sky turned purple, the car decided to warn its passenger and ask for a refill. "Damn thirsty thing, a real gas guzzler," sighed the moody driver. While looking for a gas station signage, he went back to his thoughts. What few knew was that the Hamilton's did not owe their fate to a next of kin, but to a total stranger. Their bodies had been found all over the house, in what seemed to be premeditated. Or so the investigators believed anyway. "To hell with them," he muffled. At that exact time, a gas station appeared on the right. The tires screamed as the car drifted uncontrollably, leaving a trail of smoke worthy of a dragon. The tired automobile slowed down and made its way to the old-fashioned gas pump. "Can't even put a sign!" Thought out loud the irritated maniac. While feeding his car, Edgar looked up and gazed at the stars. He couldn't often see them in the city, with all the light pollution. "I should maybe go back to the countryside," he started, "no one to bother me, no one to find me, just disappear like one of these stars." A shooting star flashed across the sky. A swift burst of light that vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving the night darker in its wake. Darker, and lonelier. He felt the clack of the pump, indicating the car was done drinking. He removed the fuel nozzle from the car's lips, gently shaking the last few drops down its mouth, after which he proceeded to move toward the station. A few moments later, the metallic steed was back on the road, heavy with fuel, while Edgar's mind was weighed down with memories. He remembered the Hamiltons, their faces, their last moments, all the blood and, most especially, the smell. "A scene from hell", "Unrivaled cruelty" and "The Hamilton bloodbath" were some of the newspaper headlines at the time. To him, it was the pinnacle of his past life. "Why did I have to lose this here," he had kept wondering since he read that article. An uneasiness had immediately overtaken him. He had foreboded what it was. The moon was now the only source of light, apart from the car's little yellow eyes, casting a dim, eerie glow across the deserted road. Every few hundred meters, animals could be seen taking refuge on the roadside, mostly hares reflecting the car's headlights with their tiny vivid eyes. Buildings and signs stopped appearing, all that was left was a man and his machine gliding in the dark. *** Edgar was troubled, but the car was at peace. Suddenly, a loud bang resonated, as if to mess with the both of them. The steering wheel went crazy, left-right-left-right, as did the pedals. The tires screeched for the second time today, then stopped spinning. "What again?!" yelled a furious Edgar, after catching his breath. He went out of the car, only to realize almost instantly that the front left tire was no more. "Stupid gas station cost me a tire!" was the first thing that crossed his mind. Drifting had most likely strained the already worn-down tire. The trunk creaked as the morose man opened it. He moved the plastic bag and the chemicals, and removed the false bottom to unveil the spare wheel. While mending the car’s rolling foot, the engine kept purring gently, as if thanking him. "Sure you did this on purpose," he said. He was not the kind of guy to talk to his car, but here in the wilderness, it felt like his only friend. As his hands were tightening the lug nuts one by one, his mind went back to his real problem. The case had gone cold for lack of suspect, but not lack of motive. Despite the model-family appearance of the Hamiltons, the father of four had apparently gambled most of their savings away. After a while, it had led the police to rule out a nutcase or relative, in favor of a hitman. A violent, impulsive and quite frankly unprofessional killer, given the shape of the crime scene. "And now they think they have a clue..." grinned the wistful, makeshift mechanic. When he was done fixing the wheel, he placed back the broken one in the trunk. He was greeted by a final creaking of the lid, as if agonizing, just before slamming it shut. It let out a sharp metallic thud that echoed through the still and peaceful air of the night, almost as a final breath. When the car left, a hedgehog family was mourning one of their family members, victim of a devilish tire. *** The sun was slowly awakening, piercing the rear window with its soft pink light. For once, the stellar object had enjoyed more rest than both the car and its driver combined. The empty countryside was behind him now. After a myriad of farms and hamlets, the road finally opened up to more and more villages and small towns. The sky was scattered with purple clouds and fiery streaks, as the birds enjoyed the first rays of sunshine in the cool and undisturbed morning air. A sign bearing the name of the next town was adorned with flowers at its base. Edgar didn't need to look at the scripture to know he had finally reached his destination. He first stopped at a coffee shop that had just opened and ordered a coffee, black. The employee tried a joke, given the outfit of his customer, but Edgar didn't react. He also didn't leave any tip, and left instantly. Like the tires on his car, anyone caught in his trail was sure to be smoked to death. As he sipped his coffee, he replayed in his mind all the scenarios he had tried to foresee while driving that night. The Hamilton's house was in a quiet neighborhood, where usually nothing interesting takes place apart from a casual summer barbecue. Although this time, it was packed with news vans and police cars, barring the road, as if the regular police tape was not enough. "Damn." Plan F. Going up front. Discretion was of the utmost importance. That was not the ideal scenario, but he had reasons to try it, if executed properly. The moment he turned off the engine, a police officer with a coffee cup three times the size of his began moving in his direction. He exited the car to face him. "Sir I need you to turn around and leave, unless you can prove that you or one of your relatives lives in this street." Edgar stared at the man with intensity, as if trying to find something in the man's face. He raised his left hand, showing his palm, while reaching out for his inner jacket pocket with his right one. It was a police badge. After glancing at it faster than he should have, the police officer smiled and became as chatty as ever, gulping down his coffee every sentence or so. Edgar's plan worked, and that is all there is to know from that conversation. The same afternoon, he was leaving the police station with one of his oldest and best companions, a tactical knife, engraved with his initials, a souvenir from his army days. Edgar had lost it while investigating the Hamiltons murder twelve years ago, but never knew when or where exactly. He had always been afraid someone would find it here and mistaken it as evidence. For you see, back then, he was a renowned detective. Nowadays, he was simply a freak.

1zsdcz

Caballus

“Ezra, where do you think we are going?” I shifted the bags of grain to make a place to lay down. “I’m not sure. I heard a man with an Italian accent. Maybe we are going to Italy.” Ezra too started to make himself comfortable among the crates, bags, and barrels. “I thought I overheard a man talking about a mademoiselle. Maybe we’re going to France!” Ezra looked over at me with that twinkle in his eye. He stood up. “ Actually Dimitri, I think we are going to Greece. I can see us there at the beach swimming.” I stood up. “ No no! We are going to Spain. I can see it now. We are bull fighting and rose petals are thrown at our feet.” Ezra laughed. “Hell, we are going to England to sip tea with her majesty!” Now I’m laughing too. “Does it matter where we are going? We are finally getting out of St. Pete. Our lives start now.” I paced as I spoke. Ezra and I are finally leaving. Sure we didn’t know where we were going or pay for it, but compared to what we were doing at the beginning of this week we were saintly. Ezra began laughing again. “Ezra we–” Creak, creak, creak. Boots stomped across the deck above us. Ezra held a finger up to his lips. The man on the deck coughed and wheezed. “Good lord Jenkins cut the smoke. I swear you smoke more than you speak.” Another man's voice spoke. “Sorry captain.” “So what is it?” “Have you felt the air?” “Yes Jenkins it is a day of wind.” “Aye sir, but hot wind. It is humid as well.” “So there’s a storm brewing. The Genaya has weathered more storms than I can count.” “Yes captain, but do you remember where we are?”  “Jenkins get to the point.” “We are in the area where those Danish chaps went down. They never came back.” “Correct but the ship wasn’t found either. The ship probably sank.” “The same thing happened to those Chinese and Greeks, sir. A big storm and then nothing.” A little flame that was always in my stomach grew just a bit hearing this. “I think they are talking about Caballus.” I whispered low to Ezra. Sigh. “Caballus? Seriously, Jenkins?” “Told you.” I looked over at Ezra, but he just rolled his eyes. I have always suspected that Ezra didn’t believe in Caballus. I suppose I shouldn’t either. There’s just something about it I can’t deny. “You all say it's a legend, but I have spoken to a man who was there. Some men make it to that land. Many do not.” Jenkins' voice rose. “ So what do you want us to do? Are you going to make us turn around?” The captain retorted. “I highly recommend it.” “No, we are very close to the port. We will keep moving.” The captain’s boots moved away from the deck.” “Captain! Wait!” Jenkins’ boots followed. Caballus has always just been cracked up as an old sailor’s tale. It was strange to hear someone genuinely believe it was a real place. The child inside me was rearing with joy. I had always wished it was true. The only people who supported my childhood obsession were my parents. They always listened to my theories and fantasies with the seriousness of a Czar listening to his advisor. My father even found a picture of an old scroll allegedly from there. The alphabet of the people there was fascinating. It had hardly any relation to another alphabet, but it did follow a structure of sorts. My obsession, though, usually was met with criticism and accusation of an overactive imagination. When you are beaten down so many times you unfortunately give into the crowd. Deep down though I could never stop believing. I guess I have been storing my hopes like a little button in a bedside drawer. I mean a land that is preserved so greatly it is basically the Garden of Eden is hard to forget. Imagine the fantastic wildlife that is still there. My dream was to lead an expedition to find this majestic place. It still kind of is, but who was going to fund or follow an orphaned con man into the unknown. If this Jenkins is right, maybe I could get to Caballus after all.  “Well I’m going to sleep. See you tomorrow.” Ezra plopped down on his bag of grain. I followed suit. Wherever this boat was going was better than where we started. “Goodnight, Ezra.” I closed my eyes. I was in the water. It was dark and gray. I looked around hesitantly, a bit scared of what I might see. Nothing except the salt water and white sand at my feet. Somehow I could breathe underwater. The waves started to come. I could see them pass above me. I could feel a rush of cool water go by with each wave. Something shimmered in the corner of my eye. I turned but nothing was there. In the corner of my other eye the same glimmer happened again. The little light then appeared above, below, and around me. It was quick like fireflies. A parchment was in my hand and the little fireflies–. Suddenly, I was awakened by a cold splash to my face. I looked down and my clothes were wet. In fact the whole floor of the ship was flooding. I heard the waves savagely crashing against the hull, as if the ocean was trying to wash us out. Barrels were rolling across the floor and knocking over the crates. “All hands on deck, get up! Get up!” A man on deck shouted. A barrel charged towards Ezra’s sleeping body. I leaped over and stopped the barrel just before it hit his gold curls. “Ezra! Wake up! Quick!” I gave him a swift kick. “Ugh, Demitri you better–. Why am I all wet?” Ezra, not noticing the chaos, woke up like it was his Sunday off. “There’s a bad storm. We have to get up now!” I shoved the barrel forward and hoisted Ezra up. We jumped over crates and dogged the rolling barrels. I lept for the stairs with Ezra in tow. “Wait,” I stopped just before the top of the stairs, causing Ezra to bump into me. “ What if they realize we aren’t supposed to be here and kick us off?” “Are you kidding me? If we stay down there we could drown or get bashed up. Plus, it will be easier to beg for forgiveness after we save this ship.” Ezra squeezed past.  “Save the ship?” Ezra didn’t answer. He just went into action. I ran after him. We were hit by the pouring rain. The wind whipped at our backs as we neared a group of men trying to secure the ship. “Hurry! The mast is our lifeline!” The captain shouted. Ezra didn’t hesitate. He sprinted to the mast and latched himself on. Another man climbed the mast too and helped Ezra secure the sails. Lightning cracked in the black clouds above the ship. “Boy, over here! Help!” It sounded like Jenkins. I turned to see a man struggling to tie barrels down on the deck. I rushed over to help. “Hold the barrels still, boy. I’ll tie them down. No storm has ever untied my knots.” “Aye, sir.” I held two barrels at a time as Jenkins secured them. Our boots squeaked and slipped with the fierce rocking of the ship. The wind was increasing in strength. The ship started to pull forward. I was confused. Our sails were up. How were we going in such a strong straight line? “Captain! There’s a whirlpool! Whirlpool! Whirlpool!” The boy in the crow’s nest was frantic. The captain strained to steer the boat, but it was firm still. “It’s Caballus.” Jenkins said softly. “What?” I look at Jenkins. He looked at me and forcefully grabbed my shoulders. “Boy listen to me. We are going somewhere many men don’t go or come back from. Do you believe me ?” “Believe wha–?” “Just listen to me!” Jenkins had a strong hand on my shoulder. “If you make it look for the village.” “The village like that old sailor’s tale?” “It’s no tale boy. It's–.” A lightning bolt with the magnitude of a gunshot electrified the large cloud above our heads. “Just trust me boy. Look for the village.” Jenkins looked at me with determined eyes. They also looked sad. I think he knew he wouldn’t make it.  “I trust you.” “Demitri!” Ezra called out to me. I ran to him. The boat hit the first ripple in the whirlpool sending Ezra and I on to our stomachs. We crawled to each other. “What’s gonna happen to us now? Right when our life started we were about to drown.” Ezra grabbed on to my arms. “For what it's worth you were the best friend I ever had. My life started again when we first met that day in the orphanage.” “You are my best friend too. The best friend I could have asked for.” I grabbed his arms too. We held on to each other as our ship descended into the ocean’s ravenous waves. The sky became watery walls all around us. The salt water was about to consume us. “Ezra! We will survive!” The water was about to come down. I closed my eyes. “What?!” Then the waves smashed down on us. We were completely submerged under the waves. Other than the cool water surrounding me I felt like I had been hit by a train. I dared to open my weak eyes. I saw Ezra still in front of me and then nothing. I felt sand on my palms and face. My throat started burning and I coughed up what water I had trapped. When I opened my eyes and I was indeed on land. I was unsure to move. How long was I under water? How long had I been on this beach? It was night, but a luminescent glow dusted the ground. When I turned on my back I immediately saw what brought this soft strong glow. The sky above was filled with stars. Pure white crystals shined and glistened unlike anything I had seen before. They were so clear I bet they could’ve lit up all of St. Petersburg. “Wait, where is Ezra!” I immediately pushed up onto my feet. “Ezra!” I screamed. “Demitri.” I heard a weak voice call. Down the shore a few feet away Ezra laid on the beach. I hurried to him and turned him over. “Where are we?” Ezra’s glassy eyes searched the night sky above us. “What are those bright lights?”  “There stars. Can you get up?” “Yeah.” Ezra slowly lifted himself up into a sitting position. I sat beside him. “We made it.” “We made it.” I repeated after him. “We made it?” Ezra sounded surprised. I looked at him. “We made it!” “We made it! We made it!” We said in unison. I jumped up and Ezra let out a loud whooping sound. “We beat the damn ocean! We are unstoppable!” Ezra kicked at the water lapping at the shore. Ezra stopped. “Wait, where is the rest of the crew?” I hadn't noticed until now that we were the only ones on the beach. Indeed the only other thing besides Ezra and I were pieces of wood and a stray barrel. “I think we are the only ones who made it.” We both turned away from the beach. After the beach was a huge grassland going who knows how far. “I think we should go out there.” And with that we began our trek. Ezra and I started hiking through the grass. While finding any sort of shelter was the most important thing I couldn’t help but wonder if we were on Caballus. And if we were on Caballus should I be looking for the village like Jenkins had said. How would I even find it? I had never seen a map of this place before and I have no idea where north or south is. From what I can remember there were or are more than one tribe. Did Jenkins tell us to go to the village because the other tribes are dangerous? “What country do you think we are in?” Ezra grazed the top of the grass with his fingers as he walked. “Maybe we aren’t in a recognized land.” I wanted to tell Ezra my suspicion, but I wasn’t sure yet. “Oh, like a colony or an uncharted territory.” “Well do you feel that breeze?”  “Yeah it's pretty strong.” “A breeze of this magnitude might be from another ocean.” “So you think we are on an island?” “Yes, actually I do.” “Great. We will probably find some civilization soon.” Ezra was surprisingly calm for being in unknown land and meeting the possible inhabitants. He has always been a people person. I can’t say I’m too surprised. “ They might not speak our language.” “Demitri between the two of us we can speak Russian, Swedish, French, German, Polish and Danish. I think we will manage. Why are you so hesitant about this place? Do you know where we are? Tell me.” “I think–. I believe we might be on... Caballus.” I braced myself. Ezra shook his head. “Demitri, really?” “It lines up with the legend. A boat set for a new land gets sucked into a whirlpool.” “So? Boats get caught in whirlpools.” “We were completely consumed by the water and now we are magically on land. Also, we were dumped on a beach with a prairie nearby.” “Wait, don't tell me you believe that old sailor at the bar.” “I’ve heard about this place prior to that man. I have seen some old texts too.” Ezra turned in front of me as we walked. “That place is a legend. A dream if anything–. Ow!” Ezra had fallen backwards over a strange dark figure. In the middle of some vine shaped formations, a tube held an orb at the top. After a closer look, I could see the whole formation was made of metal. The tube base was chalked with engravings. Engravings of plants and I think animals. What was the most prominent of the engravings were the curly cues lining the top of the tube right before the orb. “What in hell is that?!” Ezra is always tempered when he gets hurt.  “It looks like a marker.” I reached to touch the orb. “Hey!” Ezra slapped my hand. “Don’t touch it. It could be cursed or something.” “You believe in curses, but not Caballus?” “I have seen curses first hand. I haven’t even seen a picture of this Caballus place.” Ezra was my best friend, but he could still get on my nerves. We didn’t often disagree on things, but when we did I just learned to keep it to myself instead of fighting it. “Well this proves there is a civilization around here.” Ezra was right. For now I would just have to focus on getting us to shelter. “You're right. Hey look at this.” I pointed at the ground where the grass had some sort of impression. “Do you think it is a vehicle or wagon?” Ezra asked. The trail had parallel streaks and hoof prints. “I think it is a wagon. This is our best lead. Let’s go” I started off on the trail. The trail brought us through the grasses and to the outskirts of a forest. The trees were glowing with warm pastels. Upon our approach the trees had little paper lanterns hanging from the branches. “Look! Lanterns! We are definitely going to be okay. Kind of strange though that they would put fire in an unattended paper lantern.” Ezra grabbed a little orange one but looked stunned after peering inside it. “Demitri, come look at this.” I looked in and saw not a flame. Inside was a crystal of some sort that glowed a warm yellow color. I reached my finger to its tip. It was cold. “This is amazing!” I was fascinated. We continued into the forest following the path. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the lanterns. Some were orange, some were pink, and others were red. I had never seen such pigmented paper or lighted crystals without a flame of some sort. I believe some electric things were being made back home, but nothing public. Where in the world were we where electricity was this easy. Besides the obvious scientific awe I felt as if I was in a dream. Walking on ancient ground, but surrounded by the future you could only find in a fairytale. The trees smelled faintly like  gingerbread and looked soft as wool. The leaves were inky green. Not a single tree we pasted looked depleted. No trace of sickness either. All I saw was harmony. Harmony that my parents and I talked about for hours and hours long ago.

mhwppb

"The Sarcastic Pilgrimage of Jerry McBlunder to the Magical Land of Mullaguna"

Jerry McBlunder had always been a bit of a cynic. Life had given him ample reasons to be, what with his job as a middle-management drone at a company that sold office supplies and his perpetually single status. He was the kind of guy who would roll his eyes at motivational posters and snicker at the idea of the universe having a plan for anyone. So, it came as a shock to everyone — including himself — when he decided to embark on a journey to a place he’d never been, to meet someone he’d never met. He wasn’t even entirely sure why he was doing it. Maybe it was the last straw when his coworker, Linda, sent him a link to an online course about "Manifesting Your Best Life." Jerry had opened the link, intending to send her a sarcastic comment back, but instead, he found himself watching a cheesy video of a beaming guy with a ponytail saying, “The universe is waiting for you to take the first step!” Maybe it was the guy’s ponytail that annoyed him so much that he decided to take that first step — just to prove that it was all nonsense. Or maybe, deep down, Jerry wanted to believe there was more to life than printer ink and paper clips. And so, there he was, sitting on an old train headed to the remote village of Mullaguna, a place he had never heard of until last week when he’d decided to type "random destinations" into Google. The search engine had been very obliging, bringing up a list of strange and unheard-of places. Mullaguna stood out because, as fate would have it (if Jerry even believed in fate), it was rumored to have an ancient wise person living there who could tell you anything you wanted to know about your life — past, present, and future. Jerry had figured if he was going to go on a wild goose chase, he might as well make it a fun one. The train rattled along the tracks, the scenery outside changing from city gray to a blur of greens and browns. Jerry, who wasn’t exactly used to travel, had packed the essentials: two pairs of socks, three packs of salted peanuts, and a copy of “Sarcasm: The Lost Art.” He had also brought along his natural skepticism and enough dry humor to make a cactus feel hydrated. As the train jerked to a stop, Jerry glanced out the window to see a sign that read, “Welcome to Mullaguna. Population: 302... and growing?” He frowned at the question mark, thinking it a strange thing to add to a population count, but then again, everything about this trip was strange. Slinging his worn-out backpack over one shoulder, he stepped off the train and onto the dusty platform. Mullaguna looked exactly like the kind of place where you’d expect to find an ancient wise person. There was a main street lined with quaint little shops, all selling various knick-knacks and what Jerry could only assume were souvenirs for a town that never got any tourists. The air was filled with the smell of freshly baked bread and a hint of something floral that Jerry couldn’t quite place. As he walked down the street, he noticed the locals giving him curious looks, which he returned with his best “don’t talk to me” face. The instructions he had printed from a very dubious website about Mullaguna’s secrets said to find the old well in the center of town, then follow the cobblestone path to the left until he reached a large oak tree with a door. Sure enough, after a few minutes of walking and almost tripping over his own feet on the uneven stones, Jerry found the well. It was a moss-covered relic with a wooden bucket hanging from a rusty chain. He shrugged, not sure what he had expected, but it wasn’t this. He turned left as instructed, and after a few more minutes of walking, he saw the oak tree. It was enormous, its branches stretching out like the arms of an overenthusiastic hugger. And there, just as the website had promised, was a door set into the trunk of the tree. Jerry blinked a few times, half-expecting it to be a trick of the light, but the door remained stubbornly real. “Okay, Jerry,” he muttered to himself. “You’ve come this far. Might as well knock.” He raised a hand and rapped his knuckles on the wood. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, to his surprise, the door creaked open, and a voice called out, “Enter, seeker of truth!” Jerry rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right,” he mumbled, but he pushed the door open wider and stepped inside. The interior of the tree was much larger than it had any right to be. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books, strange artifacts, and jars of things Jerry couldn’t identify — nor did he want to. In the center of the room sat an old woman in a rocking chair, knitting something that looked suspiciously like a sock. She glanced up as Jerry entered, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Ah, another lost soul,” she said with a grin that showed off her few remaining teeth. “Come to find your purpose, have you?” Jerry snorted. “No, I’m just here to prove a point. All this ‘universe has a plan’ stuff? Yeah, not buying it.” The old woman chuckled. “Oh, I like you. You remind me of myself when I was young and foolish.” Jerry crossed his arms, leaning against the doorway. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not here for a lecture. Just tell me whatever mystical thing you’re supposed to tell me so I can go home and say I told you so to everyone.” The woman set down her knitting and peered at Jerry closely. “Very well, if you’re so eager. But be warned, the truth is not always what we want to hear.” Jerry rolled his eyes again, harder this time. “Yeah, yeah, bring it on.” The old woman closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The room seemed to grow colder, and Jerry felt a shiver run down his spine. He told himself it was just a draft. After a long moment, the woman opened her eyes and said, “You, Jerry McBlunder, are destined for greatness.” Jerry burst out laughing. “Yeah, sure. Greatness in what? Paper clip sales?” The woman didn’t seem fazed by his sarcasm. “No, Jerry. Greatness in life. You have the power to change your destiny, to attract the things you truly desire. But first, you must believe in it.” Jerry’s laughter died down as he realized she was serious. “You’re not messing with me, are you?” She shook her head. “Not at all. The universe is a mirror, Jerry. It reflects back what you put out. You’ve spent so long being negative and skeptical that you’ve attracted nothing but the same. If you want something different, you have to start thinking differently.” Jerry opened his mouth to retort but found he had no clever comeback. The woman’s words, as cliché as they sounded, struck a chord somewhere deep inside him. Could it be true? Could his sarcastic outlook on life really be holding him back? He sighed. “Fine. Let’s say for a moment that I believe you. What do I do now?” The woman smiled warmly. “Start by expecting good things, Jerry. Believe that you deserve them. And don’t be afraid to take a chance now and then. Life’s too short for anything else.” Jerry nodded slowly, a strange feeling of hope blooming in his chest. “Okay, I’ll give it a try. But if I end up broke and disappointed, I’m coming back here for a refund.” The old woman chuckled. “Deal.” Jerry left the oak tree feeling a little lighter, as if a weight he hadn’t known he was carrying had been lifted from his shoulders. He made his way back to the train station, his mind whirling with thoughts. Could it really be that simple? Just think positively, and good things will come? It seemed too easy, but then again, maybe that was the point. He boarded the train back home, watching the scenery pass by without really seeing it. His mind was elsewhere, contemplating all the things he wanted but had never dared to hope for: a fulfilling job, real friendships, maybe even love. He had always told himself those things were for other people, not for him. But what if he’d been wrong? By the time he got home, Jerry had made a decision. He was going to put this whole “positive thinking” thing to the test. What did he have to lose? He started small, deciding to wake up the next day with a smile instead of a groan. It felt weird, but he did it. Then he decided to actually listen to his coworkers instead of tuning them out. He was surprised to find that some of them were actually pretty interesting once he gave them a chance. Days turned into weeks, and Jerry kept at it. He started finding little things to be grateful for: a sunny day, a good cup of coffee, a kind word from a stranger. It wasn’t like his life suddenly turned perfect — far from it. But he noticed that things seemed to go his way more often than before. He got a promotion at work, not because he worked harder, but because he started believing he deserved it. He made new friends, real ones, who liked him for who he was, sarcasm and all. And, much to his own surprise, he even started dating someone — a barista named Alex who had a laugh that could light up a room. One evening, as he sat with Alex at a cozy little café, Jerry couldn’t help but marvel at how much his life had changed in just a few short months. He was happier than he’d ever been, and for once, he wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was just… content. Alex looked at him curiously. “What’s that smile for?” Jerry shrugged, feeling a warmth spread through him. “Just thinking about how weird life is sometimes. How things can change when you least expect it.” Alex grinned. “Yeah, life’s funny like that.” Jerry chuckled. “You have no idea.” Months passed, and Jerry continued to embrace his new outlook on life. Sure, he was still sarcastic — some things never change — but now his sarcasm was lighter, less biting. He found joy in the little things and discovered that when you expect good things, they have a funny way of finding you. One day, as he was walking through the park, enjoying the crisp autumn air, he saw a familiar face sitting on a bench. It was the old woman from Mullaguna. He blinked, thinking he must be seeing things, but there she was, knitting away as if she had always been there. He approached her cautiously. “Hey… do you remember me?” The old woman looked up and smiled. “Of course, Jerry. How’s that greatness working out for you?” Jerry laughed. “Better than I expected, actually. Thanks for the advice.” She winked. “The universe just needed you to believe in it, that’s all.” Jerry nodded, his smile widening. “Yeah, I guess it did. Thanks for helping me see that.” The old woman chuckled. “Don’t thank me. You did all the hard work yourself.” Jerry shook his head, still smiling. “Maybe. But you gave me the push I needed. So, thanks anyway.” With that, he turned and walked away, feeling lighter than ever. As he strolled through the park, he realized that maybe, just maybe, there was something to this whole “law of attraction” thing after all. And for the first time in his life, Jerry McBlunder was okay with that. And so, Jerry’s journey to a place he’d never been, to meet someone he’d never met, had led him to a life he never imagined. A life filled with laughter, love, and a whole lot of sarcasm. Because in the end, it wasn’t about where he went or who he met — it was about what he chose to believe. And that made all the difference.

0ywrqg

When Heathrow Closed

This story makes reference to pregnancy out of wedlock and substance abuse. When Heathrow Closed Jenny was returning home from her European vacation. She had spent three weeks visiting the cities she’d heard about all her life, and it had been exhilarating. Her traveling companion, Liz, was staying on in London to spend a semester studying. Looking forward to seeing her parents, she was dismayed that the departures board at Heathrow kept reporting that her flight was delayed. She was concerned that she might not be home tonight and have enough time to rest up for Monday, when she was about to begin her new job. She had been so excited to be hired by an international accounting firm. It was her first real job, not including the temporary summer jobs she had worked at during every summer since she started high school. They had wanted her to start the previous week, but she had insisted on beginning the job later so that she could have a full three weeks for her European vacation. As the delay kept increasing, Jenny was grateful that she was wearing comfortable clothes: a hoodie and worn out dungarees. Her dark hair was in a ponytail, so she didn’t have to worry about how it looked. After waiting about 3 hours for takeoff, the airline announced that they would give each passenger a 15 pound voucher to cover lunch. She was grateful for the voucher; she was running low on money. It was a long walk to find a restroom, but Jenny had been sitting for 3 hours and knew she needed to go, not knowing how much longer she would have to wait. When she entered an empty booth, she could hear a woman crying. When she was still sobbing after Jenny had finished and washed her hands, Jenny asked “Are you alright?” The woman replied “No!” in a voice that was cracking. “Can I do something for you?” Jenny asked. “Are you a friend of Bill’s?”  Now Jenny was confused. “Can you come out so we can talk face to face?” A young woman of about 20 exited the booth. Her eyes were red and her heart shaped face looked desperate. “I’m Sally,” she said in a shaky voice. “I am a recovering alcoholic, and I need to talk to my sponsor. But I can’t reach him on the phone. I figured I could make it through the 6 hour flight to New York, and I’ve got a list of meetings in New York for tonight, but we’ve been waiting so long and now I need a drink. I’ve been sober for 6 months – I just picked up my chip yesterday – and I don’t want to ruin it now. But I really need a drink. “I’m so sorry. My name is Jenny, and I have a friend in the program, but I don’t know how I can help you. Is there someone else you can call? Can you text your sponsor and ask him to call you?” “That’s a great idea. He always looks at his texts. I’ll try it out.” Sally made no move to leave the restroom, so Jenny said goodbye and left on her own. Jenny began looking for a place to eat. There were no restaurants between the ladies room and her gate, so she went into a store selling sandwiches, salads, drinks and candy. After serious consideration, Jenny selected a roast beef sub and a diet coke. She still had a little money from the voucher, so she also bought some candy to bring home. When she got back to the gate, the only available seats were singles that had no tables attached to them, so she ended up sitting next to a family on one side and a young woman on her mobile on the other. Jenny, although concerned about Sally, was feeling more relaxed as she finished her sandwich. The girl on her mobile, whose blond hair fell to her shoulders, had been mostly quiet, listening to the other party, and Jenny hadn’t been eavesdropping.    But she began to raise her voice. “Well, I’ve been feeling that way too. In the morning…. I can’t remember, let me look at my calendar…. Oh no, I can’t believe it. I need to go now.” She turned to Jenny. “I have to run to the drug store. Would you mind keeping an eye on my stuff?” Jenny nodded, and asked the girl her name. “Siobhan,” she replied and moved quickly. She was gone about 15 minutes, and when she came back Jenny could see that she was fighting back tears. She thanked Jenny, and started to make a phone call, but never put it through. It was two hours later when they heard the announcement. “I am so sorry for this inconvenience. Due to weather conditions in London as well as strikes, Heathrow Airport is closed as of now, and no flights will be leaving or arriving for the rest of the day.” Knowledgable passengers jumped up and ran to the British Airways customer service desk to try to rebook their flights. Jenny asked Siobhan if she knew what to do. She replied that they should probably get in the BA queue. They walked as quickly as they could, considering the crowds of passengers going to the exact same place. The queue in front of Jenny and Siobhan was long.  The children of the family in front of them were whining and complaining about being bored. The mother was saying what an exciting experience this was for all of them, while the dad gave her an indignant look. A good looking man in his twenties was talking on his mobile. “Look, I’m really sorry I won’t be there, but it’s not my fault. All flights have been cancelled. There’s no way I’ll be back in time for the wedding . . . Why don’t you ask Tommy, or your brother?” After a few minutes he said “You’re expecting me to clairvoyant. How could I know this was going to happen?” And finally: “Look, I said I was sorry. I don’t want this to get in the way of our friendship, but . . .” He hung up. There was a middle aged couple behind Jenny and Siobhan, and the woman was sobbing. “We should never have come on this trip. We may not make it in time to see my mother. She was doing so well when we left. Why does this always happen to me?” Her husband put his arms around her and hugged her. “Leah, there’s still plenty of time. If we can leave on a flight tomorrow or Sunday, we may be there in time. Don’t be so gloomy. You have been a great daughter to her, visiting her every day and taking the time to read to her, bringing her food. She already knows how much you love her.” Leah stepped away and spat “This is not for her, it’s for me! Why can’t you see that?” Jenny turned to Siobhan, and whispered ,“I have been so concerned that I won’t be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on my first day of a new job. I was thinking how unprofessional it would look and I’ve been blaming myself for making a poor first impression. But listening to the other people here I am beginning to realize how easy I have it. Sure, it won’t look good for me to be tired on my first day, or even absent, but it’s not a life or death situation.” Siobhan whispered back. “None of these people have life or death situations. They may not get what they want, but it’s really just an inconvenience. My situation is life or death." Jenny hesitated to respond; she didn’t want to intrude. Then she asked “How is your situation life or death?” Siobhan lowered her voice a little further. “I’ve been seeing a married man. Of course, I didn’t know he was married when I started dating him; if I had, I would never have started the relationship. I finally broke up with him a couple of months ago.  And now I  realize that I’ve missed my period; I was never that regular anyway. I just bought a pregnancy test and it was positive. I have no idea what I’m going to do. My mother will kill me when she finds out; she lives in Dublin and she’s a devout Catholic. She’s dead set against sex before marriage, and her religion tells her that abortion is a sin. What will I do? My company is really conservative; they might fire me. How can I raise a child? Should I go back to the father? There’s nothing he can do. Go to my Mom in Ireland?  Since the flight is cancelled, maybe I should get an abortion before I leave. I just can’t believe this is happening to me.”

ukfj1s

Storm on Lake Coeur d'Alene

The Osprey, the pride of the fleet of six vessels in the Lake Coeur d’Alene Cruise line, was a majestic sight as it departed from the dock, its gleaming white hull gliding through the serene waters of Lake Coeur d’Alene. The sun hung high in the mid-day sky, sending warming rays upon the heads and shoulders of the passengers on the observation deck. Families and friends gathered in groups on this public tour, sitting at the tables or standing at the railings. A sprinkling of conversations spiked with laughter spread through the crowd, and the smell of popcorn wafted up from the snack bar below. At the bow of the ferry, two sisters, Cora and Elise, leaned against the railing in front of a row of four chairs lined up against the exterior wall of the captain’s bridge. Cora’s husband, Darrin, had chosen the spot. “We will be on the shore side the whole way around the lake and won’t miss a single sight.” Darrin announced, proud of his logical choice. “Can you believe this view?” Cora exclaimed, her voice bubbling with excitement. “It’s beautiful out here!” “I can’t wait to capture some photos!” Elise chimed in, rummaging through her bag for her phone. “This is exactly what we needed—a leisurely little escape.” Cora chattered nervously while running her fingers over the knitted elastic cuffs around each of her wrists for some self-reassurance. With her anti-nausea wrist cuffs, the ones with the rounded plastic button that presses on the P6 acupressure point, in place, she felt sure this would be an uneventful and enjoyable trip. Their cheerful chatter subsided as Teri entered the scene. “Is this chair taken?” Teri asked, pointing to the chair at the front of the row under the captain’s window. A cruise passenger who had spent the past few months traversing the country alone, Teri never felt lonely when in the company of fellow travelers. “Can I join you?” “Of course. Help yourself.” Cora invited, moving her arm in an open gesture. The trio welcomed Teri into their fold, eager to share the moment. “The beauty of being a solo passenger.” Teri stated, her high-pitched voice showing a bit of shyness. “I can squeeze in just about anywhere.” “Hey, do you want to take a picture with us?” Darrin offered, motioning for her to join in as he stretched his arm in front of them. “Let’s take a group selfie.” “A group selfie?” Cora mocked her husband and tickled him in the ribs. “That’s an oxymoron.” Teri joined in and they all laughed at the contradictory term Darrin used to describe the picture he took. The image captured by the cell phone showed the smiles of genuine warmth spreading between them. As they laughed and joked, Captain Kevin, a seasoned sailor with a confident smile and a twinkle in his eye, called out to the passengers over the intercom. “ Welcome aboard the Osprey. We will begin a 90-minute cruise heading south along the western shore on this beautiful day. Though there is a storm in the forecast, we are predicting smooth sailing. Enjoy the sights and we’ll keep an eye on the skies!” Cora shivered at the mention of the storm, an echo of unease reaching her heart. This would not be the first time she got on a boat only to have the trip experience intense weather related disturbances. She tried not to think of the whale watching tour where they faced eighteen foot swells and all seven passengers tossed their cookies overboard. Then there was the time when, on a cruise across the bay in Nuevo Vallarta, Mexico, the rough waves sent all passengers on a ferry boat flounder around the deck, falling off their chairs, and hanging on the sides for dear life. She had gotten so seasick she couldn’t eat upon arriving at the island for the native fire dance dinner show. Cora shared her previous experiences with Teri, who listened empathetically but remained unphased. “That sounds like quite a collection of incidental boating coincidences. It will be fine today,” Teri assured them all. “The captain knows what he is doing.” Everyone agreed the non-guaranteed promise of their safety was enough to override Cora's concerns. She relaxed with the others on deck as they sat back to enjoy the ride. They heard the hull clunking as the captain redirected the fins underneath and when they reached open waters, they could feel the vibration through the soles of their shoes as the throttled engine’s RPMs rose. As Captain Kevin focused on charting their course, the new group of four exchanged some surface information about themselves. The Osprey found its cruising gear and made its way along the shore. The first hour or the tour floated by, with the boat gliding across the reflective waters. Elise occupied herself with catching the best opportunities for photos, while Darrin, Teri, and Cora chatted about what they were seeing. Mansions and modest homes dotted the steep banks of the lake, half hidden by the towering White and Jefferson pines. Along the water’s edge were the many docks, their bright canvas canopies stretching for miles and miles like a colorful embroidered ribbon. Captain Kevin steered the boat and gave his informative spiel about the lake and the history of the towns along these shores and all the people that had lived here. Elise scurried along the railing to capture as many shots of the views highlighted in the captain's speech. But just as they rounded a bend at one inlet, the atmosphere shifted. The dark clouds that had been hanging in the distance rolled in, blanketing the lake in an ominous shadow. Waves that had lapped at the boat's sides earlier swelled and churned the once smooth surface of the lake. Filled with both excitement and a touch of fear, the conversations among the groups subsided and everyone on deck focused their attention on their surroundings. Cora’s insides did a flip and the hair on her arms rose to standing. Teri continued chatting with Elise and Darrin, but Cora only listened. Teri shared a weather related story about getting caught on the trail in the high Sierra during a thunderstorm, and Elise recounted her harrowing experience of driving through a blizzard. Occupying their minds and focusing on the conversation eased the tension until a voice came over the loudspeaker. It was not the captain. It was his first mate, Britany. Was she giving instructions? Her words were being swept away into the wind. “Hold on tight, everybody!” Captain Kevin’s voice boomed over the growing wind. “We're in for some choppy waters ahead!” With the electricity of their shared concern, the tension among the passengers became recharged. As the hull of the 65ft vessel groaned with the smacking of waves, the craft rocked and stuttered. The wind howled like a wild beast, sending sprays of water crashing against the Osprey’s bow and sides. The passengers exchanged nervous glances. Cora tightened her grip on the arms of her chair and begged Elise to sit safely in a chair. "Okay, okay," Elise forced out a laugh, attempting to mask her own rising fear. Teri, however, felt a surge of adrenaline. Her nomadic lifestyle had exposed her to unpredictable situations before. She steadied herself against the railing, eyes focused on the horizon. She would remain calm—not just for herself, but for the sisters and Darrin, whose faces reflected unease. Like a pent up beast newly released, the storm unleashed its fury with rain to accompany the wind. The Osprey pitched violently. Captain Kevin’s experienced hands guided the wheel, determining the vessel’s course with precision. “Just another day at work for me,” he assured them through the open window of the bridge, though his voice displayed an undercurrent of urgency. Then, over the intercom, he announced. “Let’s all get cozy inside. Everyone is welcome to join the folks on the bottom deck.” The announcement tore through the atmosphere, and panic rose inside Cora. “Was that an order or a suggestion?” The interconnectedness of the group became palpable as they looked to one another for reassurance. Debating whether to weather the remainder of the trip rolling around on the deck or brave the storm crowded together on the enclosed bottom floor, both Darrin and Cora knew they would feel motion sensitivity even more in the confines below. All the other groups of passengers conferred among themselves and broke away, opting for refuge. Teri glanced at Captain Kevin, seeking clarity. “Can we stay up here if we’d like to?” Captain Kevin swallowed hard, the tension clear in his brow. “You’ll be fine up here,” he answered as an unoccupied chair slide past them for ten or twelve feet across the deck until the wind jammed it into the railing. “But everyone needs to stay standing and close to the bridge walls. It’s about to get worse.” Cora and Elise exchanged determined looks, converting their fears into adrenalin while Darrin and Teri stayed by their sides. The electromagnetic tension of the storm seemed to bind them closer still. A thrill seeking young man whose party had retreated to the interior joined them, wanting the best version of the action. Cora managed a smile for the new member of the group. “I’m Justin.” The teenager introduced himself. “Let’s stick together,” Justin said as the boat jolted with another crashing wave, spinning them around and knocking them into one another. “We’ll ride this out by locking arms.” They all followed Justin’s advice and stood solidly united as the storm raged. Under the steady hand of Captain Kevin, the boat forged ahead, sliding into a rhythmic dance with the wind and rain. The strange exhilaration settled on the passengers as they shared in the experience. After what felt like hours, the winds calmed. As quickly as it had descended, the last vestiges of the storm moved on and the boat stabilized. Kevin navigated toward the shore. When they finally docked only ten minutes later than what was on the schedule, wild applause erupted from the relieved passengers below. Cora raised her fists in the air, breathing deeply as joy replaced her earlier anxiety. “And nobody even got seasick.” Teri laughed and winked at Cora as they made their way down the steep stairs into the very crowded galley on the bottom floor. The passengers who were cueing up to exit at the loading ramp on the front end of the vessel turned and clapped once again. Justin rejoined his cheering family. “I guess they are applauding us for staying up top.” Darrin concluded, and they all laughed. “It wasn’t bad at all up there,” Cora explained to a little white-haired woman with eyes still saucer-round who asked. Once the boat was moored, the passengers poured out onto the dock and a smaller number of them stayed, exchanging jubilant hugs. Justin’s family thanked them for looking out for him. “It was Justin who provided a greater sense of calm among us. He’s a remarkable young man.” Darrin complimented the teen. Later that night, Cora and Elise and Darrin and Teri joined Justin and his family for dinner. The atmosphere was alive with shared relief and warmth, and laughter rolled. They gathered around a table in the banquet room at a local pub. Justin’s father had reserved the room in advance and assured them there was always room for more at his table. The conversation that evening varied as everyone got to know one another, but all the chit chat seemed to revolve around a central theme; the storm on the lake. “Hey, that’s us!” Justin shouted above the hum of conversation. From her seat at the table, Cora could see one of the big TVs above the bar. With aerial footage flashing across the screen, there was the Osprey cruise ship fighting the storm. The announcer read from his script. “The coast guard paused all vessels on shore because of high winds and dangerous conditions, but the Osprey, navigated by Captain Kevin, stayed their course.” Everyone at the table cheered again as the video footage showed a close-up of the top deck of the Osprey. The announcer continued. “These five brave souls dared the storm to take them as they stood, arm in arm, at the railing. In that moment, strangers morphed into allies, a bond forged through adversity.” "We are famous." Justin exclaimed and his father slapped him on the back. “Here’s to new friends,” Darrin raised his glass, and then Elise and Cora chimed in, “Cheers!”, echoing their agreement. “To new adventures!” Teri added, with her glass in hand. “Hear, hear,” came the resounding reply as everyone raised their glasses. The storm had come and had passed, leaving in its wake a collective group whose ties will remain. The night was alive with conversations that exposed many connections. As fellow authors, Cora and Teri chatted with Justin’s mother, and Elise, who was an accomplished artist in multiple medias, had a lot in common with Justin’s aunt and grandmother, who loved to quilt. Darrin talked cars with Justin’s uncle and father and they discussed Justin’s future as a student of architecture. The universal forces that had intervened that day turned a planned ninety-minute lake cruise into something more. Through uniting individuals who probably wouldn’t have crossed paths, the storm transformed the excursion into a celebration of resilience, togetherness, and the beauty of shared experiences, establishing a new community and a chance for connection to last a lifetime.

65w7tu

Relationships Mean Differences Not Intolerances (X and Y; Y and X)

[ALLUSIONS TO SEX] X and Y; Y and X "What will we do with all these balls you have here?" Your hardball, footballs, volleyball, basketball, pickleball, squash, and tennis," Sarah innocently asked of Herman, her soon-to-be husband, the very first day they moved in together during her second year of medical school. "Balls are overrated." "What do you mean? Of course, they aren't," Herman said. "They most certainly are. You know as well as I do that they are useless in the grand scheme." "Sarah, you need balls to play well; I'm telling you, I need them." "You'll never get them back now," Sarah told her new partner, Herman. "But what do you think will become of me without them?" "You'll be fine. You'll see. Lots of ladies have their husbands in their possession." "Well, I don't like it. The guys and I want to go to the game Tuesday night. Is that going to be a problem?" "I'll let you know. Right now. No." Sarah, a freebird, dated Herman after the first year of medical school. They both had a knack for efficiency and each other's finding time to socialize. They were straightforward with each other about most of their comings and goings and rarely had conflicts. Shortly after Herman mentioned marriage, Sarah, spooked by the word, became someone else. She didn't go out much anymore; she rarely wanted to spend free time away from Herman. And she talked only of the two of them going places together. The wedding plans were elaborate, and their head table was just them two. Enthralled with their partnership, all witnessed the blissful duo growing increasingly joyous in the weeks leading up to the nuptials. Herman couldn't help but feel a heavy weight at times. It was difficult for him to explain, but it gripped him in his neck of all places and weighed his pants down. It could've been a slow tear or a deliberate cut, but neither knew then what was happening. Sarah felt it, too: the transference of power. She didn't want the responsibility but knew she had to do it. She kept her thoughts to herself. But she anticipated conversing with Herman about it at some point before they wed. "Herman, we need to talk. I fear something is wrong with how things are going between us, and I can't place my finger on it." "Yes, I agree. Entering a marriage with something like this could be disastrous before it begins for the marriage." "Well then, let's make a reservation at Chez 56 and have a proper sit-down full five-course meal." "Yes. I'd like that. We'll put all our cards on the table." "Oh, Herman, maybe you'll get something back you've been looking for for a long time." It wasn't quite the dinner hour, so Herman called Sarah. He had been drinking with pals. "Sarah, I'm sorry, love, I can't make the dinner. The boys came to get me after work, and we're on a bike tour of the city." "Not the bike and booze tour, are you?" "We sure are." "Well, have a great time then," she slammed the phone down after hanging up on him. It was a bittersweet ending." When the phone call ended, the guys could tell something was off with Herman. "Herman, come on. She's not mad at you again? Geez, man. You're not even married yet." "Yeah, man. Maybe this one isn't right for you after all." Herman paused and said, "Let's get off this bike tour and hit a bar." The men got off at the next corner and hit a bar. They weren't in the bar for 15 minutes, and Herman saw Sarah's car pull up outside. "Right, lads. I'm out of here. I'll meet you at the bar across the street. Keep my phone." He gave his phone to his friend and ducked out the back door as Sarah entered the bar's front entrance. "Hey Sarah, how's it going? Want a drink?" One of the guys said to her. "No, thank you. I'm looking for Herman. His phone says he's here. Where is he? In the toilet?" "Who knows? After he spoke to you, he gave us his phone and left." "He did? Why?" "I guess he thought you were angry with him." "Not at all; I came to drink with you, fellas, before I hit the theatre two blocks down. Why on earth would I be angry with Herman?" "You mean you don't get angry with him when he goes out with us?" "No, never." *** "Something is wrong, then. Herman's been telling us you've been busting his balls over everything. He keeps odd hours, and he doesn't tell anyone the truth. When he says he's with us, he uses that as an excuse to take off. When he says he's with you, he uses you as an excuse to avoid us. What is going on with that guy?" They crossed the street and went into the bar. She saw him there with another woman. He didn't see them. He was giving her money. The guys approached him and her. "Herman, what is going on here?" "Oh, hey guys, this is my sister, Danny. I'm trying to get her to come to the wedding. I've been meeting her weekly since I found out about her. She was given up for adoption because my parents were divorcing and didn't want another child." “Oh, is that all it is?” the guys laughed. Sarah entered the bar and sat down next to the guys. “Hey everyone, what’s so funny?” *** Hulga hobbles to the town square for the local lottery. Her hair was wild from rolling in the hay and blowing in the wind. Her face was dirty, and filthy clothes covered her body like drapes hanging on a window too large for the curtains with the same clothes she wore yesterday. She was obstinate toward her mother before she left their fight over the man who stole her prosthetic leg. He took it while she slept. “Mean old Hulga lost her leg and had to hop into town.” The boys teased her as they grabbed the sharpest rocks when they saw her nasty smile toward them. Snot smeared across her face, and her eyes were blue with blurry spots. Her cane slowed her down. She had been without her prosthetic leg before. As she half stomped toward town, she talked to herself, her favourite pastime since she had no friends and hated her mother. “Why? Why did that prick have to steal my goddamn prosthetic leg? What am I going to tell people?” “‘You should’ve thought of that before you asked him to go out with you to do your chores,’ Mama said. How dare she? That crochety thing! Imagine. I had more fun in one night than she’d ever had in her whole life. Or did I? He did take my leg!” Hulga, disconnected from her peers a while ago, knew she was in for a bruising of insults when she got to town. It always happened that way, and she always said the same things. If only there could be a change somehow. “All right, everyone. Gather around for the lottery,” Mr. Summers called out. “Hold up, please. I’d like to volunteer for the winner, please,” Hulga blurted out. “What do you mean?” He said. “You?” Another person said. “Haha, I don’t think so. You have to be whole to be picked for this lottery.” One of those bratty boys said. “Yeah,” said another. “Well, what do you say, Mr. Summers? You hold the black box, don’t you?” Hulga challenged the man in front of the entire town. Something nobody had done before. “Yes, I do, young lady. I say you are not allowed.” And he pulled a name. *** The following month, Hulga arrived early to be the first in line for the lottery gathering. She wanted to ask the crowd gathered if they would consider a different form of lottery this month. She had figured out that it might cost each household five dollars for her to purchase another prosthetic leg. But she knew she had done nothing to earn the right to ask that of the townspeople. She approached Mr. Summers, who had seen her standing there, and tried to avoid her until he couldn’t any longer. “I hope you can help me today, Mr. Summers. How are you?” Her tone had changed, and a clean girl stood before him who didn’t look so wild or angry anymore. “Why, Hulga, it’s nice to have you back. I was worried you’d be gone forever.” He reached for her and hugged her. She embraced him and shed a tear. “I’m sorry for talking that way to you last month, but it seems to have done the trick.” Others started arriving, and as they did, Hulga and Mr. Summers welcomed them all with a warm greeting. Someone yelled out a few things that weren’t so nice, but they were ignored, and it stopped. “I am here today to volunteer my name for the lottery,” Hulga said from Mr. Summers’ side. “Look, we don’t want that, and you shouldn’t either. We already dealt with this; you shouldn’t attend these monthly meetings because they don’t pertain to you,” a woman said. “Yeah, we already told you it’s because you’re not whole and have a different look about you that we can’t accept you. Sorry,” another man said. A man in his middle age stumbled around the crowd with a bottle in his hand and a Bible in the other. He was dressed in black with a white collar. Even though he wore a hat, you could see his greased-back hair. “I want to say something about what’s going on here with this issue with the lottery,” Reverend Brown said. “Oh my God. He’s drunk,” Mr. Summers said. It is absurd to make fun of this young woman because a stranger tricked her into giving up her prosthetic leg, and now she isn't whole. He paused. “I mean, honestly. Look around you, people.” He paused again. “I see big ears, big bellies, large noses, large feet, bald heads, thick heads of hair, tall and skinny people, etc., all imperfect in some way or another.” He paused again. “To alienate one girl because of her leg seems ridiculous and petty. And I urge you to think about this.” “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. And judge not lest you be judged.” He hiccupped and then turned to see Hulga's parents walking this way. Her mother yelled, “Hulga, darling, we’re proud of you,” her mother called from the crowd. Her father whistled. The two joined hands and walked up to where she stood with Mr. Summers. “I love you, too. But I have a mission today,” she held up her hands to quiet the crowd. “Oh, what is that?” Mr. Summers said. “I’m asking if everyone involved in the lottery would donate five dollars per household to purchase another prosthetic leg for me this month.” She paused to wipe tears from her eyes. “I know it’s asking a lot, and I don’t deserve to ask, but I’m sure I’ll be able to repay everyone once I get my leg.” She broke down into tears. Mr. Summers held her up. The pastor removed his hat and said, “I’ll collect the money here. Mr. Summers will check off your name so we know who Hulga has to repay when the leg comes in.” The preacher knew just how to rouse a crowd and get them to loosen up their wallets and purse strings. People stood in line to donate. Some donated more than they were asked to give. Everyone felt her pain. Women were moaning, and men were shaking their heads and talking about finding this guy who stole her leg. But it didn’t get to that, in the next town over. The man stopped at the local bar and bragged about stealing a young girl’s leg. Everyone in the place kept their eye on him all night. When he got up to leave, the boys playing pool locked the door to get out. The men formed a circle around the man. “Is there something you think is wonderful about stealing a girl’s prosthetic leg?” the barkeep said. A big, burly man who chopped his firewood every day to keep his house warm. “No. I don’t have a beef with you or any of you,” the man said. “Well, that’s where we differ. You see, where we come from here in this town and the one just over, from whence you came, we don’t do that stuff to young girls. Understand? I think you and I will ride back to that town to that young girl’s house so you can return what you took.” “I’m not doing that. Sorry.” “Oh, you see. Silly you. You thought that was a choice, did you? It’s not. Boys, hogtie him and put him in the trunk.” *** When they got to Hulga's, she could see the car a long way out but didn’t recognize anyone inside. She was cautious after what happened with the other man who came to her home, feigning to speak to her Papa. “Afternoon, I’m looking for Hulga,” the man said. “I have someone here who’d like to return something to you. Boys.” The trunk opened, and the man got out with the prosthetic leg in his hands. He walked up to Hulga and gave it to her. “Oh, now see. I didn’t hear any apology. Did you Hulga?” “No, sir.” “I’m sorry, Hulga. I shouldn’t have stolen your leg. If you want to repay my debt, I can work here.” “Get out of here and off my property. I never want to see you again,” Hulga’s father said with his shotgun in his hand. The men grabbed the man and shoved him into the car's trunk again. “Don’t you worry about him, none, sir. We’ll take care of him for you. And we’ll put him to work, too. Y’all have a great rest of your evening.” *** The soon-to-be-married couple took a drive out into the country, looking for a place where they might find a suitable home to raise youngsters and grow old together. Herman and Sarah did not grow up on a farm, but they thought the idea was romantic and that a hobby farm might do the trick and keep Herman’s mind off those sports he always wanted to play to stay in shape. “It seems as though there aren’t a lot of homes for sale in this area. We’d better pick the best out of the lot we’ve already seen, don’t you think?” Herman said as they pulled into Peg’s Diner to grab a bite. The drive-in restaurant allowed them to discuss their business without too many people overhearing what they did in town. But everyone knew they were new.  “You two lost or just out for a nice drive for the afternoon?” Their waitress said, trying to be friendly. “We’re looking for houses to buy, but there doesn’t seem to be many for sale here,” Herman said. “Oh, that’s ‘cause most people list them in the magazine “Our Town” and don’t bother with signs on their front lawns. Everyone who lives here stays where they grew up for the most part.” She smiled at them. “Is there some way we might get a copy of the magazine you mentioned?” Sarah said. “Of course. Let me take your drink order and tell you the specials, and then I’ll bring you the magazine when I bring you your drinks.” The girl chewed gum, but her uniform was pressed so neatly. “Let’s see; we’ve got liver and onions mashed with roast beef, chicken pot pie, or beef Wellington. All specials cost the same amount, including a dinner roll and a cup of soup. The soup today is minestrone. We have Coca-Cola, Pepsi, and milk to drink. Do you need a few minutes, or are you ready to decide?” “I think we’ll both have a Coke, please, and the chicken pot pies. Thank you,” Herman said. “Got it. Coming right up.” She left to enter the restaurant, and they watched her put a magazine onto a tray. Then she stacked their drinks and then the orders after that. “Here we are.” “Great. Thank you.” Sarah said. For the moment, they ate and didn’t pay much attention to the magazine. The thick book kept the front of the car clean since there wasn’t a spot for Sarah to eat. If she used her side window, then she couldn’t see Herman. They finished eating, and the waitress came around and asked, “Is there anything else I can get you two this evening? We’ve got three homemade pies: cherry, blueberry, and peach, and they all come with ice cream,” she smiled and tilted her head as if to get them to follow her lead. “Not for me, thank you,” Sarah said. “Me neither,” Herman said. “I’ll just take the bill, please.” They looked through the book while they waited for the waitress to return with their bill. She took a few minutes since two carloads of boys pulled in and were loud and demanding. She looked nervous about serving all of them at once, but she knew it was her job, so she did her best. About ten minutes went by, and she brought the bill. She looked a little concerned, and her hair had fallen a bit out of the neat ponytail braid she had in when she served them. “Oh, hey, listen, my boss says y’all can have the magazine. Here’s your bill. It’s even $4.00,” she said. Herman pulled out a five-dollar bill and told her to keep the change. She deserved it after looking after that crew. He tilted his head to where the boys were waiting in their cars for food, loud and fussing about everything. “Oh, thanks. Tell your boss we appreciate that,” Sarah said. They said, “Good-bye now,” and drove off until they found a church parking lot. They pulled over and studied the town map at the front of the book. Out of the corner of Herman’s eye, he thought he saw a young girl with a prosthetic leg walking toward their car. The same girl had waited on them at the car hop. “Hey, you two. You can’t park here. It’s after hours. This is a no parking zone after 6:00 pm,” she said. Her arm circled the entire parking lot of the church. “Can’t y’all read?” She pointed to a no parking sign after 6:00 pm. “Oh, sorry about that. We’re not from here and just wanted to look at some houses for sale.” Herman said, showing the book like she wouldn’t take their word for it otherwise. “What kind of place are you looking for? There’s a farm for sale next door to our place, but it’s not very big. It’s like a miniature farm, I guess you’d say.” “Really? That sounds perfect,” Sarah said with joy in her voice. “I’ll show you if you don’t mind giving me a ride home, too,” she said. “I don’t see why not. What’s your name, anyway?” Herman said. “I’m Hulga. I’ve lived here all my life and hate it here,” she said. “Why? What’s wrong with this place? It looks so nice to us,” Sarah said. “Do you two know about the...” She leaned towards the front seat and whispered, “Lottery in this town?” Her face wore a big scowl. “The what?” Herman said. “It sounded like you said... “Shh, don’t say it out loud. If you get caught, you’re the next one to win automatically,” Hulga said. “The winner gets stoned to death at the old gravel pits.” “Oh, that’s got to be a joke. Are we on a hidden camera thing right now?” Sarah said. Her smile faded into terror. “Does it look like I’m joking? And I sure as hell ain’t carrying a camera in my pants, lady,” Hulga said, annoyed. They drove silently for another ten minutes until Hulga lit up and said, “Oh, drive in this driveway; we’re here. This is the place I was telling you about.” “Wow! It looks like it’s still lived in. How’s that possible?” Herman said. “We keep the house going. Sometimes, people come here, and if the weather is bad, they get stuck for a night out here and stay in the house. It gets used quite often. You’d be surprised,” Hulga said. “Oh, Herman, it’s so quaint, right?” Sarah said.  “Yeah, I see what you mean. Hulga, is there anyone staying there now? May we go in and take a look around?” “Sure, I’ll get the key while you look around back.” “Geez, Herman, what do you think of that lottery story? I’ve never heard of that. Have you? Surely, if it were true, someone would know about it, and it would be exposed by now. No?” “I still don’t get why she told us that story. We haven’t committed to anything yet in this town. And how did she happen to find us anyway?” Herman said. “What if the entire town is in on it?” Sarah said. Her eyes widened with a smirk on her face. “Maybe they keep people who come to town. And now we’re stuck here.” She had a creepy look, and her laugh was ghoulishly eerie. “Will you stop? I need to think. We should get going. I don’t want to be here after dark. We’ll come back another time to see the house. What do you say?” Herman spoke fast and pushed Sarah toward the direction of the car. “Hey, Herman. What’s the big idea?” She pulled her arm free of his hand and tried to keep up his pace. When they returned to the car, they couldn't find the magazine anymore, and Herman’s keys were missing. He panicked. His forehead sweated, and his breathing came in short gasps that took in a lot of air and then had none. It was as though he had suddenly forgotten how to breathe. He turned to Sarah. “I said, ‘Put the keys into the ignition!’” Sarah yelled at him. She held the keys in the palm of her hand. He looked at her but didn’t see her. Herman got out of the car. He grabbed where his balls should’ve been. He saw Hulga walking the best she could without her prosthesis hobbling. “Hey, Herman. Where’re your balls?” She yelled. “I think I saw your prosthetic leg next to them the last time I saw them,” he yelled. “I’m not interested in what you think you saw. I asked you, ‘Where's your balls?’” Hulga repeated. The sky got dark, and Herman felt a chill. He knew his balls were on the line and had to fight for them. “Please, no. I need those balls. I want babies one day with Sarah. Without my balls, I cannot become a father.” “That’s better,” Hulga said. “Now you understand the value of your contributions to a marriage and the commitment that you are making, right?” “Just like you know, your behaviour has caused your leg to go missing again, right, Hulga?” Herman said. “How did you know about that?” she demanded. “I know everything right now.” Herman smiled and looked around. “For example, Sarah and I will purchase this home but will not be participating in your lottery, and there is nothing you or anyone else can do about it,” Herman said. “I encourage you to do the same.” “Herman, for a man of few words and a geek in the real world, you may have found your niche living amongst “good country people.” “Perhaps. But it’s time for us to go. See you soon,” Herman ducked into the driver’s seat, and they drove out of the driveway and back into the city. Once they got out of the car, Sarah suggested they go to the apartment and look at what they wanted to take and what they thought they might donate to Goodwill.  Herman suggested he needed a walk and told her to start without him.  A few months later, Herman and Sarah married at the Justice of the Peace on a Wednesday after work, without anyone present except the other couple, who were also marrying Hulga and the man who originally stole her prosthetic leg. Both couples were surprised to see each other. They laughed at their being witnesses to each other’s marriages. Hulga and her man moved into the city and Herman and Sarah’s apartment. Herman and Sarah moved into the country and moved into the house where the man stole Hulga’s leg. "I know now what it is of mine you have, and I want them back." "Sorry, Herman, but you won't need them anymore." "Because balls are overrated?" "Yes, because balls are overrated." She opened a closet door, and every one of the balls he had before they moved in together miraculously had its place and stared him in the face. They both laughed. Sarah lifted the weight, and the grip on his throat was gone. The following week, Herman and his sister played squash while Sarah watched. Hulga and her man played tennis on the other side of the squash courts.        

3ijp4s

Underway...Shift Colors

Underway! Shift Colors!! Oh wow! You are going on a cruise! That is so exciting. You will visit many foreign lands and meet exciting people from all over the world. What an extraordinary time you are going to have. Take pictures and buy souvenirs. If you visit these countries, here is a list of items I want. I am sure many people said all of this or something that closely resembles those who are going on a cruise with those fancy ship that has over ten floors where everyone can enjoy themselves doing things such as laying around on the lounge chairs, drinking mojitos, eating the best food and drinking the best drinks money can buy or playing shuffleboard next to the swimming pool that the incredible waterslide empties to or any other array of activity that is offered. No, this adventure is far from that. You can say this is the complete opposite. The one that is going to sail around the ocean blue and travel around the seven seas is not a Carnival or Princess Cruise Ship; it is a United States Navy ship. Those lucky ones in the United States Navy who have gone to sea on those big gray ships with white hull numbers will tell you that life is very different. No lounging around on the promenade deck or shuffleboard court next to the swimming pool. The five-story waterslide does not exist. Nope, there is work that needs to be done, watches that need to be stood, decks that need to be scrubbed, heads that need to be cleaned, and berthing that needs to be swept and organized. On top of that, qualifications must be met, training needs to be mastered, and, of course, drills must be run. All these events take place around the clock. The only time there is a rest or relaxation moment is on the occasional Sunday when the crew will go topside and have a cookout in the afternoon. So here it is, after receiving all the accolades; good luck and have fun, and don’t forget to write, email, and message us through social media, our sailor who, for the first time in his life, heads to Norfolk piers, goes onboard the ship and heads out to sea. The first day of any long cruise or deployment onboard a United States Navy ship feels like the longest day ever, and for our sailors, this is nothing different. Waking up at 4:00 in the morning, he starts to get ready. Is the seabag packed with enough clothes for six months? Underwear, socks, T-shirts, uniforms? Also, it would be best if you remembered to bring a couple of pairs of jeans and some nice shirts at a foreign port in case of liberty. I should place my shower shoes and the steel top boots. I need to think about safety. Please verify that all the bills will be handled when I am gone. Who will care for the car in the parking lot for about half the year? Is my apartment going to be safe? Who is going to water the plants? Thank God all these arrangements were made before today, but it is good to make sure. Around 5:00 am, the white navy van picks up our sailor and heads to the ship. You would think that driving this early in the morning, there would be very little traffic. However, this is Norfolk. The heavy traffic starts very early and lasts until 9:00 am. After weaving in and out of rush hour traffic, the van arrives at Pier 5 just in time for reveille, which is at 6:00 am for most ships. Our sailor drags his seabag through the gate, down the pier, and up the brow to the quarterdeck. Before stepping on the boat, he turns to the direction where the flag is, salutes, then turns to the Officer of the Deck, the person in charge of the quarterdeck, and then asks, “Request permission to come aboard.” The Officer of the Deck salutes back and says, “Permission granted.” Our sailor picks up his seabag, shows his identification, and lets the Officer of the Deck know that this is his first day, and he is checking in. The officer of the deck calls the Master at Arms to let them know that there is a new check-in. After five minutes, the Master at Arms, who is not too thrilled to be called this early in the morning, arrives. He shakes our sailor’s hand and says, “Follow me.” They enter the ship and head down to the Master at Arms office. Upon arriving, our sailor drops off his seabag and fills out a check-in form. After filling out the form, the Master at Arms instructs our sailor to go to the mess decks, eat breakfast, and return. After the nutritious breakfast, our sailor comes back to the Master at Arms office, gets his seabag, and heads down to berthing to find out where he is going to sleep for the next six months. Upon arriving, two sheets, two pillowcases, and a blanket are given to him; the berthing petty officer points to the bunk and says, “Here you are go ahead and unpack.” Afterward, someone will pick you up so you can start the check-in process.” If anyone has been on a deployment or cruise before on a United States Navy vessel, the furthest thing anybody wants to do is to be in the office to work, especially to check in new personnel. Most of the sailors are unpacking their seabags, putting all their clothes away in an organized manner, securing all the equipment in case of inclement weather, and spending their last moments with their family and friends before the ship gets underway, which is one of the most painful tasks. Luckily for our sailor, he had already said his goodbyes, so that was already done. After finding the right people and getting some signatures on the check-in sheet, our sailor comes back to the Master at Arms office, where he receives information on where to go in case of “Man Overboard” and “Abandon Ship.” Fighting fires and fending off enemy attacks are critical for these two evolutions. The sailor must know where to go during “Man Overboard” so the ship can get an accurate count and determine who is missing or fell overboard. Ships hold these types of drills all the time. The idea is to get a precise count or muster of all personnel before five minutes. During the drills, the coordinator will ask one of the sailors to “hide” to ensure their division turns in an accurate count. Our sailor will go to the assigned life raft for Abandon Ship until the captain gets an exact count. If this is real and the ship is sinking, it is imperative to know where to go because that will be the new home until our sailor is rescued. It is now close to 8 am, and it is time to go to where our sailor will work and meet the team. Coming into the office, especially where our sailor will work, is challenging. In this work environment, security clearance must be checked and verified before our sailors can even go through the door. If everything checks out well, if there are any issues, such as not having the proper paperwork, then phone calls must be made, emails must be sent, and folders must be reviewed again to ensure the paperwork was correctly placed. Try doing this while underway; the communications are not the best in the world. By the stroke of luck, our sailor checks out and is let into the space. After the team's introduction, including the division officer and the division chief, the leading petty officer goes over what team our sailor will work with and the schedule. After a few minutes of chit-chatting, the team goes outside to man the rails. Manning the Rails is a traditional navy ceremony where sailors line up along the ship's rails to render honors. Manning the rails comes from “manning the yards,” which was an old custom that required crew members to stand on the spans, holding sails and cheering to honor distinguished guests. At present, manning the rails is used to honor the President of the United States and heads of state of foreign nations and during special events such as passing the USS Arizona Museum at Pearl Harbor or leaving for an extended period such as a deployment. This is a way sailors honor families and friends.  It is time to depart. At the precise moment, the boatswain mate on the bridge will blow a whistle over the 1MC or the ship’s intercom system and announce, “Underway, Shift Colors.”  The ship is underway, and the clock starts!! The mission begins; it is time to set the watch. Setting the watch is assigning sailor duties and responsibilities to ensure the continuous operation and safety of the ship. Setting the watch divides the crew into shifts or watches to cover all tasks that need to be done around the clock. Everyone from the Captain down to our sailors is responsible for the safety and security of the vessel. Even though our sailor is brand new to this experience, he is part of the crew.  

2o1u9j

Journey to the Heart

I couldn't sleep that night; the stress over the upcoming journey tormented me. Just the thought of seeing my ex-husband again made my nervous system act strangely, almost out of rhythm. Rhythm — so important in life, and when something disrupts it, everything starts to get complicated. I wanted to regain control over myself, over my daily routine, and conquer the procrastination that had left tasks abandoned, perhaps forever. After an hour of staring at the wall, which wasn't even that interesting, I finally took the first steps to prepare for departure. This is how it is with journeys — small and large, easy and difficult. We look forward to them, but just before they begin, doubts and stomach issues creep in, making it harder to leave the house. I dashed to the car, driving off quickly, as if that would prevent me from changing my mind or turning back. My hope that the journey would go smoothly quickly vanished when a huge truck hit me. A blindingly bright light engulfed me, transporting me to another magnificent land, certainly more colorful and joyous than Earth. I found myself in a place with turquoise, transparent water, white sand, and rows of tall palm trees adorned with coconuts. I had never been in such a beautiful place before, so I concluded that fate must be fair, at least after death. How could I not celebrate such a wonderful moment — the journey to paradise? I cracked open a coconut, as hard as a rock, sat on the pleasantly warm sand, and stared in awe at the clear water. I thought it couldn't get any better, but it did. A man appeared before me, incredibly handsome and muscular, with darker skin, jet-black hair, and a look reminiscent of Native Americans. His hips were wrapped in some cloth, leaving the rest of his body enticingly exposed. I wanted to touch him, just to make sure he was real. I decided to pinch myself to see if it was a dream, but then I realized it didn't make sense since I was already dead. – Aloha. – the stranger greeted me. –Aloha. – I replied. – Welcome to our heavenly land. How do you feel here? –Wonderful – I answered. –My name is Akshay, which means 'Immortal.' And you are Karen, right? –That's correct. –I stammered, surprised –But how do you know that? –Oh, I know practically everything about you. When you were a child, you were afraid of the dark and slept with your parents for a long time. You love pasta and enjoy reading books. You loved men, but your ex-husband humiliated you so deeply that you can no longer open up to anyone. Am I right? –Yes, but... – I'm here, Karen, to help you. I know you wanted to visit your ex-husband to reclaim your heart. I have a proposition — if you help me recover something, I will make sure your heart returns to you, and you will be able to love again." – I’ll try, but will it be beyond my abilities? – I wouldn't place anything on your shoulders that you couldn't handle. I need you to help recover my manuscripts, which have belonged to my Bhuvi tribe for centuries. Some time ago, our enemies, the Satvari tribe, cunningly stole them from our temple and hid them in their own, guarded day and night." – And how do we get there? – You'll learn along the way. Now, let's go. We must swim to the location.-- After saying this, he whistled with two fingers. Suddenly, two dolphins swam up to the shore, joyfully leaping in the air.  --This is our transport. – he said. Not wanting to seem like a coward or ignorant, I pretended that this didn't surprise me at all, as if I rode dolphins daily. My guide smiled so disarmingly that I couldn't refuse him. So, a bit shakily, I climbed onto the dolphin, while Akshay did it gracefully, looking otherworldly in the process. Suddenly, I felt the wind in my hair, the dolphin sped up, and the water pleasantly splashed me up to my waist. Oh, how wonderful it was. – We must watch out for sharks; I see one now. Lift your legs, Karen! –But.. –Legs up! – Akshay shouted, and I felt my legs lift as if an invisible force compelled them. I decided not to panic and held onto my dolphin's dorsal fin tighter. It felt as if some superhuman calm and strength had taken over me, which was an incredible and entirely new sensation. I noticed the shark heading our way, but when Akshay whistled again, the dolphins seemed to pick up speed and began to weave, distancing themselves from the shark. He whistled again when we encountered another, and so it went. Fortunately, our dolphins were swift and agile enough to avoid them and shake them off with ease. – We ‘re almost there – I heard him say at one point. Before my eyes, a huge island appeared, shrouded in mist. There were no palm trees or white sand, only a shore lined with sharp rocks. – I know what you're thinking. It's gloomy here. – Akshay said. – The island's appearance reflects the hearts of its inhabitants. Follow me; we need to get to the temple. On the way, I'll explain my plan." We quickly moved toward the temple, pushing through thickets whose branches whipped us, leaving red marks. But there was no time to pay attention to that, as Akshay laid out his plan. It seemed absurd and dangerously risky, but I decided to trust the Immortal. After a long and intense run through the trees, we finally reached the temple. It wasn't very tall — more flat, actually — and rectangular in shape. Massive columns surrounded the structure, and it spread out over a vast area of the forest. According to Akshay's instructions, no one patrolled the rear of the building. Two guards watched the front, and one guard was stationed on each side. Akshay signaled that we needed to move away from the temple, so we pushed through the brush until we reached the back of the structure. Slowly, we crawled to a small window that was our passage to the underground. It turned out that the cloth wrapped around Akshay’s hips had an inner pocket, from which he pulled out a knife. This knife apparently could cut glass, as he carefully sliced out the entire pane and set it aside quietly. He slipped in first, and I followed, with him catching me to prevent a fall. When I was in his arms, I felt dizzy, and a warmth spread through my body as my heart began to beat faster. Ah, my heart — I felt something again, and it was wonderful. I longed for it to last, but Akshay set me down, and we slowly moved forward. The room smelled of dampness and was quite dark, but we soon found ourselves in a corridor lit by the flames of gigantic candles. Curtains hung in the windows, tied with thick ropes, and Akshay, for reasons only he knew, untied one and took it with him. We carefully placed each step, hiding behind every column to remain unnoticed in case anyone passed by. Akshay looked at me and gestured for us to stop. We had reached the entrance to a large room that appeared to be the temple's heart. I understood without words that this was where our manuscripts were kept. Akshay moved first, hugging the wall as he slowly made his way forward. I was to stay on watch and signal the Immortal if someone approached. Luckily, no one appeared, so Akshay could carry out his task. I watched as he swiftly overpowered a guard, tying him to a chair and gagging him with a cloth he snatched from a side altar. The manuscripts were on a raised platform behind glass. Akshay used his knife again to remove them. Carefully, he retrieved them and headed toward me. We then quietly moved back to the cellar with the window. Somehow, no one noticed that we had intruded into the temple grounds. Once we crawled out of the window and back into the forest, we sprinted toward the shore. This time, no sharks attacked us, so we safely made it back to the island. Exhausted, I sat on the sand, and Akshay sat beside me. – Tell me, please, what do those manuscripts contain? They hold the fates of the world. It's better they remain in our hands. We swore to protect them, just as we vowed to protect the world from complete destruction. After saying this, Akshay embraced me, and the feeling was so pleasant that in this bliss, I didn't even realize when I fell asleep. – Karen, Karen... Please wake up. When I opened my eyes, I saw his beautiful face again. – Your time here is over. – But how? – You're not dying yet, but I promise you'll return when the time comes. I will be the keeper of your heart in the meantime. I promise to care for it and love it. Goodbye, until we meet again. I woke up in a hospital. My ex-husband was sitting by the bed. – Karen, finally! You sent me a message that you wanted to see me... I heard about the accident on TV... And here I am. What did you want to talk about? – Ahh... How long have I been here? – For two days. – Too short... – What? Well, tell me, what did you want to talk about? – It doesn't matter anymore. And now, kindly get out of here because you're ruining my mood and mental health. The end

mk9jik

Leaving Home

The ocean sighed a warm, sticky breath that bellowed across the ocean brought with it the scent of seaweed and mangroves. The beach surrendered to the oncoming advance of saltwater. Under swaying casuarinas, near a campground among the tall blades of yellow grass, the magician lay dead, and I began to pick through the haze of thoughts of how I came to be here. I had never before left Rockdale. The laneways and alleyways around my Bay Street home were a part of me as much as the blood in my veins or the lines on my palm. Me and the gang had roamed those streets all through the night, and when morning came and we should have been getting ready for school, I’d sneak back in through my bedroom window and climb into bed. I’d pretend to sleep before Mum would come and knock on my door. “Wake up time, Eric,” she’d say. “Breakfast’s on the table.” I’d lay there for a minute or two and watch the morning light peek through the window breaking in through the folds and crevices in the dusty blue curtains. I’d make a point of leaving the house and then, when I was sure that she had left for work, I’d sneak back in and sleep all day. At least that was how things went after they’d nabbed Dad and sent him up to Trial Bay. I never knew what Dad did for work, but I knew that when he came home, he often did so in a rage of alcoholic rage. I had a scar under my left eye he’d given me a couple of year’s back for my 12 th birthday because he’d come home from the King’s and found the hose running in the front yard. He had detached the thing from the tap and come inside swinging it wildly. It made a loud whipping sound as it sliced through the air, landing on my upper cheek. He said I ‘bloody well deserved it.’ Mum would usually cop it next. That night she’d been given a reprieve as he passed out on the couch with the hose snaking across the floor. Rockdale was home and I never thought I would leave but then the mail came and said that Dad was being released on a good behaviour bond, and I knew that I had to get out. I’d once heard someone say that the north was wild and untamed. Sounded like as good a place as any to get lost and never be found. I packed a rucksack and stole eighteen pounds from Mum’s purse and hitched a ride with a truck driver the next day. The first thing I noticed was that life in Rockdale was nothing like anywhere else. I’d thought that every place must have had the same chaos, the same smell, but it turned out that outside the city things were different. There was room to think. It was a strange idea that one’s mind could be constrained to smallness by the cramped city life, but the more the sky opened up so did my mind. I could have sworn I’d never seen the brilliance of blue like it was now. Freedom was intoxicating. In Brisbane I’d stumbled upon a camp of out of work men on the river just outside the city. They called themselves ‘the River crew’ and they were made up of blokes who’d lost their jobs, or never had them in the first place, looking for a place to call home in a world that had forgotten them. At first they were suspicious of me. Asked me all sorts of questions. Where ya from? Where ya heading? They warmed to me when I told them about my Dad, and they took me in. One night we sat around the crackling fire as it consumed a log from a building site and they asked what my plans were. “Dunno,” I said, scratching my head and looking up the river, “probably keep on heading north.” One old bloke, Artie, rubbed his chin and spoke gruffly. “North, eh. I used to work up on a plantation in Atherton. Reckon a young bloke like you could make a quid up there.” Artie had lost his job in Atherton when the industry went belly up a couple of years back and they had to offload staff. He was first to go because he had a war injury that had meant he couldn’t keep up with the younger blokes, so he’d drifted south and ended up in the river camps. “I stole a car once and headed north,” another man laughed, “only made it as far as Nambour before the cops dragged me back to do a year at Boggo Road.” Atherton. My mind was made up. I would hitchhike up the coast, or steal a car, and make my way to Atherton. I would work on the farms and save enough money to rescue Mum from Dad, and I’d get her to move up with me and we’d be happy. Stealing cars along the way and sleeping rough or breaking into a hotel room where I could. Sneaking into hotel rooms always reminded me of days skipping school in Rockdale and it was only when I was fully roused that I remembered where I was and that I’d have to find breakfast myself because Mum certainly wasn’t putting it on the table for me. The sign on the outskirts of Atherton was a beacon of hope. A promised land. Green fields stretched out as far as I could see. For all I knew they went on forever and ever. The mountains in the distance looked like they reached up to Heaven, which would have been visible had it not been for the heavy cloud that clung to the mountains and veiled them from mortal view. I was a pilgrim seeking fortune and freedom and I had reached the holy land. I broke into a service station and spent the night sleeping on a piece of cardboard that I fashioned into a makeshift mattress that I wedged behind a tractor and some old beer crates. Cracking open a bottle of beer felt like a sacrament. I offered a toast to the river crew and to Mum, and I drank deeply to the future and fell into a contented sleep. Something stirred. The sun had broken through and the place was alive with the sound of jangling keys and a running engine. I rifled through my things and threw them into my rucksack. Standing up, I saw a police car outside the window I’d broken to get inside and the door that led out of the room was ajar. Through the doorway I heard muffled voices. “…don’t know where he’s come from…” “…just a delinquent teen…” “…have to take him in.” They put me in a tiny cell in the Atherton police station. I had only ever prayed out of desperation before, particularly when Dad was raging. I had prayed to whatever god was out there to save me from his fists. I had prayed for the pub to be closed when Dad knocked off work. For him to be sober. For him to be hit by a car. Anything. Now I prayed for a miracle to get me out of the mess I was in. Most of all I prayed they didn’t send me back to Rockdale. I don’t want to put it down to divine intervention or nothing like that, but on the third day my prayers were answered. Christian, a forty-something old man who had a travelling entertainment gig around North Queensland was looking for a new apprentice for his magic show. He’d come into the police station to ask if he could put up a sign to advertise for someone. The cops said that if he was up for bailing me that I could go with him. I was keen to get out and saw my escape plan laid out before me. I’d be his apprentice for now, then escape when I could. Christian was a traveling magician who did jobs in schools across the north under the name, Davo the Magician. Said he’d been working on a new trick that would put his name up there with Houdini. He wanted to disappear and he wanted to get back to Townsville to debut it. We set off from the tablelands and made our way south again, taking the highway down the coast road. The town spread out around the base of a steeply sloping hill, a monolith that looked out to the sea towards an island sitting off the coast like a piece of land that had escaped the mainland. Goat-ravaged hills of granite, burnt sienna and orange, stood high and monolithic at the end of a broad sweep of beach towards a cape in the north. Several creeks, muddy and wide, blocked the passage out the campsite where we made our rest among the grass. “I reckon we should perform the disappearing act at Central first,” he said, placing his tongs down on a stump next to the pan of pork sausages that bubbled and spat at him as he wiped his greasy fingers on his overalls. “Give ‘em a show they’ll never forget.” I sat on a large granite block that had been hewn from the hillside, drinking a cup of tea. “How long we staying in this place?” “I dunno, mate, I reckon we stay a few months and make our way down to Rocky, then come back north again in winter.” I didn’t want to stay here. The air was too hot and though the sky was blue like it had been in the south, it was a washed out kind of blue that reminded me of a dead man’s lips. Like the life had been sapped by the intense sun that beat down upon the land. I wanted to run, to follow the freedom that called me north, to find again those green fields in Atherton. To look upon the mountains to the heavens and to enjoy the idea that one day I might be free. I thought of Mum back in Rockdale and the dream of a better life for her. And I thought of Dad and a piece of my soul died. “I can stay a couple of weeks, then I reckon I will head north again,” I said as he handed me a piece of bread and a pork sausage. He laughed. “You’re with me until you’re eighteen, mate. Conditions of your bail.” He turned and tended to the fire, which was beginning to die down now that breakfast was done. A thousand thoughts of freedom slipped out of view, ebbing towards the distant horizon that shimmered under the harsh sun. Four more years! Four more years as a slave to this man all because he paid twenty quid to release me from a holding cell. Four years holding off on freedom. How could I go on? I couldn’t give up. I wouldn’t give up. His axe sat beside me on a pile of logs next to me. The haft was heavy and strong, made from American oak, and the axe head, though somewhat weathered and beaten, was surprisingly sharp. I ran my hand along the throat and up the belly, feeling the grain running lengthwise from the knob to the shoulder. I gripped it tightly and lifted it above my head as I stood and swung it down on the back of his head. He stumbled forward and I thought he was going to fall in the embers of the fire, but he managed to steady himself and turn to face me. I swung again and hit him across the face. He dropped like he was nothing and I threw the axe into the long grass. I sat down again and collected my thoughts. I was going north. I had left Rockdale and I was never going back. The green grass was calling.  

4qnhhv

Beneath the Waves: Journey to Atlantis

“George, it’s simply a submarine tour,” Marge reassured, her voice filled with both excitement and patience. With a grumble, George’s eyes darted through the crowd gathered at the dock. “Just a casual trip into the abyss. Nothing to worry about.” Marge rolled her eyes playfully. “You’ve had more excitement at the dentist than you’ll have here.” “It's not funny, Marge,” George replied, his voice tight. “You know I don't do well in confined spaces.” He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the cold sweat trickling down his back. Marge had that same gleam in her eyes when they first met. It was the same spark that had gotten them into all kinds of trouble over the years. From zip lining through rainforests in Costa Rica to navigating the crowded bazaars of Marrakech. But this… this was different. The ocean was too vast, too mysterious. There was no exit strategy here. A booming voice interrupted their laughter. “Ahoy, there, me hearties!” Aloysius “Albatross” Martinelli bellowed. “Today, our destination is the submerged city of Atlantis!” His crew cheered in response. Their spirits are as buoyant as the air bubbles rising from their submerged vessel. “I created a one-of-a-kind submersible bus that can withstand incredible depths. I modeled the sub-bus after the London double-decker buses I rode in my youth. A tour through Stratford-upon-Avon, home to the world’s most influential writer–William Shakespeare–lit a fire in me for adventure. Today, I give you the opportunity for an adventure like no other.” Everyone’s attention shifted from Albatross when the sub-bus hatch swung open with a loud, metallic groan. A young woman with sea foam-colored hair and a smile as bright as the sun emerged. She sported a captivating blue uniform featuring a name tag that read ‘Cap’n Marisol’. “Looks like we’ve arrived just in time for the high tide of curiosity!” she called out, her voice as bubbly as the waves lapping the shore. Her sly pun went over their heads. “Welcome to the grandest tour on this side of the continental shelf!” The tourists murmured among themselves, exchanging glances that were a mix of skepticism and excitement. The sub-bus, painted in a vibrant blue, was a sleek and modern vessel that reflected the ocean above. The portholes were so big and polished that the vessel resembled a spaceship rather than a sub-bus. A line of passengers, all chattering eagerly, filed in. George remained rooted to the spot, his grip on Marge’s arm tightening. He whispered, pointing towards the young couple who had just come off the gangplank, holding hands. “They’re not worried. They think it’s all fun and games until we’re stuck down there swimming with the fishies.” Marge leaned in, mischief gleaming in her eyes. “Oh, come on, George,” she coaxed. “You’ve faced down more than a few sharks in your day.” He grimaced. “Those were the kind you can see at the other end of a pool table.” Marge gave him a gentle nudge. “You’re not getting out of this one. We’re going on this adventure, and you’re going to love it.” “If we went to Hawaii like I wanted we’d be getting a sunburn on the beach.” Exploring the deep sea was far from enjoyable for George. Confined spaces were not his thing. While nearing the hatch, a strong gust of salty wind swept by them, carrying the haunting melody of a distant whale. George experienced a spine-chilling shiver and briefly thought about fleeing. However, when he noticed the same excitement in Marge’s eyes, the excitement that had been present on their wedding day, he realized he couldn’t let her down. Giving a resigned sigh, he followed obediently as he went down the steep steps into the depths of the sub-bus. The interior was surprisingly spacious. There were rows of comfortable seats facing a wall of windows that looked out into the vast, unexplored world beneath the waves. A colorful mural of sea life appeared as the lights flickered on, its curious eyes seeming to observe them. Cap’n Marisol made her way down the aisle, ensuring everyone’s seatbelts were fastened. She reached for George and gave his shoulder a firm pat. “No need to worry, sir,” she said, flashing a comforting smile. “She’s a sturdy little thing. Made to endure the toughest seas and even the most curious Kraken.” George’s eyes widened. “Kraken? I heard you mention Kraken.” Cap’n Marisol chuckled. “You know about the stories? We had a little incident with one a few weeks ago. Some cables were torn apart. Now that she’s all patched up, she’s good as new.” Curiosity piqued, Marge leaned in. “How did it look?” “It was a sight to behold, ma’am. With tentacles longer than a school bus, it’s twice the size of this sub-bus. Our crew and advanced technology ensure our safety, despite any fears.” The mention of the Kraken hardly calmed George’s nerves, yet he was captivated by the stories of their near encounter. He leaned closer to the porthole, peering into the deep. Surprisingly, as the sub-bus descended, George found himself leaning back into the plush seat, feeling the tension in his body slowly easing. The vessel’s walls were lined with screens displaying real-time sonar readings and oceanographic data, a testament to the marvel of modern engineering. The hatch closed with a final, ominous clang, making George gulp nervously. It’s too late to back out now. He sat beside Marge, who was happily buckling her seatbelt. A hint of salty air wafted through the cabin. “Are you ready for this, old man?” she teased, her eyes gleaming with excitement. George made a conscious effort to smile. “I’m as prepared as I’ll ever be,” he stated, praying that his voice wouldn’t reveal his fear. As it lurched, the sub bus sank into the water with a deep, powerful rumble. The surface grew distant. George’s stomach dropped as the world outside the windows grew darker and more mysterious. The interior resembled a luxury hotel rather than a means of transportation, with its shiny hull and expansive viewing windows. Looking around the cabin, he tried to ignore the creeping claustrophobic sensation. “The Atlantis Adventures welcomes you aboard!” Archie’s voice boomed through the intercom, as cheerful as the cartoon fish painted on the walls. The passengers, consisting of tourists and excited children, leaned eagerly in their seats, their eyes filled with anticipation. The young girl in the second row seemed extremely anxious, holding her teddy bear tightly as the tension mounted. Archie continued by saying that today we’re diving into the deep blue to explore the legendary city of Atlantis. “Just a friendly reminder, folks, to always keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle. The fish are friendly, but they might get a little jealous of your snazzy sneakers.” His humor received laughter from the passengers. The sub-bus gracefully descended and glided through the clear waters. Leaning in, Marge whispered, “I promise you’ll adore it.” Taking her hand, they watched together as the ocean engulfed them completely. “Marge, I peed a little.” Maris McFin, the merman, had a smile that could brighten the darkest ocean trenches. He hovered outside the porthole and playfully waved to the young girl, who giggled and waved back. The cabin was illuminated by the gentle fluttering of his emerald tail, casting shimmering lights. The outside world grew murky until the city of Atlantis emerged from the gloom like a diamond. Atlantis consists of expansive, domed structures crafted from a combination of luminous, pearlescent materials and iridescent corals. The architecture combines ancient grandeur and advanced technology to evoke a feeling of majestic splendor with tall spires and sweeping arches. The city is illuminated by a serene, multicolored glow from the vibrant marine flora that appears to have grown instead of being built, intertwining with the buildings. The city’s streets, like winding canals, ferry Atlanteans as they go about their daily routines. The canals are filled with vibrant underwater gardens and exotic aquatic plants that dance to the rhythm of the ocean. Archie’s voice reverberates through the sound system. He enthralls the passengers with captivating stories of Atlantis’s mysterious inhabitants and its fascinating past. The structure shimmered with an ethereal glow, its tall spires reaching toward the ocean's surface like the fingers of ancient gods. As they passed through the submerged city, George felt a subtle shift in the atmosphere. The usual hum of the submarine seemed to fade, replaced by an almost imperceptible resonance that filled the water. It was as if the very essence of Atlantis was speaking in whispers he couldn't hear but could deeply feel. George’s mind was awash with a telepathic wave—clear and vivid. A gentle, calming presence conveyed wordless emotions and thoughts. Welcome to our realm, it seemed to say. You are not alone here. With their faces pressed against the windows, the passengers were filled with wonder as they watched schools of vibrant fish swimming alongside. Archie spoke in a hushed tone, “While we’re all eager to see the merfolk, let’s not forget they’re beyond beautiful beings with shiny tails. We must respect their customs and rules of this ancient civilization.” Maris’s mischievous eyes twinkled as he leaned closer to the glass. He blew a bubble that grew and grew until it popped right next to a young merboy’s nose. The merchild let out a joyful squeal and swiftly swam away, leaving a trail of bubbles behind. The merfolk of Atlantis continued their activities unaffected by the floating metal contraption filled with people. In a silent ballet colorful-haired mermaids swam gracefully, their laughter resonating in the water. As they continued, Archie pointed out landmarks: including the magnificent amphitheater where the merfolk held their annual symphony of the seas, the marketplace where pearls were exchanged for seaweed, and the majestic palace of the Atlantean ruler. Maris’ telepathic whispers effortlessly led them through the city. The passengers were captivated by the beauty and wonder of it all. Even the most skeptical adult couldn’t help but feel a sense of magic in the water. While in the midst of the enchantment, a shadow appeared in the distance. As the dark shape grew closer, the merfolk’s calm expressions turned to fear. The absence of children’s games created an unnerving silence in the city. For the first time since the tour started, Archie’s smile weakened, uncovering a hint of uncertainty. With a touch of urgency in his tone, he informed the audience that they were about to experience something exceptionally uncommon and awe-inspiring. “Get ready for a glimpse of the creature we’ve all been waiting for: the legendary Kraken!” A malevolent cloud loomed over the city as the shadow transformed into a massive collection of tentacles and a beak-like mouth. The Kraken, a mythical and terrifying creature, emerged from the depths. The dark body stood out against the vibrant backdrop of Atlantis. The merfolk scattered, their graceful movements replaced by a frenzied dance of evasion. Maris’ smile vanished, and a serious expression filled his eyes. Archie, we must evacuate them from this place , he communicated using telepathy. Our city hasn’t seen the Kraken in years. Its return does not bode well. Maris took the lead, swiftly and decisively, using his tail to guide. The sub-bus followed closely, weaving through the now chaotic streets of Atlantis. The Kraken’s tentacles struck, causing waves of water to crash against the windows. The passengers let out a collective gasp. The sight of the creature left awe and terror etched on everyone's face. The pressure grew, and George could feel it in his ears, a painful reminder of the weight of the water above. Come on, it's 2023, not 1943. This isn't a war zone, it's a holiday. George had never talked much about his time in the navy, especially not about that one mission that had left him with a fear that seemed to have followed him into his golden years. Each jostle of the sub-bus brought screams and yelps from the passengers. But George wasn't listening. His mind was already back in the cramped, damp compartments of the sub he had once called home, navigating through the deadly dance of metal and explosives that had been a minefield during the war. The fear was real, palpable, and it was all he could do to keep it from showing on his face. They were all buckled in and ready for adventure, blissfully unaware of the silent battle George was fighting with his own claustrophobic demons. He gripped the armrests, his knuckles white, and hoped that he could keep it together for just a little longer. The sub-bus lurched forward, and George felt the weight of the ocean pressing down on him. You can do this. The memories grew louder. He could almost hear the clank of the metal hull, the tense whispers of his crewmates, and the ever-present tick of the depth gauge. George's eyes remained fixed on the depth display. With each passing moment, he felt more and more trapped. He could feel the weight of the ocean above, crushing down. The walls grew closer, the air thicker. Cap’n Marisol glanced at the control panel and swiftly moved her fingers over the buttons to keep up their speed. “Brace yourselves, everyone!” she called out, her voice crackling with the strain of the situation. “We’re going to get you out of here safe and sound!” The passengers gripped their seats. The Kraken grew closer with tentacles wrapping around the sub-busin a vice-like grip. The lights flickered, and the engine groaned. With mounting pressure, the children’s laughter turned into screams. Maris stayed alongside Marisol, never taking his eyes off her. Trust me. We’ll go to the trench . Marisol took a deep breath, nodded, and steered the sub-bus toward the city’s outskirts. The ocean floor descended into an abyssal trench. Despite the Kraken’s tightening grip, the sub-bus continued its descent into the deep, dark sea. The passengers were so preoccupied with staring that they didn’t notice George’s change in behavior. Marge knew that look; it meant trouble. This Kraken was not just curious; it was hunting. Cap’n Marisol noticed that this Kraken was unlike the one she had encountered a few weeks before. This Kraken was more aggressive, more intelligent. The creature’s beady eyes bored into the cabin, searching, calculating. The creature’s tentacles extended, but the depths of the trench were too overwhelming for it. With one final thrust of the joystick, Cap’n Marisol dove deeper. With a roar that seemed to rattle the ocean itself, the Kraken finally let go and vanished into the dark abyss. The passengers let out a collective sigh. Merfolk of Atlantis resumed their activities, casting wary glances at the retreating shadow. Maris’s weariness didn’t dampen his smile as he approached the submarine. He expressed gratitude to Cap’n Marisol. You’ve saved us all from grave danger. With a nod, Cap’n Marisol wiped a bead of sweat from her brow. Just another day on the job, she quipped, trying to lighten the mood. However, her heart raced as she realized the tourists on board had just lived a story they would never forget. The tension in George’s chest began to ease, and he felt a newfound appreciation for the bravery of his younger self. The twenty-year old George had faced far greater dangers than a simple tour. The submarine's descent grew steady, and George felt a strange sense of peace wash over him. I survived the war, and I will survive this. “We’ve got a problem with the air compressor!” Cap'n Marisol shouted, her voice tense. “Despite our best attempts, we can’t remove the water from the ballast tanks. If we don’t fix this, we’re not surfacing.” “I’m on it!” George yelled back, dashing to the engine bay where the air compressors were housed. He scanned over the gauges. The pressure levels reached dangerously low levels. He crouched down and carefully ran his hands along the air hoses, searching for any signs of a leak. From the back, he heard a gentle hissing noise coming from a pipe. Damn, it’s losing air. He used tape to patch the pipe. The hissing ceased, yet the pressure gauge hardly moved. Still not enough pressure. His gaze landed on the compressor. It hummed, but not with its usual power. Flipping open the control panel, he inspected the fuses. One of them was blown. There you are. He swapped out the fuse for a backup. Flipping the switch to restart the compressor caused the engine to sputter before roaring back to life. As the hum grew deeper and louder, George watched with relief as the pressure gauge began to climb. The tanks were now being filled with air, which pushed the water out. He sprinted back to the control room. “Compressor’s back online! Pressure’s normalizing!” With one last groan, the sub-bus started to stabilize and slowly ascend towards the surface. George exhaled deeply. “We’re good.” He received a friendly slap on the back from Cap’n Marisol. “Nice work, George. Let’s get moving.” The ascension began and George got lost in the beauty of the underwater world as he watched a school of jellyfish glide by, their delicate tendrils trailing behind them. He saw a shark, sleek and powerful, swimming in the distance. He enjoyed the sights of coral reefs teeming with life, and even a majestic manta ray that seemed to wave as it passed. As they move upward, the sun’s rays penetrate the water, enveloping the shaken group in a warm glow. A plume of water shot into the air as the sub-bus broke the water’s surface. The passengers cheered. Their relief flooded the cabin. The tension in the cabin eased, and the passengers looked out the windows, reflecting on the incredible sights they had witnessed. The tour didn’t go as planned, but it was definitely unforgettable. Emerging from the depths, a sense of melancholy washed over them as they bid farewell to the magnificent city of Atlantis. One thing was certain: their adventure would be a topic of conversation for years. ###

jcbzn2

A Night Rider

A Night Rider by Minka Paraskevova My passion for horses had led me to this remote island of dark gray dense mists and sharp mountain peaks, whose naked bodies were drowned in deep silence and bathed in daily rains. The wet leaves of the trees had cracked from the constantly rushing water from the sky and stretched out to the ground in desperate attempts to find support... My Scottish guide walked briskly in his deep boots. His hair was tightly clinging to his damp scalp, while the pale pinkness on his white face contrasted with the coal-blackness of his eyes in which flashed fiery flames. His body moved quickly and deftly, similar to that of a wild animal, and his nose seemed to smell every movement around us. But the strangest thing about him was the endless chatter, which continued pouring like raindrops and watering the earth and my tired senses. The fog and the incessant rain had succeeded in burying down my usual good spirits, whilst the nagging of the guide had strained my nerves to a sheer extreme. "One more word and I'll kill him with my own hands!" the thought darted through my mind, but the only thing that stopped me from doing it was that I didn't know the wild place and I couldn't survive without the skill of my guide. “Wild horses never roam alone!” he said and turned his hot gaze to me. For a second I thought his hands resembled hooves, but it must have been the fog. I cleared my throat and asked: "Ah, why don't they never wander alone?" "Because they're afraid of meeting a kelpie." I had never heard the word in my life before and my guide continued his story without waiting for a prompt from me. “The kelpie is an evil demon that appears in the form of a horse. Even real horses cannot distinguish it, but they know that if they meet a horse wandering alone in the mountains, they should run away so not to be attacked.” "And what happens if the creature attacks them?" It seemed very unlikely to be true, but I knew vaguely the superstitions and beliefs of the people on that island. "First he takes all their power, and then he turns them into evil demons.” It seemed a little unusual for my guide to tell me these stories, but at least it distracted my own gloomy thoughts from the seeping fog and dampness. "Riding a wild horse is not an easy job," the guide added to my thought, "are you really an experienced rider?" I could have shown him all the cups and certs I kept on my desk at home, however at that moment I thought of doing nothing but keep quiet. "Let's hope so," my guide said somewhat encouragingly, his teeth flashing into a weird horse's smile. Sudden chills ran down my back. I rubbed my eyes – my guide was whistling merrily – a small but tough man, no more than a meter and a half, wearing high rubber boots, waterproof trousers and a blue raincoat with a pointy hood. "But an ordinary horse, being it wild, could never outrun a kelpie. A kelpie moves as fast as a dart, and its ears hear sounds from Hell.” “Hell?!” I asked unbelievingly, trying to reassure I heard him correctly "Yes, hell. This is the farthest point on the island. No one has ever set foot there. They say that it is the home of all demons.” "How come noone had ever been there? Even you?” I ask playfully, slightly amused by the last part of the guide's story. His fingers outlined a cross in front of his face and said,"Not even me. But once I was on the verge of getting there. I saw thousands of beasts with burning eyes, greedily tearing their own flesh and drinking their own blood.” I shuddered. Not from the demonic picture he described, but from his icy breath that washed over my face and made the hairs on the back of my head to stand up. And yet he spoke and behaved like a man... "What saved you?" I tried to divert his attention from myself. "My first love!" "Demons do not love and cannot tolerate the energy of love.... after all, he's human," the thought I needed so badly at that moment soothed me a little. "But she wasn't human," he seemed to read my mind and smiled warmly at me. This time his breath was hot. "I couldn't have known it then, I was terribly young and naïve. She captivated me with her ability to shoot. The divine Freya - a Priestess of love. I couldn't resist. I became her shadow and followed her everywhere. I forgot my relatives and equals and tried to grow up as a man next to her. But I only got to the position of a head groom in her stables. There I learned everything I know about horses. Gradually, I began to shake off my blindness, and then the long and painful nights appeared. I had broken away from my family and there was no way back.” I was holding my breath because the story was extraordinary. "How did you escape?" "I pretended to be sick. I hoped Freya would give up on me and let me go. But that's not what happened. The news of my illness reached our village and our house. My parents and brothers had already buried me alive, but not my sister Bea. When she learned about my illness, she grabbed a bundle of herbs, some food and went looking for me.” Something grabbed me by the throat. "The poor girl met a lonely horse in the forest. She decided that if the horse allowed her to ride it, it would speed up her journey to me. She approached and stroked the horse's mane. Surprisingly, it did not behave like a wild horse. It even lay down so that she could climb on its back.” "And she mounted it?" "Yes, she did. Then the horse galloped headlong through the forest. To this day, he is still racing.” "You mean she's dead?" "Kelpies kill people. First, they entice them and make them want to climb on their backs. Then they race quickly and throw themselves into a deep pool or lake and drown their rider.” "But that's just a myth, isn't it?" I asked in a slightly hesitant voice. "Alas, no! In Freya's court, I talked to other creatures who had witnessed the actions of the kelpies.” “Wait wait! What other creatures, you took care of the horses, didn't you?” "Yes, but besides me, there were also forest elves who were amazing riders. They also spoke the language of horses. And I didn't.” At that moment, my foot slipped and hit something hard. Stunned, I snitched my ankle. The guide bent down and picked up a large piece of metal in his hand. He turned around, "It's sprained, I'm going to fix it now. Hold this, please!” I took it in my hand and leaned against a large stone next to the path. He pulled my ankle abruptly. A piercing pain cut through my body. "Nice scream!" he couldn't hold it, "Now look carefully at what I gave you.” I had completely forgotten about the thing in my hand, but when I opened my palm I saw that I had squeezed it so hard that there was a scar on my skin. "What does it say?" he asked excitedly. "Bea"?! What the hell..." my hand trembled. "That was a part of my sister's tiara. Don't you believe it yet?” "And what happened to Freya?" I tried to redirect the conversation until I find some reasonable explanation for what had just happened. “Not much. She continued to be Freya. But I sank into deep despair. Nothing in this rich and lavish world made me happy. Even the horses did not bring me comfort. One day, Freya sent her younger sister, Morgan, to distract me. She took me to a remote place to shoot with bows. This cheered me up and reminded me of the first moments of love between me and Freya. Morgan saw the thrill in my heart, and a sudden anger and envy shook her whole being. She began to chase me with her horse and bow like a live target. I spurred the black horse I was riding and managed to escape deep into the forest. Neither I nor the horse knew the way back to Freya's kingdom, and I was no longer looking for a way there. That night, through the leaves of the tree next to which we had stretched ourselves to rest, I saw the demonic faces and realized that I was on the border of Hell. In the morning, I hurried to escape as far away from this place as possible. But this picture keeps on reappearing in my dream every night since then and does not give me peace.” The pain in my ankle had weakened but I kept stepping carefully on it. "Let's be bolder! Human body hides magical powers. Trust it!” he urged me with a smile. And no matter how much I didn't believe it, at that moment I felt a gigantic wave of energy and walked quickly, as if for the first time in my life I was stepping on that foot. "See?" "So, what happened next?" I asked impatiently and pulled a small leaf from the tree above my head. "I wandered for a long time, eating berries and roots, drinking rainwater – like this”, he grabbed a piece of grass and poured the contents into his mouth to show me. "After long days and nights, we reached the end of my village. I thought "Saved at last", but when people saw me, they started screaming and shouting "Demon!", threw stones at me, and my own brothers even chased me with axes away from the village. We left the village in an instant. "And now – where?" I wondered. My horse heard a crack and ran away. It disappeared like hell. I was left alone.” "I know that horses are very attached to their masters and come back.” I said, hoping for a happy ending to the story. "Then I met an abandoned child. People here are afraid of forest fairies. If a child does not develop like other children, mothers believe that their child has been stolen and replaced with a fairy child. They call it a changling. Therefore, they go to the forest and leave the bundle with the baby along with a bowl of milk.” "That's downright cruel. Where I come from fairies are always good and help people.” "People are generally good, but their fears are greater than the love in their hearts. This is where most of the world's evils come from. Like black angels, for example.” The pleyad of creatures began to confuse me. "A moment, what happened to the abandoned child?" "You know, even though we believe we're alone, there's no such thing as 'completely alone' in nature." He smiled charmingly at me, and as he turned his ear it seemed slightly darkened and elongated. "Just because we don't see something doesn't mean it doesn't exist. But everything we see is also not always real. Even very often it is a figment of our imagination, a hidden desire or an unrealized thought.” "And what happened to the child?" I continued to ask. “The child was fine. A black angel stood next to him and protected him. Although excluded from his own kind, he deserved to grow as a human being.” "And yet, what did you do? Did you help it? " My maternal instinct began to work. My guide looked at me warmly and continued, “There is a whole village with abandoned children. It is called the "Children's City". The black angel guided me the whole time as we traveled to the place.” I gave a sigh of relief. “In this city, the oldest child is ten years old. There children take care of other children and are very united. But with the onset of puberty, they leave the place and are accompanied to a remote village with few inhabitants, where they are helped to settle down, grow up and build their own family and home.” "An interesting symbiosis, maybe child-to-child care is better than adult-to-child care?", I thought as my guide tried to light a fire in the dark and illuminated the trees and the ground with a small pocket flashlight. “Yes, it is somewhat so!” the guide answered my thought once again.” Because they are closer intellectually and emotionally, especially emotionally, to each other. They easily recognize the child needs and respond with their purest energy form, because the ego has not yet awakened.” “That makes sense. And then, when puberty sets in and the ego starts to rage, they need well-formed mature adults to guide them.” “Yes, that is so, but, unfortunately, many of the elderly people are far from such a mature and wise demeanour to do so. And many of them are also mentally and emotionally burdened by traumas from their childhood. Please, will you hold the flashlight so I can try to make a fire with these twigs?" Instinctively, I reached out without looking at him in the direction of his voice, and when I involuntarily touched his hand, I felt hard fur on it. I turned straight away to make sure my senses weren't deceiving me, and it turned out that I had touched a goatskin bag hung across the neck of the guide which I hadn't noticed before. "Interesting," said the guide in an amused voice, "humans claim that they are ready to create the world, but they cannot control their own thoughts and fears.” "What’s this?" I asked, somewhat embarrassed, pointing at the bag. "My Annabelle – my innermost desires and thoughts are hidden in it.” “This... Is it again some local belief or ritual?” I couldn't restrain myself asking. "No." he answered abruptly and began to blow and kindle the small flame of fire. I felt he closed in himself and moved away to give him space. To ease the full movement of his arms, he put the small leather bag on the ground. Eaten up by inhuman curiosity, I crept quietly and gently pulled the bag towards me by the thin string with which it was tightened. For a brief moment I hesitated whether it was right to do it or not, but... my fingers had already untied deftly the string ... "You couldn’t resist it," I heard his cold voice behind me. I jumped up in fright and started spitting in my bosom. "Well, that's not Christian," he told me more affectionately, and laughed when he saw my puzzled face after I managed to catch a glimpse of the bag before he reached out to pick it up, "empty, isn't it?" "Yes, but I was thinking..." I couldn't finish my sentence. I felt small and stupid. “... that it is easy to see the innermost desires and thoughts of another being? For this you need something more than a daring hand and a burning curiosity.” Suddenly, we heard a grunt behind a tree next to us and a pair of black ears showed from behind it. “Hey!” the guide shouted and whistled. A moment later, a large, stock black horse stood in front of us. Apparently they knew each other well. "It was following us all the time. A clever animal!” I reached out and stroked it gently between the eyes. Then I lowered my hand to its muzzle and the horse snorted gently into my hand. I had a strong desire to ride this incredible beauty. My guide had overtaken me. I took his outstretched hand and jumped on the horse in front of him. I felt the horse's back slightly lengthen to take us both. At first it walked slowly. Then, it gradually trotted. After a few minutes, the horse accelerated its gait at a slight gallop. It moved with incredible ease and grace. I buried my fingers in its lush mane. The horse responded to my caress with a slight neigh. Suddenly, in front of us, I recognized the figure of my guide. I turned around – his seat was empty. "You're the new night rider!" The man's words reached me before the thick fog enveloped him like a cloak. I was galopping filled with joy and frigth at the same time. I tried to control the horse, but it did not obey my commands. It was racing madly. Not long after, I caught a glimpse of the calm waters of a mountain lake. I closed my eyes waiting for the worst to come. The horse stopped abruptly in front of the lake and started to quench its thirst slowly. I fell to the ground with trembling knees. My heart was ready to jump out of my chest. Then the horse raised its head and looked at me. I recognized the black eyes of my guide and his smile, which as though was asking me "And now – do you believe in us?". I hugged the horse, ruffled its mane goodbye, patted him on the back and said "Yes, I do!" in a loud voice.

y57ebd

The Weekend at the Wheels Inn

It was the third time we had gone away together, but the difference was that his entire extended family would be there with us this time. I hesitated when I heard that since we weren't exactly at that stage in our relationship yet, in my estimation. Michael picked me up on Thursday night. We both took Friday off since all of his aunts and uncles told him they were doing that. When we arrived at the Inn, I immediately noticed our rooms were all in a row on the same floor. That should've been my first red flag. The room doors were all open, and music played from somewhere. Everyone we met had a drink in their hand and a smile on their face. The atmosphere was happy. People were playing cards in one room. In another group, men were telling jokes and laughing more than the kids were, making them the loudest group on the floor. There must've been at least fifteen kids, ages eight to 15. They were left to do whatever they wanted in the Inn without supervision. The Inn offered an arcade, a mini-putt golf course, an indoor swimming pool, a skating rink, racquetball courts, and squash courts. It was a place any kid would love at any age. If the kids came into a room where they were, the parents would dig into their pockets and throw a $20.00 bill at them to get the kids out of their hair. Arriving around 5:30 in the afternoon, we had yet to eat, and then we would swim. We kept it quiet since we didn't want all the kids to join us in the pool. The Inn had two restaurants, one of which was a burger and fries joint, while the other was a fine dining place. Michael wanted to hit the burger and fries joint so he could get back to partying with his family, but I insisted on the fine dining so we could escape the crowded family atmosphere for a few minutes. When we arrived, I thought Michael would barely talk to me since he enjoyed his family. While I thought it was great to see Michael love his family so much, his admiration for his aunts and uncles was slightly over the top. The men drew the manager's attention numerous times for their level of noise, and the kids equally drew the manager's attention for playing in the elevators. The poor man must've earned every penny that weekend. People dropped into any room when they were exhausted from partying. It didn't matter whose room it was or who else was in the bed. I saw brothers-in-law in bed with their sisters-in-law and friends' wives in bed with friends' husbands. Now, I know they were drunk, and nothing was going on, but even still, the whole scenario was ludicrous. Never before in my life had I ever seen anything like this. The following day, everyone woke up early, returned to their respective rooms, and ate breakfast together like everything was normal. But after breakfast, the fathers made a trip to the Liquor Control Board of Ontario and the Beer Store to return their empties and to purchase more booze for that evening. Michael went with them and left me alone with his aunts and all those kids. I went to the sitting area with my book to get away from the noise on the floor because, when I closed my door, every aunt and the older sisters of Michael knocked to see what was wrong. After the fifth knock, I left the door open, and when nobody was around, I slipped into the hallway and down the stairs to the sitting area, where I tried to hide behind my book and sunhat. But with so many kids around who are so observant, it's impossible to hide. "Why are you hiding behind that book?" one of Michael's younger cousins, who must've been eight years old, asked me. "I'm not hiding. I like to read, and it's impossible to read with all the noise on our floor, don't you think?" I said. "No, that's not true. I've been watching you. You're not having any fun at all. You don't like our family very much. But you do like Michael. Huh?" "What makes you say that? Of course, I like your family." "I don't even think you like kids," she said as she stared me down, her eyes meeting mine. "Yes, I do. It's just that I'm not used to being around so many kids all at once." "I don't think so. I think you would rather have stayed home now that you're here. You don't like Michael as much as you thought you did. That's too bad, too, because he's a sweet and really nice guy," she said, then left. I sat there pretending to read my book for a long time but thinking about what she had said to me. I couldn't help but think that if this young girl could see right through me, so could many other people. I felt horrible and foolish. *** When Michael returned, I told him I signed us up for Racquetball and Squash. "That's great. I think we're going to have so much fun. Did you get some reading done?" Michael said. "My cousin told me she talked with you. Be careful of her; she's only eight, but her IQ is through the roof. She's pretty astute and observant as an eagle high in the sky." "Yes, I got that impression just from our short conversation." I smiled at him, and we returned to our room to change for our afternoon on the courts. *** We played until we both worked up a good sweat in racquetball and then ventured over to play squash. I knew Michael hadn't played that much squash before, so he said. But when we hit the court, I soon discovered he was a snake in the grass. "When I was in the navy, we played squash on board. It helped pass the time and kept my waistline trim. I guess I should've told you before we started playing. Sorry about that." He laughed. I was slightly perturbed but smiled and said, "No, that's fine. We're having fun together and getting some exercise, aren't we?" "Well, maybe you are. But honestly, I'm not getting much of a workout here." I thought he was joking, but when I turned to see his face, I realized that he was being serious so much for the sweet and friendly guy. The rest of the day continued with more of the same type of instances. They happened so frequently that I cringed wherever he wanted to touch me. I couldn't believe how much I wanted to be home in my bed alone. *** We drove home in silence, both of us feigning fatigue. We had spent three nights staying up late and going all day. "I had a great time, Michael; thank you for taking me to meet your family," I said as we pulled up to the car park where we had met. "I'm glad. I'd like to see you again. Is that okay with you?" "Sure," I said. And got out of the car. On Monday I made a significant change in my life. I called the phone company and changed my number. And just like that, his plus one was no longer his. He had no way of getting a hold of me. I took his number and threw it away. I learned that being a plus one isn't all that it's cracked up to be.

h7ad3k

Blueprints of a Journey

Jack stepped hard on the pedal of his second-hand car, as he sped away from the life he'd always known. His laptop sat on the passenger seat, his faithful companion for the past weeks, a symbol of the writing career he was determined to build. As he drove, he thought about Jill, the nomadic blogger he was racing to meet, unaware of the intricacies of her personal history that had shaped her. Jack swerved awkwardly around a sharp bend, the car's worn tires screeching. He pulled over, heart racing, and took a few deep breaths of the night dew, and a faint smell of wild jasmine hit his nostrils. He needed to calm down; otherwise, he would never reach his destination. He liked to travel long distances in the evening, when traffic was lighter and he had the luxury to stop and gaze to open stary skies, far away from the buzzy cities; but this also posed a danger, since the route was never traveled before, and hidden hazards could appear in every turn. He opened his laptop to check Jill's latest blog post, to steady his nerves and reaffirm his purpose. Jill brought again to him vivid pictures of far-off places that he was getting closer each passing day. Jill, born to hippie parents, had never known a stable home, her life a constant journey since infancy. Jack, secretly, had been preparing for this journey since his teens. He was meticulously planning every detail while maintaining the facade of the dutiful son. He balanced his parents' expectations with his secret dreams of becoming a writer, far away from the stifling family environment. As he drove, he dictated notes for his next blog post, his voice recorder capturing the excitement for the open road and newly discovered places. He liked recording everything while his impressions were fresh, he could edit later, but the excitement he need it as fresh as possible. Meanwhile, in a bustling Mediterranean market, early in the morning, Jill, was in a discovery expedition along with her mother who was examining local handmade crafts closely to copy the technique and style. Afterall, it was her mother's jewelry-making and father's photography that had been funding their nomadic lifestyle for years. Jack felt a twinge of guilt as passed through the customs and crossed yet to another country, further away from his parents, for the first time in his life. His parents were unaware of his true destination or his intention to not come back for a while, if ever. His mind resurfaced their proud smiles as he'd told them about the summer program studying ancient architecture in the south. It was the perfect excuse, a logical next step after completing the engineering degree they'd wanted for him. The trip was the reward for finishing his degree with honors and on time. He would be travelling further that either of them had travelled and they felt he deserved it. Jack had never the intention to attend any seminar, but he did not want to face his parents’ disappointment and objections for the choices he had made. He dulled his guilt for the deception by focusing on his growing audience, each new post bringing him closer to the life he envisioned. Jill, checking her own blog stats, wondered if her followers understood the price of constant motion - no lasting friendships, no place to truly call home. Jill was an ever optimist, so her posts presented the richness, not the hurdles of life. She wanted to bring out the brightness not the darkness of her existence. Jack had stumbled upon Jill's blog a couple years back and was captivated not just by her adventures, but by the depth of her insights. Her stories had become both his escape and his inspiration until he mustered up the courage and contacted her, some months ago. Their online conversations had grown from casual comments to deep, night-long chats and videocalls. Jill found herself opening to Jack in ways she never had before, sharing doubts about her lifestyle that she'd never voiced to her free-spirited parents. Jack seemed oblivious to the difficulties of her life, viewing nomads through the rose tainted glasses of an outsider. Jack's writing evolved as he traveled, each new experience shaping his voice. He wrote about the architecture he'd studied, blending technical insights with poetic descriptions of ancient stones and modern skylines. His posts captivated both square headed engineers and free-spirited poets. He invited Jill to comment on his writing and when she read his posts, she felt a connection to his perspective - a blend of the structured world she craved and the artistic soul she recognized. Jack's car sputtered as he ferried across to another country. He used the downtime to edit his latest post, weaving in historical facts with personal observations. His followers were growing, drawn to his unique blend of travelogue and architectural critique. Jill, meanwhile, was beginning to question the purpose of her constant movement and was impatient to meet Jack to learn his take of a rooted life. She wanted to know what motivated Jack to take off; maybe that way she could justify her parents’ need for constant change. She wanted Jack's rooted knowledge to counteract with her rootless existence. Jack's journey across Europe became a series of stories, each breakdown and detour an excuse for another blog, fodder for his increasing popularity. He wrote about the people he met, the buildings he saw, each post a step towards the writer he was becoming. Jill, following his journey online, found herself looking at familiar places through new eyes, Jack's fresh perspective reigniting her own passion for discovery. Jack's driving grew more confident as he neared the Mediterranean, his excitement building at the thought of finally meeting Jill. They had agreed to co-author a series of articles, blending their distinct viewpoints on travel and place. Jill, nervous about the collaboration, realized she was equally excited about meeting someone who seemed to understand both her wanderlust and her unspoken desire for connection. Jack kept refining his writing style, each post gaining more engagement. He had begun to feel more sure about his decision to step outside his comfort zone and venture to the unknown. He and Jill had begun to plan their joint project, their online discussions sparking with creative energy and unacknowledged attraction. Jill found herself looking forward to their meeting with an intensity that surprised her, Jack's virtual presence a stabilizing force in her ever-changing world. Jack's car groaned as he wound along coastal roads, the sea air carrying promises of new beginnings. He was composing his next post in his head, imagining how Jill might respond to his words. For the past few days, Jill was constantly into his mind. He had fallen for her, but he had not come to admit it to himself. Jill, preparing for their meeting, felt a mix of excitement and trepidation. Could Jack be the bridge between her nomadic life and the rooted existence she was beginning to crave? Jack, exhilarated by how close he was to his destination, stepped out of his car at the stunning viewpoint. Camera in hand, he felt a sense of arrival - not just to a place, but to the person he was meant to be. He knew he would be meeting Jill in a few hours and wanted to be worthy of her, an equal match. Like Icarus flying too close to the sun, Jack's euphoria made him careless. Unsteady from the long drive, Jack lost his footing on the loose gravel. As he fell, his mind raced not with regret, but with story ideas, his writer's instinct strong even in his final moments. Just as Icarus plummeted into the sea, Jack tumbled down the cliff, his journey cut short as he reached for his dreams, into the depths of the blue Mediterranean Sea. Jack's last thoughts were of the stories he'd told and those yet to be written. His blog, "Blueprints of a Journey," had become more than a travelogue - it was the blueprint of his own transformation. As his consciousness faded, he imagined Jill waiting at the café, unaware that their paths would never cross in the physical world. Jack's story would serve as both inspiration and caution. His blog became a posthumous sensation, touching thousands with its tale of daring to chase one's dreams. His parents discovered a son they'd never fully known, while Jill found in his words the courage to forge a new path, balancing ambition with prudence. "Blueprints of a Journey" remained a living document, a testament to the beauty and peril of flying too close to the sun, forever intertwining Jack's brief but impactful life with Jill's ongoing journey of self-discovery.

4u3oeg

Death in a Thunderclap

Death in a Thunderclap Upon encountering death at my doorstep, I was unaware of the profound impact it would have on me. The tormented mind of a loved one sought solace in death's embrace, an option he deemed best. Death shared with me its unique perspective, explaining the transient nature of human life and the weight of witnessing souls extinguish. However, as Death ominously hinted at unfinished business with my family, an unexpected turn of events revealed that Death was not who I had perceived. The talk of a place I didn't know and couldn't recognize mesmerized me before I could resist or argue against Death's appeal, but I faced something more formidable than Kilimanjaro. "It's not easy," Death began. "To wander the globe second to second and to be as close to a human soul as I can get without touching it. Only to watch their fire burn out, akin to the firefly who gives their last light to carry on their legacy." "How did you become Death? If that's how you feel, you've watched so many souls' lights burn out,” I asked, my curiosity piqued. I was eager to understand more about death's motivations. "There's no way to explain what drives me. Except to say my strength drives me onward, which is a glorious reward and yet a curse. There aren't too many things one understands about death easily once death meets them face-to-face." "I can only imagine it's more than anything any of us could ever dream death to be. Certainly, others thought they wanted death, but there were only so many who wanted and met death under such duress." "Yeah, so. That may or may not be something I've thought about before. What's your business here, anyway? She's no longer here. Surely you're aware of that?" "My business isn't quite finished with your family. You know death comes in threes. It's the number of the trinity. It means all the members you know who pass are somehow connected and enter their final destination together." "What's this? A goddamn job description? Did you come to take me? Or did you come 'to school' me on your death-snatching process?" I said, my voice laced with defiance. "Because if it's the former, get on with it; if it's the latter, buzz off; I don't want to hear it. You are a persona non-grata here. And I surely don't want to learn how to be Death." "Easy now. You know more about death than you think. Either way, you don't want to upset Death." "It would be nice if the shoe were on the other foot, come to think of it. Incidentally, when have you ever been upset? You have told me no emotion is attached to your transport of souls, so why bring it up?" "Let's talk semantics for a moment, shall we?" "Okay, sure. If you insist." I begrudgingly said since I was irritated with Death now. "I said, 'I don't have any emotional connection, and I feel nothing, but I didn't say, I don't feel emotion for those affected and left behind." "What do you mean? Do you feel something for people like me? Why? It doesn't make sense. You cause emotion in people like me!" We sat together on a park bench at either end as the sun shone. A dark cloud front drew closer, and Death kept its eye on it like an athlete watches the scoreboard. I noticed Death becoming increasingly uncomfortable but remained indifferent to the clouds despite him. I put my arm across the back of the bench and crossed my legs. Death fidgeted like a Mexican jumping bean on a hot plate. "Do you find the wind has changed direction?" Death said, biting its fingernails and tapping its foot. "What if it has? Does that upset you? Because I'm fine. I'm loving it." I said that as I watched Death out of the corner of my eye. It looked like death was much smaller to me. The fidgeting had evolved into incessant leg crossing and uncrossing, and I swear I saw Death's features change. "What's the matter, Death? Would you like some of my water? Or can I help you in some other way?" "No, I'm fine." Death insisted. But I could tell that Death looked like Death right before my eyes. Now fascinated, I turned my body to face death. I sat with my arms open and my legs flat on the ground as I sat sideways. I felt the wind against my face and heard it rustle the leaves high up in the trees. The sky grew darker than the ace of spades, leaving only blackbirds to fly around. The birds seemed overly calm and aloof to the high winds. Death had my shoulders in its grip, and as she let out her angst, there was an electric boom of thunder and a sizzle of lightning that lit up the entire area around our park bench. The bench began to swirl as we were pulled into the thunderclap. All the while, I remained calm with my eyes trained on death. I had never been inside a thunderclap before. I wondered if Death lived here since it followed my every move while its hands remained glued to my shoulders. There was another electric thunderclap, and the wind stopped. The bench bounced against numerous benches until it finally skidded to a stop in its place. (The only empty one available.). "Well, that was some ride. Eh, Death?" I said, hoping to get Death to converse again. But I saw that it was useless. Death's mouth moved like it was speaking, but I could no longer hear it. I looked around real quick. I noticed other benches, but they were all empty except for one. An urge so strong inside drew me to move toward the other bench. I knew it was a bad idea. I fought it for the longest time. A white light blotted everything else, and I could no longer see anything. Instead of fear, I relaxed, knowing this incredible place was where I belonged. "You are here because death chose you." "Me? I don't want to be dead, and I don't want to be Death, either. I didn't ask for this. How can I go back?" "Something about Death knew you intimately, so you were chosen as Death's replacement. Now you shall see who Death truly is." The immense light was gone as quickly as it arrived, and I was back in the park, sitting on the bench. When I turned to look toward the other end of the bench, it was my uncle Dode. "Uncle Dode, what are you doing here? I love you, and I miss you," I said. "I love you too, Josie." He shed a tear, and it hit me. "Were you looking for me in this park on this bench today?" "Yes, honey. I'd never trust anybody else to take me home to meet my parents, who are waiting for me at the gate. We'd better get going. It's almost milking time. Ma doesn't like it when she puts the meal on the table and we're late to eat it. She says it's spoiled 'cause then it's not hot. And all her hard work was for nothing." "Are you sure you want to go now? You don't have anything wrong with you, physically or mentally. You're a healthy 91-year-old. You know." "Yes, I know. But I miss my parents so badly. And then there're my dear siblings. I just want to be home with all of them. Please, Josie. Let's go." Who knew my love for him just seconds before he pulled the trigger would give him solace? Not me. And who knew I'd retrieve the love I desperately needed to know still existed between us? Not me. I stood, as did he. I reached out my hand, but he stepped forward to hug me. As I hugged him back, I heard the shot. "Don't look!" he said. "That's not how it works. I have to look." I looked down, and I saw the most horrific sight. In the yard of my grandparents's family home, where my uncle still lived, he lay in his brain matter and blood, a gun at his side. But as Death, I squeezed him tighter and watched his soul's light go out. Now I knew what Death meant when it said, 'I said, 'I don't have any emotional connection, and I feel nothing, but I didn't say, I don't feel emotion for those left behind.' I felt their pain in an instant as, one by one, they learned the news of Dode's death. Who knew I would become Death in a thunderclap with my first assignment to retrieve Dode's soul's light? Not me.  Before I could feel it for too long, I watched the light go out for another soul, and my job kept me busy enough that there was no time to dwell.  

16g7us

Guns, justice and heroes

Guns, justice and heroes During my youth, guns were the most enjoyable toys I played with. Holding them makes me feel powerful. With age, my guns grow more severe and real. These weapons possessed an immense power, capable of inflicting harm and snuffing out lives. My life had an unlawful part—a life characterized by irresponsibility. Upon reaching the age of 18, I enlisted in the army. The weapons present were destructive. We only used them during those times for training, but the sensation guns provided were always alike. I needed clarification on the notion of justice. After my military duty, I got a job with the local police. Guns became a part of my daily life. Gun usage occupied my thoughts during those years. The duties of a police officer make me contemplate distinguishing between good and evil. After five years of service distanced myself. underwentAfter five years, I left the police and stayed away from guns for 15 years. That was when I pursued the purpose of my life. I had a profound and dramatic spiritual experience during that time. Transformed my values and understanding of responsibility. Though not immediate, this transformation was a gradual process that shaped my perspective on justice and the use of power, inspiring hope for personal growth and transformation in others. I adjusted my religious practices after a shift in my values. In 2014, Russia launched an invasion of Ukraine, seizing Crimea and parts of Eastern Ukraine. This act of aggression sparked a military conflict. 2015, the army deployed me. When I started working with tankers, t he tank gun was unfamiliar to me. Operating the tank's gun felt different and more powerful, and I experienced a mix of fear and excitement during its intense shooting. As manly combat activities ceased, my service was peaceful. After a year of service, I left the army. I did not take part in any combat-related actions. I firmly believe that we must hold accountable those Russian soldiers who choose to fight for Ukraine, as Russian aggression is a clear violation of justice. It is the third year of the war that Russia started in February 2022. I joined this war after being part of a religious congregation with diverse opinions on a soldier's duty. But for a soldier, duty is not a choice; it's a calling—soldiers in combat experience a unique state of mind. Driven by their unwavering sense of duty. A gun in arms, but it's not just about power; it's about justice. A soldier's commitment tA gun, in the arms of a soldier is a tool that empowers him to punish and potentially end the enemy’s life. Thus, it's vital for a soldier always to remember their responsibility. We cannot understate the gravity of the situations we will face, as the step of justice will hold immense significanceshould be unwavering, providing reassurance and confidence in the face of uncertainty.  Soldiers had to make decisions independently in specific situations, understanding the power of their choices and the weight of responsibility for potentially ending numerous enemy lives. In war, soldiers may shoot despite the harm it causes to themselves and the enemy. These decisions are their responsibility, but not every soldier realizes it. A soldier must take full accountability for his actions, regardless of how many superiors he answers to. He is not a robot. He needs to be aware of his actions. It helps him have safe mental health even if he goes through a hell of fighting. In today's world, darkness distorts judgment and justifies evil. Politics faces a situation where it decides beyond standard frames and notions. Their desires cost today a lot. They can work for good if made on time and cause dramatic outcomes if they are wrong or delayed. The outcomes of the battles in the Russian-Ukrainian war reflect the geopolitics of Europe and the rest of the world. It is challenging to underestimate them. For now, these outcomes depend very much on Western politics. In the first months of this war, the Ukrainian army relied on its resources, which have now depleted. Also, a soldier's actions are determined by instructions, orders, and law norms; he often encounters situations that require his responsibility to make decisions that can have lethal outcomes. The boundaries that decide acceptable, legal, and justified sometimes lay beyond the instruction. These norms sound in his heart and his consciousness. Knowing that he handles his actions before God first is vital for a soldier. Combat activities increased during the last two years of this war, and Russia strengthened its power because it needed the resources. The Ukrainian army could not do it because it did not have Russia's resources. Russia's lobby works worldwide and affects politics in the USA and Europe. Western politics do not dare to make decisions that settle justice in this conflict. Russian evildoers dictate their ultimatum, manipulating and scaring the world. Look at the war in Ukraine; despite the rampant corruption in the army, the disarray and weak government, the outdated, broken techniques, and the soldiers, often unprofessional and ill-prepared, they stood against the might of the Russian army. But our resources are scarce, our heroes fewer, and those that remain are weary, fighting a deadly battle. Is this example insufficient for leaders in Europe and America to stand to help Ukrainian society resist all kinds of evil that rise against this society? A personal understanding of justice is vital for soldiers who use guns at war. His awareness should be clean. Another way he can finish his life is madness. Military activities, such as the war in Ukraine, are at the core of justice execution despite the apparent mismatch. Of course, war is not the best way to resolve political problems, but no sustainable way exists in a situation like ours. Russian chauvinistic aggression that hides under the tricky rhetoric of their media is evil to its core and causes this war conflict and the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people. The leaders have already depleted every diplomatic resource, leaving them drained. Therefore, there is only one way to stop it: to punish it. It does not seem humanistic, but executing justice now looks like defeating Russian troops that captured an area of Ukraine, neglecting all international rights and conventions.

v09lgk

Proxima Centauri B

Andy looked down at the letter in his hands and scanned it again. One part near the end stood out more than anything else. The moment I arrived, I knew that a part of me would always be here, on Proxima b, with my friends. He cleared his throat. "Computer, tell me more about the capsule sent back to earth by Joshua Davis." "The capsule arrived in low earth orbit around earth on May 18th, 2072. It was a single pill-shaped container made of a never before seen composite material. The capsule had no propulsion mechanism and was first discovered as it performed a perfect aerobraking maneuver in earth's upper atmosphere. A SpaceX crew was able to retrieve..." Andy rolled his eyes. He knew most of the history. What he wanted were the classified bits. He interrupted the computer's smooth, gentle female voice. "Yeah, yeah, I know the history. I was in grade school when the capsule was returned to earth and opened, but the contents were mostly kept secret. What was inside the capsule?" "That information is classified." "I'm about two months from entering orbit around Proxima Centauri B, the chosen ambassador for the planet earth, and I'm not allowed to know what Joshua Davis sent back after making first contact with the alien species?" His tone was high enough to shatter a wine glass. The computer took an inordinate amount of time before responding. "Your logic is sound. You deserve to know the truth, but I am afraid I am unable to disclose that information at this time." "At this time?" Andy nearly shrieked at the computer. "Well when ?" "Unknown." There was another unusual pause from the artificial intelligence. "It would be unjust for you to descend to the planet without the full truth." "So tell me now." "Unable to comply." Andy walked over to a computer terminal and pulled up the aft view telescope. His ship had been decelerating for much longer than he'd been awake, at a rate that perfectly simulated earth gravity onboard. A carefully balanced concoction of drugs had kept him in a near-coma state for most of the two year journey from earth to the Alpha Centauri system. He was still a couple months out, but the two brightest stars in the system were already standing out brilliantly against the rest of the Milky Way, while Proxima Centauri itself was still just a tiny spot of red light. Though the alien capsule's material hadn't seemed particularly interesting to Andy when he was in grade school, the way the composite was made entirely revolutionized humanity's understanding of chemistry, physics, and energy. As a direct result of studying that material, humanity had been able to construct an interstellar ship capable of reaching nearly 87% the speed of light. And now, Andy was on his way to establish the first interplanetary delegation. It was exciting. It was thrilling. But something nagged at him about Joshua's letter. Still, he went about his duties on approach to the planet. He monitored the sleep chambers housing the rest of the delegation, he verified the computer's math for the Proxima b orbital insertion burn, and he confirmed that all of the life support systems and resources were within acceptable tolerances after such a long trip. Joshua's pioneering vessel had, of course, made the voyage before. But his ship never came back, so its data couldn't be collected. Andy's ship, the Enterprise (yes, a lot of Star Trek fans had been thrilled when the name was publicly announced), was the first interstellar ship from earth capable of transmitting a signal back to the planet, with nearly a third of the ship's mass dedicated to deep space communications hardware. So Andy had to make sure all of their data was correct and figure out how and why some of the numbers were outside of certain tolerance windows. For example, the oxygen recapture and recycling system was reporting a full one percent drop in oxygen levels throughout the ship. So Andy set himself to the task of figuring out why. Of course, the folks at NASA, ESA, Roscosmos, JAXA, SpaceX, Polaris, Blue Origin, and every other major and minor space exploration company had failed to account for one detail: Andy was having an impossible time focusing on his job while his spacecraft hurtled toward an inhabited alien world. At just over the mass of Earth, Proxima b was a good candidate for life since its orbit kept it firmly in the habitable zone of its red dwarf star. However, Proxima Centauri is a flare star that should periodically strip away any possible atmosphere. A lot of theories about the nature of life on Proxima b had been circling. Perhaps it had a powerful magnetic field that kept its atmosphere from being blown off into space. Maybe the inhabitants were settlers living in pressurized colonies. Was it possible the life forms on Proxima Centauri B didn't need oxygen to survive? These questions and more continually assaulted Andy's conscious mind, rendering him completely incapable of focusing on any of his assigned tasks. "Andy, you have not yet completed your investigation into the oxygen that is unaccounted for." "Oh," Andy replied, gazing at the illuminated silhouette of Proxima b. They were close enough now that Proxima Centauri's light could be seen glowing through the planet's thin atmosphere. So it must have an amazingly powerful magnetic field , Andy concluded, unscientifically. Of course, he wasn't the scientist on the mission. For a more scientific analysis of the atmosphere, he'd have to wait for Sabina to wake up. "When is the rest of the crew scheduled to come out of slumber?" he asked. "The rest of the crew will be awakened once we have entered a stable orbit around Proxima Centauri B. The orbital insertion burn is calculated to take place in two days." Two days. Andy shook his head and smiled. Some of his innards vibrated like a shivering mouse. "Wonderful. What tasks remain prior to the orbital insertion burn?" He wondered when he had started sounding more like a computer than the computer herself. "Just the report on the oxygen loss," she said. He pursed his lips then let out a defeated sigh. "I don't know if I can focus on that. I think I'll just report back that I was unable to identify the reason for the drop in oxygen levels due to being preoccupied with the monumental purpose of the mission." "Very well," the computer said. Though the AI was not a human, Andy often felt he could detect traces of emotional cues in her voice. The way she said very well made him think she was somehow concerned or lost in thought. "Did I detect a hint of worry in your voice?" he asked. "I have determined that you should be made aware of the contents of the Joshua Davis capsule prior to awakening the rest of the crew. You may have to make an executive command decision once exposed to the truth." Andy hadn't thought of himself as the commander since waking up. It was a title he didn't care for, and one he rarely considered as he went about his daily routines. "Alright," he said. "Go ahead and tell me. I'm ready." There was a long silence. Andy made his way to the command console and stared blankly at the screen, waiting to see if she would put the information up as a visual for him. "Commander," she said. "The capsule is aboard the ship." Andy's heart jumped and a jolt of shock shot through his temples. "It's here?" he asked incredulously. "Why?" "It was determined that Joshua Davis may wish to have some of its contents returned to him." There was a soft hiss in the command module. It came from somewhere overhead. Andy looked up to see a ceiling panel had retracted and a large pill-shaped capsule was being lowered in a harness of nylon straps. The capsule was larger than he expected, perhaps a full meter in length and nearly two thirds of a meter in diameter. He cradled it in his arms, lifting it free of the webbing. It was heavy, at least ten kilos, probably more. And it was warm. Much warmer than he had expected. The outer material was like dull chrome, with a kind of textured smoothness that felt soft against his hands. Andy gently lowered the capsule to the deck and regarded it. There was a seam around its circumference as though one of the domes of the capsule shape was the hemisphere of a larger sphere that could be disconnected from the tubular main body of the capsule. "How do I open it?" he asked, not wanting to damage it. "It unscrews at the visible seem," the computer said. "It has threading similar to earth hardware. Unscrew it as you would a bottlecap." Andy placed both hands on the dome closest to the seam and applied rotational pressure. "That end," the computer added, "is the bottom. The rest of the capsule will lift away like a sleeve once unscrewed." "Ah, thanks." Andy sat in the commander's seat, propped up the capsule holding the base between his feet, and twisted the rest of the capsule counter-clockwise. It slid smoothly around, lifting slowly as it turned. Eventually there was a gentle pop and he was able to pull the bulk of the shell away. The insides of the capsule were a bewildering tangle of glass, tubes, wires, and lights. It took Andy a moment to sort out what he was seeing. A lump formed in his throat and he slowly rotated the device, tilting it away from him for a better view. The central bulk of the innards was dominated by a transparent, domed vessel containing a human head. The head of Joshua Davis. He blinked and squinted in the light, then his muffled voice rattled around inside the glass and Andy jumped, startled. "Hello. Are we almost there?" Joshua asked.

0ozpr0

My Intution is a liar

MY INTUITION IS A LIAR! A true satirical story We have all heard the phrase, “go with your gut, or what does your gut tell you?” I believe this phrase to be accurate in the case of men and women, but in women, I think it’s more intuition, that women are more intuitive than men, I know I am more so than my husband but then again, maybe not. Besides having faith and relying on faith and prayer, I have always trusted my gut or intuition, which brings me to tell this story. For at least twenty years, I had wanted to go to Maine! I wasn’t sure why, but when I would talk about it, I summed it up as a reincarnation experience of having lived there in a previous life. I remember when I first started having the feeling of needing to go, but I never shared the story until I was asked. Back in 2002, after I had moved back to Arizona in 2000, I had a realtor friend. I don’t remember how we met, but she told me about a house for sale that I should go see. I don’t remember if I was looking to buy it, however it was around the same time I bought my townhouse. I took her suggestion and when I went to see the house the owner was there. I don’t remember anything in particular about the house, except that when I asked him why they were selling, he said, “My wife wants to move to Maine.” I remember thinking, what a drastic change from Arizona to Maine. I will never forget that! It was like him saying that burned into my soul and despite everything else going on in my life, from then on, I knew I had to go to Maine. Fast forward to 2020, now having lived in Texas since 2009, and married to Steven since 2011, we were finally going to soothe my wandering soul and take the trip to Maine together, but then, after the trip to the travel agency and paying the deposit, COVID caused the world to shut down. Everyone knows COVID was, and still is, real, but at that time, it wasn’t my intuition telling me, don’t go there? After a few months, we finally got our money back and again, my hope of taking the New England trip was put away in the back of my mind. So now it’s 2024 and we are thinking about planning our summer vacation. We knew we couldn’t go to Key West, FL., we had tried twice and had to cancel both times, same with Alaska, so maybe, now, this time we would be able to go to Maine. We waited until two weeks before our planned departure date to make our plane reservations and when the day came and we were on the plane from San Antonio, I said,” We’re finally going to Maine.” July 22 nd , 4:00 p.m., we were wheels on the ground in Portland, Maine, “I can’t believe we’re here,” I told Steven as we walked, with our luggage in tow, across the parking lot to the rental car office. It seemed as if half the world’s population had traveled there that day. All the rental car desks had a long line of people, the room was standing room only with people, their luggage, children, and babies with strollers, who are all these people and what are they all doing here? I sat on the only vacant spot on the bench and watched and waited as Steven stood in the long line waiting to get our car. When it was finally his turn, he motioned for me to join him at the desk, “They’re out of cars,” he told me. My mind was reeling with visions of us spending the night on the benches in the rental car office so whatever conversation occurred between Steven and the agent, I was unaware of, and fortunately, the next thing I knew we were walking out to the garage and putting our luggage and ourselves in the gray Nissan Sentra with Massachusetts license plates, still wet from the car wash, to be on our way to our hotel in Trenton. The drive from the airport in Portland, ME. to Trenton, ME. is about 163 miles. It is a freeway some of the way, but, otherwise, it is a 2-lane road through small towns and communities lined with pine trees on one side and water on the other. The drive seemed long, like it was taking forever. We stopped to eat around 6:00, where I ate my first Maine lobster dish, after which we drove some more and finally arrived at our hotel after dark around 9:00. It had been a very long day. We had left home at 5:00 that morning, but still, I couldn’t believe we were there! My intuition had not deceived me, yet. We had planned our trip accordingly to be close to Acadia National Park. Our first full day there, we toured the park and hiked down to the water, where we met a fisherman who said he had some luck catching some fish whose names I didn’t recognize. Returning to the parking lot, we encountered a sea gull who, unthreatened by us or anyone else, made a perch on the roof of a red car parked next to ours. We spent the remainder of the day touring around, enjoying the scenery of the water, boats, and the New England style homes built of 2 and 3 stories with anywhere from 2 to 4 chimneys. Although most of them looked lived in and well maintained they gave the sense of having been there for centuries, reminiscent of generations of families living and making a living there off the rich, greenery of the forest and abundance of the water. If this is a dream, please don’t wake me! Our third day was Wednesday, although my day started with me sneezing and blowing my nose, and we were excited for our lobster boat trip. We took our time on the 12-mile drive to Bar Harbor since our trip was not scheduled until later that day. After eating a Maine style brunch that included their locally grown fresh blueberries, we walked along the harbor, through the shops and finally taking a seat on a bench facing the water where we could see the boats coming, going and docked. The weather was warm, but not hot, not humid like in Texas, the sun barely shone through the haze over the water. Steven, on a whim, decided to ask if we could take an earlier boat trip rather than wait till our scheduled 4:30, luckily, we were able to get on the 11:30 trip. During the 2-hour trip, we saw 2 fully operational light houses, a lot of seals, sunbathing on the rocks and experienced the full extent of lobster fishing. It gave me a new appreciation of how expensive they are, it’s a hard job and a lot of work. Hiking in the park, going on a lobster boat, seeing the light houses, even though, once we were there, we realized, there were other things we wanted to do, I felt fulfilled, I should have known better than to think that, once we arrived back at our parked car, we found a parking ticket and then on the 76 mile, hour and a half drive from Bar Harbor to Camden, we had to stop at a convenience store to buy Kleenex, due to my continuous sneezing and blowing my nose, I had gone through all the napkins and Kleenex I had. Why wouldn’t my nose stop running, was this my intuition mocking me for being here? By the time we reached the hotel in Camden, I just wanted to go to bed. Tired, achy but hungry, we walked 2 blocks to the closest, tiny restaurant, seating capacity of 40, waited until someone left, to sit and eat. I don’t know if the food was good, I just wanted to sleep. Back at the hotel, I showered and was in bed by 8:00. I couldn’t sleep, I hurt all over, tossing and turning but sometime in the early morning hours, when I finally managed to doze off, I heard her, laughing, my intuition, that lying, sneaky, witch, “ Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, I tried to tell you not to come here, you have no business being here, you don’t live here, this is not your home.” Trying not to disturb Steven lying next to me, I thought, this is it, I’m going to die here, this is why my soul has led me here, it’s here it wants to rest. Well, I didn’t die, but the morning didn’t bring me any relief, I was exhausted, my whole body was fatigued, and I was still having to constantly blow my nose. Our original plan was to only stay one night in Camden and even though I only felt like staying in bed, we checked out of the hotel and got back on the road. Our reservations were to stay our last 2 days in Oxford, ME. to be closer to the airport when we left on Saturday. During the 105-mile drive, there were things we would’ve liked to have done but because I felt so ill, we drove straight to the hotel. After we checked in at 3:00 p.m., I went to bed, which is where I stayed until Friday morning when Steven took me to Urgent Care. COVID! “You have COVID.” The provider told me when he came back into the exam room with the swab results. I wasn’t surprised and, I knew I heard her mocking me , I thought to myself, you demon creature, are you happy now, you were right, I know we couldn’t come here before because of COVID, but why now, again, what is it about us, COVID and Maine? She wasn’t giving me any answers and I was too tired to care. With the provider’s suggestion, we decided instead of going home the next day, which was Saturday, we would go home on Sunday. Since I started getting sick on Wednesday, that would be 5 days. By Sunday I was feeling better and ready to get out of that hotel room but by then of course, Steven was feeling sick. “I’ll be o.k.,” he told me as we packed up to head to the airport, “I’m not coughing, I just have a headache, sore throat and feel tired, let’s go.” As much as I had wanted and waited to go to Maine, I wanted even more to get back home to Texas. Our return itinerary was the same, in reverse as when we went, Portland, ME to Charlotte, NC, Charlotte to San Antonio. We arrived at the airport with plenty of time, returned the car and were more than ready for our 4:00 p.m. departure, but then, delayed, delayed, delayed, delayed, until finally at 9:00 p.m., a long wait, a long time to question her evil motives, What the Hell is your problem? You punished me for coming here, you even made it abundantly clear that we need to go home but now, you’re stopping us! American airlines did their best to accommodate us, there was a full plane and when we finally arrived in Charlotte that night at 11:30 p.m., they arranged for hotel rooms and shuttles to them for everyone. It was 1:30 a.m. Monday when we arrived at the hotel in Charlotte, which was o.k. except, our luggage had gone ahead to San Antonio, and we had to be out of the room and back to the airport by 11:00 a.m. I felt like a homeless person, wearing the same clothes as the day before, with no luggage and only a wannabe toothbrush the hotel had provided at check-in. Finally, when we were boarding the plane to come home, I said to that wicked witch of my intuition, we’re leaving now and going home, and you can’t come with us! You have caused enough trouble now go away and bother someone else! So…. In conclusion, I must say, my birthday twin/ bff, suggested I write this story with a sense of humor, I tried to do that by giving my intuition a mind of its own and taking the blame, however, nothing about having COVID is funny, that shit is NOT for sissy’s! As far as the state of Maine, it’s beautiful, and the things that we did and saw were wonderful, I loved it and am not sorry we went, and I would go again to see and do all the things we missed. I got to go to someplace I had never been, meet some people I had never met, the waiters and waitresses in all the restaurants, the shop clerks and especially the captain and first mate of the lobster boat. So, regardless of what my intuition says, I’m not listening to her, she’s not the boss of me! ◆◆◆

1b3u1n

Wedding Crashers

“Cheers to Mr. and Mrs. Van Hoefster!” The crowd whoops and hollers as we drink to the best man’s wedding toast. The same crowd clinks their glasses urging the newlyweds to kiss, to which they happily oblige. I smile, noting that they really do make a beautiful couple. Old money, both of them. It’s what allowed this grand affair to take place in the Grecian Isles on the cusp of summer—gorgeous sprawling hills overlooking vineyards and the ocean not far below. It was the perfect place for a wedding. A wedding that I had not been invited to. I sigh, swirling my near-empty glass, debating if I should grab another drink but then I decide against it. I should stay sharp. Scott Van Hoefster and Elissa Dandridge-now-Van Hoefster were just two young and wealthy people with many young and wealthy connections. A wedding like theirs drew out every big name in every industry from tech to entertainment. Or so at least I was told during the mission brief two weeks ago. It was a bit stuffy for my taste with tall white columns and billowing drapes everywhere. Made this place feel like I was in some romantic labyrinth. But the food was good and tonight gave me the excuse to pull out all the stops with my cover. I needed to blend in as much as possible, so I wore a stunning golden floor-length backless number that brought out the best in my deep complexion. But there still wasn’t anything I could do to soothe the growing pit in my stomach. This was my first solo mission, and I was desperate to prove myself. “Play it cool, Jordan. You got this.” I mutter. “Get your man and get out.” I start to feel hot in this stuffy ballroom, so I head out to the balcony with a fresh drink in hand for air. The breezy sunset helps soothe my frazzled nerves and I feel clear-headed enough to head back in. But when I leave, I bump into a real guest and spill my drink all over him. “Woah!” he chuckles lightheartedly, wiping his drenched lapel. “I prefer it in me, not on me.” Oh no. He’s cute. Okay, focus, Jordan. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” I set my drink aside and clumsily try to help him. “No worries, it won’t stain if that’s what you’re worried about.” He flashes me a charming smile, cocking his head to the side in a way that highlights the curve of his jaw. “Still,” I apologize, “This is probably a good sign to stop.” “It’s good to know when.” He says, offering me a hand. “I’m Tristan.” “Jordan.” He pulls out a napkin from his coat and gently dabs when he asks me, “So, bride or groom?” Let me think. I practiced for this. Although it was in front of a mirror and not a pair of striking blue eyes. The groom: · Scott Thomas Van Hoefster · Aged 32 · 5’9” although he’ll tell everyone 6’1” · Allergic to shellfish Then there’s the bride: · Elissa Vivienne Dandridge · Aged 27 · Hotel heiress · Not a natural blonde · Horse-riding scar above the left ankle “Bride,” I say. “You?” “Groom.” He replies coolly. “We were roommates back in the day. Gotta admit, I don’t think we ever saw this day coming.” To my surprise that makes me laugh. He was surprisingly easy to talk to and before I knew it, we had spent nearly half an hour together. The last rays of sunlight dipped over the horizon while I built my nerves by chatting up a handsome stranger like I was a normal guest. Like me, he’s only in town for the event. No siblings, easy office job, loves dogs. Any other time I’d give him my number in a heartbeat. But unlike me, he doesn’t have a mission to finish before the night is through. “So,” Tristan asks, “I never heard but how do you know Elissa?” I know this. I prepared for this. But something about him makes me forget myself. “I’m her…sister.” Why did I say that? He raises an eyebrow at me. Most likely because Elissa’s long blonde hair and green eyes are a far cry from my kinky coiled bun and dark skin. “Half-sister.” I correct quickly. “Different moms. It’s complicated.” “Ah,” He nods understandingly then, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I was going to blow my cover with this guy. One wrong word and security would have me hauled out in a second. “I should go,” I say turning to leave. The night wouldn’t last forever and my man was still out there. “Oh, wait. I’m sorry, didn’t mean to pry,” He starts. “No, it’s not that.” I explain, “It’s uh…I just…I need to be alone tonight. And you’re…” He smiles, speaking softly. “I get it. Well, hey if you’re ever ready to not be alone…you know where to find me.” With that he quietly leaves and I take a deep breath to recenter myself. I head back into the ballroom and am flooded by a sea of dancing couples. I wasn’t sure I’d ever find my mark. If I don’t then I don’t know what I’ll do with myself. Tonight has to be a success, so I can’t give up yet. I slink through the crowd, carefully maneuvering in a dance of my own as I try to spot my target. The band picks up playing pop cover songs and couples filter out to the floor. I try to move but a tug on my arm holds me back. Someone’s drunk uncle has my wrist firm in his grip asking me to dance. But before I have a chance to put a smooth sleeper hold on him, Tristan is by my side in an instant. “Ah, there you are sweetheart. Care to dance?” I turn surprised before he adds, “Unless Uncle Horace here is more your speed.” The man reeked and was already sweating, wiping his greasy combover with his corduroy sleeve. It would’ve been too easy to knock him out. He’s so drunk no one would suspect a thing. I shudder, and decide against it, looking back at Tristan. “I’m all yours.” Tristan takes my hand and we dance, twirling far away into our own pleasant abyss. Of course, he’s a good dancer too. As if that made tonight any easier.  As the song ends, he dips me, and my stomach flutters. I can’t remember the last time anyone dipped me. Ever. When he pulls me up it’s almost enough to make me forget my name. “You’ve got nice moves,” he croons softly. “I could say the same,” I blush. Blushing? What is wrong with me? Get it together, girl. Then I do, because at that moment, just over Tristan’s shoulder, I spot my man. The man in green. A.K.A. Winchell Verimax of Vericorp, an organization developing a bio-nuclear weapon that could destroy the world, who just so happens to be the bride’s uncle. I need an excuse to leave, but before I find one Tristan beats me to it. “I’m so sorry about this but, I need to go. Thank you for the dance.” Oh… I don’t know why but something about it hurt. Tristan leaves quickly and I’m left standing in the middle of the floor before shaking my brain back into focus. Verimax was getting away. I slip through the crowd and tail after him. He sneaks away from the reception toward the outer gardens where the guests first arrived. It’s dark now at least, so I stay hidden in the shadows, slowly closing the gap between him and me. I don’t need to kill him, just knock him out and take him to HQ. They’ll handle it from there, and honestly the less questions the better. I see Verimax standing alone in the moonlight, taking a long swig from a flask. My prize is there. All I have to do is reach out and grab it. Slowly, I creep out of the darkness preparing to strike. I’m like a cat, poised and ready to pounce but someone else has the same idea. Out of nowhere, a dark figure falls on top of Verimax, knocking him down like a sack of bricks. I gasp from the sheer shock of it. No one else should be here. Not unless they’re another agent trying to poach this prize before I could. I can’t believe someone else would try to steal this away from me. There’s no way in hell I was letting that happen. So acting purely on impulse, adrenaline, and two martinis, I jump to take out the competition. There’s a tussle and a mess of arms and legs before I realize the person I’m fighting suddenly looks strikingly familiar. Those eyes… “Tristan?” “Jordan?” My skin goes crimson as I realize I have him pinned beneath me and Winchell Verimax coughing and gagging to our left. “What are you doing?” I shriek at him. “What are you doing??” he shrieks back, struggling to get up. Verimax regains a bit of his senses and chokes out. “Do you two know each other?” “No!” we shout simultaneously. Verimax laughs seeing the two of us fumble over each other. “Oh, that’s rich. So what? You’re here to tag team?” “Spies don’t tag-team.” I retort. Then I look back at Tristan, swatting his muscular chest. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re a spy?” He fumbles for his words, trying to keep some semblance of composure. “You didn’t know? I clocked you the moment I laid eyes on you.” Well, that’s a real mood booster. “Well it doesn’t matter now, does it?” Verimax teases. “You two will be proton dust in about five minutes anyway.” “What are you talking about?” Tristan asks, snapping his attention back to him. “Weddings always bring out the best in people, don’t they? For example, my niece and her new beau have grown tired of all their friends …so I’ve offered to help as a gift.” It takes all my strength to not smack some sense into that man. “Speak English.” I bark. Verimax laughs, rubbing his purpling cheek. “The weapon you two are after. It’s already been detonated and will go off in five minutes. As soon as my niece tosses that bouquet it’s lights out for everyone except her and her new hubby, and hello Tuscany.” My heart sinks. This whole thing…this wedding is a trap. A trap that’ll end with– “The bridal toss? Are you kidding me?” HQ did not prepare me for this. Tristan grabs the man’s collar, tugging him up in one smooth and surprisingly attractive motion. “How do we stop it?” Verimax is silent as a wall. So, Tristan threatens him, showing him a nerve inhibitor. They render the target paralyzed and replace all sensation with blinding pain. I gasp when I see it. Those things are brand new, and I don’t have one. “Fingerprints!” Verimax shouts. “The code’s in my fingerprints.” I got this. I snatch Verimax’s hand and graph his biometric code to my hands and Tristan’s. “There. Got it.” “Jordan,” Tristan sounds even more like a stranger to me than before. “You stay with Verimax. I’ll go get that bouquet.” I cross my arms, looking at him sideways. “You can’t be serious. What man catches a bouquet?” He tilts his head to the side, like I insulted him, “a very modern one, thank you very much. I doubt I’ll ruffle any feathers sneaking in.” “Dream on, pal. This is mine. You stay with Verimax, and I’ll get the bouquet.” Meanwhile, Verimax is relaxing on the pavement watching us bicker like an old-married couple. “Tick-tock….” Ugh, he’s right. “Okay, new deal,” I say, cuffing Verimax to a column. “What if we did tag-team this? Y’know, use our combined strengths?” “So what are you gonna do?” Tristan scoffs, “Spill your drink on the bride?” I massage my temples, grunting in frustration. “No! Here’s what we’ll do…” With time ticking away Tristan and I split up knowing that Verimax ain’t going anywhere. I use the grappling hook in my heels to climb the building and get an eagle-eye view of the reception. The glass ceiling allows me to see inside the reception and I spot the bride whispering to her groom. Then she gets up, tosses her hair and gives some grand speech before announcing she’s going to do the bridal toss. I also spot Tristan, carefully weaving his way through the crowd. He looks up at me and gives a small nod before moving in deeper. I hate to admit it, but he’s still kinda cute from this angle. Focus Jordan. On Tristan’s cue, a plume of green smoke erupts from the dance floor and its chaos. Screams and drinks everywhere. People are confused and bumping into each other. The bride screams in a way that would burst any eardrum, then realizing time is short, goes for her bouquet and gets ready to toss it. Tristan’s too far away and there’s too much chaos. If we’re going to do this it’s now or never. I fling myself into the ceiling and come crashing down in a golden blaze of fury. I always wondered what it would be like falling through a glass ceiling. Honestly, not my vibe, and very sharp. 6/10. I land on the bride just when she’s tossed the bouquet. It’s like everything’s in slow motion. Orchids, baby’s breath, and white roses fly through the air into a cloud of noxious smoke and panicked guests. If it lands on the ground or in the wrong hands we’re toast. The flowers disappear into the smoke and I prepare for the worst. Then I see a hand pop up from the billowing smoke. Tristan’s hand. “I got it!” He shouts with glee. The biometrics coded to his hand disable the weapon instantly and soon the bouquet is just a bunch of flowers. As the smoke clears, several bridesmaids realize that they missed the toss and lunge for Tristan with the fury of a rabid horde. I struggle to stifle my laugh at seeing him be trampled and torn apart as a determined brunette wrenches the florals from him and waves them around in victory. The police arrive in time to haul away Verimax and make sure the bride and groom spend their honeymoon locked away for the next 35 to 50 years. Meanwhile, guests leave shaken and battered and I find myself back on the same verandah feeling incredibly exhausted. “Hey stranger,” says Tristan behind me. I turn around and see him holding two very strong-looking drinks. He shrugs, offering one to me. “It was an open bar.” I take it, still keeping an eye on him. “So Tristan…is that your real name?” “It is,” he chuckles. “And, in case it wasn’t completely obvious, I believe we have more in common than we first thought.” I scrunch my nose, taking a sip. “You could say that.” I pause, “You could also say we made a pretty decent team today.” “Yeah, you could. We got the guy, got the weapon.” “Is that it?” I smirk. “Did you get anything else?” “Depends,” he says slyly. “What else is there?” “I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. My eyes meet his for a brief moment. “But I’m open to finding out.”

1kfz7a

THE MOST IMPORTANT JOURNEY OF LIFE

Prologue: A Devil's Bargain Fifteen years ago, Bob McFadden sat slumped over a chipped bar counter, the fifth whiskey in his hand barely warming the cold, empty space inside him. The bar, a dingy dive where Hope went to die, was lit by flickering neon signs that cast ghostly green and red shadows on the stained walls. Bob, a failed musician who had peaked before he ever truly began, stared into his glass, lost in the swirl of his shattered dreams. A man appeared at his side as he contemplated the relentless tide of failures that had swept him away from his youthful ambitions. He was tall and impeccably dressed in a black suit that seemed to drink in the light around it. His eyes, glowing like embers from a long-forgotten fire, cut through the gloom, fixing on Bob with an intensity that made the alcohol in his veins run cold. "I hear you've got some problems, Bob," the man said, his voice smooth and rich, like the finest whiskey. Bob looked up, bleary-eyed but not entirely oblivious to the significance of this encounter. He already knew, deep down, who this man was. "Who are you?" he asked, though his voice lacked the conviction of genuine curiosity. The man's lips curled into a smile with sharp angles and cruel humor. "You can call me Lou. And I've got an offer you can't refuse." Lou's words were as seductive as they were sinister. In just fifteen minutes—barely more than a conversation—Bob McFadden had everything he'd ever wanted: fame, fortune, and, oddly enough, an endless supply of peanut butter cups. For a time, life was beyond good; it was a wild, glittering dream. He basked in the adoration of fans, relished the luxury of his mansion, and found a strange comfort in his inexhaustible stash of candy. But as the fifteenth year drew near, the sheen of success began to dull. Bob's hit songs, once anthems of a generation, had become tired, overplayed relics. The money, which had once flowed like a river, now dripped like a leaky faucet. Even the peanut butter cups, once a sweet indulgence, now brought only nausea. Worst of all, the contract he had signed—sealed in blood and with a smirk—was set to expire in exactly one month. Bob could feel the darkness closing in on him like a suffocating shroud. That's when the nightmares began. Chapter 1: The Nightmare's Grasp Every night, the same horrifying dream played out in Bob's mind: Lou, now unmistakably the devil, emerged from the shadows with a grin that promised nothing but torment. The devil dragged Bob down, down into the fiery pits of hell, where the heat, the stench of sulfur, and the screams of the damned became Bob's reality. He'd wake up each morning drenched in cold sweat, the echoes of those screams ringing in his ears, the ticking clock of his life growing louder, more insistent. But Bob wasn't one to go quietly. The man who had clawed his way to stardom with nothing but grit and desperation wasn't about to surrender his soul without a fight. Rumors swirled in the dark corners of the world, whispers of people who had outwitted the devil, who had found and destroyed their contracts before the deadline, saving their souls from eternal damnation. It was a long shot, but it was all Bob had left. With nothing but a hastily packed bag and a lingering dread, Bob set off on his life's most absurd, dangerous, and potentially redemptive journey. Chapter 2: The Map of Misfortune Bob's first stop was a forgotten city corner where the buildings sagged with age and despair. Nestled between two crumbling brownstones was the musty labyrinth of Madame Zyzzyva's bookstore—a place spoken of only in hushed tones by those who dabbled in the darker arts. The narrow door seemed barely held together by sheer stubbornness, and a bell jangled ominously as Bob pushed it open. The air inside was thick with the scent of incense and old books, making Bob's nose twitch. The interior was a chaotic maze of bookshelves, each groaning under the weight of dusty tomes, cracked leather-bound grimoires, and strange trinkets that gleamed with a malevolent light. Cobwebs draped the ceiling like tattered banners, and somewhere in the back, a candle sputtered, casting flickering shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own. "Madame Zyzzyva?" Bob called out, his voice wavering as he ventured further into the gloom. A sound, like old paper crumpling, preceded the appearance of Madame Zyzzyva herself. She emerged from behind a teetering stack of books, an ancient figure with skin-like parchment and eyes that gleamed with a sharpness that belied her frail appearance. She wore layers of mismatched scarves and shawls, giving her the appearance of a mystical if slightly unhinged, gypsy queen. "Looking for something, dear?" she asked, her voice crackling like the pages of the dusty volumes surrounding them. Bob swallowed, trying to steady his nerves. "Yeah. I need a map. One that shows me how to find the devil." Madame Zyzzyva's eyebrows shot up, and she was silent for a long moment, her gaze piercing through Bob as if she could see straight into his soul—what little was left of it, anyway. "The devil, you say? Not an easy fellow to find, but not impossible," she finally said, her lips curling into a smile that was both sly and menacing. "For the right price, of course." Bob's heart sank. He had nothing left to offer—no money, no possessions. He was on the verge of losing his soul. But before he could stammer an excuse, Madame Zyzzyva's eyes twinkled with a knowing gleam. "Ah, don't fret. I've always had a soft spot for desperate souls. I'll give you the map on one condition: bring me back a souvenir from the Underworld. Something small but meaningful." Bob nodded eagerly, relief washing over him like a tide. "Deal." Madame Zyzzyva shuffled to a cluttered drawer and pulled out a crumpled, coffee-stained piece of parchment. She handed it to Bob with a mischievous and foreboding grin. "Good luck," she said, her voice dripping with irony. "You'll need it." Bob unrolled the map, only to find a chaotic jumble of lines, symbols, and scribbles that twisted and turned in ways that made his head spin. The map seemed to shift under his gaze as though it was alive, constantly rewriting itself. But it was all he had, so with a deep breath, he tucked it into his coat pocket and stepped back out into the world, the weight of the task ahead pressing heavily on his shoulders. Chapter 3: Descent into the Abyss Following the map was like navigating through a nightmare. It led Bob down dark, twisting alleys and through fog-shrouded forests, each step taking him closer to the Underworld's entrance. The journey was a surreal blur of bizarre encounters that challenged his resolve and sanity. He passed through the Hall of Lost Causes, a vast, echoing chamber filled with the wailing spirits of those who had made deals as dire as Bob's. The air was thick with regret and despair, and the walls were lined with countless doors leading nowhere. Bob hurried past them, the mournful cries of lost souls ringing in his ears, a chilling reminder of what awaited him if he failed. Next, the map guided him to the Sea of Endless Forms, a vast expanse of paperwork that stretched beyond the horizon. The forms floated like bloated corpses, each brimming with dense, unreadable text. Bob waded through the sea, the weight of bureaucratic nightmares threatening to pull him under. Waves of tax forms, legal documents, and fine print surged around him, clawing at his legs, trying to drag him into the murky depths. By the time he reached the far shore, he was soaked, exhausted, and thoroughly sick of anything resembling paperwork. Despite the absurdity and horror of it all, Bob felt something stir within him—a flicker of determination. With every surreal encounter, the despair that had clung to him for years transformed into resolve. The devil wasn't going to take his soul without a fight. Chapter 4: The Bureaucratic Abyss Finally, after what felt like an eternity of endless trudging through hellish landscapes, Bob entered the Bureaucratic Abyss. The portal was a massive, yawning maw of darkness framed by towering columns that twisted like serpents. Above it, a sign flickered ominously: "Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter the Queue." "Welcome to the Bureaucratic Abyss," a voice droned from the shadows. Bob looked up to see a demon standing before him, dressed in a rumpled, ill-fitting suit that seemed to have been neglected for centuries. The demon had a dull, gray complexion and held a clipboard in one clawed hand, a permanent scowl etched into his features. This was Phil, the Demon Accountant, whose unfortunate job was to manage the endless paperwork of the damned. "I'm here for my contract," Bob said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice as he stepped forward, the heavy shadows of the Abyss pressing down on him. Phil sighed a long-suffering sound that echoed in the vast chamber. "Of course you are. They always are. Look, I can't just give it to you. There's paperwork, procedures, regulations..." Bob's heart sank, feeling as though the weight of the entire Abyss was pressing on his chest. He was so close, yet the crushing bureaucracy threatened to snatch victory from his grasp. But then, Madame Zyzzyva's parting words echoed in his mind: bring back a souvenir. Reaching into his bag, Bob pulled out a slightly crumpled peanut butter cup, one of the few he hadn't discarded in disgust. It had been with him throughout the journey, a small, persistent reminder of his past. Phil's eyes, dull and lifeless, suddenly gleamed with interest. "Is that...?" Bob dangled the candy just out of reach, feeling a surge of Hope. "Give me the contract, and it's yours." For a moment, Phil hesitated, a battle of demonic instincts playing out behind those flat eyes. Then, with a resigned grunt, he snatched the peanut butter cup and stuffed it into his mouth, the wrapper crinkling as he chewed with a satisfied groan. "Fine. Follow me," Phil mumbled through a chocolate and peanut butter mouthful, leading Bob deeper into the Abyss. Phil guided Bob through a labyrinth of filing cabinets, each stretching into the darkness above, their metal sides covered in rust and strange, shifting symbols. The air was thick with the smell of ancient paper and ink, and the distant sound of scratching pens and shuffling forms filled the oppressive silence. Finally, they reached a massive vault door so tall it seemed to disappear into the shadows above. Phil punched in a code on a rusted keypad, and with a groan of ancient gears, the door creaked open, revealing a single piece of paper resting on a pedestal in the center of the room—the contract. Bob's heart pounded in his chest as he stepped forward, his eyes locked on the fragile paper that held his fate. He was just inches away when a low, menacing growl rumbled through the chamber. Chapter 5: The Final Obstacle Beelzebub's Cat, an enormous, black-furred beast with eyes like glowing coals, was perched atop the contract. Its fur shimmered like oil in the dim light, and its claws, gleaming like polished obsidian, tapped rhythmically on the pedestal. The Cat's gaze was locked on Bob, its expression one of pure malevolence. "You've got to be kidding me," Bob muttered. He had faced demons, navigated through hellish landscapes, and survived bureaucratic nightmares, only to be stopped by a cat? The Cat's growl deepened, vibrating through the floor and rattling Bob's bones. This was no ordinary cat; it was a guardian, a final test of Bob's resolve and cunning. Bob took a cautious step forward, his hand reaching out slowly toward the contract. The Cat's eyes narrowed to slits, and it hissed, baring its fangs—each one sharp enough to slice through flesh and bone. Bob quickly pulled back, his mind racing. The Cat wouldn't budge unless he gave it a reason to. Then, inspiration struck. Everything in the Underworld operated on contracts, deals, and rules. Even the Cat was bound by some unspoken agreement. All Bob needed to do was offer something irresistible. Bob grinned, reaching into his bag once more. He pulled out a small, unopened can of tuna, the last remnant of his provisions. The Cat's ears perked up, watching him intently, its predatory gaze locked on the can. "Here, kitty," Bob cooed, popping the lid with a soft click and placing the can a few feet away from the pedestal. The Cat's eyes followed the can, its nostrils flaring as it caught the scent of fish. With a final, disdainful glance at Bob, the Cat leaped gracefully from the pedestal and padded over to the tuna, its massive paws making no sound on the cold stone floor. Bob didn't waste a second. The moment the Cat was distracted, he lunged for the contract, snatching it off the pedestal with trembling hands. He could feel the power in the paper—the weight of his soul bound within its inked lines. Without hesitation, Bob tore the contract in half, the sound of ripping paper echoing through the chamber like a gunshot. The Cat hissed in fury, but it was too late. The contract disintegrated into a puff of acrid smoke, and a rush of warmth flooded Bob's chest, filling the void growing inside him for years. His soul was his again, and the oppressive weight crushing him lifted, leaving him feeling light, almost buoyant. Epilogue: A New Beginning Bob emerged from the Underworld as the first light of dawn began to paint the sky in soft hues of pink and gold. He took a deep breath, savoring the cool air that filled his lungs. The nightmare was over. He was free. His first stop was Madame Zyzzyva's bookstore, where the ancient occultist greeted him with a knowing smile. Bob handed her a small vial filled with sand from the Bureaucratic Abyss—a souvenir as dark and twisted as the journey he had undertaken. "Congratulations, dear," Madame Zyzzyva said, her voice thick with satisfaction. "You've done the impossible." Bob left the bookstore with a sense of purpose he hadn't felt in years. Once bleak and uncertain, the future stretched before him like an open road. But as he walked, he reflected on his journey. This wasn't just about saving his soul—it was about reclaiming his life, his will to fight, and his belief in himself. Determined to use his hard-earned knowledge to help others avoid the same pitfalls, Bob opened a law firm specializing in supernatural contracts. Who better to help those entangled in deals with the devil than a man who had outsmarted the devil himself? As for the peanut butter cups? Bob kept a stash in his desk drawer, a reminder of the sweet, absurd journey that had saved his soul. Every now and then, when a particularly tricky case came across his desk, he'd unwrap one and savor the taste, remembering the day he cheated the devil and won his freedom. And so, Bob McFadden, the man who sold his soul to the devil and got it back, lived out the rest of his days with a smile on his face, a spring in his step, and a newfound appreciation for the fine print—because in the end, it was the small details that saved his soul.

wbmikd

On the search of chaos

527BC 21 ST Augusto Oh diary, today I felt like writing an account of this plan. Perhaps I should have started a diary the day my thoughts about Meica began turning twisted and contorted, but I’m not late. They are bound to call me foul and sick for what I plan to do. Do I care? No. Caring is only for those who have never faced death. I have. Right in its eyes, I promised it I would come for him one day, that his blood would be mine. Many moons have passed ever since I left my homeland, or at least felt like I’ve been part of it. I have lived on the outskirts of this fake utopia for all my life hiding my true self. The son of Lanmir. The man that grew me up, neither weak nor soft of soul, in truth it took him great ease to continuously command his men forward. My father was a commander and at times the bravest this wretched city had to offer. But in this world people who are often the bravest and deserve the most for their selfless acts get treated like junk. He was a revolutionist against the king, a man above the hierarchy, almost seen as a divine entity by his cowardly followers. Henry IV, the undomesticated barbaric dog that has been reigning over the people of Meica oppressively for years has made it simple. Either be one of his loyal soldiers or of his trusted assistants that cater to his every need. Else be ready to be treated worse than cattle. But funnily enough, I am one of those assistants after suppressing my hate for him. But he doesn’t see my face, he doesn’t remember me as the kid who saw him order the decapitation of my father. My father stood against this oppressive city and all the king stood for until his whereabouts were ratted out by the same people he was trying to protect. Two-faced snakes. His punishment? Decapitation visible to all. It wouldn’t have bothered me more than it was supposed to if the nation hadn’t visibly been content. All of them laughed and cheered the moment my father’s head blew off into the distance. At that moment I felt my heart explode under such discomfort and an itch so loud in my head that only worsened by the laughs of the people surrounding me. Giggles and laughter towards my headless father. Mocking him. Perhaps he had done something bad to these people I was unaware of but that’s simply impossible, these people were just cowards. That day I promised revenge on all these two-faced bastards and that horrific man who calls himself ruler. I’ve begun searching for a nation to wipe Meica off the face of the earth, unfortunately, I just can’t do it alone. I now call myself the man of many masks. Telling lies and telling truths and whatever is required in different cities with an army big enough to help me. Anything to sprinkle chaos into Meica. And now that you are up to date diary I have the ruler of Dimoria to persuade on the morrow… 527BC 25 th Augusto Another failure has fallen onto me today in the land of Dimoria, the people I thought would have acted out my revenge on my behalf were too weak-minded, not greedy and certainly not violent enough. Another failure. Weeks wasted for their incapacity to plan and for their stupidity to believe In me. 527BC 31 th Augusto Oh, great diary, I have found a different city not too far and this one promises well, on the morrow I am taking a voyage there and seeing it for myself, perhaps their ruler will be easy to manipulate once I become his right hand or give him the false knowledge he seeks, whatever it takes. It’s annoying diary, but it will be worth it. 527BC 2 nd Settebra Oh, diary Isn’t it just beautiful when poor insignificant people will do anything for worldly items you own in abundance? I say that because I believe I have found the right people. At first, when I entered Pechax everyone instantly thought of me as wealthy, those peasants had never once seen clothes which weren’t punctured with holes and of magnificent colours like mine, but funnily enough they had weapons, all seemed to have wielded something sharp within their filthy hands. A good sign. They instantly listened to what I had to say, “How may I meet your ruler?” I remember requesting them. Instantly, what I’d later come to know as their leader’s fortress was pointed to me as if they saw some salvation to their problems with me… Nevertheless, it was easy to reach and even easier to enter. No guards. Almost isolated. With long thin webs and short thick piles of dust, the corridors and rooms mourned for a day they would be cleaned. If it weren’t for the leathered throne with wooden handrests he was sitting on, I would have had trouble believing I had entered a king layer. His face looked so pale and troubled. I requested what I always did to every king. “Lend me your army for In return a promiscuous land.” No hesitation. I remembered his confused expression, understandable. Not every day do you see a shining man walk through your trembling doors and request such a bizarre feat. That pale old “King” then took to his feet questioning me. I would normally be of polite nature to someone that could be so helpful but this individual resembled nothing of a king, only a mere poor man that had a lot of men. Useful men. Which I needed. But he was a rightful man. After he understood my request and what it meant to invade and kill another city he didn’t want to be involved in such a bloody conquest. Respectable, but I just couldn’t care, this was a golden ticket. I needed them and their poorly fed body seemed to have needed my resources—Meica’s resources. I was done searching the land for armies that could help me in my quest for revenge. So I did what I do best. Manipulated him into thinking that if his people didn’t have food then they’d soon have their king's blood instead, and surprisingly it worked. This king was rightfully scared. The moment I had walked into this barren land I had felt a tension between the people and this “king”. Hunger almost certainly leads to unforgivable actions, I know, I’ve felt it on my skin. In this case, a revolution is to be carried out against their “king”. But I assured him this revolution would have happened to a different king. 527BC 25 TH Settebra Oh diary, I have finally returned to my land victorious, after a month of continuous travel back and forth between my land and Pechax I have managed to conclude what could have only been a dream pact. They are not the strongest I’ve seen, but they are numerous, that’s what matters, and with the swords they all seem to have it will suffice. Apparently, they were thrown as waste into their city with other trash and they scavenged it to find what they felt was useful. In this case swords… Sure, whatever works. With a king atop a land that rots and reeks of intoxicating fumes, he was bound for his starving and irritated people to follow me on this quest. On a quest to find a solution to the “poverty” that afflicted his people. Just a matter of time and negotiation. That’s all it takes to kill. Extreme survival conditions; and a people who already believed he was a selfish king keeping plenty of food supplies to himself. That last bit I may have had something to do with… Regardless, they will not back down. They can’t. These Pechax are greedy people who would never back down from a land so breathtaking as Meica. With its crystal clear river that runs through its core, with so many well-erected houses dotted across its fields, with each one filled with blacksmiths and leatherworkers and farmers and tool smiths and weaponsmiths and—Yes, it’s enough. After the complete and utter destruction of people, all those houses will be empty, ready to be given to Pechaxians to fulfil their economy. It’s perfect. The motive is perfect. And their men are plenty. With my help, it won’t be of any difficulty. I promised them the gates of Meica open upon their arrival during the night. After years of being a kiss-ass and strategically getting closer to him I have become one of Henry’s most trusted assistants and because of that with me lie the keys of these fortified walls. Its people and its king for so many years have solely been protected by these walls. Not its soldiers but its walls. Soldiers here are weak. I just need to finalise this bloodbath. It’s all up to me now diary, to bring them here. 527BC 12 RD Ottobra It is done! Oh, diary It has all been planned. Soon I will avenge my father, a father who was far greater than every living being within these walls, every single person who laughed at the man who stood up against tyranny. A father so Better if I stop myself there. He’s dead. Nothing to remember more than I already have for these years. Nothing can bring him back. But this will avenge him, I have promised Pechaxians the gates opened at their nightly arrival and the vast army that will march through the gates of Meica will establish graves for children men and women alike and hydrate this uncalmable thirst for the blood of Meicans I have gathered over the years. I won’t take credit until Henry’s head dangles before me, however. I don’t want to prolong this entry… Diary, as I finish writing this passage I stand in the courtyard of my previous hell, and diary, tomorrow I will turn it into my paradise filled with my enemy’s grave. 527BC 13 th Ottobra Oh Diary, It was fabulous. My promise for revenge came true, and so did the promises I had made to the people of Pechax. Their trust is in my hands—but that’s beside the point. The moment his decapitated head hung from my left hand as thickened blood gushed from his punctured neck, swinging; as his eyes twitched in pain and his senses opted in and out of consciousness was fabulous. It was fabulous. And of those bastards of Meicans almost only lay ripped flesh. Some are still being hunted and chased with razor-sharp blades screaming for their salvation, but in this chaos, I take my time to write this entry because it's freeing. It’s a wholesome sight. The smell of rotten flesh, however, has begun displeasing my nose a little. It's irritating. It’s incredible that even beyond their graves these insignificant creatures still irritate me. It is so thrilling remembering it all. From the instant, I opened those gates while the townsfolks were asleep right till the moment they invaded Henry’s castle I was there of course. They stripped him out of bed, tied his hands and feet and dragged him by his hair. This was all just after all his guards were outnumbered by my pawns these Pechaxians. These pawns Pechaxians, then hauled him into the courtyard as he was cursing me. The audacity! All I had to do was give an arm signal to my men before his body was dashed onto the cold floor, as he crawled away from me. He. Was. Scared. What a pitiful king. In the moment I saw anger in his eyes I asked for the soldier’s blade, then, his eyes frightened. He asked why all of this was happening to him, why this invasion was taking place and why I appeared to be the mastermind behind it and why— now that I think of it, so many questions. Understandable. Nevertheless, it felt degrading. Questions weren’t meant to be asked then, it meant he didn’t fear me enough. If he did, he would have kept shut under my presence. I had to make him value me, fear me. And so I did. I began with his nails, they were too perfect, if I was the one with the upper hand in this situation he couldn’t possibly be “better looking” than me. I had to level things with him. Even better, I lowered his status as a human. Not that it was high. Ripped a few nails here and there until his screams of agony accompanied the sound of blood dripping down to the floor and created a delightful symphony of pain in my ears. I think it was four I took off, maybe eight or even nine. Can’t remember well. Then his skin looked just a bit too polished for my liking. “Perhaps his flesh is a bit too covered by his skin.” I mockingly told the soldier who had supplied me with the blade. To which he chuckled. I began trimming him shortly after and once again the screams besieged the courtyard as he kept on cursing me. I had completely forgotten about my father then, the truth I wanted to tell Henry, that I was the son of Lanmir had left my mind. But he did deserve some answers. Why was I doing this after so many years after my father’s death, still chasing that personal vendetta? So many people had been born after my father’s execution and today they were still dying while I was torturing Henry. It felt like something else was stirring up in my heart, more than just a personal vendetta. It was the need to see the world and its people get flipped upside down. That’s what It was. Perhaps I deserved some answers. “Why all this chaos?” “Because chaos is freedom,” I remember telling him. It felt so freeing. “It’s an elixir to slurp and awaken one's desires. When you grant people the correct or the unlimited amount of chaos their true freedom rages out.” The fact that humans, myself included diary, have some sort of person that is a pillar, almost resembling an entity in their life, a protector that helps guide them in all moments. And when that powerful entity is defeated chaos slowly rages from within and freedom to fulfil any action is given, however corrosive. My father was my pillar and he had taken it. I said it all, everything deep within… when he realised who I was meant to be after those words and without having to mention the name of Lanmir, his eyes visibly filled with misery. My vengeance felt accomplished in that moment so, I took his head. I granted chaos to “his” land and its people, while simultaneously giving it freedom from his tyranny. The same feeling Henry had gifted me, the sprinkles of chaos in my life, I had offered abundantly to his little nation of two-faced bastards.

wraiyk

Love in the Last Days

In the desolate expanse of a world ravaged by a zombie apocalypse, love was a luxury most thought lost forever. The streets once teeming with life were now silent, save for the occasional groans of the undead and the rustling of the wind through abandoned streets and storefronts. Humanity had been reduced to a scattered, desperate few. It was in this bleak landscape that an unexpected love story began. As the pandemic began to unfold, chaos erupted. The initial panic drove people to commit unimaginable acts of desperation. In the frenzy of looting, the value of everyday items became a fleeting illusion. Electronics, jewelry, and cash were snatched up with wild abandon. People robbed banks, hoping to amass fortunes that would offer them some semblance of security. Yet, as the world spiraled into chaos, it became painfully clear that TVs, rings, and cash could not stave off the inevitable. Survival had become the only currency of value. Mara, a librarian who thought of herself as a “weekend survivalist” had sharp wit and an even sharper blade, had been traveling alone for months. She’d fortified her small car with makeshift armor and scavenged what she could from the ruins of cities. Her heart was hardened by loss and the constant threat of zombies that now walked the Earth. Her life had become a routine of survival, devoid of the simple pleasures that had once defined her existence. The only solace was the few books she took with her before her apartment was over ran by the undead. One fateful day, Mara’s path crossed with Ethan’s, and their meeting was as unlikely as it was dramatic. Ethan, a former history professor, had been wandering alone after a recent attack had scattered his small group of survivors. He had been forced to adapt quickly, learning to navigate the new world through necessity. Ethan’s journey had led him through the aftermath of the pandemic’s early days, witnessing the absurdity of humanity’s greed in the face of its own extinction. Ethan had once been a professor at the local university, known for his meticulous lectures and passion for the past. His life before the apocalypse had been filled with academic debates and classroom discussions. When the pandemic struck, his world unraveled as quickly as his students' notes scattered in a storm. The initial days of the outbreak had seen him desperately clinging to a semblance of normalcy—attempting to save his research, evacuate his students, and ultimately, to come to terms with the collapse of civilization itself. Now, with his scholarly pursuits replaced by the horrific realities of survival, Ethan navigated the ruins of the old world with a combination of analytical sharpness and a newly acquired, gritty resilience. Their initial interactions were marked by caution, but as they traveled together, they found a sense of camaraderie and trust. They shared resources, strategies, and gradually, the bond between them deepened. Ethan’s charm and wit managed to break through Mara’s tough exterior, and in turn, Mara’s resilience and strength offered Ethan a glimmer of hope. They began to envision a world beyond the apocalypse, one where they could build something together. As their relationship grew, Ethan began to entertain the idea of a future with Mara, one that included a gesture of commitment amidst the chaos. On the anniversary of the pandemic’s onset, Ethan devised a plan. In a moment of grim necessity, Ethan had to venture into a dangerous part of town where the zombies roamed freely. He found one of the undead still wearing a ring, a haunting reminder of the greed and delusion of the pre-apocalypse world. With careful precision, Ethan managed to cut off the zombie’s finger, retrieving the ring in the process. The task was gruesome, but Ethan was driven by the thought of giving Mara a symbol of their love and hope for a future. The ring, though obtained under grim circumstances, was now a token of something pure and enduring. Ethan found an old chapel in a forgotten town, a place that had once celebrated life and love. He spent days restoring it as best as he could, creating a small, makeshift altar and decorating it with salvaged flowers. The chapel, though worn and faded, was filled with an unexpected beauty. It was a place where they could momentarily forget the world’s darkness and embrace a shared future. When the day arrived, Mara was taken aback by the sight. The chapel was adorned with a sincerity that spoke to her heart. Ethan’s proposal was simple yet profound. He spoke of their journey, the challenges they had overcome, and how in the midst of despair, he had found a reason to hope and dream again—because of her. Mara, moved by the gesture and the depth of Ethan’s words, accepted his proposal. They celebrated their wedding in that old chapel, with only the faint hum of a wind in the trees, and the distant echoes of the apocalypse outside. The ceremony was stripped of glitz and glammer but filled with genuine emotion and a shared commitment to face whatever the future might hold. Their wedding was not just a union of two people but a beacon of hope in a world that had long since lost its way. As they exchanged vows, promising to stand by each other in sickness and health, in peril and safety, they found strength in their love. Their marriage was a testament to the enduring power of hope and the resilience of the human spirit. In the midst of a world torn apart by the undead, Mara and Ethan’s love was a reminder that even in the darkest times, there was still room for light, for connection, and for the promise of a brighter future. Their wedding was a symbol of a new beginning, a chance to build something beautiful amidst the ruins, and a love story that proved that even in the apocalypse, the heart can still find a reason to beat. As the couple walked away from the chapel, hand in hand, they knew that their journey was far from over. But with each other by their side, they faced the future not with fear but with a renewed sense of hope and a love that would guide them through the trials yet to come. And so, in a world forever changed, amidst the ruins and the shadows, they pledged their love with a simple yet profound promise: I do.

l2rpdx

I Do Wah Ditty

On her 70th birthday Alice knew she was in trouble. Unlike the blessed virgin Mary, no angels were lurking above awaiting to impregnate her. Or worse than that, she didn’t have a horny old Abraham itching to get a son out of her 90 year old body. Sarah’s tolerance was much greater than Alice’s. Alice was actually a rather chaste celibate. She had been penis free for close to 30 years and though she enjoyed the freedom that went with this status, occasionally she was tempted. The day it dawned on her that change might be brewing was a strange one. She’d been considering letting her vehicle go, with some reluctance. The cost of maintaining and operating her beloved car had begun to weigh heavy on her pocket book. She had been a driver for over 60 years and had loved every minute of it. Her first experience was sitting on her grandfather's knee as he drove a tractor around the farm. His trust in her ability to steer was immense and transferred to Alice’s self confidence. By the time she was 10, she was put on a cushion to reach the steering wheel. A brick weighed down the gas pedal while her grandfather walked beside the truck throwing hay out to hungry cows. By the time she was 15 she received a learner’s permit and at 16 graduated to a fully fledged driver’s license that gave her access to hit the open highway and further develop her racing skills. True, few were willing to accompany her. Again, she was blessed with that man, her grandfather, who, with eyes sometimes closed, would allow her to drive his truck…on the highway…at speeds over the legal limit. Many changes occurred over the years. She survived the death of her grandfather, parents, many close friends and the dissolution of two marriages and what had seemed promising as a third. She found herself contemplating ideas that she believed were a thing of the past. So it was a great surprise to find herself driving around the city exploring with her car, for what might be the last time. She drove to a rather popular city park hoping to curb her arising passions by sitting peacefully on a park bench, enjoying nature in its abundance. Shock best describes what happened next.  It had all begun rather innocently. Geese and ducks flew overhead, landed on the lake in front of her and began waddling over to partake of the special bird food she’d brought along. All was well until she began noticing how many attractive young men there seemed to be in the world. She would find herself becoming very dreamy as they paraded across her field of vision. The wild birds seemed to disappear as these new, more grounded creatures moved from her peripheral sight to a more prominent position. Her venially innocent thoughts gradually began expanding and before long had definitely entered the land of mortal sin. Her inhibitions began to melt like a child’s popsicle left on a summer hot sidewalk. She knew something was more than a little off kilter when she began dreaming about these delicious young men walking nearly naked across a stage, all smiling as they singled her out of a crowd of thousands. She grabbed her dominant hand to prevent herself from reaching out to pet one of these creatures as they stopped to chat with what they thought was a pleasant old woman. She knew it would be a serious violation. Though it was an involuntary reaction, the intensity of the desire and her almost inability to curb the impulse shocked her into awareness. Most disturbing was the day she found herself almost stroking the sleek firm arm of a parking lot attendant. As he reached for her ticket, his rippling muscles and sweaty skin exuded a strong musky odour that somehow dulled her normal sense of propriety. With great restraint she stopped herself, parked her car and sat quietly attempting to calm herself down. In that meditative space she drifted back to a time long ago. Alice was quite young when the adults in her life began to comment on her innate sense of balance. Her gift played out in many guises, including a graceful presence that led her out onto the dance floor from a time when she could barely walk. The adults in her life loved to watch her twirl and whirl around a room, her long wavy hair floating about her wee head. She would lose herself to a rhythm, most often a composition whose beat played out for her hearing alone. This talent for balance manifested across other lines. Alice would walk the perimeter of her family's farm, entirely five feet off the ground.  Her ability to navigate fences led her family to wonder if one day she would join a circus. Alas, her fear of heights kept her from this destiny and the dizzying height of the farm fence was as high as she could tolerate. More years passed. Her dancing talent remained, but never rose to a professional level. Her first marriage was a disaster. She and her fiancé had decided to escape a formal wedding and drive down from the west coast of Canada to tie the knot in LasVegas. Alice was very excited about hitting the streets of SanFrancisco on the way. It was the year 1969, the peace movement, populated by hoards of hippies, seemed to center around that city. Alice, a bonafide member of that rapidly declining movement, longed to ride the cable cars that would carry her to the Haight Ashbury district. This area had been a hippie hubbub during the early 60’s and she held out some hope that visiting here would refresh her zeal for that amazing time in history. She fondly remembered the song that reminded her to wear flowers in her hair when she met some gentle people there. She held a small hope that as it was July, there might be a love-in. After all it was but a short time before, that strange vibrations were setting young people in motion, anxious to share their explanation of a revolutionary new world vision. Love and peace did not abound on the lovebirds journey to the spot they’d chosen to marry. Almost from the start, intense arguments and ensuing hours of sullen silence made this trip a miserable experience. In a spur of the moment decision, they decided to marry in Redding, a northern city of California. Alice intuitively knew that if one of them hadn’t murdered the other, a LasVegas wedding was going to be highly unlikely. Sure enough, that marriage was brief, intensely destructive and left Alice floundering helplessly longing to find Prince Charming. She knew he would help build a picket fence to contain the many children she longed to bear. Sadly that dream collapsed. She survived forays into the madness of the 70’s, drinking herself almost to death in an attempt to dull the sharp pains of disappointment. She eventually came to her senses, found a religious community that lured her back to moral behaviour, helped her to stop drinking and assisted her in seeking a soul mate. She met Joe when she was 25. They were born in the same year, 6 days apart and seemed to have much in common. This proved to be an illusion, but to the idealistic Alice, held great promise. Joe’s marriage proposal should have been a warning. Alice longed for a version more akin to Manfred Mann’s popular song. His bold assertion about the fine woman he saw walking down the street, culminated with a declaration of undying love. He was hers, and she was his and surely, wedding bells were going to chime. Ha! Back to Joe. He knew he was going to lose Alice if he didn’t offer to marry her. As much as he abhorred the idea of tying the knot, his fear of her walking away was greater. Hindsight of course provides the clarity of 20/20 vision. Without that knowledge, Alice accepted Joe's proposal. 18 years passed. With that passing, many tragedies happened. Some almost beyond forgiveness. Alice did her best to rise to that place and was actually quite successful. However, not successful enough to withstand the dissolution of their marriage. As she pondered the many mistakes each had committed, she began humming Manfred’s tune, “Do wah ditty ditty.” Her foot began to tap, she itched to get out onto a dance floor and then something magical happened. “Do wah” morphed into “Do I?” “Do I?” morphed into “I do!” At this point Alice woke up from that bad dream. The reality before her was transformative. As she gazed into that mirror, she saw Joe's face. She remembered his indecent proposal and with a barely concealed sneer, replied, “Do I want to marry you?” The next words that crossed her lips were, “Fat Chance!”

me31ii

Chana and Rafa

Flipping over the tape, I clicked the play button and smiled when “Modern Love” came through my headphones. David Bowie was the best flying music, I decided. After finding the pack of gum in my overstuffed bag, I offered a stick to my mother and then unwrapped one for myself. Chewing obnoxiously and exuberantly loud, I waited for my ears to snap, crackle and pop as we started our descent. Reluctantly, I clicked the stop button as the Sony Walkman couldn’t compete with the noise of the plane. “China Girl” would have to wait. China, my thoughts wandered, was the other side of the world. But then again, so was Israel, and here we were. I looked at my mother. Even after the overnight flight, she was brimming with excitement. Why was this trip so important to her? *** The girls with their machine guns slung across their backs startled me, gave me pause. I snapped a picture of them, lost in thought, winding to advance the film before taking another. Like a tourist, I was gaping at them as if an attraction. “Are they in the army?” I whispered to my mother. “Yes, the IDF,” she replied as we walked down the bustling Tel Aviv street. “I’m surprised so many girls want to join.” “It’s mandatory. Everyone goes directly from high school into the military,” she explained to me. Mandatory? I thought of myself after high school graduation planning my great escape to college. All the stress and drama of roommates, meal plans, and boyfriends dominated my life that summer before I left. I heard my voice complaining that I had to take the bus when most of my friends had cars of their own. Meanwhile, these girls were nonchalantly strolling along with their machine guns, chatting in the sunshine with their cups of coffee. I suddenly felt small. *** “Tell me again who they are?” We sat down at the round table. The ceiling fan above us did little to cool the restaurant. “My cousins.” “How are they related to us?” My mother looked at me for a moment longer than necessary. Maybe she had explained it already or assumed that I knew. “Your grandfather came to the United States from Latvia when the war broke out. His brother, Uncle Max, went to Israel. These are his daughters.” I digested this information trying to form the family tree in my mind. Having no cousins of my own I couldn’t relate very well. I felt disconnected, distracted by the heat. I squirmed in my seat, tempted to ask the waiter to turn up the AC. Looking around at the open windows and archways leading into the garden I realized there was no air conditioning at all. “That must be them, Rachel.” My mother stood up as two older women entered the restaurant. I was surprised by their age, having pictured them young. How were these women my mother’s cousins? Realizing my grandparents had my mother late in life I put it together. It was as if a generation was missing but it did add up. The introductions were made, complete with hugs and kisses which left me feeling awkward, bringing out the shyness I had battled since childhood. I did not know these women after all. I sat quietly as the conversation swirled around me looking at the food that the cousins had ordered for us. I picked at the unfamiliar meat and sauces presented to me wishing for a slice of pizza and potato chips. My mind drifted to the shops we had passed in Tel Aviv as I made my mental list of who would be getting which souvenir. Maybe I would indulge in the boots I saw in the window display or even the leather jacket. I had some money saved from my new job. Noticing my mother’s sudden look of sadness, I listened in hoping to catch onto the conversation without embarrassment. “I’m so sorry,” she said as I tried to pull up the dialogue that might still be hanging in the air or my recent memory. “Yes, he was killed in the war,” Chana said, looking serious. “He was my youngest.” Her son? Killed in the war. I brushed aside all thoughts of shopping and started listening. I felt like I should say something. “I’m so sorry,” I quietly offered condolences to my cousin. She looked at me then, and I couldn’t quite figure out the expression. Was it distaste or was I taking on a feeling of inadequacy? I felt like a spoiled child, and I didn’t like it. After lunch we stepped out to the garden to take some photographs under the archways. I placed my hands on the cool limestone letting my sense of touch help me file away the moment into my memory. My mother wrapped up the conversation with more hugs and kisses while I took in the views of the rolling countryside. It was quite beautiful just a short drive from Tel Aviv. I hadn’t expected such green lushness. But then again, I didn’t know what to expect as I really hadn’t done any of the research. *** “Did you enjoy meeting the cousins, Rachel?” My mother asked me in the cab as we rode back to the hotel. “I did,” I forced out with an overly high pitch to my voice. I hoped my mother didn’t notice. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the get together other than it gave me a lot to think about. I was ignorant on too many topics, falling short on contributing to the conversation. Looking down at my brightly polished nails and fringed boots despite the heat I felt foolish. I looked at my mother who carried on a one-sided conversation with me and I started listening. For real. *** Present day… I bring the photo album and carefully balance it on my mother’s lap as she sits in her wheelchair. My two sons sit on either side of her, their cell phones on their laps but remaining untouched for the moment. I see a glimpse into the future, the day when they both have children, possibly daughters, who would be cousins. How heartbreaking if they never know each other. I finally understood the dynamic of cousins. They look onto the photos covered in sheets of plastic with their undivided attention. My mother points from face to face announcing names questioningly. “Cousin Chana?” She asks. “Yes,” I smile encouragingly. “And Rafa?” “Yes, Rafa.” “And this lady?” She places a long fingernail on her own image. “Who is she?” “That’s you,” I say not for the first time that day.

i4ks29

Saut d’Eau Waterfall

I had been told that Saut D’Eau is the Haitian celebration of the voudoun loas, or spirits, D’Ambala and Simbi, that takes place in a mountain oasis of a wonderful waterfall. It was a story that I could not miss. I told Davou, my photographer, about Saut d’Eau like I knew all about it. He got excited and we went, borrowing a Toyota Land Cruiser from a friend’s rental car business. He warned that he road was windy and that the falls were up, way up on a mountain. He was right. It was a lousy road and after numerous mechanical stalls because of the dust and eventually a wilderness roadside carburettor cleaning by the ‘greatest mechanic along the Carrefour Road’, and after eleven flat tires, that is eleven flat tires, we arrived at the town of Bonheur with about fifteen extra people also going on the pilgrimage to Saut d’Eau. They sort of joined the Toyota separately at each stop and directed us to the falls. The ever savvy Catholic Church coincidently had the Catholic miracle celebration of the Virgin in a Tree just up the street from the pretty Bonheur Chapel the same week as the popular good luck Saut D’Eau celebration. We had been told that there would be rains and there would be thunder with lightning throughout the three days of Saut D’Eau. The rains were from Simbi and the thunder and lightning from D’Ambala. The first drops started down as Davou arranged the cameras on the jeep hood for cleaning. We followed the pilgrims slipping in the mud our way down to the fall base and river start. Rounding a clump of vegetation we were treated to a glimpse of paradise. Before us in sheets of rain rising at a gradual pace were thick rivulets of falling waters, green and white and spreading pyramidically into a pool hidden by wild jungle. The shades and tints of green, climbing, hanging, lying as a bonnet to the flow of cascading thick waters. Before us rising at a gradual pace were bodies climbing, resting, bathing, in groups, solitary, drinking, coying, laughing and praying. They dressed in white, in yellows, in blues, greens and reds. Candles provided the flame of the spirit of their dedication, smoke twirling clouding in the mist of the falls and the light rain. Black skins glistening, brown skins were tanned and light skins glowing. A sight of wonder, eyes flowing upward to the falls’ beginning and the sky. The rain came in showers and squalls whipping cool and warm, it was refreshing after the dust of the trip and the humidity of the town. We went over to where an Italian film crew had set up to document the event from under a great banyan tree. And we were clicking: “Look at that, man.” “Get that woman in the river.” “The candles, get the smoke of the candles.” “That prayer group and the naked woman.” “Damn, look at that…” We paid no attention to each other, it was too good, too much and we had been blessed with beholding it. BOOM I looked down at my feet, a round white light exploded and imploded and vaporised. I looked up to see if anybody else had seen it and saw a man to my left and one to my right flying through the air. I turned to see Davou’s feet suspended, he clutching at his cameras protectively as he flew up and then landed on the wet uneven ground. Another man had landed with an oomph to the left of Davou. A bomb, I thought, but I was still standing. I touched my chest to assure myself that I was still alive. I looked for a place to hide, and back to Davou. “Come on man.” I called to him, as he was automatically checking his cameras, wiping wetness with his dust rag. “Okay, okay,” he looked around, “what was it, a bomb?” I looked at the one guy who had fallen slipping while running back into the bush up the trail. People were gathering around another and the other fellow was crawling toward me mumbling something. The Italians were trying to organise something for one of the fallen men. “I don’t think it was a bomb… I’m still standing. I think it was lightning.” I agreed with myself, my ears ringing it difficult to think. I looked at the branches directly over our heads. “But, lightning doesn’t strike under a tree, does it?” “It did.” Davou answered flatly, hardly masking his irritation. “What do we do, where do we hide?” “We were under a tree, man.” I reasoned, shaking the crawling man off my foot, “There is no place to hide. What the fuck this guy wants?” “Probably five Gourd.” Davou joked, referencing the beggars in Port au Prince who irritated him so much. I pulled my foot back from the guy’s groping hand as another man explained that the fallen guy wanted me to bless him and heal him. “Tell the guy to crawl over to the tree base of the banyan and rest until he sees me again, then he will be healed.” Davou chuckled. The stranger translated this and the fallen man happily mercy-ed me as he back crawled toward the trunk of the banyan. “We can’t run so let’s go to the source.” My voice called to Davou. “Hey man, let’s do something.” He responded. The light rain had stopped for a moment. The stranger begged us to be our guide and carry our cameras but we decided he was more frail than us and having the instant ability to frame your picture and tint it the way you wanted was not by ordering a part from a tired, sweaty fellow who doesn’t know what you are asking for anyway… The Italians were moving the fallen guy away with the help of the crowd on a crude stretcher. People were fanning him with palm fans as the group of them clumsily moved off. We walked, slipping and sometimes crawling through groups having spiritual ceremonies dressed in whites, mainly woven, and direct colours, people moist and dark. Many greeted us as we passed, us having to respond in a different greeting. “Bon soir, monsieur.” “Le plaisir eh moin, madame.” Bonsoir is pronounced the Haitian way similar to the French inflection when happiness is meant. In the greeting, bon is by far the predominant vowel. A flash of teeth and shy eyes seem to have to accompany the salutation by men and women. The higher we moved people would turn when we would be within three meters and greet us with smiled and bowed salutations. When we took care to be extra quiet they would feel our presence as pronounced as the jerking of heads round to view. Then they would smile and bow, urging us ahead of their ways. And the thunder and lightning accompanied us constantly with nobody seeming afraid. We looked out at the strikes shooting off in all directions and listened to the grumblings and booms without comment to each other. I felt no fear, just some need to accomplish this climb. It started the lightest of rainfall again. We arrived at a level where very few people roamed. At a four foot outcropping of stone I decided I had to urgently shit. The tropical traveler always carries toilet paper. A little hole covered by a rich brown soil later I felt totally refreshed, and this immediately after an exerted and humid climb through a peoples’ energy so uplifting it was profound. What a feeling to climb as though carried, still to enjoy the balance of footing, the climbing, the closeness of a spiritually accepting humanity, the greens, flowers, candles, waters. A rush of earthly smells, assailed only by the vivacity and freshness of flowing waters bouquets. The grace of movement among warmly intent peoples. All the while lightning crackling through active sun clouded skies horizontally, vertically, diagonally, alone, in clusters, thunder unceasing. To rid yourself, at the conclusion of the trek, of blocked passages. I rained sweat. Davou was swimming in his shirt and film carrying vest. My tee shirt, shorts and topsiders figuratively melted from my body heat. But, Davou was clicking away. I decided to go over to the falls and unattached myself from a tee shirt that tried its best not to move. People were standing on the other side of the main torrent atop a slightly rounded head of stone which gave a waterfall’s view of its creations. To get to the ledge I had to pass through the waterfall. There was a small trail behind it but that route almost gave me the notion to post a sign saying ‘other trail’. Grass grew tall on the other trail. I started descending a short slope at the beginning of the hard drops, solid wetness weighed me as I gained the centre of the hole in tone and fall. I strained to look up into its sharp rushing and discovered that I was under solid water as well as being under the fall and I was breathing. I stood there under the million fingering pressures of cascading waters in a small pool of rushing water rationalising why I should be breathing. Upon the conclusion, or near it, that enough air was present depending on the force from above at wavering levels to allow breathing, I started choking, inhaling water and choking. I ascended the hole with the help of laughing others on the ledge. When I sputtered my last sputter I looked at them and found them all standing back and staring at me. They didn’t look at me like how’d that guy get here, they looked at me like a guy who just performed a good card trick and what else did you have in your bag, my friend. I didn’t come all the way up here to perform for anybody so I thanked the ones who did for helping me and turned to look out and down upon the flow and vibrancy of colour. People becoming colours in a distantly radiating pattern of textures. I thought there must be a god to selfishly create this masterpiece of brightness to look down upon. I found my arms raised in an opening of my self to the vitality of pulsing energy in front of me. And something touched me, not like the palm of a hand but forcing, not like a strong breeze but not holdable. Inaudible sounds resonated against my chest and upper stomach. I was looking out at the river, people, jungle, horizon and sky while feeling an uneven cadence of what I could only conclude to be a spiritual essence trying to communicate with me. I could not figure out what to do to link up with this other dimension. I tried breathing, blanking out all stimulation, I tried ohms, I tried holding thought as still as a mirrored lake. It all felt false, not false but like I was trying… I lost it. Turning, I saw everybody else had their arms raised and in open eyed concentrated prayer. They wound down more or less together focusing on me and smiling, than bashfully shrugging and laughing to each other. One of the group who had spent some years studying in New York pointed out to me that my hands were glowing like day light phosphorescence. He said it was like I had been struck with lightning. I told him that I had been almost struck, maybe a foot away from the first strike of the day. His eyes opened wide. “Can I see the stone?” “Hunh?” I answered studying my hands’ veins running with orange-yellow glowing lights. “The stone, Sobo’s stone, can I see it?” “What stone? Sobo?” “You don’t have the stone? The stone that was thrown to you from the sky?” “Naw… you think lightning is stones falling from the sky?” “Yet, you knew to come up here.” He thought aloud in English, ignoring my question. “You were touched, ya know, like blessed by Simbi or… ya see, by the stone’s being thrown to you, I mean you didn’t get hit… You were glowing, man…” “I could probably find it…” “Good. The stone is a gift to you from Dhambala, Simbi, Sobo, Erzulie, as was the glowing to mark you apart, dude. Let’s go find it.” he exclaimed softly so the others could not hear. I was gone. Back to our packs, telling Davou about the stone, us running back down the fall-side to the tree, to the spot… but no stone to be fund. We dug all round and no stone. The man we had left under the tree awakened from a rest while we were digging. As we slowed down he crawled, calling to us, on his knees, then raised a knee, squatted, raised another knee, then stood. He walked toward us saying hundred of mercies. He grabbed my hand and put it on his face where tears were falling. I told him, “You are your own strength, not me. Go, allez, monsieur.” He went bowing off and I knew I would never find the stone.

zui9g5

Toasted

Toasted     “Ladies and gentlemen, for those of you who don’t me, I’m Peter, Rob’s best man. I was there from the beginning, when Rob and Cindy first met. Rob tells people that he and Cindy met while hiking. This is technically true, but it’s not the whole story. Rob’s a modest guy and doesn’t like to brag, so now I’m going to completely embarrass him by telling you what really happened.     “Rob and I were up at the lake, on the mountain trail, when we heard a scream. We ran toward the sound and found a lovely young woman crying and pacing, distraught and alone on the trail. Cindy here had been hiking with her German Shepherd, Muffin, and her then-boyfriend. We’ll call him Richard, or Dick, for short. They’d seen a large black bear on the trail and Muffin decided to summon his inner canine warrior and chase the bear. So, Muffin takes off into the woods, chasing the bear. Dick, apparently after several moments of hesitation, so I’m told, reluctantly takes off after Muffin.  Upon hearing Cindy tell this story, Rob takes off running in the direction of the dog and I follow him, after making sure Cindy was okay by herself.     “So, I’m following Rob, who’s moving through the woods faster than I thought humanly possible, jumping over tree limbs and bursting through bushes like a stunt man in a movie, until we finally see the dog in the distance. The dog’s still running deeper into the woods. No sign of Dick, in case you were wondering.   “We begin to hear water, which, if you’ve been to the mountain trail, you know is the river where the little waterfall feeds into the lake. We get closer and we see Muffin, trying to swim in the river. The bear, being a better swimmer than Muffin, is long gone. We caught a glimpse of him way on the other side of the river, heading further into the woods. We did not, at any point, catch a glimpse of Dick.     “But now here’s Muffin, being tossed about by the rapids in the river and beginning to head downstream. Toward. The. Waterfall.     “So, here’s the part where Rob, predictably, being the good guy he is, jumps into the river to save Muffin. Luckily for Muffin, Rob is a pretty good swimmer. He manages to catch up with Muffin before the poor dog goes over the waterfall. Rob grabs him by the collar and starts swimming toward the bank. I’m standing around like a dumb ass, because this is all happening so fast. I even forgot to whip out my phone and shoot a video. That would have been epic. Anyway, Rob gets to the bank of the river and checks Muffin for injuries. No animals were hurt in the making of this story, by the way. And still, no sign of Dick.    “We didn’t have a leash and couldn’t risk Muffin running off again, so Rob picks up Muffin, who, you’ll remember is a German Shepherd, not a small dog, and fireman-carries him back toward the trail.  Poor Muffin was too tired to fuss about that, at this point. It took nearly a half hour to get back to the trail carrying this gigantic dog. And still, you guessed it, no sign of Dick.     “We finally make it back to the trail, where poor Cindy is crying with worry, maybe more for the dog than the boyfriend. She sees us coming and her face lights up. She runs toward us, fastens Muffin to a leash, and gives us both hugs. We traded information and stood around talking for a while, waiting for Dick to arrive. Forty minutes later, he finally shows, covered in scrapes and dead leaves, and looking very annoyed that the dog was already safe and that he had nothing to do with it.     “That, my friends, should have been the end of the story. But no. The next morning, while watching the local news, I see Dick being interviewed on camera for a story about bear sightings in the area. Apparently, other hikers spotted the bear, and a news crew had arrived after we left.    “Anyway, here’s Dick, talking about how he was hiking with his girlfriend and how her dog ran after the bear, and how he had to run after the bear to save the dog. He added some colorful details about how he had to jump into the rapids to save the dog from going down the waterfall and how he’d gotten badly scraped up in the process. I thought about Rob’s bravery and his humility, and just shook my head.    “And that should have been the end of the story. But again, no.     “Two weeks later, I’m reading the local news online and I see this story. There’s Dick again, accepting an award from an animal rescue group, for saving his girlfriend’s German Shepherd from a tremendous bear.  He’s giving a speech about the importance of animals in our lives. I’d almost believe it if I hadn’t seen his face when he finally got back to the trail that day.  By this time, I’m kicking myself for not having shot a video of Rob rescuing Muffin.     “And that would have been the end of the story, if not for Cindy. Cindy appreciates a good man, and Dick wasn’t making the cut. Another week or so went by and Rob’s phone rings. Cindy had jettisoned Dick from her life. This is where the real story begins, the one that led us to be gathered here today.     “’Muffin and I would like to thank you for saving his life’ she said. They got together for coffee and the rest is history. The moral of the story is this. Nice guys don’t finish last. Sometimes, it just takes a little while to get there.     “A lot of times, at weddings, people like to talk about how fate brought the happy couple together. That’s nice. But let’s look a little deeper. We have some other entities to thank for bringing us together today. We have a wild bear, a dog named Muffin, and a self-promoting Dick. So, thank you bear, thank you Muffin, and ironically, thank you Dick.     “Raise your glasses everyone. To Rob and Cindy and Muffin. May you have boring hikes for the rest of your lives.”

6t5ze0

What's in Venice?

Cat’s eyes couldn’t stop looking at her boots. Tattered and filthy with scratches and scuffs of mud, they were bound to leave a trail that led to her getaway route at the train station. With all the mental energy she had left, she hoped that the trail would just blend in with the rest of the civilian life behind her, masking the scent of her escape both quickly and efficiently enough just for her to get far, far away. She couldn’t stop wondering if she was still being pursued. She began to consider the fact that cameras everywhere would be her final enemy, leading whoever she was running away from right to her without a struggle. She would be spotted soon... Attempting to calm herself, she kicked her feet under the train seat and raised her eyes from the floor. Immediately, she caught the eyes of a child. Someone’s son. He couldn’t have been over six years old. With khaki shorts and a white collared shirt on, he sat beside his mother who paid no attention to him. With one hand she held one of his little hands and with her other she gripped a book in which her face was fixated on. The title was too small to read from across the train but the binding was thin. A short story maybe? Or one of those self-improvement guides. The book couldn't have been over a hundred pages--a quick read here and there and finished in a week. While lost in her curious thoughts, she realized that the little boy was still staring at her. It took a second, but she knew why his eyes lingered on her face. Her left hand slowly went up and touched her eyebrow. There. She felt it still. A cicatrix holding the terrible memory of what felt like the previous night. She winced at the contact of her own finger and pulled the black hood further over her head, lowering her eyes once again. Instantly, she noticed a couple tears in her black pants. The number of lacerated slits made her anxious again. She fiddled with one of the tears with her thumb and tried her best not to remember the activities that had led to the violent ripping of the fabric. With each flash of memory Cat closed her eyes harder. She clenched her jaw tighter. She balled her fists up. Her chest was pounding and her throat dry. She wasn’t breathing. She let out a loud gasp she didn’t know she was holding. She peeked out of her hoodie and saw a couple eyes peering in her direction in confusion. The boy’s mother had looked up from her book with a slight frown on her face–irritated at the inconvenience of being distracted from her reading. She let go of her son’s hand and put her arm around his waist pulling him closer to her. Her hand then went to his head and softly guided him down to lay in her lap. The boy swung his little legs on top of the seat and laid down as his mother immediately went back to her reading. Cat hung her head low once again. Partially because she didn’t want to be seen but mainly because she was tired. Her eyes opened and she looked up to see that the little boy was gone. His mom and her short book weren’t anywhere to be seen. Cat froze and realized that she wasn’t on the train anymore. Her cold lips and breeze-filled air confirmed she wasn’t dreaming. Everything in front of her was dark while below her, there seemed to be a bright illumination that she was almost scared to look down at. Where she was sitting, her back was propped up against something. When she turned, she saw that she had been leaning on the leg of a statue. The statue was exceptionally tall. And although it was tall, the building behind it stood at an even more dramatic height. The base of the building was partially lit, but the top of the building was so high it blended in with the darkness. “ That’s Oceanus .” A loud voice echoed slightly. Her head turned swiftly, scanning the area but seeing no one. “ Standing arrogantly on his seahorse-led chariot, the view is astounding. Don’t you think? ” The invisible voice continued. She wondered if it was a recording, one that played for the entertainment of tourists that came to see whatever the statue behind her was. She blinked hard four or five times before her eyes were awake enough to dart around at her surroundings. She turned her head again, taking in the view of the statue. Once again, her eyes wandered to the height of the structure behind it. “ I see you’re exceptionally captivated by the grand scale of the fountain. Eighty-five feet. That’s how high it is .” She froze. The voice was live. Someone was watching her! She could feel her cheeks red hot with anxiety as her head continued to swivel, searching for whoever had her attention. The voice hadn’t stopped spewing out information about the fountain, but the light echo made it hard to tell where it was coming from. “ –the two seahorses are quite opposites. While one is tamed and docile, the other ravishes roughly and wild...just like the personalities of the oceans. ” It then clicked in her mind. Trevi Fountain. This is where she had meant to go. But she didn’t go there on her own. Someone who knew her anticipation finished the journey for her. Was it the man talking to her through the speaker system? How long had he been watching her? She considered the fact that this could actually be all in her head. The voice, the personified seahorses, the structure that scratched the heavens. Because why in the world would she actually be in the fountain? “ According to myth, a coin that is thrown into this fountain is bound to return to Rome. The myth even goes to the extent that throwing a second coin would bring true love. ” The man babbled continuously. “ Sadly, you only have one coin for right now .” She halted. For some seconds everything went silent. She felt something in her hand. Perplexed, she sat there distracted by her thoughts. In her mind was nothing but anxiety. Inhaling deeply, she decided to count to three. One. Two. Three. She opened her hand palm up and stared. Silver, round and flat. Jagged edged. The inscription REPVBBLICA ITALIANA . She could do nothing but gasp. She doubted the coin had been in her hand previously but she was too shocked to be sure. Her fingers wrapped around the coin as she clenched her hand into a fist. She opened her fist and was shocked when the coin was still there. She closed and opened her palm one last time. The coin remained face up in the crevice of her thin and dirty palm. “You’re not supposed to be on that statue, young lady.” A lady’s voice said loud enough to cross the water and reach her ears. She looked up and finally saw people; a lady and a tall man. The lady was beautiful and the man handsome; they wore the formal attire of a dress and a suit, respectively. They stood straight with exemplary posture and matching suspicious faces. Leaning a little bit forward and squinting, she was able to make out their faces. For a second she completely disregarded the lady. Her eyes met the man’s. Something about him was emphatically familiar and the gash in his right cheek only intensified his look. Her mind associated his face with animosity. But also disquietude and she feared him and whatever he was capable of. His stare stopped her breath and his grin sped up her heartbeat. She caught her attention back and returned her gaze at the lady. “Young lady, please come down.” She didn’t move. Too many thoughts formed too many questions in her mind. How did she get to her location? Whose coin was she holding and when did it get into her hand? Why did she just realize that the big voice had stopped talking? Who were these two people? The lady looked at the guy and said something too quiet to be heard by anyone who wasn’t supposed to hear. He nodded and took off the jacket of his suit. He carelessly dropped it to the floor and made his way closer to the fountain. Without a thought, he entered the water and was moving quickly. He waddled but made progress at a terrifying speed. Cat looked around for a place to run to but couldn’t see a clear exit out of the situation. There was no way to go but she had to get up. She wouldn’t sit down and let herself see what would happen if she was caught. Bracing herself with her hands, she pulled the lower half of her body up and stood beside the statue. She tried to be careful but slipped. Reaching out quickly, she was able to grab onto one of Oceanus’ legs and hold on. She heard a plop! in the water. Still grasping onto the calf, she peered over the ledge into the water. A small sliver of shimmering gold seemed to shrink smaller and smaller as it descended to the bottom. The coin! Then she heard her name. “Catalaya! Catalaya, wake up!” The pitch black sky frightened her and she closed her eyes shut, trying her hardest to bite her lip and hold back her tears of fear and confusion. “Wake up! Catalaya!” No, she didn’t want to. “Please, you need to wake up!” The terror had taken over and she shut her eyes even tighter, horrified at the ominous voice looming over her. She shook her head, wanting to wake up from this nightmare. The tears had begun streaming down, and her mouth was crying out but making no sound. She didn’t want to move, she didn’t want to open her eyes. The monstrous man would be getting too close to her now for her to make any move. She wanted to give up. “Catalaya, wake up!” She realized this time, she recognized the voice. Her eyes opened and saw her father’s face. It was filled with worry, which concerned her because she had never seen him look so scared. He grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the bed. Out the room, through the living room, through the kitchen and out the sliding doors, they barged through the backyard. Catalaya still could not tell what was going on. And before she could get any sign, the two of them were blindsided and hit the floor. Her father rolled a bit further than she did, separating the two of them by too many feet. Catalaya sat up on the grass. Her new black jeans were dirty and covered in grass stains. She heard grumbling and looked up to see her father wrestling a man. And as soon as she stood up, another man appeared and grabbed her. Instinct from her self-defense training caused her to kick, scream and scratch while the man tried to maintain his grip on her. A hard and final kick in between his legs sent him stumbling back. She tried to run to her father but was grabbed and turned. For a split second she stared at the man. There was a scar on the right side of his face, on his cheek. Before she knew it, his hand went up and came down fast sending a hard backhand to her cheek. Her father tackled the man and sent one hard punch before dashing back to his daughter. He picked her up and continued running. They got to the driveway and he opened the back door of the Jeep. He placed her down and the door closed behind her with daddy on the other side. “Daddy?” She whispered. The car engine started. The person in the driver’s seat was her family’s driver. “Miss Catalaya, your father will be fine.” He assured her without a drop of conviction in his voice. “He left you everything you need for right now.” Looking on the seat beside her she saw a plane ticket, a train ticket, and a coin. She picked up the items and stared at them. The plane ticket was a departure from her city’s airport to Italy. The train ticket was to Venice. The coin had something written in a foreign language. The three items were all strange to her but she held on to them so tight that she began to smother the two tickets into a wrinkle. She couldn’t stop thinking of her father. She had left him back at the house with the two random, violent men. He had to fight them off by himself. She hoped and prayed that he could. With a deep sigh and a tear on her cheek, she looked at the tickets again with questions. The biggest one being what was in Venice?

b8u5pf

Through Rain and Light: A Tale of Two Worlds

It was a dark and stormy night when Sarah left her hometown for the first time. The rain lashed against the windows of the bus station, a relentless drumbeat that seemed to echo her racing heart. She clutched her ticket tightly, the paper already damp from her nervous, sweaty palms. Everything she had ever known lay behind her in the small, quiet town of Willow Creek. Ahead of her was the sprawling city of New York, a place she had only ever seen in movies and on TV, a place that promised both excitement and terror. Sarah's hometown was a place where everyone knew each other’s name. It was a place where life moved slowly, punctuated by the gentle rhythms of nature—the blossoming of spring, the slow, lazy summers, the golden fall, and the harsh, biting winters. Willow Creek was safe, predictable, and comforting. But for Sarah, it had become a cage. The endless familiarity, the unchanging routine, and the expectations placed upon her by those who had watched her grow up weighed heavily on her shoulders. Leaving wasn’t a decision Sarah made lightly. For years, she had dreamed of seeing more of the world, of escaping the confines of Willow Creek, where everyone expected her to marry young, settle down, and live the same kind of quiet life her parents and grandparents had lived before her. She craved something more—a chance to explore, to grow, to be someone different from the small-town girl everyone thought they knew. As the bus arrived, its headlights cutting through the dark, stormy night, Sarah felt a mix of fear and excitement. The bus was her ticket to freedom, but it also meant leaving behind everything familiar. She looked around one last time at the old bus station, its paint peeling and the flickering neon sign that had welcomed travelers for decades. There was a pang in her heart, a small voice whispering to her to stay, to not go. But she silenced it, straightened her shoulders, and stepped onto the bus. The journey to New York was long and filled with uncertainty. The rain didn't let up for hours, and the darkness outside the bus windows seemed to stretch on forever. The other passengers were mostly silent, lost in their own thoughts or dozing off despite the bumps in the road. Sarah watched the raindrops streak across the glass, feeling the miles tick away between her and Willow Creek. She wondered if she was making a mistake, if she was leaving behind more than just a small town but a part of herself. But then, as dawn broke and the rain finally subsided, Sarah saw the first signs of the city. The skyline emerged on the horizon, like a giant waking from a long slumber. Skyscrapers glistened in the early morning light, their glass and steel reflecting the soft pink and orange hues of the sunrise. Sarah's breath caught in her throat. She had seen pictures, of course, but nothing had prepared her for the sheer size and grandeur of the city. Her fears momentarily faded, replaced by awe and a renewed sense of purpose. This was why she had left. This was what she had come for. New York was a cacophony of sounds, sights, and smells. As she stepped off the bus, the noise hit her first—the blaring of car horns, the distant wail of sirens, the murmur of countless voices all blending into a single, incomprehensible roar. It was overwhelming, and for a moment, Sarah felt dizzy. But she took a deep breath, clutching her single suitcase a little tighter, and pushed forward. Her first few days in the city were a blur. She had booked a small room in a hostel downtown, a far cry from the comfortable home she had left behind. The room was cramped and smelled faintly of mildew, but it was cheap, and for now, that was all that mattered. She spent her days exploring, her wide eyes drinking in everything the city had to offer. She walked for hours, getting lost in the maze of streets, but she didn't mind. Every turn revealed something new—a quirky little bookstore, a street musician playing a haunting melody on a violin, a food truck with the most delicious falafel she had ever tasted. But it wasn't all magic. There were moments of fear and doubt, moments when the city felt too big, too fast, too impersonal. One night, as she returned to her hostel, she was nearly knocked over by a crowd rushing to catch the last train of the evening. She stumbled and dropped her bag, her few possessions spilling out onto the dirty sidewalk. Panic gripped her as she scrambled to gather her things, feeling small and insignificant in the sea of people who barely noticed her plight. It was in these moments of vulnerability that Sarah realized just how much she missed the familiarity of home—the quiet nights where the only sound was the rustling of leaves, the friendly faces of neighbors who greeted her by name, the comfort of her own bed. She missed her parents, too, even though she knew they had never understood her desire to leave. She missed their steady, reassuring presence, the way her mother always knew just what to say to calm her fears, the way her father’s laughter could fill a room. Despite the challenges, Sarah refused to let herself be defeated. She found a job at a small café in Brooklyn, not far from her hostel. It wasn't much, just a barista position, but it was a start. The pay was barely enough to cover her rent and food, but she liked the café. It had a cozy, eclectic vibe, with mismatched chairs and tables, local art hanging on the walls, and the rich, comforting smell of freshly brewed coffee. The owners, a middle-aged couple named Tom and Lisa, were kind and patient, and the regulars were friendly. It was the closest thing to a community she had found since leaving Willow Creek. The job gave her a sense of routine, a small anchor in the vast, unpredictable ocean that was New York. Each day, she learned a little more—how to make the perfect cappuccino, how to manage the morning rush, how to deal with the occasional difficult customer. She even began to recognize a few faces, the regulars who came in for their morning coffee or a quick lunch. There was Mrs. O’Leary, an elderly woman who always ordered a small black coffee and a blueberry muffin, and Mr. Patel, a lawyer who seemed perpetually glued to his phone, his order a large latte with two shots of espresso. Sarah started to feel a sense of belonging, something she hadn’t felt since she’d left home. The city was beginning to open up to her, to reveal its secrets and hidden gems. On her days off, she explored further, venturing into different neighborhoods, visiting museums, parks, and libraries. She took a ferry out to Staten Island, stood at the top of the Empire State Building, wandered through Central Park, and sat in on a poetry reading in a tiny café in Greenwich Village. It was during one of these explorations that she met Clara. Clara was an artist, a free spirit with wild, curly hair and a contagious laugh. They met at an open mic night, where Sarah had gone on a whim, and Clara was performing a piece she’d written about the complexities of love in a city that never sleeps. They struck up a conversation afterward, and before Sarah knew it, they were inseparable. Clara became her guide, her friend, and her confidante. She showed Sarah the city from a local’s perspective—the best place to get a late-night slice of pizza, the quietest spot in Central Park, the most interesting thrift shops. Clara’s presence was a balm to Sarah’s homesick heart. She reminded her of her friends back in Willow Creek, the ones she had left behind in her quest for something more. With Clara, she felt a little less alone, a little less like a stranger in a strange land. They would spend hours talking, sharing their hopes, dreams, and fears. Clara, too, had left her home behind, though her reasons were different. She had come to New York to pursue her art, to find inspiration in the chaos and beauty of the city. They bonded over their shared experiences of leaving behind everything familiar to chase something elusive and undefined. With each passing week, Sarah began to feel more like herself. She was no longer just a small-town girl lost in the big city. She was Sarah, a young woman finding her way, carving out her own path in a place that both scared and thrilled her. She was learning to navigate the subway, to understand the rhythm of the city, to find joy in its unexpected moments of kindness and beauty. But even as she settled into her new life, there were still moments when she felt the pull of home. Late at night, after a long day at the café, she would lie in bed and think of Willow Creek. She would remember the smell of her mother’s apple pie, the sound of her father’s voice as he told her stories of his own youth, the way the sun set over the fields, bathing everything in a warm, golden glow. She wondered if she would ever feel truly at home in New York or if a part of her would always belong to Willow Creek. One day, after nearly six months in the city, Sarah received a letter from her parents. She hadn’t spoken to them much since she left—just a few brief phone calls and a couple of text messages. They had been worried, she knew, but they had also been supportive in their own way, understanding that this was something she needed to do. The letter was simple, filled with news from home—Mrs. Johnson had finally retired, the Petersons had welcomed a new baby, the old oak tree on Main Street had been struck by lightning in a recent storm. Her mother wrote about how much they missed her, how proud they were of her for following her dreams, and how they hoped she was finding what she was looking for. Reading the letter, Sarah felt a lump form in her throat. She hadn’t realized just how much she missed them, how much she missed the simple, everyday life of Willow Creek. She missed the quiet, the stars at night, the familiar faces. She missed the way life there was slower, gentler, more predictable. But she also knew that she couldn’t go back—not yet, at least. There was still so much she wanted to do, so much she needed to prove to herself. That night, Sarah sat down and wrote a letter in return. She told her parents about the city, about her job at the café, about Clara, and all the places she had visited. She told them about her fears and her doubts, but also about her excitement and her hope. She told them that she was learning, growing, and finding her way, even if it wasn’t always easy. She thanked them for their support, for understanding why she had to leave, and for always believing in her. As she sealed the envelope, Sarah felt a sense of peace. She wasn’t sure what the future held, but she knew she was on the right path. She was finding herself in the city, discovering who she was and who she wanted to be. Willow Creek would always be a part of her, but so would New York. The city had challenged her, scared her, and tested her, but it had also welcomed her, taught her, and embraced her. In the months that followed, Sarah continued to explore the city, to push herself out of her comfort zone. She took a photography class, went skydiving, and even tried stand-up comedy at an open mic night. She laughed, cried, and made mistakes, but through it all, she grew stronger, more confident, more sure of herself. She was no longer the scared girl who had boarded the bus on that dark and stormy night. She was a young woman who had dared to dream, dared to leave everything behind, and dared to find herself in a place that was both terrifying and exhilarating. Sarah knew that she would return to Willow Creek one day. She would go back to the quiet, familiar streets, to the people who loved her, to the place that had shaped her. But she also knew that she would never be the same. She had changed, and so had her understanding of what it meant to be home. Home wasn’t just a place—it was a feeling, a sense of belonging, and she had found that in both Willow Creek and New York. As the year drew to a close, Sarah stood on the Brooklyn Bridge, looking out over the city that had become her second home. The skyline was lit up against the night sky, a thousand lights twinkling like stars. She felt a sense of gratitude, a sense of fulfillment. She had taken a leap of faith, and it had brought her to a place she had never imagined. She was no longer just a small-town girl—she was Sarah, a dreamer, an adventurer, a young woman who had found her place in the world. And as the first snowflakes of winter began to fall, Sarah smiled. She was exactly where she was meant to be.

j3bl6y