Timeless Tales

First Word

By: Mehreen Ahmed

People say that the wheel of fortune revolves in two directions. That it slips backwards and sometimes moves forwards. After about three decades, old Brown’s fate was about to change today. And it happened mysteriously enough. There was no logic as to why or how things occurred; they just did, without any rhyme or reason. Circumstance lent itself favourably, leading to his success on this fateful foggy winter of 1875.

A sound of fury distracted them; none other but the wind lashed across. The horses swerved a bit off course, but Brown’s young apprentice Peter handled it skilfully. Brown took his wallet out of his shirt pocket and looked at a picture. This was the picture of a little girl in a polka dot frock. He put his wallet away.

Peter had been here before. They were on their way to the Carpenter abode. After about an hour’s ride, they could see their house. It sat on a vast land which was now in view. Their cart drew closer to the house; the horse trotted gently down the gravel path and stopped under the porch, at a pull of Peter’s reins. With a sigh, they looked at one another. Peter and Brown disembarked.

Someone flung the front door open. Lydia and Jim Carpenter, came out and greet ed them, but not Rose. Slow trepidation pumped in as their heart-rates went up.

“Hello, how’s it going?” Jim beamed cordially.

“Good, pretty good,” Peter managed a nervous smile.

“And how about you Brown? Doing okay?”

“Yes, yes, not too bad.”

Peter could smell the aromas of butter from here. Some drifted across in the winds to tickle his nostrils amiably.

“Is Rose not here?” Brown asked.

“Of course, she is. She’s toiling away in the kitchen cooking up a storm for you two.”

“Oh, I thought, it was just a meeting, no food involved,” Peter interjected.

“Look, I don’t know. I just carried out the instructions that Jim gave me,” Lydia smiled.

“Well, typically, it would be lunch time by the time you got here. So, why not?” Jim said.

“Sure, sure, why not?” Brown mumbled.

As they all approached the door together, Peter saw Rose through the fly-screen. She was leaning over the hot stove in the sunlight filtered through the kitchen windows. Her green eyes glimmering, and partly covered with golden curls hanging over her brows, she looked up sheepishly and smiled. Peter smiled back and shrugged. Rose held a hot plate of burned drumsticks in her hand.

“Oh dear. Don’t worry, just leave them out here,” Lydia remarked.

“I’ll eat them!” Peter offered graciously.

Rose laughed at that and then turned to Brown. They walked towards the next room. Peter lingered in her presence slightly before he joined them. They sat down in a bright floral sofa. Peter looked around and thought it was quite a cheerful room with many stuffed animals displayed on the mantel shelf. However, as he observed Brown, Peter found him absorbed in thoughts. These thoughts took old Brown back to little Rosie. As a toddler, her first word for food was ‘nun’ for ‘yum’ which had emerged when Brown had given her a piece of cheese to taste. From then onwards, everything from water to pudding was ‘nun’, ‘nun’ and yet, more ‘nun’ until she learnt, ‘yum’ a few months later. Peter coined a smile around the corners of his lips. It was quite obvious that his mind wasn’t on socialising this afternoon. Sitting on the far end, he felt edgy, as he gripped the cushioned handle of the sofa unwarranted. He wanted to get to business straightaway. He asked Jim Carpenter, if he could take a walk with him on the farm. Lydia, guessed just as much and looked at Peter searchingly. Peter avoided making eye-contact. He continued to gaze at the animal posters on the walls. She sat quietly for a moment and then rose mumbling that she needed to help Rose in the kitchen. Peter nodded feeling a tensed moment.

From this angle where Peter was sitting, he could see Rose tinkering with pots and pans and burnt drumsticks. She had her back towards him. Her wiry arms moved fast and her rounded hips swung inadvertently when she shifted her posture. Peter felt like being closer to her. He felt like touching those arms. He gazed at her until she turned around with a jolt and caught him dreaming. She suppressed a smile and waited for him to come over. Rose was accustomed to men drooling over her. But Peter did just the opposite. He got up from his chair hurriedly and walked out. Rose put down the metal pot on a wooden table placed beside the stove and ran after him feeling slighted. She always had the upper hand where her men were concerned. She was the one who turned away from them, not the other way round.

Finding Peter was easy. He was sitting under a desolate apple tree. On this wintry morning, the apple tree looked as though the sunless Hades cast a colourless shadow on its skeletal branches. The ones reaching out like dendrites of the neural system. She stood calmly before him. Peter looked up.

“Why have you come again?” she asked.

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know. I’m asking you.”

“If I said, I fell in love with you the first time we met, would you believe me?”

“That would amuse me. I’m used to that but…,”

“But what?”

“I don’t know.”

“No. I’m not in love with you, Rose, not as much as I would like to be anyway.”

“I don’t understand. What is it then?”

“I don’t know.”

Both Rose and Peter fell quiet after that. They knew not what to do next. Peter glanced at Rose and smiled. A lock of her curls had tumbled over her forehead in the wind. Peter took a sharp breath and said,

“Gosh, Rose. You’re pretty.”

He put a hand out and tried to play with her curls on her forehead. He twirled them around his fingers. She did nothing to stop it. Rose extended her hand towards Peter; her long fingers touching the tip of his. Peter enclosed her fingers into his masculine idle palm.

“Do you ever think of getting married, Peter?”

“Hmm, interesting question.”

Peter smiled at her small inquisitive face and caressed her rosy cheeks touching it with his index finger. He put a protective arm around Rose and thought of big ocean waves lapping on the shore.

“What’re you thinking, Peter?”

“Nothing. How ‘bout you Rose? Do you think about marriage?”

“Yeah, I think about it but I’m afraid of long-term commitment?”

“Afraid? Why?”

“That’s just how I’m.”

Peter frowned lightly. And looking away, he saw Brown and Jim walking towards them down the gravel path. They both looked anxious and agitated. Grim face, stiff lips, deep frowns. Now that they were within view, Rose and Peter both stood up and waited for them. As they came closer, Peter saw Brown looking at Rose; and extending an arm, he suddenly broke down. Hundred years of ice seemed to have melted down in a rivulet. Rose was flustered.

“Wha? What is is it?” she stammered.

Words froze. Brown couldn’t talk. Rose shied away from his open embrace; he sat down on the bench. A tired old man who lost so much and found again never to let go but, he felt it fallen was slipping in quick sand.

Jim asked Rose to come inside with him. But invited neither Brown nor Peter. Leaving them out, he took Rose by the shoulder and stalked inside. Rose’s skirt swayed swiftly on the gravel path. It didn’t occur to him that Rose was an adult now and she could choose a life as she pleased.

Indeed, the picture in old Brown’s wallet came handy; the picture of a small girl wearing a polka dot dress was the same dress, Rose also had among her possessions when the Carpenters adopted her from the orphanage. In fact that was her only belonging. This dress. Near match photographs were also there in Jim’s album that posed striking similarity to the little girl’s picture in Brown’s wallet wearing the same dress. There were no doubts left in Brown’ or Jim’s mind that this was the same girl … Rose, Brown’s little Rosie; no mistaken identity. Oh! Rosie was alive after all these years and well. Thirty years, those thirty long years, when Rose was abducted at five and sold to a stranger who bought her to the orphanage for care. Her mother, Emma, Emma must be contacted at once! It was now up to Peter to collect the broken pieces. For Brown was completely devastated and beyond anyone’s note-worthy reproach or approval. Grief and joy; sympathy and admonitions were tied up in one huge confusing emotion.

Brown put a hand on Peter’s arm and Peter slowly led him to the cart. This house of welcome seemed cold. Those doors now firmly locked. They returned to the buggy and Peter slowly drove them out of the Carpenter’s premises. The long journey back gave Brown sufficient time to settle down.

“Now that I’ve finally found her, I want Rosie to come home to live with us, Peter. I must write to Emma at once.”

“Tell me, please, how did it all happen?”

“How did it happen?”

“Yes, farmer Brown, how did it happen?”

“Well, I took Jim for a walk as you already know.”

“Hmm.”

“Then after a bit of chat-chat about the weather and our farms generally, I broached the subject. I took my wallet out and simply showed him Rosie’s picture. He didn’t say anything for a very long time and then he said, ‘who’re you? How did you get hold of this picture in that dress?’ I said, because this is my Rosie and I believe your Rose and my Rosie are the same people.’ ‘I need to sit down and breathe,’ he said, ‘Oh God, give me some breathing space.’ So he sat down and I sat quietly beside him until he found his bearings back. ‘Yes, yes, we brought her home in that dress. It was small by then but it fitted her just fine even after three years. Rose was eight by then. They don’t feed them much in that orphanage you know?’he said and I said, ‘I know, I know all about Badgerys’ Creek orphanage.’ ‘You do? Hey, you do, right?’ he said. ‘Then you must also know that Rose is ours now. No power in this world can take her from us. We adopted her legally from the orphanage.’ ‘Is that a threat?’ I asked. By now, I started to panic, desperately trying to get Rosie back from him.‘You do know that Rosie was stolen from us.’ I said.’ Stolen? No, no I don’t. They never told us anything about her past,’ he said. ‘Well, one day when we are both a little calmer, I shall tell you all about it. For now let’s just go back to Rosie,’ I said. ’Lydia, Lydia would still have that dress in the closet somewhere.’ He was panicking too.’I don’t need to see it. I only want to know if this is my Rosie.’ Farmer Brown paused and Peter looked at him through the corner of his eyes. He nodded and kept nodding as a sign of acknowledgement,“I had only one thing on my mind, Peter. To find out for sure, if indeed that was my little girl.”

The evening had mellowed by now. Night falling gradually over the shadow of the distant mist. Peter had a strange thought that had nothing do with these worldly affairs. He thought what if every life on earth stopped giving birth. He envisaged a world where the old would die and ‘Time’ would still continue to rule but, a subjectless state - an empty planet; a ghastly, empty, blue planet, just like the red or the frozen, the dwarf or any of the other planets in the universe, without a speck of life. What sort of a world would that be? Seeing Peter engrossed in thoughts, Brown said nothing.

“Now that you’ve found Rose. Are you any wiser?” asked Peter suddenly.

Brown was pensive for a while and then replied quietly.

“Well, I should’ve thought of the orphanage. I don’t know why I didn’t at the time. I relied on the police to find her and just happy in the thought that Rose’s body wasn’t found. To me, it meant she was alive. What more could I had asked for? What a fool, I had been!”

“Yeah, I just hope it’s not too late to bring Rose home.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Rose has a home. A safe house that has protected her all those years. Why would she leave it?

“Because, I’m her biological father.”

“And they raised her with all the love they could muster; a choice between infinite love and kinship? What’s it going to be?”

“Blood’s always thicker, no matter what happens.”

“Orphanage is not a safe-haven. You should’ve done better and looked for her there. The Carpenters saved Rose from their atrocities.”

Brown remained quiet.

“We need to get home. I am drained,” Brown said.

“So am I.”

Dusk had fallen over the gum-trees along the side-road. The horse rode through dirt, and pebbles over the uneven tract. The drive was lonely and dark. Brown struck a match in the dark and bent over to light a small lantern, hanging by the carriage.

“Do you think Rose knows by now?” Brown asked twiddling his thumb somewhat.

“I really don’t know,” Peter said honestly.

Brown kept up his gaze as the horses darted down the dirt road. He speculated that Rosie must be thrilled to hear about the existence of her biological father.

“We must make another trip tomorrow to Emma’s parent house.”

“Is that where she is?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

“You don’t know that. You haven’t been in touch since she left you.”

“We’ll send a telegram before we go. I have their address somewhere.”

“Are your parents-in-law still alive?”

“Don’t know. Doesn’t seem like it. It has been a long thirty years, now.”

“When Emma left, you were still young. Why did you not take another wife?”

“Another wife? Emma’s the only one for me; my love of life.”

Peter felt foolish. Love was something he hadn’t factored in.

“How does one feel when in love?”

“You’ll know. You feel anything for Rose?
“She’s a beauty,” Peter smiled.

“She looks like Emma when I first met her, an angel in the garden of Eden. I was smitten and still am,” Brown nodded.

They were home. Peter drove in through the gate of the farm and parked the cart up at the door. He jumped off as did Brown and both of them dismantled the horse and walked it inside the stable by the barn. Then they entered through kitchen door later, as the farm slept in silence. Through the kitchen, they plodded up the staircase; Brown in the lead and Peter right behind.

The next morning Brown woke up with smile on his face. Much work was needed to be done today. First and foremost was to get in touch with Emma. He sat down to write a letter and found Emma’s parent’s address. His loyalty for Emma was unquestionable; he wrote several drafts and crunched them up in paper balls. At last he wrote.

Dear Emma,

I know it has been a long thirty years since you left me. You were angry with me because I couldn’t find little Rosie. Well! I have news. Good news. I hope this will find you in good health. Oh! Emma, Emma Brown. Guess what? I found Rose. I found her for you, my darling little bird. She is well. She has grown into a beautiful, confident lady.

Yours forever,

Brown

PS. Please write back to me as soon as you receive this.

Brown sat with the note in his hand for a while thinking of mailing it in the afternoon post. In the unlikely event of Jim not passing on this vital information to Rose, it would have a harrowing effect in all families. To avoid this, something else needed to be planned. This time around, Brown must do it right. Then he thought of Peter. What if Peter could be persuaded into a relationship with Rose? Cupid’s bow must cast a stiff bull’s eye. He went downstairs to search for Peter. Peter was in the Sty mixing fodder for the pigs. Bent deep over the hog trough, his arms stirred the corn and the soybean meal. He realised much later that Brown had entered.

“What’s up?” he asked looking up at Brown.

“I’m sending a letter to Emma.”

“Good.”

By now Peter stood straight up.

“Something needs to be done. Rose must see her mum.”

“Of course, she must.”

“I got a plan.”

“Well?”

“Marry Rose.”

“Are you crazy? She’ll never have me this way.”

“Why not? Can you think of another plan?”

“One day, I’ll start a business and you’ll be a part of it.”

“Sounds good. What about Rose?”

“Let me handle this. Now, you go inside and make yourself a nice cuppa. By the looks of it, you didn’t get any sleep last night, did ye’ now?”

Brown scratched his stubbles slovenly and looked at Peter’s honest to goodness face.

“Trust me,” Peter whispered.

“I trust you, Peter, you’re the best thing that’s happened to me after Rose and Emma.”

Brown left after that and Peter sat down beside the wallowing pigs. The first thing that came to his mind was to make money. He had heard about the Gold-rush and people’s mad punting over it in New South Wales. He decided to join them in search for Gold before he proposed to marry Rose Brown. At the moment, she was Rose Carpenter but soon to be wedded to Peter Baxter, becoming Rose Baxter. What’s in a name?

By: Mehreen Ahmed

The city’s spirit is aptly sensed, by none, other than Gil, in Midnight in Paris. La Ville-Lumiere or “the city of light,” as Paris sometimes is called, is full of cultural sophistication and sensuous get up; something it owes largely to fashion, the glamour glitz and a tradition of fine arts. A city decorated with gardens and a regal past, as well as a place where kings and queens have lived, ruled, and fought bloody revolutions. Just as the Tuileries and the Chateaus symbolize the splendor of the royal heritage, the huge endowment, the French revolution, marks a turning point in history, as documented in Dickens’, The Tale of two cities and Orczy’s The Scarlet Pimpernel.

Of course, we already know about the much needed French history; how the mighty rulers perished under the guillotine. However, it is quite a different feeling to visit those sites in the flesh. These streets have taken me back to the past; I see though a porthole of my mind’s eye, the passing chain of events; the artists, writers and the poets mingling, having coffee together and discussing topics, both enlightening and eternal; Edith Piaf, Flaubert and Maupassant; I almost see Flaubert writing Madam Bovery. Those very words, as he crafts them patiently, into the delicate artistry of writing:

“He was happy now, without a care in the world. A meal alone with her, a stroll along the highway in the evening, the way she touched her hand to her hair, the sight of her straw hat hanging from a window hasp, and many other things in which it had never occurred to him to look for pleasure — such now formed the steady current of his happiness.”

And then I come back with a jolt, to the ordinariness of the present. However, not for long because Maupassant is here too, writing passionately his poignant lines in Neckless.

“She had no clothes, no jewels, nothing. And these were the only things she loved; she felt to be desired; to be wildly attractive and sought after.”

I do not blame Gil for leaving his girlfriend and falling in love with Adriana; for I feel, the woman in Neckless was perhaps much like her, tender, as the night.

My bed and breakfast hotel, Mercure, is situated in the heart of the Grand Boulevard. It is flanked by intertwining narrow lanes, with many Jewish restaurants, cafés and bakeries; pictures of Netanyahu hang on the walls of some of these restaurants. As the Euro train stops at the Paris station, I look around the place and realize that it looks like any other European city; except, that buildings have no Roman pillars, arches or duomos, but is uniquely French with Mansard roofs and Baroque architecture. I take a taxi to the Paris gate. As I enter it, I am dazzled by the magnificent palaces, situated on both sides. These, I gather, are the original Tuileries palaces on the bank of the River Seine.

The river Siene also bears testament of its earliest settlers. Around 250 B.C, a Celtic Senones sub-tribe known as Parisii inhabited on its bank. In Celtic-Gaelic, however, the word was Parisio meaning, ‘the working people.’ The Roman conquest in 52 BC led to another settlement on the left bank of Saint Genevieve Hill. Under the Gallo-Roman culture, the city was known as Lutetia. It became quite prosperous during the Roman rule and the city expanded to a great extent. The Romans built palaces, forums, temples and amphitheatre. But they fell in the 5th century. Since then, Paris witnessed the Germanic conquest. The Frankish King Clovis from Merovingian dynasty, held France in a strong grip for many years, until they were deposed by the Carolingian dynasty.

That was the bygone era; but today’s Paris is remarkably urbane and cultivated; it has evolved over-time into this great hub of music, painting and literary works that Midnight in Paris depicts; literature and art flourishing from strength to strength.

The home of this huge collection of art work is the Louvre; one of the greatest museums of our times. The louvre is housed within the palace Louvre, in the cluster of the Tuileries. When Louis X1V decided to make Versailles his residence, his palace Louvre was transformed and extended, into a museum, only to display royal antiques and antique sculptures from 1682-1692. However, in the aftermath of the French revolution, by the decree of the royal assembly, the museum exhibited, not just the royal artifacts, but also many international objects; now its acquisitions are consisted of a series of relics from Egyptian and Eastern antiquities, Greek, Etruscan and Roman; Islamic art, sculpture, decorative arts, paintings, prints and drawings.

Among the many candle polished statues, the most notable ones are the classical figurines. These are Venus, the Roman goddess of love, Artemis the Greek goddess of war, Diomedes the war hero and Zeus himself. Along with mummies and the lion head Sphinx, Islamic terracotta cup from Iraq 9th century BC and many multicolored vases with Arabic calligraphy, including the Persian Ibex Rhyton, as ancient as 600-300 BC.

The Mona Lisa is here of course; it is displayed within a small picture frame, which somewhat distracts me from the picture itself. The picture can not be viewed for minute details, because tourists are never allowed to go up close. Whether or not this is the original work of Leanardo Da Vinci or a fake replica, there is no way to tell; but the portrait hangs in front of me, as though it is; the much revered Mona Lisa, no less; with that slight smile, still holds the world captive.

The other oil paintings in the gallery, hang splendidly; mounted on the wall, showcased next to each other, they are a harmonious splash of riotous color. Some of them are La Grande Odalisque an 1814 by Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres; and then several on Nepolean’s coronation of himself as well as of Josephine 1804; a Louis David, 1788, The Loves of Paris and Helen, and The Last Supper in 1648 by Phillippe de Champaigne. Marie de Medici Queen of France by Frans II Pourbus is also in the Lourve.

Interestingly, as the guide tells us, the Marie Medici of Florence, became Queen of France through marriage to King Henry IV. But she had terrible reputation. She was known to have a bad temper, fighting constantly with her husband’s mistresses; that too in shocking language. Contrary to the enchantress of Florence in Rushdie’s acclaimed novel, she was, but an embarrassment to the court of France.

It would take something of an eternity, to fully grasp the great museums of the world, and Louvre is no exception. Gil is prepared to spend a life time with artists and writers, I feel just about the same way. Somehow, they come back to life, to haunt us and to taunt our modern lifestyle, for the sterility that there is.

The charms of the past pull Gil; no matter how compelling; it pulls me too, but I resist it just the same; I must get back to my own decade. However, I do not have a lover to sacrifice or watch helplessly, as she slides back to renaissance, and to the golden age, unable to make the transition into the colorless new world.

Back on the street; dusk falls over the far horizon; it starts to drizzle; the city, lights up.

The evening is infused with Edith Piaf’s non, jen e regretted rien; I am just as enthralled as Gil; I walk in the rain, the same narrow, brick pavements, under the French street lamps; the trumpet and the saxophone play a duet and the Parisians wake up to its tune. It is the evening of romance, dance and enjoyment. Through the partly open elongated French windows, men and women look out at the musicians, as they continue to play.

Soon it is dark and people jostle on the streets either to go to movies, theatres or restaurants for dinner. The road-side restaurants bustle with people; waiters try to cram them in every possible corner.

A cosmopolitan city, like London, these restaurants offer varied cuisine; not just European but Asian and Middle-Eastern; but unlike London, everybody speaks French here, opposed to the many ethnic languages, spoken on the streets of London. The British are perhaps more tolerant of multilingualism than the French. I have my dinner at a Jewish restaurant up the road from the hotel; Cous Cous and lamb followed by a cappuccino.

I always believed Paris to be spectacular; it is actually so; especially, by night when darkness covers the several pot holes of the narrow streets. My imagination flies high; I wait for my taxi to return to the hotel.

When Gil awaits his taxi, it carries him into a different realm, in pursuit of art; I say, I ain’t Gil, but my soul is heavy just the same, like a soaked up sponge, caught up in the enchantment of the Parisian past, on this summer midnight.

By: Mehreen Ahmed

Once, there lived three friends, Una, Ulle and Ursula. While they were all outgoing, Una was a bit shy, Usha was not and Ursula, the happy medium, perfectly poised between the two. Ulle’s vivacity sometimes angered Una to the hilt. One day, they went out to have coffee and as they were looking for a place to sit down, Una said haltingly as always that she wanted to sit at the far end of the room. This enraged Ulle.

“You’re really awkward, you know!” She said. “And why can’t we sit in the middle?”

“Because, I’m embarrassed.”

“Who do you think would look at you?”

“May be no-one!”

“Still you’re, the way you are! You will not change.”

“I can’t change; you should know that by now.”

“Now, now let’s not waste time arguing over seats,” Ursula chimed in. “Why can’t we all sit in that corner next to the wall, best of both worlds?”

They both nodded in agreement as they walked through the crowded restaurant towards the semi-dark corner of the room. Una sat down with her back towards people so she didn’t have to look at them and vice versa, and Ulle sat grudgingly opposite her with Ursula in the middle. Once settled in their seats, they ordered coffee and orange almond which they loved so much. The friends soon forgot their differences and started to chat. They were in their mid-life but when they got together, became ageless. Nothing could change the way they giggled and the way they nattered.

“Well! I’m going to buy flowers on my way home to-day.” Ursula said suddenly becoming aware of her surrounding. Quietly she lowered her gaze towards the coffee cup.

“For whom! I hope you haven’t got a secret admirer?”

“May be I do Ulle, who knows?” she said stirring the coffee as she poured more milk and added half a spoon of sugar to it.

“No! Not at our age, I don’t think,” said Una.

“It’s a deep secret,” she said rolling her eyes in mischief. “However, I may tell you one-day.”

“May?” asked Una apprehensively. “Why may, is there a reason?”

“No! Oh God no! I need to get going; I am a bit rushed today.”

They finished coffee rather hurriedly and picked up their hand bags. This was not how they parted. They would usually sail out of the café in pure euphoria laughing, rejoicing and promising to meet again. But today it was somewhat different. Ursula said goodbye and quickly dashed off in the opposite direction to both Una and Ulle’s surprise.

“I wonder what she’s up to,” Ulle muttered.

“Dunno, she didn’t really want to share it with us, hey.”

“No!”

They left it at that.

Ursula walked hastily towards her car and turned the key in the ignition. She headed off North and stopped by a corner shop to pick up some flowers. Her car disappeared slowly over the horizon as it sped down the hump of the road.

The next morning, the phone rang and Una let it ring for awhile until it stopped. She had a pot of beef casserole on the stove. She quickly finished stirring it and then turned it off. The phone rang again and this time she picked it up.

“Hello?”

"Yeah, how’s it going?” Ulle said clearing her throat.

“Not bad, how’re you?”

“Good!”

“Any news from our mysterious friend?”

“Not yet, I wonder what she’s up to.”

“Why not ask her?”

“O, look I don’t think I could, why don’t you?”

“Yeah, well in that case I shall, I shall ask her to meet up tomorrow.”

“That’s a good idea; see you tomorrow then.”

“Sure, bye for now.”

“Bye.”

Ulle could not wait to see Ursula the next day. Both Una and Ulle went to the café a little early bubbling with excitement. The mystery would be solved soon. They would most certainly find out who that secret admirer is. This was most unnatural for somebody as unromantic as Ursula to buy flowers for anyone … someone so rational almost to the point of being dispassionate. Why? Didn’t she take a vow that she would remain single because she did not like children? Oh, here she comes! Both Ulle and Una sat up eagerly looking at her from their table as Ursula sauntered in.

“No fights over the seats today?” she commented.

“Goodness me! I didn’t even realize that I was sitting in the middle of this madding crowd!” Una screamed.

“Weird?”

Ulle looked at Una and then at Ursula, aghast.

Ursula kept looking at them both as she took her seat a little bewildered. They ordered the usual but there was an unexpected silence. No one made any utterance at all. Una signaled Ulle who cringed back as words suddenly iced-up. It was unbelievable that Ulle of all people could be so coy. This was extraordinary indeed! Friends have swapped personalities, revealing an entirely new side to their characters. So, when they asked nothing, Ursula thought it was up to her to break the ice.

“I guess, you’re wondering, what secrets I’m keeping from you guys?” She said openly amused as she sipped the fuming coffee.

“Yes!” They both said together.

“Well, I would like to show you something.”

She opened her bag and her hands delved into it as she took her mobile phone out. Then she pressed the buttons on the phone until she came to ‘view photos.’ Flicking the photos one after another in the mobile, she chose one and then clicked it to open. Walla! It was a photo of a beautiful child.

“This is who I take the flowers for,” she said.

“But who is she?” Una asked.

“My little girl!”

“Your little girl? Since when? You don’t even like children!”

“I never said that.”

“Yes you did!” Ulle said with eyes wide open.

“I said, I couldn’t raise one,” a furtive, Mona Lisa smile appeared in the corner of her lips as she replied nonchalantly. She’s an orphan, I pay for her upkeep.”

“Really! How long have you had her?” Una asked.

“Long enough.”

“You didn’t tell us all this time. Why tell us now?” Ulle harangued.

“Because, I got caught out! I didn’t think I would.”

“Do you love her?” Una asked softly.

“I think so.

“Does she like flowers? Perhaps she would like chocolates better,” Ulle suggested.

“May be, but I do! I like buying flowers! For others and for me,” she paused. “Besides it’s spring; look around you, look at the mad colours as flowers blossom in infinite profusion! We ought to celebrate, oughtn’t we?”

“Incredible!” said Ulle.

“Indeed,” said Una.

“Bizarre?” said Ursula.

No one knew for sure when, how or why the change of heart ever occurred! It was suspected that it might have to do with instinct.

By: Mehreen Ahmed

Meaka woke up with a cold sweat. By the clock sitting next to her on the bedside table, it was three in the morning. She lay there in the dark, cold and sleepless thinking of getting out of bed. But somehow she could not. Her limbs would not give an inch and yet her brain kept saying otherwise. It felt as though it was racing — and racing it was like crazy.

In the semi-darkness she looked across the room — an empty chair. Her gaze fixed on it almost asking it for a solution but this overwhelming inertia was hard to knock off. Restlessness seized her when she finally got out of bed. It was four`0’ clock. Just a few hours from now, she was meeting a friend for coffee. Quietly slipping into her sandals she grabbed her dressing gown, opened the door softly and went into the living room closing the door behind her. She turned one of the blinds poles to look through the narrow blade slits. The dark sky over the horizon had only just started to glow. Meaka waited for the sun. It steadily came up spreading some of that hue across the sky. She was going to have breakfast with Riana soon. A strange sort of pleasure possessed her at the thought. Last week’s coffee meeting was such an eye-opener; none of Riana’s stories moved her so much, as did this one.

Riana was 35. An accident left her disabled, when she was 5 years old. She had a rough childhood ever since. No one played with her at school. Friendless, she grew up feeling rejected, frustrated, and empty until she met Rick — her knight in shining armour who took all her worries away and filled her with new sensation. Now, married with two lovely boys, she lives with Rick in the next suburb —Campsie.

Meaka and Riana had been friends for over two years. For Riana,Meaka is her best friend, her shoulder to cry on. And for Meaka, well! The relationship is just getting warmed up. Waiting for Riana at the Coffee Club, Meaka flicked through the menu thinking what was holding her up. She was generally not this late. Her mobile rang out as she tried to call her. Meaka waited for ten more minutes — and then there she was, getting out of her car.

She wore a tweed short skirt and a red top with a deep neckline. Her cascading black hair shone in the golden sun as she crossed the road. At a slow pace she came on to the other side, holding her little boy’s hand securely, limping as usual.

“Hi Meaka,” Riana said cheerfully.

“Hi, I have been waiting forever now,” she said pulling the chair next to her.

“And how are you, mate?” Meaka asked the little boy.

“Good.”

“What took you so long?”

“Oh it’s a long story.”

“Why? What’s up?”

“My mother-in-law again.” Riana said nearly breaking down in tears.

“What happened? Last week you said that she had issues with your disability. What did she have to say now? Has she not said enough already?”

“Well! She keeps on saying the same thing over and over again like a broken record. She knew fully well what I was like when I married Rick, but she did not have any objections then,” Riana said trying to hold back the stinging tears.

“Suddenly, after all these years, eight years, she decided that she did not like me anymore. Her fears are that my disability will be passed onto her grand-children.”

“But how? This was caused by an accident, not genetic or contagious.”

“Try and make her understand that!” Riana said passionately and then in the same tone continued. “I cannot take these insults any more — just can’t. I tried to tell Rick, he thinks I am lying. He thinks his mother is perfect and is not capable of doing anything as low as this.”

“Have you confronted her before Rick?”

“Yes, she denies having said anything.”

“That’s horrible!”

“She makes it a point to hurt me at every opportunity she gets, especially, when Rick is away. She pouts her lips like this,” she mimicked. “I don’t like you, I wish I did, but I don’t, I don’t like the way you walk.”

By now hot tears rolled down Riana’s cheeks while her, bewildered little boy sat there looking at her. “Riana darling, let’s just order coffee, shall we? We don’t want to put him through all this now. Do we?”

Rising from her chair, she ordered a short sugarless Macchiato for herself and two small Timtams for Riana and the little boy. As they sipped their drinks silently, the little boy who sat opposite to her suddenly grabbed Raina’s forearm, startling them both a little.

“Mum’s still a mum, no matter what!”

“Yes darling. You couldn’t be more right!” Meaka said not sure how much he knows. “

"Last night Betty tried to hit me,” Riana said.

“Really! Did you call the police?”

“No,” was the terse answer.

“The other day, a guy came up to me asking me out but I said no, I told him I was married.” Riana said unexpectedly taking a sip from the Timtams.

“Do you love Rick?”

“I think so. But if I leave him I am going to go away from here.”

“Where would you go?”

“Dunno, may be Ireland.” “

"What would you do for a living?”

“I have money; I got compensation money for my accident. Sometimes, I think Rick married me because of that.”

“How do you know?”

“Every time we go out for dinner, he asks me to pay for my share,” she said somewhat bleakly.

“But he’s got money. Has he not?”

“Yeh, he does. He works and he has enough.” Meaka did not push it. Whatever was going on, Riana did not deserve this abusive bahaviour. She was fine in every other way. She took good care of her children, cleaned, cooked, drove around town. A little disoriented at times — a fallout from the accident, but it did not affect her daily chores. She led a life as independently as anyone else. Meaka did not understand why people would go out of their way to be cruel to her. Anyway, coffee was good, they got up to leave, said goodbye and promised to meet again next week, same time, same place.

The little boy gave Meaka a hug and as they went their separate ways Meaka saw how other people looked at Riana as if she had the plague or something. Meaka went to buy some groceries on her way home. But she could not help thinking about Riana. Life did not treat her well. She was a victim of circumstances quite beyond her control. If her mother-in-law wanted a separation on account of this, that would not be fair at all. She was happy for them to get married eight years ago. Why is she doing this now?

Riana’s words kept resonating in her mind as she drove through the suburbs of Sydney. Her wheels crushed the soft petals of the Poinciana and the Jacaranda that lay on the way. They were a collaboration of colours as they descended softly on the street. How ironical that we trample the very things sometimes that give us joy.
Still feeling a little heady from the Macchiato, Meaka sat thinking what to do next when the phone rang. She picked it up and it was Riana again. “Hello, darl! How are you? Did you get home safely? Meaka asked.

“Yes, I did. Look, what are you doing tomorrow night?” she asked pausing.

“Nothing much, why?”

“Would you like to have dinner with my parents tonight?”

“Sure, why not. Is Betty going to be there as well?”

“No.” Riana replied. She is leaving for Melbourne tonight.” She answered unenthusiastically.

“OK, I’ll come.”

“See you tomorrow then.”

“Absolutely.” Meaka said before she hung up.

Raina sounded cheerful enough. A bit too cheery she thought for her state of mind. But then she herself was in good spirits as well. She suddenly felt angry at Rick for being so passive, not to mention an extortionist.

The next day, Meaka put her casual jeans on and a white top for the party. She picked up a mud cake on the way for the kids. By the time she reached the place it was a little over seven. She turned the red Toyota into the driveway but the garage door was open. Meaka thought that it was because they were expecting her. And yes they were. As soon as she got out of the car Rick greeted her with a smile.

Rick was a tall, thin bloke with curly blonde hair. He combed it backwards today making the forehead look wider and the cheek bones more prominent as the sunken cheeks deepened. Although, his pale complexion gave him a sickly look, it was aptly compensated by his friendly demeanor. He wore a blue T-Shirt and a pair of khaki shorts.

“Hey, Rick how is it going?”

“Good.”

“Where is Riana?”

“Upstairs. She won’t be long.”

“How has your day been?” Riana asked breaking the awkward silence.

“Not too bad, how was yours?”

“Pretty good.”

Thinking how little she actually accomplished through the day. Rick and Meaka were sitting at the kitchen table perched on bar chairs discussing about lawns and landscaping when Riana walked in. Meaka thought, there was a look of cold disapproval on her face which lasted for less then a second. It was as though she resented Rick and Meaka seated next to each other having a conversation. For a moment, Meaka felt betrayed. The more she thought the more confused she got. So she decided to suspend her thoughts for the time being.

“Hi!” “Hi, how are you?” Meaka asked to match the pitch of her voice as she got off the chair to give her a hug.

“Good,” she added cheerfully.

“Rick was just telling me about his plans to do a makeover for the garden.”

“Oh ye, we have been thinking about that for a while now. I have been telling Rick to get rid of the Bougainvilleas. I don’t like them,” she said that in nonchalantly.

“Can you give me a cutting before you do that? I would love to have one in my back-yard.”

“Sure, once my mother-in-law comes up for Christmas. She knows how to do these things. I don’t.”

“What’s there to know, darling? All you do is cut an offshoot from the plant. That’s all,” Rick said affectionately.

“Yes, since she is so good, shouldn’t you let her do the job so Meaka would have a nice piece?” Riana said making a point.

“Yeh, but we don’t know when she can come? Do we?” He said a little subdued.

Meaka thought she was gradually being dragged into a situation which was soon going to become ugly and out of hand. She changed the subject quickly by asking about her parents who were supposedly joining them for dinner. What a coincidence! There they were at the door. After the initial round of introductions, Mike and Nelly, Riana’s dad and mum, sat down with everyone in the living room. They were a good looking, middle-aged couple in their sixties. She was a brunette with short hair, sharp features and Mike had rugged features, black hair just like Riana’s. Nelly wore a floral dress of red and white with white slippers while he had a casual, white coloured shirt on with a pair of ordinary jeans.

Nelly stooped slightly but she was just as graceful. Over a drink of coke, Riana was telling them how they (Rick, Riana and the kids) were booked on a flight for the U.S.A for a concert of her favourite band. And Meaka who was not familiar with the band made no comments. The chatting went on for a while when Rick excused himself to go into the kitchen to get dinner started.

They had roast beef, boiled vegetables and mashed potatoes with gravy. A fairly simple dinner cooked by Riana but delicious. The kids ate as much as they could and said sorry and thank you at Riana’s command through-out dinner every time they needed to. And Meaka observed Riana overdid it at times. But rules had to be strictly obeyed — at least in this house. Apart from this there were no other dramas but Meaka could not help but notice the dark scowl of an expression on Riana’s face every time Rick spoke to Meaka.

Consumed with possessiveness, Riana found it hard to hide those feelings. Meaka also caught sight of Nelly’s slightly deformed wrist. When asked, she said that it was from an accident too. She once fell off a motorbike.

Inevitably, it was Raina’s dad, Mike, who brought up the subject once Rick went upstairs. “What’s Betty up to these days? We haven’t seen her in five years, I’d say. How are things?” He asked plainly not suspecting anything.

“Not too well I am afraid, she left just last night,” and then added with a pause.

“She wants to take the kids away from me, thinks she’s the one who should raise them because they are Rick’s.”

“Rubbish! They are yours as well.” Nelly said in suppressed anger.

“I know. But she does not see it that way. One day, she said that children would be disabled like me if I continued to mother them long enough.”

Silly as it is, Meaka was thankful that kids went to bed. They didn’t need to hear this. She was frightful of Rick though who could be back in the room anytime now. There was no telling what might happen then, if he overheard this conversation.

Eventually, Rick did come downstairs and asked happily if any one wanted dessert. Everybody said no. Meaka thought it was time to leave. Politely, she said goodbye and went to the car. She was more saddened by the whole episode than angry. She thought of the eternal debate between free-will and pre-destination. Are we to believe that suffering is the consequence of actions pre-determined by cosmic rules which lay beyond our comprehension? We then become mere pawns. Or can we prevent those actions from happening?

She was going to have another sleepless night undoubtedly. But to her surprise she slept and she slept quite well; the promising next day, brought considerable joy when the phone rang. To her surprise it was Rick.

“Meaka?” Rick said in his smooth placid voice.

“Yes? Its Rick isn’t it?” She sounded surprised.

“How are you?” “Not too bad,” he replied evenly.

“What’s up?” Meaka asked clearly inquisitively.

“Riana told me to give you a call ASAP,” he said unflinchingly.

“What’s wrong, Rick? Is she all right?”

“I hope so.” Rick said trying to be as calm as possible.

“She has had a miscarriage this morning.”

“What! You mean Riana was pregnant?”

“You didn’t know? How come?” Rick was totally puzzled thought Meaka was pulling his leg.

“That would be the million dollar question, wouldn’t it?” Meaka replied feeling a bit let down.

“How many weeks was she?”

“Six.”

“Well, if your mum had stayed two more days, then she could have helped out with the kids,” Meaka said trying to be level headed.

“Could you not ask her to come again?”

“I don’t understand. What are you saying?” Rick said totally taken aback.

“I am talking about your Mum, Betty,” Meaka said nervously.

“Mum? My mum?” he confirmed.

“Yes! Your mum. Why is there a problem?”

“No, but she hasn’t been up here in ages!”

“What! What’re you talking about?”

“She is dying, Meaka — Mum’s dying from breast cancer!”

She was speechless. Her handset nearly fell off. She quickly grabbed nearby chair.

“Mum didn’t want any one to know. That’s why we kept it a secret. But I would have thought you knew!”

“No, I did not. I am so sorry for you?” Meaka said, confounded, when she finally found her voice.

“Did you want to leave the kids with me? You’re welcome to do so,” she offered anyway.

“Could I? That would be fantastic!”

“Yes.”

“See you in awhile then?”

“See you soon.” Meaka was numb. She stared at the empty wall and continued to stare —dazed and numb. What would really help now was a shot of macchiato, she mused.

Author’s note: Macchiato is Italian for “stained” or“marked”. In this story it has a double meaning : coffee as well as blemish or tarnish.

By: Mehreen Ahmed

One black wintry night, Piccolo -Xavier bumped into someone while crossing the road. Once he was across, the person on the receiving end was not visible anymore. It seemed that in the Parisian dark alley, it had just melted into darkness. When he peered further, he saw a black coat disappearing around the corner. Piccolo-Xavier started to run; however, the more he ran, further the person moved away. Breathing heavily he stopped to rest when his gaze shifted towards a shiny object that seemed to appear on an uneven asphalt footpath. As he stooped to pick it up, the lead was gone.

It was a locket with a broken clasp. He opened it to see what was inside. In the insufficient street lamp, he saw that it was a picture of a girl. This object could be of sentimental value, Piccolo-Xavier thought. But the black coat was long gone and there was no way he could return it to the owner.

Back in his apartment looking at the girl’s picture, the thought of the elusive dark figure provoked all kinds of questions. Where did the bearer of this object live? How far away was he or she from him? Who was the girl in the picture? Piccolo –Xavier began to imagine the wildest of the dreams about the bearer of the locket who was perhaps the little girl’s mum, dad or even an older sibling. It gave him immense pleasure to think that it could be an attractive young woman with whom he could form a relationship. Flashes back to the encounter encouraged his fantasy which did not seem that his mystery person had a man’s gait rather a woman’s – elegant, slender and tall. The face he envisioned was framed in dark short hair with curls falling over her smooth white narrow forehead. Her tilted nose rested just above full, red lips and an oval shaped chin. Her tiny dimpled cheeks came alive every time she grinned. A ravishing set of white, even teeth flashed across the rounding corners of her lips. When she looked up at him with a shy gaze of indifference, her luminous large greenish blue eyes peeped through the long curly lashes of partly opened lids.

Dizzy from the thought Piccolo-Xavier could go on no longer. He went into slumber — shallow and peculiar, somewhere between real and surreal. The woman of this description existed perhaps, but is it only as a figment of his imagination? Could she somehow materialize for him, someday? He looked at his girl friend lying next to him and thought how she would react if she heard about all this! He drifted off to a land full of dreams and even more visions.

At breakfast next morning his girl friend Lorna had bought two croissants from the bakery and made fresh coffee. She poured him a cup biting into her croissant as he helped himself to milk.

“You were restless last night.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Are you not well?”

It was frustrating to think that he was participating in a conspiracy against himself — against them.

“Oh, no just a little headache — a bit nervous about my exhibit, I am afraid.”

“Do you know what you want to do? You do have a deadline, yeah?”

“I haven’t and that’s what’s been bugging me.”

He thought of the deadline and the woman in the black coat at the same time. It was hard to separate the two thoughts. And as Lorna observed his pensive mood, she did not press him any more. Whatever was going on in his mind was his to share with the muses alone, not with her. It had always been like that. Lorna was able to see the product only, never the parts of the process. She loved him nevertheless for the person that he was and for the artist that he aspired to become. Critics always said that the portrayal of his women was not lifelike; eyes too dull, bodies too wooden. Through it all he persevered.

Lorna cleared the table and went into the shower to get dressed for work. Deep character lines appeared on his narrow forehead while he delved into artistic thoughts.

On his way into the studio Piccolo-Xavier sat at the station looking at all the women in black coats: they came in all sizes and shapes. But no body walked like his dream woman.

On the train, he sat next to the window and let out a sigh of despair. He began to see himself dating this lady through fragmented snapshots; holding hands at the park, kissing her full lips beneath the weeping willow tree, making passionate love on the snow white sheets of heavenly bliss. He imagined her in every possible way he could, so much so that it now hurt – she was there and yet not close enough. Is he cheating on Lorna? Being this way? Thinking this way? Can he help himself? Now there’s a question!

The train stopped at central station. As he got out, he felt that this had become a big issue in his life, him being a slave to his imagination. He could not forget her, a mere stranger – a faceless phantom! He conversed with her — loudly at times, had dinner at restaurants, drove together into the sunset and then danced with her in the silence of the night. He looked into her deep eyes and kept looking as though there was no tomorrow. Someone honked when he jolted back to reality. He had left his studio far behind, now retraced his footsteps. He walked into the studio brooding that he could do so much better with Lorna.

As time passed slowly, Piccolo-Xavier saw himself painting the snapshots. On the canvas, he furiously painted a collage of eyes, nose and mouth. Then the hands, the legs, until a slender shape began to take form; eventually, he painted a black coat over the figure. Although not intended, the portrait did look quite surrealistic. Every detail was done to perfection down to the unclasped locket dangling her tapering fingers, including the lifelike picture of the little girl peeking through. He called it, The Black Coat.

He sat in front of it looking intently. His disheveled dark hair showed signs of age, especially on the side burns. On the canvas his penetrating dark deep eyes tried to see more than what was visible. As he put the brush away on the round table beside the canvas, one radiant smile of satisfaction spread across his face. Then he cloaked the painting and deemed it ready for the exhibition.

On his way home, he went to the same place as his eyes searched here and there and everywhere hoping to find her somewhere. Suddenly the awareness that he did not even know what she looked like left him empty but still felt that he knew her somehow, smelled her perfume in the air. Overcome with desolation, he sat down on a bench by the lamp post supporting his head against the palm of his hand with elbow crux placed on his lap. It started to drizzle and then rain followed soon skewing down the street lamp under the dark starless sky. Soaking wet, he got up and walked back home hoping that one day, may be one day he would meet her in person.

The exhibition being only seven days away, his obsession grew by the day towards this unknown, unseen human creature. He was concerned that this was getting out of hand, but he could not help it. This pent-up emotion made him mad at times, felt he needed a let-up.

Thereof on the day of the exhibition, The Black Coat hung in one of the walls of the Taiss gallery. It received much attention, more than what Piccolo-Xavier thought it would; surrealism sat well with art lovers. Then in the most serendipitous manner there was a cry — a girl cried out in the midst of this urbane arty crowd.

Piccolo-Xavier turned around toward the direction of the cry. He stood frozen in the middle of the room. Time seemed to have come to a hasty stop. The compliments that people paid, the autographs that they desired or even the potential buyers who flocked around him went into listless oblivion. All that mattered was the resounding cry cutting through the space of that room. This was not a dream. The lady in the black coat and the child, no less than the manifestation of the picture in the locket, stood in the room. Once that dumb-founded moment passed he decided to introduce himself to her. He mustered enough courage to take himself to them.

The girl still had the expression of sheer surprise on her mouth while her companion stood staring at the picture in utter amazement. Piccolo-Xavier coughed a little as he approached. Once within the line of vision, he noticed that she did not have dark hair the way he had imagined but much longer and flowing. Those eyes were neither luminous nor shy, in fact much smaller, black and sharp as she looked at him, still very attractive, but not the image captured in his soul. Disappointed? No, he was not. He proceeded towards her with the same intensity that he had cherished all these days and as he came closer, she had almost left.

“Hello,” Piccolo-Xavier quickly extended a friendly hand.

“Hello.”

The lady turned around taking his hand into hers. For one unbelievable moment he had her skin against his.

“I am Piccolo-Xavier, you must be wondering where I got all this.”

“Actually I was, and this picture, it’s not me!”

She blurted out in a shrill, angst-ridden voice with that index finger still in the air pointing towards the portrait inadvertently.

“I know,” he replied.

His chest heaved with excitement but his speech was measured.

“Would you join me for a coffee? I fear I have a lot to explain.”

“Sure, where would you like to go?”

“There’s a cafe downstairs.”

“Okay.”

“Okay then, shall we?” Piccolo-Xavier led her.

They went to the Jewish café right across the road from the gallery. This cafe was quite popular with the people of his kind. And as they crossed the road together it was an incredible feeling that Piccolo-Xavier held the arm of the owner of the black coat. She had showed up at last! They sat down at the corner table inside the café.

“You know my name, but I don’t know yours?”

“It is Julia,” she said slightly embarrassed for not introducing herself earlier. “And this is my daughter Chevon.”

“Hi Chevon,” he smiled.

They ordered two short black and a milk shake for the girl. Piccolo-Xavier noticed her curious wide eyes, as he handed her the drink. Overcome by an odd feeling, he had the most unusual emotional transformation as he described the events of that night to her. He felt, somewhat, more connected to the faceless black-coat than this woman, this young, attractive woman sitting before him.

“What do you do?” Piccolo-Xavier asked her.

“Oh! I am a student of visual art at the academy of fine arts; did you try to look for me?”

“Yes,” he answered.

They sipped their coffee and there was an awkward silence as neither of them knew what to say, and then, suddenly Julia looked at him.

“We broke up,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“My partner and I of-course!”

“O, I see.”

“Well! Aren’t you going to ask, why?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not my place, I guess,” he said quietly.

“Would you like to have dinner with me at my place?”

“May be,” he said.

“How about next Sunday?” Julia asked.

There was an element of candidness in her behavior that was almost juvenile. Julia was taking him for granted! He felt rushed, pressured. The conversation was not going anywhere. And this left him disinclined.

“Look! Can we talk about this later?”

“Sure, if that’s what you want!”

She opened her bag and groped for a pen. When she found it, she wrote him her phone number and name on one of the serviettes on the table. She then handed her details to him smiling like a friendly teen-ager, while his thoughts roamed elsewhere to the dark lady of his dreams as he watched her scribble. He realized that the magic as far as Julia was concerned was lost. It was far too mundane and sullied for his artistic taste to carry on this affair.

“Call me,” she said.

Julia was quite taken by his charms; his non-committal responses as they said goodbye did not seem to dissuade her at all. Piccolo-Xavier was in love he knew, not with this woman of flesh and blood — but with the phantom. Committed to an unrequited love, a dual life he would lead perhaps sharing her with Lorna, the phantom whose shy luminous eyes would haunt him forever, and forever he would woo her. And when in the early hours of the morning they lay entwined in bed like a pair of Siamese twins, Lorna had Piccolo-Xavier all to herself; he was a celebrity at last as she had imagined him to be. In a way, she was famous too when her exultant pictures splashed across the newspapers with him on that momentous occasion; yet! The muses smiled at her predicament.

By: Cacy Ann Minter

I didn’t know where I was when I woke up. I was aware of a pressing sensation on my chest, but couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. I tried to look around and realized my field of vision was limited to the area directly in front of me. I couldn’t move my arms or legs, or even swivel my head from side to side. I heard voices speaking frantically, but it was as if they were off at a long distance, as if they were at least a football field away. Other than the slight pressure on my upper body, I had no sensation or feeling whatsoever, other than a kind of heaviness I figured was just my brain coping with the paralysis I seemed to be experiencing.

I could see an open expanse of sky so I assumed I was lying prone outside of my car. I thought back as far as I could remember, but for the moment was just drawing a blank. Suddenly, the hazy form of a woman flashed into my view, moving just as quickly out of my range of sight as she had entered. Waiting patiently, I saw her hover in my line of vision once more, flashing a penlight into both of my eyes. At the time I didn’t think about why that bright flash of light didn’t blind me or cause me to blink, but I would later come to know why.

Searching through my vast knowledge of medicine, I tried to conjure up the specific types of disorders that might cause the condition I was experiencing at the moment. I immediately ruled out glaucoma and migraine as reasons for the peripheral vision loss. That left about ten or twelve other diseases and conditions as the cause due to the fact that I never before suffered from migraines and the stage of glaucoma at which such vision is lost is such an advanced stage, it would not have happened so immediately. I also ruled out the more rare eye diseases such as retinoschisis and retinal degeneration as those too would have taken too long a time to develop. Most of the other possibilities, such as Usher Syndrome or CAR Syndrome, would not quite explain the other symptoms that were occurring. Thinking back hard on my early medical training at the University of Texas, I decided I must have suffered a stroke. It would explain the heavy feeling in my body (although usually affecting mostly the side of the body, I was grasping at this point), the loss of vision, the loss of hearing, and possibly even the paralysis. Deciding I would rather settle on stroke than the dreaded ‘brain tumor’, I was helpless to do anything besides wait for aid at the hands of the woman whom I was now watching. She was shaking her head at something over her left shoulder. I knew that was not a good sign.

The woman moved again from my field of sight and I saw the sky before above me jerk a bit. Realizing I was probably being lifted onto a stretcher, I searched my brain for any memory that I could find of what events had recently transpired prior to my current semi-comatose state. I looked deeper and deeper into my mind and began to get a clearer picture of what probably had happened.

I had been on my way home from work at the clinic. I remembered waiting patiently for the stoplight at Anderson Mill Rd. to turn green and then proceeding through the intersection in my mind’s eye. I recalled glancing to my left and seeing the headlights of a white Hummer racing towards me. As if in slow motion, I realized I would not make it through the intersection in time and braced myself for the imminent impact. The final memory I could bring forth was the feeling of my heading snapping to the right as I was struck on my driver’s side door by the speeding vehicle.
My sky view soon was traded for the dull interior of an ambulance. I knew the dull throbs I could hear pulsating in the distance must be the warning siren of the rescue vehicle, but it sounded as if it was coming from another side of a long tunnel. I wondered how bad of shape I was in and when the paralysis would wear off, if ever. Hoping for the best, I saw rather than felt the ambulance grind to a halt as IV’s and other medical equipment in the cab shifted and jerked spasmodically. I could tell I was being lifted again and rolled quickly down a long corridor. I silently prayed, although I had never done so before, to whatever God might be listening to guide the surgeon’s hands as they put me back together.

My gurney was finally pushed into a dimly lit corridor after a short ride in what I was sure was an elevator. I wondered which local hospital I had been taken to, Seton Shoal Creek probably, as it was the closest. I had never been inside Seton before and didn’t recognize the area now as I lay awake, wondering what was to become of me and whether I would be given intravenous anesthesia or a local one, depending on just what my injuries were. I knew that the most important thing the doctor’s needed to do right now was deal with any internal injuries and blood loss. My temporary paralysis could wait.

I lay on the stretcher for what seemed like hours and had already grown quite confused by the time I finally saw an elderly gentleman lean over me. I thought that he had possibly already been operating on my distraught body the entire time I had been laying and thinking, I just hadn’t been able to see him due to the loss of my side vision. However, I knew he should have had a small medical staff assisting him throughout the process and couldn’t figure out why I had not seen any of them sliding in and out of my view. I wondered if I had even passed out and not realized it, but soon put that thought to rest as I realized I had been slowly counting, waiting for the sleep inducing drugs to work their magic. They strangely never did lull me to unconsciousness and I now began wondering if I might be comatose and dreaming everything that had been and was now transpiring. I again ruled this scenario out due to the fact that everything felt so real. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined any events as vividly as what I was witnessing now. Besides, if this had all been a dream, parts of it would have appeared jagged and disjointed as all dreams do.

I again saw myself being moved (I say saw because I could still feel nothing other than the ‘heaviness’ I have described to you earlier). Soon, all I was looking at was the briefest glimpse of steel mere inches away from my faces. Then all light left me and I stared into utter darkness.

I knew I was not unconscious because I could see minute flecks of dirt and other matter before me as my vision adjusted to the blackness that surrounded me completely. Panic began to set in. I knew after a few short moments of confusion that I the dimly lit room I had occupied only moments before was not an operating room, or even and ICU unit. It had no doubt been the Seton Shoal Creek morgue. I had been presumed dead and was now to spend my probably last remaining moments on this earth mistakenly locked inside a tiny refrigerated compartment until my wife claimed my body and funeral preparations began. I knew at that time it would be nearly impossible to tell when I had actually died as the cooling box I now occupied would delay decomposition for some time. I could possibly lay awake in the steel cubicle for hours or even days before I finally succumbed to the death sentence that had been passed on to me by incompetent EMT’s. I vowed right then to find that woman who had given up on my limp body so carelessly and haunt her in my afterlife, whatever kind of afterlife was in store for me. As a self-proclaimed agnostic, I had never believed in much of anything other than the medicine I had so put my faith in for all forty-three years of my short life. I realized with horror that such faith had failed me at the most crucial moment. I was surely suffering from some form of inanimate suspension, such as the death-like coma caused by a toxin given off from the puffer fish. Since I knew I had not partaken of any exotic seafood dishes as of late, I could not figure out what exactly had happened, so I instead laid the entirety of the blame of my situation upon the clearly poor trained technicians who must have shown up at the scene of my car accident. I berated the fools over and over in my head for quite some time. I could not help but wonder how I could have been so careless as to be taken unawares by the Hummer in the first place. I wondered what fortune must I have had to be attended to by the world’s two stupidest emergency personnel. What other poor souls had received this same malpractice at their hands? How many more would senselessly die? Would I be the first to somehow finally escape the grasp of death by the skin of my teeth and put an end to the suffering no doubt caused by the lazy offenders? Or would some other poor soul, completely unaware of my plight, suffer the same fate and miraculously awaken in their cold compartment and begin banging on the ceiling and walls of their confine, screaming for relief, begging for assistance and removal from the claustrophobic conditions? I could only wish the medical examiner who finds such a person would not be frightened into a heart attack, thus leaving the poor wretch to continue on to his or her untimely death with no help of rescue.

I lay in that steely box thinking such thoughts as these for what felt like hours. I had no way of telling how much time had passed. Although I heard my wristwatch ticking away unerringly somewhere far off, I was helpless to even simply raise my arm to look at it. Truly, even if my comatose condition had worn off and I had regained the use of my limbs, the tiny chamber in which I was now nestled would not have allowed for the slightest free movement of any sort. When my paralysis passed (and I hoped against all hope it would), I would have to scream and use my head and feet to pound on the interior walls of the cold box in what might be a vain attempt to arouse the notice of an attendant, if one was even still in the vicinity of the autopsy area.

For some unknown reason (although more than likely it was denial), I chose not to think about why I was still alive after spending so much time inside the refrigerated box. I knew there could not have been much oxygen in the minuscule room I was allotted. I at long length allowed my mind to rest on this matter, as if grasping onto a focal point instead of allowing my mind to wander might possibly salvage my sanity, which was already beginning to teeter on the brink of no return. I found myself making arguments about my state of existence, holding complete conversations with my inner voice (perhaps I had already passed the aforementioned brink, but best not to dwell on that).


“How could I possibly still be alive? How am I breathing? “

“The coma state you are in must have slowed down your heartbeat, thus making it possible to slow down your respiration to an infinitesimal amount, which has allowed you to live longer off of less oxygen intake simply because your body does not require a normal amount at this time. Consider it suspended animation.”

“Suspended animation. Hmmmm, if I could market this to NASA somehow I could make millions!”

“You would have to get out of here first. What good is money to a dead man?”

“But what exactly caused this state for me? Was I injected with some sort of experimental drug by the EMT? Are they in fact using me, as they have possibly used others before me, to test this new drug out? Will they return to the morgue in the middle of the night to secretly remove my body and test the effects of this drug? Can I pray for relief at that time?”

“I wouldn’t get my hopes up, buddy. Best to expect the worst and hope for the best in my opinion.”

I assumed nothing at this point of my incarceration of both my body and my mind within my body. Even as far-fetched as the ‘illegal drug experiment conspiracy’ seemed, it was certainly better than facing the alternative silence I knew was awaiting me during every break in my interior discussions. I again commented (to myself of course) on the slight feeling of pressure that was the only sense I could feel. At some point in time I heard, off in the distance, a rapid squeaking noise, and momentarily shuddered inwardly at the thought of mice. Mice in a morgue box! And I had always thought Seton such a fine hospital!

I came to realize I could distinguish colors again and knew instantly that the squeaking I had just heard was not in fact rodents, but was the sound of the drawer door opening. I prayed that my moment of rescue had finally arrived. I wondered if the two criminals who had surely induced this state on my body had finally been found out and captured. Might they have shown some temporary remorse at their actions and enlightened officials to my condition? Was I now to be revived fully to a healthy state?

I saw readily that unfortunately this was not to be. I was again moved, that much I could tell. Back into the dimly lit room and again waiting in anticipation for whatever would come next. I looked and waited and watched directly above me as hard as I could. The lighting was soon amplified and I realized I was staring up into a set of fluorescent tubes. Every once in a while, the elderly man (who I correctly took for the ME) would come into focus for brief moments, only to sway out of sight again, then return some moments later. This went on for quite some time. I don’t know how long it took me to realize what was happening. When I did, the last tiny fiber that had been holding my sanity intact finally snapped completely and irreparably.

He was performing an autopsy. On me.

I knew I had been in a car accident, but I hadn’t been drinking, there was no reason for this! A thousand thoughts flew through my mind and no matter how hard I tried to silence them and pull myself together to work towards creating some sign of life for the morgue practitioner, I could not keep my brain focused on any one thought in particular. I began willing my finger to move, willing my chest to rise, even minutely, searching for any sign of surprise in the ME’s eyes.

“I am not a cadaver!!!!! Look at me!!!!! Look at me breathing!!!! Look at my EYES!!!!!,” I screamed silently. “Please, for God’s sake, DON’T DO THIS!!!!! STOP AT ONCE!!!!!”
It was pointless. The man continued his grim work completely unaware of me. I remained conscious throughout the entire ordeal. I wondered how I could still be alive once he finally stood back and stripped the latex gloves off of his hands. I knew that if an autopsy had indeed been performed, my organs would have been removed. How could I now be possibly still alive?

And then I realized this: I was not. I had not been since the first time I had awoken from the accident. It was the only thing that made sense. It explained all of my symptoms. It explained why two well trained emergency technicians and a Morgue Examiner had not been able to sense the life flowing in me. There no longer was any life flowing in me. I was now locked with my thoughts, and my thoughts only, inside of a fleshy shell that would soon begin to deteriorate. I was locked with my own thoughts for perhaps all of eternity.

I somehow managed to make it through the entire embalming process without losing my mind completely and turning into a complete lunatic. I noticed with some pride that I was not singing songs to myself over and over again, or even ranting any longer. It was as if a sense of peace had come over my mind, not necessarily replacing the feeling of weight I had felt earlier, but instead I came to the realization that that was exactly what the pressure had been the entire time. It was my own mind battling against the calm that death had brought already to my body. My mind had refused this calm, up until the moment it was utterly impossible to deny the facts any longer. After finally accepting my fate, I began to steadily grow more and more serene.

The memorial service was quite lovely, or at least what I could make out of it seemed so. I recognized many faces leaning over my coffin and counted at least two hundred mourners in attendance. I never knew I had been so well regarded by so many of my colleagues and family.

As I now lay entombed in utter silence, I find myself thinking on why I never discussed with my wife the possibility of cremation prior to my passing. I lay in a vat of utter darkness save for the occasional worm or spider creeping over my line of vision. I know that my left eye has now been eaten away as my sight has faltered to a two-dimensional stare, and I am sure the right is soon to follow. I can’t help but wonder if this is the Hell I have been condemned to suffer due to my lack of belief in God. I have had many years to wonder about this and have begun in the most recent times to accept that possibly I lived my life in error. I know now that I am at least not alone in my doom – some time back I heard distant thuds surrounding me and rested in the knowledge that my wife has finally joined me and more than likely now occupies the plot next door. I wonder whether my neighbors to the left, above, and below me are also sharing my fate. I have time now to ponder such thoughts and pray fervently to God that eternity comes with swiftness.

By:Rebecca Laskowitz

Kaylee grasped her mother’s hand as they made their way up the icy stone walkway. Snow covered the edge of the path where flowers usually blossomed during the spring. She watched her step so as not to fall and ruin her new pink puffy coat. It was her first Christmas present of the year from her parents. Even though Christmas Eve wasn’t until tomorrow night, the frigid weather allowed for Kaylee to receive her coat a few days early.

While one gloved hand clung desperately to her mother, the other held just as tightly onto Bunny. Bunny went everywhere with Kaylee since she was two. The stuffed rabbit’s ears were tattered from months of teething, and his yellow coloring faded from hundreds of journeys through the washing machine. Kaylee held him by the ears and raised her arm just high enough to keep his fluffy bottom from dragging on the cold, wet ground.

After making her way up the front steps, Kaylee turned around to watch her father carry their bags. Her Hello Kitty duffle bag stood out against her parents’ gray luggage. She wondered why grownups chose such boring colors.

Kaylee spun around at the sound of the front door opening. Her grandmother’s face had her usual smile stretching from ear to ear. Kaylee loved her grandmother’s smile. It was always sincere and her teeth were the brightest shade of white.

“Hi, dearies,” she exclaimed as she stepped aside to let her children enter the warm house. The smell of apple pie and sweet potatoes filled Kaylee’s nostrils the instant she crossed the threshold. Holiday spirit was palpable in her grandparents’ house.

As her grandmother leaned down to take off her coat, Kaylee’s grip on Bunny remained firm.

“What a beautiful coat, Kaylee,” Grandma said. “Where did you get it?”

“Mommy and Daddy gave it to me for Christmas,” she replied softly. The sounds of chatter coming from the other room kept Kaylee glued to her spot in the foyer. It usually took her a while to ease out of her shyness.

“A new coat for Christmas!” Kaylee jumped at the bellowing voice of her grandfather. “What a lucky girl, getting her presents early.” He scooped her up in a big bear hug and planted a kiss on her that smushed her cheeks together. “Want to go say hi to everyone?”

Before she could say no, she was being carried into the next room. The sight of so many people caused Kaylee to bury her face in her grandfather’s sweater.

“Aw, look who’s being shy,” sang her aunt’s familiar birdlike voice. Kaylee felt long, fake nails tickle her neck. She shrugged her shoulders to protect her neck from the invading fingers. “I have something you, sweetie.” Kaylee peeked out from her grandfather’s shoulder and saw a Hershey Kiss in her aunt’s outstretched hand. She reached out her tiny hand to grab the candy, but before she could claim it, her aunt’s fingers closed around it. “First and hug, then you get the kiss.”

Kaylee hesitated, but the thought of chocolate helped her conquer her bashfulness. She held out her arms, Bunny still dangling from her right hand, and wrapped them around her aunt’s neck. She was embraced in another bear hug and received a glossy kiss on her cheek before being set down. As soon as she had her chocolate, Kaylee turned and ventured further into the crowded room. She didn’t make eye contact with anyone, and her answers to everyone’s questions were short.

“How are you?” “Good.”

“Who’s in your hand?” “Bunny.”

“How old are you?” “Five.”

“Are you excited for Santa?” “Yes.”

Kaylee finally found her way to the other side of the room. She sat in her little seat positioned next to the Christmas tree. From here she could observe her bustling relatives catching up after being separated for months by hundreds of miles. Kaylee enjoyed watching people and listening in on their conversations. Especially when she was the topic of the conversations. People often made comments about her thinking she couldn’t hear them.

“She’s gotten so big!”

“She has her father’s nose.”

“And her mother’s brown hair.”

“But where did the curls come from?”

“She’s too skinny.”

As Kaylee sat listening to the grownups around her, a loud greeting was heard in the foyer. She wondered who had arrived that warranted such an uproarious welcome. Her mother walked into the room and announced that Granddad had arrived.

Kaylee stiffened in her seat. She knew that her mother’s grandfather was her Great Grandfather Henry. Before anyone noticed her moving, Kaylee escaped out of the other door in the room and into the kitchen, dragging Bunny on the floor behind her. Her heart pounded with fear when she though of Great Grandpa Henry. His frail ninety-five year old frame crept slowly forward with the support of his cane as his third leg. His tired face seemed to have permanently wrinkled up into a frown. His eyes were sunken in and gloomy. Kaylee was sure she would turn to stone whenever she looked into the two pits of darkness on his face.

When dinnertime came around, Kaylee was relieved to be placed between her parents. Great Grandpa Henry, as the oldest member of the family, was perched at the head of the long table. His food was served to him while everyone else served themselves. He barely spoke—just gave slight nods when her mother or aunt pointed to the various serving plates. His movements were slow and stiff. It often pained Kaylee to watch him exert any kind of energy.

When he chewed his food, his jaw moved just as slowly as the rest of his body. His teeth always looked like they were going to fall out. Everything about him frightened Kaylee. While everyone else treated him with love and respect, Kaylee did her best to hide from him. She saw her great grandfather as a scary monster, slinking slowly through the hallways, making creepy wheezing sounds when he breathed, walking hunched over like he was preparing to attack any little creature that got in his way. To Kaylee, there was nothing great or grand or fatherly about Henry.

By nine o’clock, Kaylee had made it through the evening of staring and coddling from her aunts and uncles and was tucked into bed. Her father gave her a kiss on the forehead.

“Can you tell me a story?” asked Kaylee as her father stood up.

“Not tonight, sweetie. I’m gonna go talk with people downstairs. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen everyone.”

“Please,” implored Kaylee with a pleading look in her eyes. Kaylee always took advantage of her father’s weakness for her big brown eyes.

“Sorry, but not tonight. I’ll tell you two tomorrow night. How does that sound?”

Kaylee hesitated before accepting the offer. Her father left her alone in the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. She closed her eyes after making sure Bunny was securely at her side.

She was just about the drift off to sleep when she hear footsteps in the hallway. Her excitement grew as she expected her father to come back and tell her a story after all. But just as quickly as her excitement grew, it dissipated when she realized the footsteps didn’t belong to her father. They sounded much too slow, and if she wasn’t mistaken, the person had three feet instead of two.

Before she could figure out who was coming, a shadow filled the crack in the door. Kaylee sat up and clutched Bunny to her chest. A slight creek sounded as the door slowly opened. As the crack in the door widened, so did Kaylee’s eyes. Her pulse quickened and her skin went cold as Great Grandpa Henry took shape in the door frame.

When the door was completely open, Henry slowly made his way into the room. Time seemed to slow down as he made his way towards her bed. Kaylee sat perfectly still, too afraid to move. Bunny was locked in a death grip between Kaylee’s arms, chest and chin. After seconds that felt like hours, Henry hovered over the bed leaning heavily on his cane. His sunken eyes stared down at her like two pieces of coal. And then, just when she thought he couldn’t inch any closer, his free hand reached out to her, wrinkled and trembling.

Kaylee ducked her head as far as she could, but the hand continued to creep towards her. She shuddered when she felt Henry’s cool skin brush past her cheek and reach behind her ear. Kaylee’s mouth opened slightly and a whimpering sound escaped her lips. The whimper was about to turn into a scream when the hand returned from behind her ear. Kaylee’s anxiety turned to amazement when Great Grandpa Henry held a shiny quarter in front of her eyes. Her hand shot up to her ear and her mouth dropped open.

Henry smiled. “I saw something shiny behind your ear during dinner.” He held the quarter out to her. After a slight hesitation, Kaylee reached out and accepted the gift. “Do you like bedtime stories?” he asked softly.

Kaylee couldn’t hide her excitement as her eyes lit up. “Yes,” she replied meekly and leaned back against her pillow.

Henry turned around and sat on the side of the bed. Kaylee bent her legs to give the elderly man more room.

“Once upon a time, in a land across the sea, there lived a young magician known far and wide. Audiences traveled hundreds of miles to see Haunting Henry perform his legendary disappearing acts. His fame allowed him to travel to many countries, including America where he eventually met his future wife.”

Kaylee listened with fascination as her great grandfather detailed his journey from being a young boy with a desire to be different and amazing to an internationally acclaimed illusionist.

By the time the story came to an end, Kaylee was sitting on the edge of her bed looking up at Great Grandpa Henry with curiosity. Henry noticed her questioning gaze and smiled.

“Is there anything you want to know?” he asked as he put his arm around her lovingly.

Kaylee stared down at her palm where the quarter still rested. “When did you learn the quarter trick?”

“When I was five years old,” he whispered.

“Like me?” Kaylee responded excitedly.

“Like you.” Henry leaned over and gave Kaylee a kiss on the cheek. Then, with the support of the nightstand and his third leg, he rose and began his slow journey out of the room. As he reached the door, Kaylee sat up quickly.

“Great Grandpa?”

“Yes, dear?”

“What was the best magic you ever did?”

“My family.” His response came without hesitation. “I created my family.”


You can find more of Rebecca’s work at: http://rebeccalaskowitz.blogspot.com/

By: Rebecca Laskowitz

There wasn’t much time left. Philip knew this. The entire village knew as well. What did they have? Hours? Very unlikely. More like minutes. Minutes that flew by with increasing speed as the enemy drew closer.

Philip looked at all they had accomplished. The walls were high and foreboding, but size was not enough to prevent annihilation. Strength was the key factor to guard against the great enemy, and Philip prayed to the gods that the fortress held strength.

The villages that had once stood here obviously lacked the strength needed to keep the enemy out. How many fortresses—great fortresses built with the blood and sweat of great men—had stood here before today only to be wiped away by one pass of the great enemy? There must have been hundreds, maybe even thousands, of towns that have been destroyed. Completely and utterly erased from the map.

There was no way for anyone to ever know the number of villages that had once stood here. The great enemy never left any traces of the civilizations it destroyed. There were no artifacts to be uncovered or histories to be remembered. It was as if they never existed and the great enemy was all there ever was.

But Philip knew better. He understood his village was not the first to face the great enemy, yet he prayed it would be the last. If he could defeat the great enemy, all other nations would bow down to him. They would come to him for protection, for wisdom, and for alliance. He would gain the respect of all the world’s leaders. If he ever needed anything from anyone from anywhere, he would have no questions to answer. The thought was enough to make his chest puff up and his lips to form a triumphant grin.

Philip’s smile disintegrated instantly, however, when a thundering crash jolted him back to reality. The enemy was approaching faster than he had anticipated and the odds of his victory were extremely low. His workers scrambled to finish the fortress to be used as protection from the oncoming attack.

Most of his people looked as terrified as he felt. He would never show his fear on the outside, however. He was, after all, their leader. Nothing could break the spirits of a civilization quicker than a leader admitting to fear and doubt.
Nonetheless, a fear was present in his heart that Philip could not squander. He looked at the structure being built for his village’s protection and only saw towers that would crumple like paper, gates that would be knocked down with one swift blow, and walls that would surrender after one wave of attack.

The sound of the thunder grew louder letting all know the great enemy was advancing. Within a few minutes, the strength of the fortress would be tested. If it didn’t survive the first wave, there was very little chance of it standing the second and third. The great enemy was very persistent and would not stop sending wave after wave of destruction until the village was no more.

As Philip focused on the sounds of onslaught, his gaze drifted to the sky. Several birds swarmed overhead, making circles around the highest towers. They showed no fear when they flew close to the fortress and then up to the sky again, as if taunting his workers. The birds were spies of the great enemy and hinted that the attack would begin any second.

Then, as if confirming his fear, one of the birds dropped a missile. A single missile fell from the sky in a direct path toward the highest tower. There was nothing Philip could do but watch. Upon being hit, the tower fell flat to the ground. It was as if a giant stepped on top of it in an angry rage.

“No!” yelled Philip, realizing his fortress would never stand against the great enemy.

“Philip!” came an even more powerful voice. Philip looked up into the eyes of a woman who seemed startled by his outburst.

“Sorry, mom,” he said as he plopped down on the sand.

“I think you’ve had enough sun for today,” his mother said. “And it looks like the tide is coming in.”

Philip and his mother packed up their belongings and trudged up the beach. Philip risked one final glance back as the first wave of the great enemy washed over his fortress.


You can find more of Rebecca’s work at: http://rebeccalaskowitz.blogspot.com/

By: Christopher Brancato

To most people it was just another Monday, but this wasn’t the case for a selected few. The day started like any other for Mike Johnson. Mike would wake up, organize his attire for the day on his bed in a very civil manner, jump in the shower, get dressed, and head downstairs to read the paper over an oversized cup of coffee. Mike was glancing through the pages before approaching an article that seemed oddly familiar. The caption read “Five Car Pileup Leads to the Death of a Police Officer.” The reason why this article seemed so familiar to Mike was because Mike happened to pass by this ghastly scene as it occurred the night prior on the way home from the office, but was stricken with fear, that he impulsively continued en route.

Mike had noticed that the accident was pretty severe from his rearview mirror. At the bottom of the article it stated, any witnesses please make yourself present at the Mulberry Courthouse on Monday, May 31st at 3:30 P.M. Mike was frightened at first, but felt that it was necessary for him to attend. Mike went into the office like usual at 8:30, and informed his boss that he would have to leave early to attend a court case. Mike’s boss asked him “Did you know anyone in the accident?”

And Mike replied “Yeah, something like that.”

The day dragged on, and Mike grew anxiously nervous to appear at the courtroom. By the time 3:00 hit, he bolted for the door and made his way to the Mulberry courthouse. Upon entering the large stony building, in the waiting room he noticed a few people sitting. Judge Dibiase walked by and gave a solemn “hello” to Mike, in which Mike replied “hiya” nervously. Mike somewhat knew Judge Dibiase because Mike happened to be an attorney that had dealt with him in the past. A real stickler Mike viewed Judge Dibiase as being.

Mike then introduced himself to the few people who were seated outside of the courtroom. The group of people held a mix of occupations. There was a physician, a teacher, a professor, and a nurse. Mike had asked why they were all present, and they all stated that they were involved in the accident. The physician then decided to ask Mike “Why are you here? You weren’t involved in the accident?”

This question caught Mike completely off guard, in which he awkwardly responded, “I knew the police officer he had died at the scene.” The physician then immediately apologized.

After about a fifteen-minute wait, the group of people entered the courtroom, and Mike just took a seat behind them to listen in. The session lasted about a half hour, and the cause of the accident remained inconclusive. For some reason, the police officer plowed into the back of another vehicle on the highway, causing a pileup.

After exiting the courtroom, Mike followed the group listening on their conversation. All everyone kept say was “I just don’t understand how this could have happened. Why didn’t he just stop?”

As the group of people each individually made their ways to their vehicles, Mike then relaxingly lit up a cigarette and thought to himself, “I got away with it. Amazing.”

By: Amy Priddy

George woke up that morning with a splitting headache and found himself in a whirlwind of confusion. He rubbed his eyes and seemed to glare back at the sunlight pouring through the shutters. George hated the sunlight and almost everything else that morning entailed. He flopped out of bed, put on a worn out blue robe and tied it around his sagging midsection. After his wife died he had promised himself that he would work on his appearance, but the thought of actual work made him queasy. He went to the mirror and frowned at the wrinkles around his eyes and meticulously tried to rub them away with his finger. It didn’t work, of course, and his face continued to hang there lifelessly.

The chirping of the morning birds woke him from his trance and his bottled up anger started to boil within his body. Those damn birds, he thought. I hate them. Not everyone in the world likes to hear the sweet chirping of birds in the morning. His face reddened in anger at the sound of their perfect melodies and he turned to throw a shoe at the open window. George’s hand quickly fell toward the ground, his eyes opening wide in fear as he caught the glimpse of a shadow out of the corner of his eye. The shadows quickly gathered in the room, pushing the older man to a corner where he shook in fear. He remembered his walk by the park the night before and the fun he had throwing pennies into a fountain with a little boy. The boy told him to make a wish, but the man didn’t listen and upset the woman spirit that lived within the statue of the fountain. The boy grew very upset with him and viciously pointed his finger at the old man, threatening him.

“You didn’t make a wish? Why would you do that?” the boy questioned.

“Son, it’s just pretend. This isn’t real and she isn’t real,” George said as he pointed to the lifeless statue.

“Just wait! You’ll see!” the boy shouted as he ran down the street. “She’ll make you pay for not believin’ in her!”

George’s mind fluttered back to his bedroom that had been taken over by spirits and he quickly panicked. He started throwing all his dirty laundry at the shadows, but this made them only grow in numbers. The spirits screeched at the man and clawed at the light that was within the room. This was their Hell and they wanted back into their darkness. A sound echoed within the room, like the call of their leader, and the ghosts retreated back to their world. George sighed with relief. They were gone.

He thought about the words from the little boy and decided to venture back to the fountain in the park. The sun disappeared and darkness filled the sky; not from the clouds, but from the demons that now appeared. He couldn’t escape them and grew frightened from this new world that the spirit had cursed him with. He ran in terror passed ghosts and monsters and demons hiding in the alleys. The werewolves howled at the moonlight and licked their sharp fangs that desired the rip of flesh and taste of blood. They ran after him and he could feel their hot breath upon his neck. Closer and closer they pursued him, but soon vanished as he came upon the fountain in the middle of the park. George leaned against the statue as he tried to catch his breath. The water in the bottom of the fountain was turning green and smelled stale with age. Her paint was chipping and she no longer held the luster that she had so many years ago. He tried to forget about the demons that surrounded his life and held the statue that night as if she was real. He was alone and the statue was the only thing that seemed real to him. She protected him from the terrors of the night.

The statue was made in his wife’s honor and all the sick children she had helped when she was a nurse. She was their savior, so the city had a statue of his wife placed in the park where she could watch the children play. George stopped visiting her over the years and his sadness grew into hatred and self-pity. He hated her for leaving him and never accepted being alone. Tears welled up in his eyes as he knelt done and polished the brass nameplate with his thumb. Oh, Margaret, he sighed. I’m so sorry that I’ve disappointed you. I just didn’t think life would be this hard without you. He moved in closer to the statue of the woman, placed his moistened face upon her breast, and then he was gone.

The boy came by again that night to pay his respects to the woman that saved his life, but he was shocked to find the display that was in front of him. The statue had grown in size and now took on the shape of a man and a woman in each other’s arms. The boy smiled at the couple and said his thanks to his special nurse. He turned to walk away, but decided to make one final wish. His penny soared through the air and actually landed in the hand of the lady and he smiled with delight.

“I wish…” the boy began. “I wish that you’re both finally happy.”

By: Bryan Kaminsky

Dark clouds spanned the early afternoon sky as Edward walked out of the back door of the storage room of a florist. Edward was wearing a black cloak, ripped black jeans, and a black shirt. Edward liked the color black because it absorbed every spectrum of light, and he liked to absorb any information he could obtain or observe.

He was carrying a rare plant which most people do not think of owning, growing, or planting. It was a carnivorous plant. Its appearance is similar to the ones people think of being located in jungles. It had a stem, a big mouth with teeth which could snap, and thorns. It was small though, smaller than the pictures seen of them in a jungle habitat.

Edward approached his car, a black sedan with lightly tinted windows. He owned a black car for the same reason he wore black clothes. He got behind the wheel and placed the plant on the floor in front of the passenger seat. Edward thought to himself as he did each step, “put key in ignition, start engine, move stick, pull out, and drive.” He drove seven miles to his apartment in a neighboring town.

Upon arrival he parked the car, got out, hid the plant under his cloak, and walked to his room. Along the way someone asked what he was hiding under that cloak of his. He grunted and responded, “An artist does not reveal his work.”

After getting to his apartment he walked to his back room which he referred to as his “working studio” and put the plant down on the floor in a corner to the left of a window. The rest of the room was completely empty except for one wall. Against this wall was a mahogany desk with a computer and art supplies on it. Next to the desk was a tripod with a camera on top, and next the tripod was various lamps and lights.

Edward opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a few lenses and placed them on top of it. He walked over to the lamps and lights and grabbed two; one in each hand and placed them on the long window sill under the window he put the plant next to. He plugged them in and turned them on.

Edward went to his desk and turned on his computer. He opened up his uploaded photos to get inspired. Photos of people, dogs, cats, trees, benches, flowers, and buildings flashed on the screen. He scrolled past one after another until he stopped at one of the side of an old church with mice eating garbage. His eyes lit up at the sight of this. He had been reunited with inspiration again. He left the room, and did not come back until two hours later carrying a cage of mice, wood, nails, and a hammer. He put the cage down on the right side of the desk and the rest in the middle of the room. Edward sat down on the floor and started nailing pieces of wood together to make a right angle one foot high and four feet in each direction. He went to another drawer in his desk and pulled out a paint brush and wood stain. His floor was made of wood and he liked to use the same stain on any wood he brought into the room for his art. He stained the wood, and pushed the right angle into the corner of the room the plant was in. Edward then opened the window to air out the room of the retched smell of wood stain.

Edward turned off the lights and left the room walking to his bedroom in his two bedroom apartment. This bedroom was actually used as a bedroom and had an actual bed in it. The room was usually kept too dark to distinguish what else is actually in it besides the king sized mahogany bed. He took off his cloak and jeans and lay down in the bed to go to sleep. Edward closed his eyes and did not open them again until it was 9:33 the next morning.

The room was still really dark because he kept black clothed blinds down at all times to keep the room dark. He put his jeans and cloak back on and exited his room to go back to his “working studio.”

Edward entered the “working studio” and yawned. He checked the stained wood to see if it was dry; it was. He went back across the room and got the cage of mice. He released the eleven mice in the cage to run around in the corner around the carnivorous plant.

Edward went to his desk and grabbed his camera. He started snapping pictures of the mice running around the plant until he finished the roll of film. Edward walked back to his bedroom with his camera, and shut the door. He hit a switch, but a regular light did not turn on. Apparently his bedroom was also a photo development room. Tables lined one of wall of the room with bins on them. Along another wall was clothesline with photos hanging down from it developed.

Edward took the roll of film out of his camera and began to develop his film. He lay down on his bed to take a nap. A few hours later he woke up and looked at how the photos looked. An expression of dissatisfaction appeared on his face, and he walked out of the bedroom. He did not like the pictures he took.

He put a new roll of film in his camera and left the room again to go back to the “working studio” and was pleased to see that nothing died in the corner. He turned on his two lamps, and grabbed two more, and then another two. He scattered them around the room, plugged them all in, and turned them on.

A shadow appeared behind the carnivorous plant. Edward’s eyes lit up again, just like how they did when he saw the picture of the old church. He realized that he will use shadows to his advantage.

He began moving the lamps and lights around until he got shadows on the mice as well. He started snapping pictures. He stopped and moved the lights around a little more and got more shadow mice on the floor. He began snapping pictures again until his roll was finished.

Edward walked over to his desk and placed the camera down on it. He raised his arms in the air, looked at the ceiling, and shouted, “On this roll of film is the moneymaker!”

He turned toward the corner and pointed in its direction, and said “Tomorrow you all go back to the stores you came from.”

Edward, lay down on the floor, and starred at the ceiling. He whispered to himself, “I will call it ‘Too Low for Dinner’.” He stood up, turned off the lights, and grabbed his camera.

Edward exited the room closing the door behind him leaving the room dark. He had done it. He had taken the picture that was going to get him enough money to keep his apartment.

By: Akilah C. McDaniel

The Beginning

Imagine a nice neighborhood with somewhat quiet streets and nice neat little houses with nice, manicured little yards. Now we will zoom in on one house in particular. This house is a small red-brick one with a dark red door. As we look through the kitchen window, we will see a black woman, in her late twenties or early thirties, drinking a cup of tea while waiting for her toast to toast in the toaster. Just as she turned to get a jar of jelly from the refrigerator the toast began to burn and smoke began to float up from the faulty appliance. By the time that she finally turned back around with the jar in hand, the smoke was pouring from the malfunctioning toaster. She gasped and ran to the dishrack to grab something that would pull the burning bread from the toaster. She grabbed a fork and used it to pry the now charcoal out. But as soon as the wet metal touched the still plugged in toaster…ZZZZZZZ. LaBertha Johnson got a jolt that would forever change her life.

It was her luck that Mrs. Snooker, her neighbor, walked in the back door.

“Oh dear,” She whispered and immediately unplugged the toaster. Now that LaBertha was free of the electricity, her body slumped to the floor. “Honey, are you alright?” she asked her obviously unconscious neighbor. She bent down and checked the young woman’s pulse and found that she could barely feel it. Mrs. Snooker shuffled to the phone and dialed 911.

Fifteen minutes later, the ambulance pulled into the driveway and two paramedics rushed a gurney through the door that Mrs. Snooker held open. Within five, the ambulance pulled away from the little brick house.

Three days later, LaBertha drove her blue BMW into her driveway after being released by the doctor to go home. As she pulled up, she noticed that a light was on in her bedroom. Mrs. Snooker must be feeding Sparky, she thought as she stepped out her car. Sparky was her little Scottie puppy that she found at the local Humane Society. I bet he misses me. She smiled as she walked around to the trunk to get her overnight bag. After closing the trunk, she slowly moved toward the front door, thinking of the joyful welcome that she was hoping to receive. Oops! I left the car door open. She turned around and walked back to the car. Using her hip, she closed the door, but instead of hearing the usual click she heard a loud crunch and something heavy hitting the ground behind her. To her surprise, the car door was dented and jammed into the frame of the still rocking car. LaBertha’s brown eyes were the size of half dollars as she took in the sight of her ruined car. She had bought this car with the first big check that she had earned as a private investigator. These repairs would cost more than three of her checks combined, now that business had slowed down.

After five minutes, which to her mouth seemed an eternity, she realized that her mouth was dry from hanging open. She closed her mouth and slowly backed away from the wreck and into the house where Mrs. Snooker was standing with the most confused look her old, wrinkled face. For ten minutes neither one of them could speak.

“What just happened?” LaBertha said at last.

“You’re asking me?” Mrs. Snooker replied. They sat another five minutes in silence.

“Does bumping a door closed usually cause that much damage?” Johnson asked, again breaking the silence. Mrs. Snooker did not answer. “How am I going to explain this to the insurance company?” LaBertha continued. “I think I’m going to call the hospital and see if there are any side effects to electrical shock.” LaBertha got up and went into the kitchen to call the hospital. After dialing, waiting for an answer, and then getting a recording, she slammed the phone onto its cradle. Hearing the crunch of plastic and the crumble of plaster while witnessing LaBertha’s hand disappearing into the wall left both women, for the fourth time, she was speechless.

After a silence that lasted about a minute, LaBertha asked Mrs. Snooker if she could borrow her car.

“Noooo!” the frightened, old woman screamed as she shuffled out of the door as fast as her old legs could carry her.

“I think I’ll go to work now,” LaBertha said to Sparky, who had just crawled out from under the table.

After staring at her damaged possessions, she walked down the street to the bus stop. LaBertha was about hundred feet or so from the stop when the bus slowed slightly as the driver looked for patrons. Not seeing her approaching, the bus driver sped up and continued down the street just as she ran up to the stop.

“Hey! Hey! Wait up!” LaBertha yelled as she began wave, jumping up and down to catch the driver’s attention. She caught the driver’s attention alright. After the second jump Labertha found herself surrounded by green leaves and rustling branches. Somehow she had jumped into the oak that overshadowed the bus stop.

“This is just great. First, I wreck my car, then I smash my phone into my wall, and now I miss the bus while doing a disappearing act,” LaBertha fumed as she sat in the branches of the oak.

But she did not realize that the number of people that had seen her uncanny abilities had increased in number. The bus driver nearly crashed when he saw a woman practically fly off of the ground while he watched in his rear view mirror.

About an hour after the ascension, LaBertha walked into her small office that she shared with her partner, Mike Washington, a fellow investigator.

“Looks like a tree attacked you,” Mike laughed as walked past his desk. LaBertha remained silent. So Mike kept going. “Or maybe you’re trying a ‘natural’ look.”

This remark seemed to grab LaBertha’s goat. She turned abruptly and gave him the Look. It was so intense that Mike was knocked out of his chair and his coffee mug shattered while it sat on his desk.

“Whoa,” Washington breathed.

“I can’t take this anymore,” LaBertha said as she broke down and cried. Seeing that this was really bothering her, Mike got up and came over to her side.

“Can’t take what?” he asked, immediately curious. She told him about everything that had happened to her that day and he was now as baffled as she was. “I’ll drive you to the hospital, if you want me to.” She nodded and thanked him as they both got up and headed to his car.

Late that night, after myriads of tests, the doctors were still baffled at LaBertha’s test results.

“Most extraordinary,” commented one doctor.

“Maybe we should send her to get another opinion,” said another.

“I think that this is something that we should keep quiet,” the head doctor said. “I have a feeling that the government would love to run some tests on her.” he let that thought sink in before he continued. “And that might bring this hospital more funding.”

A doctor objected. “We’ll have to get her permission first before we do anything further. And aren’t there other ways to get funding? More worthy causes?”

His question hung in the air but no one bothered to answer it. Neither was the head doctor going to because he had plans forming in the back of his mind.

In another part of the hospital, LaBertha and Mike waited for the doctors to come back and voice their decision. While they were conversing, the door opened and two orderlies dressed in ill-fitting uniforms entered the room. The dark-haired one spoke first. “Doctor Smith sent us to transfer you to another hospital for testing.” As the last words left his mouth, the other orderly moved forward with a cloth in hand and proceeded to put it over LaBertha’s nose. But before Mike could stop him, he, too, was unconscious.

“W-where am I?” mumbled the dazed and sedated LaBertha. When she did not get an answer, she tried to get up to look around, but found that she could only raise her head. The rest of her body was strapped down to a metal examining table. Wonderful, she thought as she let her head rest on the cold metal.

Feeling that she had to do something, she picked her head up again and began to scan the part of the room that she could see. There was a door to her right and a small window was directly above her. Mike was to her left and he, too, was strapped down. Just as her gaze began to shift, Mike groaned. “Mike, you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, I think so,” Mike replied groggily.

Then a voice came out of nowhere. “Ahh, I see that my guests have finally arrived and are ready for our scheduled conference.” Then the door opened and a stately middle aged man entered the examining room. “My name Dr. Christopher P. Smith and I will be your host. I see that you have already made yourselves quite comfortable. The first of our events will be the extraction of blood from Miss Johnson.” On cue, the two “orderlies,” now dressed in well-fitting clothes, came into the room. “These are my assistants, Mr. Logan and Mr. Harollds.” With a nod from their leader, they prepared the needle needed to do their task.

“Now wait just a minute,” LaBertha said indignantly, “Don’t I get some say in this?”

“Not exactly, Miss Johnson,” Dr. Smith said with poorly hidden annoyance in his voice.

“And why not?” asked LaBertha equally annoyed.

“Because you are strapped down and I am not,” replied Smith with a hint of amusement on his face.

“Well, unstrap us and we’ll see who gets to say what!” Mike snarled angrily.

“Now, now, Mr. Washington,” the doctor purred. “There is no need for such violence. Mr. Harollds, please administer the silent treatment to Mr. Washington.” The assistant walked to the table that Mike was strapped to and simply placed a strip of duct tape on Mike’s mouth. “Now for the withdrawal.”

Mr. Logan moved toward LaBertha with a needle that looked rather large. With every step, LaBertha’s rage and fear grew. When Logan’s last step brought him to her side, LaBertha broke the bonds on her arms and she then punched Logan so hard that he hit the floor and did not move. Seeing this, Dr. Smith and Harollds were stunned, but Dr. Smith quickly recovered.

“Get over there, dunderhead!” Smith yelled.

“Yes, sir.” Harollds said with a bit of hesitation. Then he moved cautiously over the foot of LaBertha’s table, but found that she had already unfastened her legs and was ready to kick his head in. But she settled on just kicking him in the groin.

Now it’s time for Smith’s payment, thought LaBertha. But it was too late. Smith, who was a couple of steps ahead of her, had already gotten outside and was locking the door.

“Don’t think that this is over, Miss Johnson. My experiments have only just begun.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, I’ll be waiting for you, Dr. Smith.”
LaBertha, realizing that it would only be a matter of time before the two henchman woke up, looked around the room for something to tie them up with. In a drawer, she found some tubing with which she tied Logan and Harollds together. Now that that task was completed, she freed Mike. He took the tape off of his mouth.

“Smith is really going to get it now. Just let me at that wimp. If you can hear me, Doctor, come out and fight like a real man. Where are—“

“Shut up, Mike,” LaBertha hissed. “That’s no way to get him out.” She grabbed him and whispered her plan into his ear.

When she finished, a smile spread across Mike’s face. “Wonderful! When do we start?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ll know when the time is right,” she assured him.

Dr. Smith looked up the phone numbers of the people that he wanted to contact in Washington, D. C. He decided to call General Banks, a fellow doctor who had joined the army in their younger days. He dialed the number and waited. The secretary who answered recognized him and put him straight through to her boss.

“Hello, Chris,” a rumbling voice answered.

“Hello, Angus,” the doctor replied. He was the one of the few people that could call the General by his first name. “I’m sorry that we cannot chat like long lost friends right now, but I have a peculiar specimen that I think would be of importance to you. This may very well be a breakthrough in military tactics.”

“You don’t say.” Smith could not tell if this was genuine interest or sarcasm until the General continued, “Give me a date and time and I’ll be there.”

“Anytime in the next two days should do.” Smith rubbed his hands together and grinned.

“Well, let me clear up some business here and I will let you know when I’ll be able to make it. Alright?”

“Alright.” Smith hung up the phone and looked for the number of a scientist he knew at Roswell.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry,” Mike stated.

“Well, you’re not the only one. I wonder how long we’ve been in here.” LaBertha looked around for the umpteenth time. This time the window registered in her mind. “Why didn’t I see that before?” she thought aloud. Then she got up from where she was sitting and walked over to the table to which she had been strapped earlier. LaBertha climbed onto the table and stood up so she could reach the window. There seemed to be no latch, so the only way to open the window was to break it open. LaBertha jumped down from the table to look for a sheet to protect her from broken glass. Unfortunately, Dr. Smith had seen to it that there would be nothing to use for escaping the room.

“Take off your shirt,” LaBertha said curtly to Mike.

“Why?” Mike asked. “What are you going to do with it?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just give me the stupid shirt.” When Mike saw the look in her eyes, he did not argue and did what she said.

LaBertha took the shirt and wrapped her hand in it. She stared at her hand for a moment, then decided not to use the shirt like that. Instead, she put the shirt on her head and pulled off her shoe. She backed up a little then threw the shoe as hard as she could.

The glass shattered and showered down on LaBertha. But her shoe did not come back down nor did they hear it land. That’s strange, she thought as she cleared away the remaining glass. “Come on, Mike. We’re getting out of here.”

“Can I have my shirt back?”

“Sure.”

Mike took his shirt, shook it a few times, then put it on. He noticed that there were a few holes in it that were not there before but decided that it was still wearable for the moment. He looked up and saw that his partner had already made her escape. “How’d you get out so fast?”

“I jumped.”

“You jumped. Great.” Then Mike climbed out to catch up with LaBertha.

The telephone rang in Dr. Smith’s office. Smith stopped typing and picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

“Hey, Chris, this is Angus.”

“Oh, hi. So what time should I expect you?”

“Something major has come up and I won’t be able to make it for another two weeks or so. Will that be too late?”

“I would say so. I cannot hold the specimen for too long. People will begin to miss it if I keep it too long or someone else may beat you to the punch. I have offered to show it to several organizations.”

“How d– Maybe I can make it this weekend,” Banks said in defeat.

“Good. I’ll make sure to delay the tour until you arrive.”

“Tour?”

“Of course, my friend. You will join a party of other prospects when you arrive.”

“I thought this was a private thing between you and me, not a circus,” Banks nearly shouted.

“I never said that, Angus.”

“I could have sworn –“ Banks began to say.

“You were quite mistaken, General,” Smith said firmly. “Now I have urgent matters that I must attend to. Will I see you on Saturday?”

“Yes. You can count on it, buster.” The phone clicked and the line went dead.

Unruffled, Dr. Smith pushed a button for another line and called Harollds to his office.

When Harollds arrived, Dr. Smith noticed that his lackey had a worried look on his face and was nervously wringing his hands. He decided to let Harollds be the first to bring up whatever was bothering him.

“Yes, Dr. Smith?” Harollds asked quietly, almost mumbling.

“I want you and Mr. Logan to make sure everything is in tip-top shape by Friday. And see if the prisoners are hungry. We don’t want them to waste away before Saturday arrives.”

Mr. Harollds cleared his throat nervously. “Uh, sir, the prisoners aren’t here.”

“What do you mean ‘they’re not here’?” Dr. Smith asked in a surprisingly calm tone.

“Well, sir, what I said. They’re not here.”

“Have you looked for them?”

Mr. Harollds studies an imaginary spot on the rug. “Well, no sir. You called me just as I was beginning to search.”

“Then what are you waiting for? Get going!” Dr. Smith yelled as he slammed his desk with his fist.

“Y-yes sir,” Harollds stuttered as he backed toward the door.

Just when I come into an easy fortune, everything goes wrong, Dr. Smith thought as his office door is closed quietly.

“What do we do now, fearless leader?” Mike asked sarcastically.

“First, we get away from this building,” LaBertha answered testily. She started to run forward until a bright light that seemed to come out of nowhere lit up the entire complex. LaBertha instinctively jumped back. “Okay. Let’s try something else,” she whispered as she squatted next to Mike who had not budged.

“Change of plans, o fearless leader?” Mike questioned mockingly.

“Give me a minute, I’m thinking.”

“I wish we could turn off these hot lights,” Mike complained as he used what was left of his shirt to wipe the sweat off of his brow.

“That’s it! Let’s find out where the power source for the complex is and shut off the power,” LaBertha said more to herself than to her companion. Mike nodded in agreement to LaBertha’s back as she began to move away from along the wall.

The complex was pretty large and the building that had been their prison seemed to be the main building. It took about ten minutes for LaBertha and Mike to walk around the building. They were about to move on to the next building when suddenly they heard footsteps.

“I wish this ground wasn’t concrete,” they heard one of the henchmen say, “because if it were just dirt, we would be able to at least find their tracks.”

LaBertha motioned for Mike to move closer. “Let’s head over to that building over there,” LaBertha whispered and pointed to the building that would take that was farthest from their hunters. “At least we’ll be away from them for awhile.” She sprinted for the building but was surprisingly stopped by an invisible force field surrounding their target building. She bounced off the field like a tennis ball bouncing off of a concrete wall.

“Are you alright?” Mike puffed out when he finally caught up to her.

“Yeah, I think so,” LaBertha responded while checking for injuries.

“What now, genius?” Mike asked sarcastically when he was sure that she was okay.

LaBertha gave him the Look and knocked him into the force field.

“Hey! Don’t do that again or I’m gonna -” Mike fumed until he realized that LaBertha was not even paying attention to him. She was staring into the direction of the force field. She screwed up her face and directed her concentration at field and was rewarded with a crackle. The force field was weakening! LaBertha stood up and walked closer to the weakened spot and punched it with all her might. Her punch threw her off balance and she fell through the opening.

“Well that was easy,” LaBertha breathed as she dusted herself off.

“Keep that up and our police department will want to recruit you for the S.W.A.T. team,” Mike commented, stepping through the now widening hole. “What’s next?”

“Same thing as before, we search for the power source to this place.”

After searching for about five minutes it seemed that this building was devoid of any openings except for an occasional air vent. Just as the two escapees were about to give up their search, Mike found a what seemed to be a door. “Bingo,” he whispered as he looked for a way to open the door since it did not have a knob or any other obvious opening mechanism. “Or maybe not.”

“We don’t have time to figure this out,” LaBertha said as she gently nudged Mike to the side of the door. Turning to face him, she swung her left hip towards the door and sent if flying into the darkness beyond the new opening. “Next time don’t call out “bingo” until you’ve double checked your numbers. You go left and I’ll go right.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mike said with astonishment in his voice. Dang, what can’t she do? He thought as he entered the dark room.

LaBertha followed the wall with one hand touching the wall and the other stretched out in front of her. It was not too long before her guiding wall stopped and her left hand told her that she was facing another wall. But this wall was not made of the same material as the one that she had used a guide. It was smooth like glass. Actually, it was glass!

LaBertha felt along the glass wall until she felt a crack and air seeping through it. She followed the crack with her fingers until they were about waist high. Aha! Here’s the door handle. Opening the door, LaBertha was suddenly bathed in light. Not again, she groaned inwardly as she listened for alarms. Luckily there were none and she continued through the door. Directly in front of her was a workstation with nothing but a computer screen on the desk’s surface. Since LaBertha and computers were not the best of friends, she immediately turned around and searched the darkness for Mike. He was running for the glass cage as he looked around for sentries to jump out or laser beams to cut him in half.

“Why to you get all the excitement?” Mike huffed when he reached the door.

LaBertha ignored his remark and pointed to the workstation. “I think that this computer controls the power. Do you think that you could get in and figure out how to turn it off?”

“Shouldn’t be problem, milady.”

I wish that I had set up that new surveillance system! Dr. Smith fumed as he listened to the radio set in his hand.

“Sir, Building A shows no sign of them,” said the voice coming through the speaker.

“Well, of course not, you idiot! Use the ScentFinder and maybe you’ll get a clue this time!” Smith screamed, his voice becoming shrill.

The ScentFinder is a robot that can pick up just about any scent that is stored in its memory. The robot is a compact machine that has various modes of transportation, changing according to the terrain. This machine is 99.9% accurate and rarely loses its prey.

While Dr. Smith resides in his in his office, Mr. Harollds and Mr. Logan are now searching Building B.

“I’ll search outside and you go get the ScentFinder,” Mr. Harollds told Mr. Logan.

“Roger,” Mr. Logan saluted as he turned to fulfill his assignment.

“I’m not Roger, I’m John,” Harollds corrected.

“I was not calling you Roger, I was letting you know that I got what you said,” Logan replied irritably.

“I know. I was just trying to be funny. You know a joke.”

“Sure you were, John I’m going to get the ScentFinder.”

Mr. Harollds turned to resume his search. Just as he headed for the Maintenance Building, the lights overhead flickered and then went completely out.

“Hey, what happened to the lights,” Mr. Harollds asked the night air. “Good thing I have this,” he said as he whipped out his keychain flashlight and continued on his way.

“Mike, you are the man,” LaBertha squealed in congratulations.

“Thank you. Thank you very much,” Mike said in his best Elvis voice. “But how are we going to get back out of here? We don’t have any light whatsoever and we didn’t steal a flashlight or two before we left the other building.”

You’re right. You think that you can turn the power back on? There have to be some flashlights kept around here for emergencies. Speaking of emergencies, it’s kinda weird that there are no emergency lights in here.”

Mike punched a few keys and brought power back online. “An the then there was light,” Mike muttered.

“We’d better get going before they find us,” LaBertha said cutting Mike’s shining moment short.

A voice came from behind them. “I think it’s a little too late for that, Miss,” Mr. Logan growled from the doorway. He pulled his radio from his belt. “Mr. Harollds, you’re needed.”

“You don’t think you can take both of us on, do you?” Mike challenged.

“Well, me and my partner Bessie will keep you two in line,” Logan grinned as he pulled out his handgun.

“What’s going on -” Mr. Harollds stopped when he became aware of the situation.

“It looks like we’re in luck once again, my friend,” Logan bragged.

“Have you called Dr. Smith yet?” Harollds asked his colleague.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Imbecile.”

“I didn’t call because I didn’t want to screw up a good thing like you would’ve done.”

Harollds glowered at Logan as he pushed the call button on his radio.

“Yes, what is it?” Dr. Smith answered.

“We’ve got the specimens, sir.”

"Good. Bring them back to their room.”

“Yes, sir.” Harollds turned off his radio. He nodded to Logan and the group walked back to the Building A.

Dr. Smith met the group at the door. “Nice to see you again,” he purrred. “Gentlemen, please escort our lovely guests to another room.”

“Sure thing, Dr. Smith,” the “gentlemen” answered.

“Does this room have beds this time?” Mike inquired.

Silence.

“Do we get a TV?”

Silence.

“How about room service?”

Silence.

“Are we almost there?”

“Just shut up, man. You’re really getting on my nerves,” Logan threw over his shoulder.

“We’re here, ladies and gentlemen,” Harollds announced.

The room was much smaller than the room in which they had been imprisoned. There were no windows. Two beds were the only furnishings in the cell. Dust covered everything.

“Wow, is this luxury or what?” LaBertha said flatly.

“Just get in there and we’ll be keeping a close watch on you two.” Logan nodded towards the far corner. There was a small camera perched there and in every corner of the room.

“So what keeps us from breaking or covering up the cameras?” Mike asked to no one in particular.

“Oh, nothing at all. But we’ll still know where you two are,” Harollds smirked as he and Logan backed out of the cell and closed the door behind them.

“Now what are we going to do?” Mike whined. “We got out of the first room they put us in, but this room doesn’t look so easy.”

Will you just be quiet for once. You’re not helping this situation any by your complaining,” LaBertha said through clenched teeth.

Mike was quiet.

For the next twenty minutes, the cell was in complete silence. But the two inhabitants were quiet for two completely different reasons. LaBertha was trying to figure out how to escape. Mike was sulking.

At last, LaBertha broke the silence. “This cell should be be as easy to break out of as the last one we were in,” she said cheerfully.

“There’s no window,” Mike mumbled.

“I have super-strength now. I can bust the door down or break through a wall or two,” LaBertha replied casually.

“So what’s the holdup? We should have been out of here by now,” Mike argued.

“It isn’t quite that easy, Mike. As soon as I begin to do something, those goons outside are going to know. So that means that they’ll be waiting for us when we get out or at least stop us with a couple of bullets. You may not know this, but I’m not bulletproof.”

“Not Wonder Woman, huh?” Mike snorted.

“Wonder Woman isn’t bulletproof, her bracelets are.”

“Excuse me, Supergirl then.”

“Can’t fly.”

“Why don’t we just jump them when they come to give us our food. They do it all the time on TV.”

“I was just going to say that. There is one power that I can use without alerting them.”

Logan and Harollds opened the cell door just as LaBertha finished speaking.

“It’s time for the lab rat to run the maze,” Logan said as he and Harollds approached LaBertha.

“Who are you calling a lab rat?” LaBertha growled as she gave them the Look. That Look was more powerful than any other Look that LaBertha has thrown thus far. It was so powerful that it knocked both goons and the wall of the cell into the hall. It was also enough to leave Mike both speechless and motionless. But LaBertha did not even notice. She just grabbed his arm and leaped over the mess, clearing it as if she were hopping over a puddle on a rainy day. A few yards down the hall, Mike finally snapped out of his shock, and LaBertha released her grip on his arm.

Rounding a corner, the two escapees nearly ran down Dr. Smith, who had stepped from the shadows to block their escape.

“You really thought that you escape, didn’t you?” the doctor sneered.

“We still can,” LaBertha answered calmly.

“How?” Both Dr. Smith and Mike questioned in unision.
LaBertha could not answer immediately, but here chance came before anyone could notice her hesitation. Logan stumbled from around the corner and distracted Dr. Smith for a split second. But that was all LaBertha needed. She leaped towards Dr. Smith feet first, striking his chest. The blow effectively knocked the wind out the doctor thus immobilizing him. Mike took that moment to give Logan a left hook to the jaw that sent him sprawling behind them.

“That’s how,” LaBertha stated as she picked Dr. Smith up off of the floor where he had lain gasping for breath. She turned to Mike. “I’ll watch these two losers and you can go get the sheets off of those cots in the cell. We’ll use them to tie up all three of them and then call the cops.”

Half an hour later, Mike and LaBertha stood amidst the organized chaos of a crime scene answering most of the questions of the detective in charge. Both avoided telling the detective the means of their escape and just let the woman draw her own conclusions. Some things are just better left unsaid. But they were clear on what Dr. Smith had done to them and made sure that charges were pressed. There was enough evidence to put Dr. Smith and his henchmen away for a very long time.

By: Cacy Ann Minter

Franky couldn’t pinpoint the exact day he first saw the creature. He guessed he’d always had a feeling that something in his existence wasn’t quite right, but he never could put his finger on it. And so he went about his usual boring daily routines, battling the endless flow of commuters to his dead-end job. Franky had become so proficient at purchasing the minuscule parts for his company’s printed circuit boards that he usually only contributed about twenty to thirty minutes of actual work before surfing the web for the remainder of the day. Following another uneventful day perched in front of a hypnotizing monitor inside of his tiny green cubicle, Franky would once more fight his way through traffic, only to return to an empty, sad little studio apartment. His only company was a rat (whom he dubbed Mr. Squeakers) that occasionally shuffled about inside the walls of the tenement, much to his landlord’s chagrin.

It was only after numerous months of this ho-hum life that Franky realized something special was happening to him. He had gotten up at a woefully early hour (as usual), showered and shaved (yawn), then was turning to head towards his closet when he got the distinct impression that he was not alone in the apartment. He halted in his steps at the threshold of the bathroom, swiveling his head from side to side, scanning the tiny abode for any minute disturbance. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he took a single step into the combined kitchenette/bedroom and was shocked to see a tiny red “man” balanced on the edge of the cracked formica countertop. Gasping audibly, he blinked long and slow, and the apparition disappeared. Unnerved by the ethereal presence, he covered his heart with his right hand, and strode over to the counter. He gingerly swiped his hand across the surface, and noted that the countertop felt unusually warm where the apparition has appeared, as if a hot pan had just been removed from the countertop.

“Don’t loose it now, Franky-boy”, he muttered to himself. Then he turned back towards his closet and proceeded to dress for another unremarkable day at the office. Unknown to him, Franky would never have another unremarkable day for the rest of his life.

The real trouble started when Franky was crossing the parking lot adjacent to his apartment, heading towards his ancient maroon Honda. He was walking at a steady pace, inspecting the nearly empty lot as he walked, when he again glimpsed the little red man, hovering over the trunk of a white Chevy Impala about 20 feet away. He stopped in his tracks and stared at the strange apparition. The being was human-like, but far more terrifying in form than anything he had ever witnessed. Two unnaturally large amber eyes glowed out of a fleshy mound of a head. A black beak-like protrusion jutted out from where the beings nose ought to have been, which sat atop a gaping gash which Franky assumed was its mouth. The creature’s body was covered in blisters and pus-filled sores, some of which were oozing out a purplish-green substance that was in turn leaking down the being’s arms and legs. Franky didn’t even want to imagine what the thing must smell like, although he assumed it was somewhere along the lines of rotting fish or putrid flesh.

Franky inhaled sharply, eyes transfixed on the form, his mind already considering possible escape routes should the creature decide to approach him. Just then, it grinned, and displayed a set of strange, jagged, silvery teeth. The expression on the being’s face was almost contemptuous, as if it knew what Franky was thinking and was ready to cut-off any getaway that Franky had planned. Franky gulped down a breath of smog-filled air, blinked rapidly in succession…and the creature disappeared as suddenly as it had materialized.

At this point in time, Franky was quite certain he’d either been drugged or else the chicken he’d had for dinner the night before had been tainted. Opting for a day of bed rest over making a fool of himself in front of his co-workers, he began trekking back up to his second-floor apartment. With trembling hands he tried inserting the key into the deadbolt and then cursed aloud when he dropped them. He bent over to pick up the fob, glancing cautiously over his shoulder as he did so. He was straightening back up and staring intently on the keyhole when he felt a hot breeze glide across his neck and caught a whiff of the most noxious, reeking odor he had ever experienced. Gagging involuntarily, he miraculously fumbled the key into the lock, just in time to step into the doorway and retch all over the tiled entryway as well as his spiffy clean loafers.

Whirling around (while still vomiting), he slammed the front door shut and engaged both deadbolts as well as the security chain. Only then did the heaving subside, and Franky took a long, deep breath. Disgusted by his actions, he immediately rushed into the bathroom to see if he could salvage his shoes by any chance. He stripped down to his boxers and proceeded to rinse his shoes off in the sink. The fact that he kept whispering to himself, “Get it together, Franky-boy, pull it together, Franky-boy,” over and over didn’t even register. He finally gave up on the shoes (ruined) and set them on top of the toilet lid, then leaned over the sink, cupped his hands under the running water, then slurped and swished the clean cool water around his mouth.

He started to calm down. That was when he looked in the mirror and saw the creature’s unmistakable glowing eyes shining in the mirror just behind where he was standing. Franky froze and just stood leaning on the porcelain sink, eyes locked with the glowing orbs reflected in the hazy glass. Franky blinked…..and again the creature was gone.
Franky sank down onto his squeaky mattress and put his head in his hands. He was afraid he was completely losing it. He felt as though he couldn’t trust his own eyes, worried what disgusting image would assault him the next time he blinked. Knowing what he had to do, Franky quickly hurried over to the kitchenette and began rummaging around in his junk drawer, all the while holding his eyelids open with the middle finger and thumb of his right hand. He soon found his prize, and returned to his sunken mattress. He carefully applied a piece of scotch tape to each eyelid, praying the adhesive would be strong enough to hold his eyes open, at least until he could reach the phone on the opposite wall of the apartment. He made a mad dash to the handset, all the while worrying exactly what he was going to say to get the police to come to his aide, but he knew better than to tell the dispatcher the truth. As he dialed 9-1-1, he quickly rehearsed a story about some kind of burglary, then to his dismay, sneezed loudly as soon as the operator answered the other line. The sneezing caused his eyelids to shut, against his will, and against the will of the tape. Obviously, his plan to keep from blinking had misfired. As he slowly opened his eyes, he again smelled the distinctly fetid aroma filling his nostrils and he instinctively began gasping and gagging, forcing himself to blink to try to eradicate the presence he knew would be waiting behind him. He could dimly hear the operator on the other end of the receiver asking what his emergency was, but he was entirely incapacitated by the sickly odor and could not answer her….then he felt a hot hand on his shoulder….

“So what happened with this guy,” asked the officer as he leaned over the paramedics, trying to catch a glimpse of the carnage below.

“Ripped his eyelids clear off, mumbling something or another about the boogeyman,” the technician answered. “ Prime candidate for the psych ward at county, if you ask me. Hey – do you smell that god-awful stench?”

By: Courtney Lyn Blystone

The streets of Kyoto were dark and not a single lamp nor house was lit. It seemed rather strange that there would be not a single soul in the town. Kat Myamouto was on her way home in the southern corner, when a solid black figure moved passed her. It created such a presence it nearly pushed her off her own two feet. Kat was startled feeling her red hair rise up and swish against her back. The figure crept its way up to what appeared to be a stone tower or maybe a castle. This tower had many windows, and like most of the town no light resonated from it. Her jade eyes gleamed with fear as she saw another young girl her age on top of the tower. It caused a sensation of chills to creep and crawl up her spine and down her arms. She had the feeling, either this was the wrong night to be lost in a familiar city or she was being watched.

“Such a pretty girl..” The figure said. Its ice blue eyes gazed down at Kat. It had a plan for this newcomer.

Kat kept on walking down the street in nervous. Her heart pounding fast like she had just ran a mile in a jog or marathon. Her red hair became damp as sweat dripped down her face past her green eyes. She could taste the sweat as it moved down her cheek, following it down to her red lips. She was feeling more and more discomfort, walking, faster, faster still, and faster yet. The figure glares more, chuckling to herself lightly as she sharpened the knife within her hands. When all of a sudden, Kat had made it to the tower. ‘This is not an illusion…’ she thought, as the figure came down from the tower and transformed again, into a dog. It looked so innocent as it grabbed Kat’s attention and lead her through the threshold into the tower. The dog-like persona lead Kat to a staircase where she sat with it. It looked at her and began to speak, “Hello young girl.” Kat looked at it like it was another illusion to lure her elsewhere rather on the path to the safe part of town. She shook her head, pretending she heard nothing, because this was becoming a weird nightmare. The dog spoke again, this time very stern, “Hello girl, you know you are one with your own sixth sense.” Thunder began to rumble and echo throughout the tower as it did so outside. Kat’s eyes widened at what she wanted to believe was a dog, but still refrained from saying nothing. There was a loud crash followed by a bright blue light. It had just now gotten worse, it had began to storm.

“Um, I guess I could be. Where has everyone gone in this town?” Kat stated as firm as she could without showing signs of nervousness.

It looked at her with its’ ice blue eyes once more and smirked, “Darling, you’re in another world…one where people like you are held in high regard…or killed.” Kat’s eyes grew larger than the rims of her silver glasses. She was not only now afraid of this new world, a scary figure, a talking dog, a thunderstorm, but of being KILLED.

“Not to worry my dear, we won’t kill you…we are creatures not like others, we are shadow figures…and figures of shadows and of your own fears.” the dog-like persona continued telling Kat. She wanted nothing more than to make her feel at ease but, this wouldn’t work. She took his sentence like one of those IQ Test questions that she never got, and this made her quite puzzled.

“My fear is death…death and being alone.” Kat stated to the figure as it transformed yet again, this time a woman. The womanly figure stood tall with blue eyes and long black hair. The black hair was just as long as Kat’s. It stood up in its kimono-like robes and smiled at Kat, revealing its’ next trick of transformation, Kat’s fear since she was little-her mother. The fear rose in Kat’s stomach, tying up in little knots. Each one, just as painful as the other, making her cringe inside.

((Background Information))
The maternal nature of Kat’s mother isn’t one for us to judge. Though this was what she looked as, the figure never could bring out the side Kat knew. The one that would call her out of her room just to shove her back in. Her mother was a foul woman, that never really expected much in her life or for Kat nonetheless. Her mother bore Kat out of wedlock and never really forgave the man that did this deed. He was an American businessman, that one day stopped into a brothel for a good time, and ended up bringing more than just a good time. Nine months later her mother gave birth to her and that was the first day of hell even before her mother ran. Kris Nakamura was her name, and all she was known for throughout Kyoto as a “slut.” Before all that, Kat’s mother was a beautiful, jaw-dropping woman. She had long black hair and blue eyes. She stood pretty tall for a woman and was always one to light up the room with excitement. One day, when she had enough of her husband’s brutality, she left him. There were no longer money ties and when she became desperate she ran to Yosai Shikimori. He said she could work as long as she did not do anything to disgrace the Shikimori Clan of Southern Kyoto. Though this bruised her pride, she bore Kat, and ran to shelter in Northern Kyoto with the American businessman, also known as John Copenhagen. Within the next 5 years everything began to draw itself into darkness and Kris withdrew herself, only to die at hand to the Shikimori Clan of Southern Kyoto.

There is nothing but silence as Kat stared at the figure of her mother. She feared the worst would come of it and just started for the entrance, it had remained opened. The rain was thrashing about the streets like a bunch of cars caught in a rainstorm. Kat blinked once more as she glared and it seemed this whole darkness thing disappeared. It was no longer her in a room, surrounded by nothing but walls at what appeared to be a silhouette of her mother. She was back on the white sidewalk, walking down the busy street of Kyoto. The splashing noise began to create themselves once more as cars passed right on by. It had not only stormed in Dark Kyoto but now in reality. Rain was ever persistent in Kyoto, never once truly left the city. It may stop for days and days but then start up again. Just like the sun, which sets all year long in a different spot. However, on three days it sets in the same spot under Crux and rises back up. This too, was a cycle. Seems everything in life revolved in a circle. Kat walked down to her corner which she lived on and took towards her friend, Krinn. He was standing outside, looking as though he was waiting for her. Above his head he held a soggy newspaper, which he shielded his hair from the rain.

“Where have you been, I have been out here for hours ringing this doorbell?!” he exclaimed, relieved to see Kat, giving her a tight hug. She looked at him with a blank stare from her eyes. It was like the darkness had somehow succumb itself inside her.

“Nowhere important to you…” she replied, giving an awful look of deceit, eyes glowing red for a second.

This wasn’t Kat at all, she usually was a perfectly normal teenage girl. She was somewhat perky but never mean to Krinn. He was the only person that paid attention to that girl behind those distinguished glasses. He sighed at her response; however, he did wonder of that new sense he felt around her. It was no longer like she was a living, breathing, human being but a sinister person revolved around hatred. Kat smirked as she continued making her way passed Krinn to her penthouse. He was quite startled and just left it alone. ‘There is no reason to worry.’ he thought repetitively to himself. The darkness expelled itself from Kat’s body. Once out, it slammed the door shut before Krinn entered. It locked the door and let out a laughter, not of one happy but one ominous maybe even demonic. Krinn frantically banged on the door as he heard the laughter and Kat’s giggles, followed by the light in the room being absorbed. Again, it was all dark as Krinn pounded harder, he was heard but not acknowledged.

“KAT-KUN! OPEN THE DOOR! KAT…PLEASE!” he begged, continuing to pound about the door. He drew more attention than he wanted. The neighbors all walked out of their apartments and penthouses to the what seemed insane teenage boy. The maintenance man walked by and Krinn with all his might pulled him aside.

“OPEN THIS DOOR! PLEASE…” he shouted at the man.

He got a look somewhat of his insanity but the man opened the door. When he did, he found Kat laying on the ground. The Darkness had created somewhat of an aura around her. It was floating above her like a cloud. However, Kat was giggling like a 5 year old at the playground. She was talking to it nonetheless, she looked 5 years old. Kat’s head turned her attention to Krinn, “Wanna play?”

Krinn felt a cold chill blow from the window as he saw Kat rise up. She had in her hands a porcelain doll with curly blond hair with a blue bow and blue eyes. She giggled like a giddy child happily to the window. She leaned over the ledge still giggling and dropped the doll. It soar down from the floors above and smashed when it hit the cement sidewalk. Kat turned to Krinn with an evil tooth-filled grin. “Oops…”she said, smirking wider. Krinn had never seen Kat this way at all, this was not her normality at all. He wished he didn’t feel the chill which kept him attentively staring at Kat. She went about her business like she did nothing and came back to the darkness. The darkness grew as it looked into the innocence of younger Kat, it seemed to feed off what energy grew around her. It seemed to make a loud suction sound when Kat screamed, falling to the ground, and out cold. The lights once again were restored, Kat was again 17 years old, and she seemed normal. She rose to her feet and saw Krinn gazing at her like some kid at the circus for the first time. She walked to him slowly as she adjusted her glasses. He slowly took one step back, then two, and out the door away from her.

“Krinn!” she called out, as he ran further down the hall.

Never once did she see fear in him, now she had. The darkness had scared the only man she loved away, what would be next? The darkness resumed its presence in the darkest corner of the penthouse, Kat’s bedroom. It seemed to only take shape and take hold of Kat around nightfall. Otherwise, it seemed to just gather energy from passing energy influxes and other feelings around town. Krinn’s fear only made it stronger as it could sense it making its presence through the window known.

Krinn ran down the sidewalk and down the street. His heart racing enough it seemed it was going to beat out of his chest. He wouldn’t turn back and look, he just kept running. He was almost home, just a few more blocks. When finally, he reached the stoop of his parents house, he placed his hand on the stone banister. He was huffing and puffing, he hadn’t stopped since he left Kat’s which was just a little over a mile away. His mother walked outside to find him there, his face pale, his blueberry-colored eyes just blank, and the look of fear written all of him.
“Krinn-san?” his mother questioned.

She felt her way around to the final step to Krinn’s face. His face was obviously soaked with rain and sweat.

“Come in now dear, you can’t catch a cold…you have exams,” his mother said, leading him to the front door.

Krinn walked fast up to his room and shut the door, locking it behind him. He turned all the lights and made sure the lights in the city below were still on. ‘Thank God…’ he said to himself as he rested upon his bed. His cold black hair lay on his pillow, which seemed to absorb all his sweat and soaked hair. ‘What was that?’ he thought with a loud sigh, he just laid beneath the fan. He watched the brown blades turn in their circular motion. It’s chill was unlike that of the chill he felt when he saw young Kat throw her doll out the window. ‘But why didn’t I see it? If it fell..’ he questioned his vision and what he saw. He sat there thinking more and more on it until his clock midnight, and he had a startling revelation-‘Its an illusion!’ he exclaimed to himself, and decided to test his theory at school the next morning. He now thought he could have a way to save Kat. From what? He didn’t quite know yet, but he would get to the bottom of it.

The next day, Krinn left his house to find Kat standing on the sidewalk. He slowly made his way down the staircase, looking at her. He was still a little freaked out by last night’s strange happenings. This however, didn’t stop him from taking her in a secure embrace. She looked at him, smiling lightly, and let go of him. She walked down the sidewalk and began to mumble to herself. It seemed she might be plotting something. They shortly arrived at the school and Kat stood there staring. Krinn walked up to the door and opened it for her, as her body walked up to the threshold of the door. That’s when everything began to slow down in perpetual motion. She entered with her eyes glazed over, eyeballing her two least favorite students. They made eye contact with her and all you heard were two thuds. Their bodies hit the floor as Kat continued walking down the hall, Krinn stayed behind. He had his hands on the metal centerpiece of the doorway, watching her. Kat turned sharply into her Algebra class and went to the teacher, “Mr. Hizumi…two students are passed out.” she said, smirking evilly as she turned away from him. Krinn walked into the room shortly after, and drew everyone’s attention to the hall. Mr. Hizumi was beside the two unconscious students, frantically calling both their parents. Shortly after that, investigators began to show up. They looked at the bodies, searching for any physical evidence. While examining the female student, Yumi, they found a baby blue ribbon with a light blond hair strand. It looked as though it had came from the doll Kat had just previously thrown out the window. Could it be possible the darkness killed Yumi and also killed the male student, Miako? Kat felt an overwhelming sense of guilt as they continued to investigate until they called in the paranormal investigators. They had no physical evidence so they had to use what they believed could be supernatural evidence.

It was growing quite evident that the darkness was actually a form of Kat’s anger, jealousy, or her hate. The reason Yumi was dead didn’t seem quite that obvious, unless you bring out what happened years ago.

– – -FLASHBACK- – –
Kat and Yumi were at the playground playing in the sandbox when Miako came over. The three sat and built each of their own sandcastles, Miako’s being well rounded with a fort around it, Yumi’s the basic one with a draw bridge and mote, and Kat’s however, seemed to be a looming tower. The friends were just having a great time, giggling amongst themselves, when a dog appeared out of no where. It didn’t come close to the children, just watched them closely. As the dog sat there, it seemed to have red eyes that peeked from behind the bush where it was sitting. Maiko began to whisper to Yumi, “Knock over her castle…” Yumi was resistant at first it seemed because she’d argue back about how it was a bad idea and she didn’t find it necessary to do that. Miako became angry and kicked over his castle, scattering sand everywhere, and getting it all over Yumi’s pink dress and her eyes. The young girl became very angry as Kat sat entranced by this strange dog. “Fine!” Yumi exclaimed, kicking over Kat’s castle with an abrupt force. It took Kat’s attention away from the dog as it happened. She grew enraged and stood up, pushing over Yumi with such a force she fell backwards over the wood barrier of the sandbox. Yumi cried and yelped for help, she had busted her shoulder. Kat smirked evilly with a grin and looked at the girl. “Momma’s here…I’ll make you all better…” Kat said in an maniacal tone. Miako tried to interfere and get Yumi but Kat turned around and growled, “NO!” Maiko fell over too. He too, lie in pain, yelping for the teacher.

“Teacher…Teacher…”they cried and yelped. No one heard them, and soon there was silence, such a silence it was deafening. Kat picked up Yumi’s doll and smashed it to the ground, shattered pieces of porcelain scatter the grass around the sand box. As recess ended, Kat walked away, leaving them to their suffering.

– – –

Kat looked at Miako and Yumi’s bodies like the rest of the curious students that looked from the doorway. Her stomach in knots as one of the investigators turned to Kat giving her a strange look. “That girl, bring her here.” the investigator said, pointing at Kat. The teacher allowed Kat out of the classroom and to the investigators. They examined her closely, invading her personal space. Her eyes seemed to go blank again, and soon the two investigators dropped like Yumi and Miako. A large number of gasps from the other students began and then ended as they saw Kat. Her aura around her became a dark black and everyone began to scatter. A young girl began to run towards Kat and entered her soul. Kat began to growl and throw a tantrum of a supernatural proportions. One student remained and looked at Kat strangely. The student tried to reach out and touch her, but once the hand hit Kat’s porcelain skin, the student dropped dead. It seemed whatever had possessed Kat was killing off people or anyone that was trying to help her.

A dark cloud formed in the hall and rain drops began to fall. Following that, a young girl appeared again before Kat. Instead of being with her physical being, it stood beside her.

“Now, kill that one.” it stated to Kat.

Kat smirked and soon the one person the young girl wanted dead, fell to the ground into a puddle. The rain that mysteriously began ended. It was now quiet and all of the students in the classroom eyeballed Kat strangely. She walked towards the class, only to have them shut the door and lock it. They now feared her and her little girl counter part. The young girl was still beside Kat, carrying with her a red rubber ball. She bounced it up and down, letting the sound echo around the whole entire school. It seemed everyone was squared away and totally frightened. Kat smirked and just walked out the door, the little girl followed. This little girl had jet black hair, violet eyes, and seemed very white in skin color. Whatever it wanted to do, Kat would do. Was this another minion of the darkness? Far from it, it was Kat’s inner-child. Kat walked to her old Primary school and sat down on the swing. Her inner-child sat in the sandbox, playing with her ball. It was no longer bouncing, it was floating. Seems this child product of Kat was telekinetic. It played with the other children well until a young boy named Timmy tried to take her ball. “NO! MY BALL!!” the girl exclaimed, and Timmy fell out of the sandbox with a glare of the girl. The boy cried as he laid on the grass with many scratches from the wooden border. He cried loudly and when he tried to get up, the girl pushed him over again. “NEVER TOUCH MY BALL AGAIN!” the girl, said with such a force it scared Timmy more. Timmy left the box and ran all the way to the basketball court, sitting safely by the teacher.

Kat looked at the child product and nodded at it. It just kind of gave her this look of the uttermost deceit. It smiled at her with a smirk and lightly moved towards her, sitting beside her. The girl held herself around Kat’s arms like she was a daughter, not some child product. She lightly shifted her head side to side, allowing her blonde curls to bounce. Kat looked down at the girl noticing her baby blue ribbon was torn. It sent thousands flashbacks all at once to Kat’s mind of what they found in Yumi’s hand. The bell then rang for school to let out and before 20 minutes could pass, Krinn showed up. He saw Kat playing with the girl, doing one of those girl hand games.

“Candy apple on a stick…” they chanted, as Krinn sat amused.

Krinn looked at the little girl, it reminded him of the doll Kat had in her room. She had always kept it on the top shelf and in high regard, like it was some kind of family emblem. The girl giggled and laughed as it sat there facing Kat. She smiled as Kat lost every time, until Krinn suddenly moved, and he had attracted himself to their attention, “Someone’s here…” The young girl said, lightly pointing in Krinn’s direction.

“That’s Krinn, Sophie…he’s my boyfriend.” Kat replied with a giggle.

He just stood there, trying not to make Kat angry by his presence. “Umm…hello Kat.” he said with a shaky voice. He was more afraid to talk to her than the first night he saw her make friends with the darkness. Everything seemed normal because, Kat usually is one to laugh and have fun. The only thing strange was the young girl named “Sophie” that seemed to be around her now. The dog that Krinn had seen before it morphed into the darkness, could never be seen. It seemed it was either in a figure of a girl or a cloud of monstrous hate. The first time Kat saw it, it was in the shape of a girl with long black hair and blue eyes. Then after she gained its’ trust enough not to kill her, it morphed into a dog. Dogs are considered man’s best friend, but shortly after that it had became like the doll. This struck Krinn’s curiosity, so instead of hanging around the playground, he went to Kat’s apartment.

When he arrived, it seemed the place was as clean as before. He had to step over a few things here and there, when he eventually arrived to the attic door, he opened it. There were old tethered boxes and photo albums everywhere. Krinn decided to search through the albums, nothing but old photographs of Kat and her parents. He slammed the first one to the ground, creating a dust cloud. Sliding out came a picture of 4 people. It was Kat, her mother, father, and a little girl. The little girl looked like Sophie and the doll. This was quite unusual circumstances, but Krinn decided to flip the photograph over to see the names. It read off as follows: Kat-5, Mom, Dad, and little Sophie-2. Krinn’s eyes widened as they focused on the last name in the list. It was like he was in utter confusion or shocked it was the little girl Kat was just saying was her best friend. This little girl wasn’t Kat’s inner-child, more so a ghost of some sort. There were papers in the little area where the picture had slid. It was an old newspaper clipping, it stated: “Young girl, Sophie Nakamura-Myamouto dies in drowning at Hakumi Bay.” As he continued to read he was shocked by one detail: “Authorities are lead to believe the older sister, Kat Nakamura-Myamouto, aged 5, drowned the toddler…” Krinn’s eyes widened more as he looked at that sentence repetitively.

The sentence just seemed to silence him. It’s like it had this way of captivating whomever read it, drawing unwanted attention to it. Krinn stuck the paper clipping in his coat pocket and left the attic. Once he reached the bottom step, Kat stood right in front of him. She looked at him with an angry smirk.

“What were you doing up there Krinn?”, she growled.

He stood silent in fear and stuck his hand into the coat pocket and pulled out the brown paper. He looked at Kat, “You did this, you killed your sister.” Kat gulped lightly, you can see her swallow the spit as it went down. He eyeballed her as she stood there silent but smiling. She nodded up and down with the smirk still stuck to her face. Sophie came up behind Kat and grabbed her hand. “Now it’s your turn…” Kat said as evil as she could. She pushed Krinn’s body to the ground and proceeded to get on top of him. Sophie handed Kat a silver dagger from inside her white stocking. Kat looked at him dead in his eyes and chuckled, stabbing him violently. Over and over again the dagger entered and exited the body. Blood began to accumulate on the dagger, causing a great puddle beneath Krinn. She laughed out loud, spreading the blood which was on her hands, all over the wall. Leaving behind handprints as she dug it into him, his eyes began to get lifeless. She snickered evilly and got up off him, lightly placing the knife beside her. She watched the blood form on the floor and leaned down near Krinn’s ear, whispering, “Krinn…you can wake up now.” Krinn’s last words were uttered, “Wake…up….?”

“KRINN! WAKE UP! TIME FOR SCHOOL!” his mother called, as Krinn rose up out of bed. He was breathless and covered in a cold sweat.

“It was just a dream, only a dream…” he said, catching his breath as he looked at the clock, its green numbers saying,”8:15a.m.”


You can read more of Courtney’s work at: http://allpoetry.com/smurf

By: Yael K. Miller

He was a scout.

He could have been an officer but he made his choice years ago. He had no interest in being an officer and his job as a scout kept him as far away from officers as possible and for a majority of the time. He had been in this business for a great many years as evident from the braid and stripes on the underarms of his Blue uniform.

Years ago, long before his birth, it was decided that ranking should not be so visible. It could be seen now only if a person stood right in front of another person and even then you could still prevent people from seeing the ranking. It was a good system and he enjoyed the rare occasions when he got to flash his underarms. This was one of those times.

He had been called to the Blue command tent. As he entered the camp he saw how few of them had survived. He could see the aftermath of a very recent battle. A defeat no doubt. He, of course, had been somewhere else scouting. He followed the discreet signs to the command tent – an old code that had never been broken. Or so he assumed as he had never heard otherwise and never heard about a command tent being specifically attacked.

He flashed his rank markings and gave his name to the guard outside the command tent. The guard had just passed the enthusiasm of youth and had not yet settled into the comfort of veteranhood.

“What happened?” the scout asked.

At this the guard got suspicious and lightly touched his belted pistol.

The scout again flashed his rank markings. “I’m a scout.”

The guard relaxed. “I’m probably not supposed to say this but the Maroon boys ground us into little bits.”

The scout nodded. He had seen the effects in the camp.

“The command tent’s been reviewing the whole battle for the last two days,” the guard said, “discussing some Maroon master strategist.” The guard described in great detail the battle; he had been in the fight and had also eavesdropped at his post for the last two days.

The scout started to get an idea why he had been called but did not let his thoughts weigh too heavily. After all, these were officers and, beyond that, command officers. Who knows if they actually lived in the same universe as the rest of the world?

The scout nodded at the guard. The guard called out in a soft firm voice: “Scout Specialist reporting as ordered.”

There was a grunt from the command tent that both the scout and the guard interpreted as permission to enter. The guard held open the tent door and the scout entered.

Inside the tent all the command officers clustered around a table covered in maps. Though most of their rank markings were obscured, from what the scout could see and who he recognized from his long career, the scout figured that all of command were huddled in this tent. Apparently, the Maroons really hadn’t cracked the code to the location of the command tent.

The scout was handed a picture. “This is the Maroon commander that made us eat dirt,” said an old familiar face.

The scout saw the other commanders frowning at the phrase but said nothing. Then he saw the old familiar commander was missing a rank mark. Apparently the other commanders had already spoken their piece. It was nice to see that, in the midst of the aftermath of a crushing defeat, the command structure still had time to place blame and demote.

“Something must be done,” said a baby-faced commander, echoed in nods from the rest of the command except the one with whom the scout was familiar. As if a scout had no idea of how a war works.

“A sniper attack should do it,” said the old familiar face.

After long experience, the scout had stilled his mental remarks from becoming public: “Are you insane? Sniping an enemy commander, not in battle, and a labeled master strategist? I know, I’ll send him a note inviting him for tea.”

The other commanders took the scout’s silence for stupidity or perhaps cowardice. But the old familiar face knew what it was and grinned. He said to the scout, “This Maroon commander takes walks in a forest clearing just beyond the no-man’s land at dusk.” The scout was handed a Maroon uniform – a lowly private by the rank markings. “Wear this.”

The baby-faced commander gestured the scout to a map. “Here’s the defense map of our side of no-man’s land and what we know of theirs.”

The scout quickly memorized the map: mines, chemical traps, and other nasty stuff. This is what made him such an excellent scout, the ability to quickly assimilate maps and terrain and apply the knowledge to survival.

It was clearly the end of the meeting; the scout waiting to be dismissed and the old familiar face about to open his mouth when one of the baby-faced commander’s cohorts said, “This mission is absolutely vital. Failure is not an option. You’re dismissed.”

As the scout left the tent and nodded to the friendly guard, he could only think that this was further proof that he was glad he had never become an officer. Something about being an officer must fry a person’s brains so he can only state the obvious.

Just outside the camp, the scout changed into the Maroon uniform. He belted on a pistol even though it was not standard for a lowly private to carry one; the scout always figured better safe than sorry. The scout removed his sniper rifle from its hiding place and attached all the extensions for an extra long shot.

The scout crept into the no-man’s land with heavy fog blanketing the area. He wove his way through the Blue traps of his own side and went as far as he could into the Maroon-trapped area. Lying down in a sniper prone position, he lined up his rifle scope with the forest clearing and waited for dusk.

He was patient, a veteran. Although he much preferred his scout duties, he was no untried greenie as a sniper.

Dusk approached and the fog shifted away from the forest clearing. It looked to be close to perfect conditions for a sniper shot.

And then a figure in Maroon walked into the clearing. The scout could not yet definitely identify that this was his target as the Maroon paced back and forth. Finally the Maroon stopped pacing and sat on a tree stump. Now the scout could confirm that this was his target. The scout waited to ensure that the Maroon was not about to move. The scout lined up the shot just as the Maroon turned his head to the side leaving the scout with only a profile at which to fire. But this was no problem for the scout, and so he pulled the trigger.

At that moment the scout saw something impossible in his scope. The target had turned his head back so that the scout could again see the target’s face. The target was no longer the Maroon that he had been shown the picture of but himself, the scout! Somehow he, the scout, sat on that tree stump.

The scout dropped his sniper rifle and sprinted to the forest clearing – praying he’d dodge Maroon traps, running on pure adrenalin, something he had not done since a young, green scout. He made it to the forest clearing just as the bullet hit the target/himself/the person’s head. The scout drew his pistol and nudged the body over. The body’s face was completely gone – the scout had no clue whether he had impossibly shot himself.

Two Maroon figures dashed into the clearing carrying automatic weapons. The scout was outgunned and did not bother to fire at the Maroon men. The scout only hoped they would be merciful when they figured out he had killed their master strategist commander.

One of the men, hopelessly young and slightly out of breath, said, “Commander, are you alright? We heard a gunshot.”

The scout thought: “Are you insane? Your commander is lying on the ground.”
The two Maroons were not looking at the body but at him as if he, a Blue scout in a stolen Maroon uniform, were their commander.

Something impossible was going on. The scout drew in a breath and thought: “I guess I’m the commander of these Maroons.”

The scout-now-commander said, “A Blue in a stolen Maroon uniform snuck through the no-man’s land and tried to kill me.”

Only now did the two Maroons look at the body. The other Maroon, a veteran and someone apparently quite familiar with the Maroon commander, said, “I told you, Commander, it’s too dangerous for you to be walking in this clearing. I know you said you needed to get away to think but now your safety has been compromised.”

The scout-now-commander allowed himself to be herded between the two Maroons into the Maroon camp. It was a healthy camp with few wounded, not like the Blue camp, and, as he walked, he noticed the stiffening of soldiers as he passed – the coming to attention when a well-respected commander walks by. All of these Maroons thought he was a Maroon commander. Flashing his rank markings to himself, he saw they were no longer the markings of a lowly private on the uniform he put on earlier today. They were the markings of a very high-ranking and well-decorated commander.

His two Maroon bodyguards escorted him to what he assumed was the Maroon command tent. On the way he did not recognize the codes to a command tent, although in truth he had not been looking so hard. He entered, and the commanders in the tent all came to attention.

“Clear your head, sir?” one commander said in tones of an subordinate talking to a superior and desperately hoping the superior knows what to do.

He nodded and moved to the table. On it lay maps of incomplete plans of a battle. The same battle that had decimated the Blues two days ago.

He now understood what was happening – at least as far as he could. This was a he that had not stayed a scout but had become an officer, a command officer. All the other commanders in the tent looked at him for a plan. What could he do? Just this morning he was a Blue scout. Could he really turn his back on the Blues and plan a Maroon victory? Looking around the tent, he realized he had to do this. Somehow, someway, he had become a Maroon and the Maroons needed him – they were his people now.

He took a deep breath and moved forward. He explained his plan of attack based on what the Blue guard told him about the battle two days ago and the map of the Maroon side of no-man’s land he saw earlier. A brilliant plan – the other commanders were in awe. “We strike at two hours before dawn,” he said. After all the commanders completely understood the plan, they dispersed to inform their own subordinates.

He laid down to sleep after informing his guards not to wake him, not even during the battle. Although he was now a Maroon commander and the Maroons were his people, he had no desire to see the Blues slaughtered.

He awoke late in the afternoon to murmuring outside his tent. He granted entrance, and the grinning faces of his commanders greeted him. Everything had gone according to plan – an amazing victory. He toured the camp, visiting the few wounded. Almost all of the wounded were on the Blue side.

His commanders begged and pleaded for two days that they should follow up on the victory and crush the remnants of the Blue army. But he could not allow it; he had killed all the Blues he could stomach. Near dusk of the second day, he informed his bodyguards that he was going for a walk alone to clear his head. They protested but he finally wore them down. No doubt they would still be close to him though hidden.

He walked until he came to a forest clearing, the perfect place to think things over. He paced, reviewing the ethics of what he had done. The Maroons needed him to be a Maroon master strategist commander so he gave that to them, ignoring that a short while ago and for most of his life he was a Blue scout.

He felt dizzy so he sat down on a tree stump. Suddenly he heard the sound of a long-range sniper shot.

He turned his face to the bullet.


You can follow Yael on Twitter at: http://www.twitter.com/MillerMosaicLLC

By: Aaron Eugene Lee

Frosted Flakes, or Wheaties. Cheerios are all gone: only two little o’s remain. The boxes are full of words like “Best” and “Brightest”. “Be all you can be”, that’s our army’s slogan. Tiger Woods ate the Wheaties, I wanna be like him. The tiger says his are “Grrrrrrreat!” I gotta be the best, brightest and fastest. And I wanna have my breakfast with some toast. The toaster is on the other side of the table. A real problem. I groan, and then come to my senses. I grab the small card table and wrench it sideways, knocking some silverware and the salt shaker on the floor. I made a mess, but I get the toaster.

Since my wife can’t help me, I help myself to the bread cooking machine. It takes too long to heat up so I pop it early and just stuff my face with cold rye. It is cold and it is rye. It is also dry. My mouth is full of this dry rye bread – I chew it loudly and my wife just scoffs.

I think she lied to me last night. I think she lied for me last night. Last night in bed I dreamed of rye bread. This morning has fulfilled my wild dreams of the night before. Have you ever woken up from a dream just to have the dream fulfilled?

I had to.

I had to buy my wife’s lie. Eat it up like I was eating the toast. We don’t always talk when we go to bed together. Sometimes we just lay there and dream before we nod off to dream. It seems that we wish for things. Me and my toast. Her and her lie. That’s all it was, a little white lie. What does a white lie mean in the midst of life. Ask me, or ask my wife. My wife will tell you it means a great deal. That Honesty is important. That Honesty is secure, safe, binding, and sure. Honesty is all of these things. Ask me and I will say that a white lie in life is like a piece of cold rye toast and an opened salt shaker on the floor.

I beat my wife to the floor that day. She was going to clean up the spill, but I insisted. I got there before her. She had a rag – but I had my napkin. How unexpected was I that morning? You see, I rarely get a napkin to eat my Wheaties, or my Frosted Flakes. But that morning was different. She was about to clean the mess – but I beat her to it. I got there first. I made the mess, and I would clean the mess. I didn’t really need her there. Not for that. What is a white lie in the midst of life? It is only a small mess that I can clean up myself…that, and a cold piece of toast.

After dropping the salt, I thought it was like losing a part of myself. We are all made of salt. ‘From ashes to ashes and dust to dust’. What about ‘from salt and to salt we shall return’? I thought maybe we were all just a little white lie in the midst of some one else’s life. I have now given up my salt, and lost my dust.

Before I go to work in the morning I have a kind of ritual. I suppose we all do. I do. My wife does, and I do. I remember my parents having their own morning ritual, so I suppose we all do. I step in the shower, and then back out. I forget my toothbrush. I keep my toothbrush in the cabinet – but I brush my teeth in the shower. So I need to remember to take my toothbrush in the shower. Kills two birds with one stone, I say. My wife won’t shower with me because I brush my teeth. I thought she was strange when we married, but the longer you live with someone the more you learn to love them. Her ritual begins with cleaning up after me (except for that one morning) and then avoids me in the bathroom. She won’t even come into the adjacent bedroom if I’m still getting ready. She complains about the steam and my singing. Of course she compliments my singing on occasion. I think it just depends on what song I sing that morning. This talk is tiresome – no one wants to hear about how I brush my teeth after cleaning up after myself.

My morning ritual progresses, as does my wife’s (and everyone else’s I suppose). I head off to work and the rest of the day is rather uneventful. Not to suggest that nothing exciting ever happens, but just to say that I’ve gone on about my day too much already. I want to talk about THAT day. Just THAT day. When I ate Wheaties and Frosted Flakes because the Cheerios were all gone except for two. If you can understand that day then you may believe me when I say I have seen the CHILD of MERCY and MERIT. It was a circumstance that day. Something happened that changed my world. That changed my wife’s world. It was OUR world really, and what changed was between us. We were visited that day, though we never fully introduced ourselves. Our visitor came and left, like visitors tend to do, but ours left us with a gift.

Whoever came and went left us feeling silly. Stars silly. That is, so silly that we felt we were seeing stars. I dropped the salt and lost my dust. She came to help and I helped myself. At first it seemed like an act of rejection, and hers of retaliation. But when all was said and done I looked at her fine curves. How she filled out that dress very nicely. How she moved with grace and her shadow had trouble keeping up appearances with the real deal. My wife. So lovely, even if she did what she did. How could she stand it at all? Why hadn’t she left me yet? Not that we ever fought – not really. Not that there were ever harsh words between us. Or threats, or fists, or fires of passion. I had swallowed my toast, but I wanted a second helping now. Honesty is brutal.

My wife, the queen of bees. She could have had her pick right out of high school, but she held out for me. We didn’t meet until we were both out of college. What does that mean? I mean – I wasn’t likely to meet anyone, and her…she could have had them all. But we met each other and now we were here together. The queen of bees and the jack of trades. But what could I do for her? The answer that came to me was my brain child. An idea so inspired that I think it was also left for me by our visitor. Something just for me. Just for me to give to her. I brushed my teeth before getting in the shower that morning. She knew about it too, because she passed through the bedroom that morning. Maybe that was her gift to me. Another chance. She saw me and I her. We both knew that my morning ritual had been set aside. And after that we made love and I called in sick to work. We wanted to spend all day together, but after our passionate throws we knew it was kind of like the salt and toast. Except maybe it was a little better that morning, after the sex. Though we didn’t spend all day together it felt like we did. She said she had urgent business in the office and couldn’t just call in sick. This was the real world and the real world needed her. I told her I understood – and that morning I think I did.

What did I do all day? It was like lying on a bed of nails. Not necessarily fatal, but if you try and get comfortable it makes things worse. She came home, and we saw each other again. We could still tell. That morning hadn’t been a dream. There was still something between us. Given to us by our visitor. Maybe the world didn’t change because of it – but something did, something just between us. Honesty is indirect. My wife may have lied to me the evening before, and she may do it again. But not every night, and I love her for it.

The only other spectacular thing about that day was my dream. Not the dream I had while I slept, but I’ll tell you I met my wife that night. It was before that, when we laid down together and just breathed beside each other. We dreamed before we fell asleep. I couldn’t tell what she was dreaming, but I’ll tell you mine. I dreamed of the Honesty between us. What did it mean to me? Honesty is a one way ticket to the deepest part of a person’s soul. It is a dark ride, and I have found myself frightened by it. But I ride the train and stare out the black window until the daylight comes back. Dark windows also provide a good reflection, but I did not turn away. I looked into the window anyway, seeing myself in the dark. The shadows beyond took shape and I saw a bird. A Crane. A beautiful bird that swooped down to the ground. It was flying. No, it was falling and it was lying. The bird of lies was headed for the ground and there might not have been enough air to slow it’s descent. I wanted to scream out. To tell it to stop, to break its own fall. But that is not Honesty. So I prayed. Move into the fast lane, Crane. Die quickly, Dye your feathers red. Do not stop, do not hesitate, do not think that you can save yourself but give in. If death awaits you, be Honest.

My dream got me sweating a little bit, and my hand started to shake. My wife grabbed hold of my hand and I was able to stop, and sleep throughout the night.

By: Nan E. Fagan

Twenty minutes later, after finishing breakfast on a warm and sunny Friday morning in mid-April, Kathy DiScala was getting her kids ready for homeschool, when she suddenly heard a knock on her door. “I wonda who that is this early in the mornin!” Kathy asked in her heavy Brooklyn accent as she went to answer the door. She was wearing a bright yellow bathrobe with a matching towel over her head, as she called out to her two kids, “Jake, Kelly, get started on your schoolwork right now!”

“Mrs. DiScala?” a huge burly bald man had asked.

“Yeah! Whatta ya want!” Kathy responded sarcastically.

“I’m Joseph Green, the attendance officer for the Santa Monica School District. I’d like to come in and talk to you.”
“What about? I’m busy right now!” Kathy once again responded sarcastically.”

“I want to talk to you a bout your kids. They’ve not been in school for the last month. Why aren’t you sending them to school?”

“Because me and my husband don’t wanna. We’re homeschoolin our kids. We did it in Noo Yawk and now we’re doin here in California. Here, why doncha come in and I’ll tell ya!” Kathy responded as she let Mr. Green in to her modest Spanish-style house.

Sitting on the bright yellow living room sofa, putting his attendance records down on the cobalt blue coffee table, Mr. Green then asked, “Mrs DiScala, what are your teaching credentials? Are you a licensed and certified to teach here in the state of California?

Kathy then angrily replied. “Why? What difference does it make?’

“A recent court decision here in California says any parent who homeschools their child has to either get the proper teaching credentials or else end them to school. It is my job enforce the state laws and the school district’s attendance policies! You cannot keep these kids sheltered forever. They need to interact with other children. They need professional guidance. They need to be inside of a classroom learning from a professionally-trained and qualified teacher. If you don’t get your kids back into school, you can be charged with truancy.”

“Listen, mistah!” Kathy continued. “Qualified teachers, my foot! My husband Don and I pulled our kids out of St. Margaret’s in Brooklyn because the nuns were smackin them around; especially Sister Jane. Yeah my son was misbehavin, so instead of calling me, Sister Jane popped him across the mouth with a yardstick. His mouth was bleeding so bad that he had to go to the hospital to get stitches. Well anyway, I marched right up to that school and told her that if she ever ever laid a hand on any of my kids again, I was gonna knock her old yellow rotten teeth out; and I don’t care if they send me to jail. Nobody puts their hands on my kids, and I mean nobody! And the principal there, Sister Mary, didn’t do a thing; she took Sister Jane’s side! But anyway, when my son came home that day, my husband and I really laid it on him Nobody touches my kids except me and my husband!”

Mr. Green was astonished! “I too went to the Catholic schools here in Los Angeles, and yes, I got cracked by a few of the nuns there, but I also had some good nuns there as well. Of course, this was back in the 60’s. But you just can’t blame one bad experience for keeping kids out of school, Mrs. DiScala.”

“Oh there’s more!” Kathy continued excitedly. “After we took them out of St. Margaret’s, we sent them to P.S. 29 in Brooklyn, and it didn’t get any better. The kids there were runnin around, fightin, cursin, nobody there to watch them. Some of them came to school with guns and knives. For Pete’s sake here we’re talking about young kids; first, second, third, fourth, and fifth graders; One day there was this big fight in the lunchroom. A whole bunch of black kids ganged up on this one white kid. When the teacher tried to break it up, this one black kid popped him in the mouth so hard that his gums bled My son Jake also got hit in the face with a chair. Me and another group of parents marched right down to that school and demanded to see the principal, but he was too busy to see us, and boy did I really freak out! He cares more about that No Child Left Behind act then about the safety and concerns our children”

Mr. Green, picking up his briefcase, interrupted, “Is it just the violence, Mrs. DiScala, or the academics that’s keeping your kids out of school?”

“Both.” Kathy responded. “My daughter has ADD, she reads at a first grade level, and the kids keep pickin on her. One day, during math class, she freaked out because she couldn’t do double-digit multiplication, and do you know what the teacher did? She locked her in the bathroom for two hours! Two full hours! She was screamin and cryin at the top of her lungs, but the teacher really didn’t care! My husband and I then marched up to the school and gave her a piece of my mind. And do you know what? She said and I quote ‘I don’t have time to deal with dummy students like your daughter! Put her in the looney bin!’ I told her that she had no right to do that to my daughter, and that I would be going to the principal’s office. He gave me the brush-off again, but this time I had enough. I screamed into his face ‘I’m takin my kids out of here and homeschoolin them. I don’t need this aggravation anymore! And I don’t care if you haul me and my husband off to jail; my kids will never ever set foot inside of a classroom again for as long as they’re living under my roof! You can take your federal and state regulations and shove them up your you-know-what! Me and my husband know my kids better than some stranger with a fancy-schmancy teaching degree!”

Mr. Green then interrupted, “Mrs. DiScala, how long have you lived here in California?”

“Five years.” Kathy responded. “My husband’s a big-shot entertainment lawyah! His law firm opened up an office right here in Beverly Hills. He wanted the big-time Hollywood clients and that’s why we came here.”

“How are you homeschooling your children, Mrs. Di’Scala?” Mr. Green asked.

“I got them in an online charter school up in San Francisco.” Kathy replied. They send me the books and videos that I need. I can play the video over and over until my kids get it right. They don’t pressure them to study: they study at their own pace. I don’t want them to be forced to learn anything. I send the lessons in; they grade them and they send them back. The only thing that I want my kids to know is English, reading, and math and that’s it.

Mr. Green then intervened. “Mrs. DiScala, I don’t know what the education laws are there in New York, but out here in California, these kids need to be in school. You know, I don’t make the laws here; I just follow them. They need to know every subject, not just English, reading, and math.”

“Mr. Green” Kathy responded. “Come look at my kids. Jake, Kelly, come over here for a minute.”

“What is it, Mom?” twelve-year-old Jake and ten-year-old Kelly asked as he came rushing over with his English book in his hand.

“This is Mr. Green from the school district.” Kathy continued. “Jake, show Mr. Green where Sister Jane popped you in the mouth.”

“She popped me right here.” responded Jake, as he showed Mr. Green the permanent scar that she left on his upper lip. And you see this scar on my left arm, this was from the pizza that hit my arm the day we were in the lunchroom when the fight broke out. I’ll never go back to school again!”

Then it was Kelly’s turn. “Mrs. Johnson locked me in the bathroom because I was cryin.”

“Who’s Mrs. Johnson, Kelly?” Mr. Green asked. “Was she your teacher back in New York?”

“Yes she was and she was a real meanie.” Kelly answered. “And she was a real meanie to my mom. She said to my mom that I was stupid. I’m so glad that I don’t have Mrs. Johnson. My mom is my real teacher and she doesn’t call me names like Mrs. Johnson. I like going to school at home./”

“OK kids, go back and do your schoolwork, and I’ll talk to you later.” Kathy commanded. She paused for a moment and then continued, “Did you see my kids there, Mr. Green? This is why I don’t want to send them to school. I don’t want them anymore messed up than they are now. They don’t have to worry about guns, drugs, knives, bullies, teachers and principals that don’t even care. My kids are precious to both me and my husband, and if anything ever happened to them, I would never forgive myself. My poor Kelly now has nightmares and I’ve been taking her to a psychiatrist. I just can’t let my kids suffer like this anymore.”

Picking up his brown briefcase, filled with attendance forms, Mr. Green gave informed Kathy, “I’m sorry, Mrs. DiScala, but you’ve got to get your kids back into school! This is California, and New York! I want you and your husband to fill out these forms and get them back into my office by Monday morning. And here’s my card. ‘

“I told ya me and my husband have already made our decision,” responded Kathy Our kids are not going to school and that’s final. Tell your boss to come over here and take me to jail. I’ll even give them medical proof of what the schools did to my kids!”

“Mrs. DiScala, you’re leaving me no other choice but to have a truant officer come out here. I’ve got to get back to the office now. Have a good day, ma’am.”

As Mr. Green left, Kathy then fumed, “The noive of that guy! Telling me that I need to send my kids to school Ya know what? I’m gonna run for office and do away with school taxes and forced schooling! Yeah! I’ll show these rotten politicians a thing or two! Why should I be forced to send my kids to school and pay school taxes in the first place? Education should be a privilege and not a right! And what a better time to do it than right now!”