 
Of Words and Water  
2014

Published by Words and Water Group at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Words and Water Group

All rights reserved.

Find Of Words and Water 2013 at Smashwords.com:

<https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/330936>

### Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

This free ebook may be copied, distributed, reposted, reprinted and shared, provided it appears in its entirety without alteration, and the reader is not charged to access it.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

# Foreword

Some people thought the theme of 'water' was tackled in a rather loose fashion in the 2013 collection; the elastic has perished further for 2014's 'many nations, one world' theme... or has it?

The stories and poems here may not, at first reading, seem to fit this theme, but Words and Water Group contributors are actually meeting it on two counts; we are an international group, more than meeting the 'many nations' criterion, and we are working together to try and improve the lot of the people inhabiting this 'one world' we share. As for the stories and poems themselves, most of the characters were born on this one world, into at least one nation. I say 'most' since it's hard to tether an author's imagination, and some stories take us outside Earth's confines. We have a couple of non-fiction pieces too, which have earned their place here since aspects of real life, and our reflections on those times in our lives, are just as fascinating as fiction.

Our members were born in and/or live in:

Australia

Canada

China

Denmark

Ecuador

England

France

India

Ireland

Russia

The Philippines

USA  
The spelling is appropriate to the country of origin of the author, so you will see both UK English and US English.

This is once again a very rich collection, rich in imagination and the quality of the writing. My thanks go to all the contributors for once more helping me make my idea a reality. If you also want to say thank you to these authors then please do so by visiting  
<http://www.justgiving.com/Of-Words-And-Water>  
and making a donation. Every penny will go directly to WaterAid to help ensure everyone in our one world has access to clean water and safe sanitation.

Our aim in publishing this anthology is to spread the word about the sterling work being done by WaterAid, so even if you cannot afford a small donation, please still tell your friends and family to download a copy of this book, and ask them to spread the word further; wouldn't that be amazing, to get exponential growth of knowledge about the problems some of our fellow humans are facing? Because we can't fix a problem if we aren't aware it exists.

I'd like to give additional thanks to the people who have helped maintain interest in OWAW 2013, and inch towards publication of OWAW 2014, with editing, proofing, invaluable suggestions, advice and moral support, and dealing with the advertising/social media stuff I'm so hopeless at. The Words and Water Group members have done all this as well as contributing their work, Vicky Durston and Sophie Cocks from the Environment Agency in the UK have helped spread the word, and Jessica Sutton from WaterAid ensured I didn't contravene any of their ways of working; thanks, guys.

For full details of the work being done by WaterAid please visit their website: http://www.wateraid.org

Jay Howard (Editor)

June 2014

#  Submissions

If you would like to submit a short story or poem for _Of Words and Water 2015_ please send it to:

owaw2015submissions@yahoo.co.uk

The theme is 'a helping hand', but as always the interpretation of that theme is a loose one; you will be helping by becoming a contributor. You retain copyright of the story/poem, and there are no restrictions on where else you can publish it.

# Contents

Barry Gray — You should get that tap fixed

Neel Kay — Sam's Guest

George Gould — The Moon She Miss a Piece

K.A. Krisko — The Name of the Dog

Annie Harmon — Damn Rubber Balls

Ryan Stone — Dragonflies and Raindrops

Charlton Daines — A Gift for Lily

Elizabeth Los — Sleep

Jaq D Hawkins — What Team Are You On?

Rohit Arora — Beneath the Shadows of Stars

Jason Parent — Something Alien

Sylvie Nickels — Crossing Bridges

Jay Howard — Moon River

K.A. Krisko — Finding Mandel

Raissa Falgui — Dreaming of the Sea

Kerry Dwyer — Agoraphobia

Barry Gray — Flood Tide

Gloria Ng — Roots to Water

Jason Parent — American

Lara Biyuts — Snowfall

Mark Bell — Winslow Homer Never Painted This

Sylvie Nickels — Daydreams

Angelica Pangan — The Raven

Steven Donoso — Between The Notes

Kerry Dwyer — A Few Things That Terrify Me

Ryan Stone — The Wisdom of Butterflies

Jay Howard — Popping the Cherry

#  You should get that tap fixed

## Copyright Barry Gray

Through the kitchen window dawn is coming.

Like the tide across mudflats

it will flood the kitchen

Silence:

it's early,

no radio,

no excited children,

no washing machine rehearsing the last rattling death throes of its final spin.

Now light will come to join the silence.

At the end of your chrome swan-neck a drop is

forming,

gathering,

growing,

bending the window sill,

folding in an image of the garden trees.

Drop by drop you take the growing day's light,

swell it,

end it

and with a shiver slight,

drop it

on to the stainless steel.

A small drum sounds like a blunt bell's peel.

Counting the seconds you practice this drill.

Liquid light,

shining water,

ringing steel;

until the next moon bright.

Then you will play in secret with its silver light.

~~###~~

#  Sam's Guest

## Copyright Neel Kay

Inspiration

I was very much inspired by the short story collection "Nine Lives" by Terry Tyler. One of the stories had a brilliant twist that I did not see coming.

~~###~~

Liva was there to help them. Or at least, that was what Sam had told Gwen. That was what _that woman_ now told Gwen. "I'm here to help you, darling," Liva said, her voice so sweet and sugary it set Gwen's teeth on edge.

Darling? The bloody nerve of her! She wasn't her darling. She didn't even know the woman. She was just someone Sam had invited into their home. What was he up to?

Gwen closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. She did not need any help. She was perfectly fine. So she'd had a little accident, but it clearly wasn't the end of the world. She could take care of herself, and she could take care of Sam too, thank you very much.

"It's going to be all right," Liva said as she placed a hand on Sam's arm, leaving it there a little too long.

Sam shot her a tight smile, his eyes a little surprised.

Gwen gritted her teeth. She really took her liberties, didn't she? What kind of a name was Liva anyway? Gwen immediately decided that she didn't like her, and it didn't go unnoticed. When Liva finally removed her hand from Sam and turned towards Gwen, she looked slightly uncomfortable and somewhat pale.

Victory!

Gwen smirked, left the room and slammed the door shut. "I don't need anyone's help," she yelled. "You can leave now."

When Sam joined her in the living room, Gwen was sitting in the window nook, staring at the rain outside and tapping her nails against the glass until Sam groaned: "Stop it!"

Gwen's head jerked around. He didn't love her any more. If he did, he wouldn't be standing there, his hands curled up in tight fists, his jaw clenched and his shoulders so tense they almost reached his earlobes.

"Sam, please, I don't need any help. Why is she still here?"

He walked out and flipped off the light switch, leaving Gwen alone in the dark. She sighed and leaned her forehead against the cool window. She'd let him be mad at her; she deserved his wrath after treating him so horribly of late. Gwen's temper had been off the scales, making her throw plates and glasses after him. She'd even broken his favourite mug; the one with the moustache painted on it. She'd regretted it the second she'd done it and had watched him as he'd silently picked up the pieces and started to glue the fragments back together.

"You found this mug in Monterey," he'd said.

Gwen had walked away, feeling guilty, and the knot in her stomach had grown to enormous proportions. She didn't mean to hurt him, but she was just so unbelievably frustrated that she couldn't control herself.

Gwen could hear them talking in the kitchen, although she couldn't make out what they were actually saying. But she knew they were discussing her, agreeing on an approach. She got up from the nook and tip-toed across the dark room to the door. She didn't even have to feel her way; she knew the place like the back of her hand.

The door creaked when she opened it. Gwen grimaced when the sound made Sam and _that_ woman fall silent.

"Gwen?" Sam called out.

She closed her eyes and didn't open them until they started talking again.

"Does she do this a lot?" Liva enquired, her tone low and urgent.

Sam exhaled loudly. "All the time."

There was something in his voice that grabbed Gwen by the heart and stabbed it with knives. She swallowed, her throat thick and her eyes burning. From now on, she would treat him right, she promised herself. She'd try and control her temper. No, not just try. She had to pull herself together or he'd get rid of her, and she couldn't bear being in this world without him. If only she could tell him. If only he'd listen to her.

Sometimes he'd press his palms against his ears while shaking his head. "You're driving me crazy," he'd say. "I love you, but you're driving me absolutely insane."

He loved her? Then why was that woman here? Why had he brought her into their home? Gwen tightened her jaw. A woman who obviously thought Sam was very attractive. Of course, Sam was gorgeous. No one believed that more than Gwen, but did Liva have to flaunt it right in front of her? As if she even stood a chance. And Sam certainly didn't need her batting her eyelashes at him right now.

"So what is the procedure?" Sam sounded nervous, even a little hesitant. Maybe he was also beginning to think this was a bad idea, whatever _this_ was.

"At first, we just talk. Try to get her to listen."

"Yeah, good luck with that," Sam scoffed.

Gwen slid through the door opening and walked across the hall until she was close to the kitchen door. There she peeked around the doorframe and saw Sam and Liva holding hands. A flash of fury shot through Gwen. What the hell was going on? They were actually standing face to face, their hands folded between them as if they were five years old and had just been asked to dance. It looked so stupid, yet so disturbing.

"Get out," Gwen shouted. "Get out! Get out! Get out!"

Liva winced. She seemed fazed for just a second, but then she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin in stubborn defiance. "No, I will not get out," she said, her tone adamant. "I'm here to help you and Sam, and I'm not leaving until you hear me out."

"I think you should get your filthy hands off my man and get the hell out of my house." Gwen barged forward and dove right into where Sam's hands were locked in Liva's.

They stumbled apart, Liva gasping and Sam turning away, rubbing his forehead. "Why are you making it so hard?" he whispered as if he didn't want anyone but Gwen to hear it.

"Sam, you have to be strong," Liva said to his back. "Sam!"

"Leave him alone," Gwen barked. She walked over to him, kissed his neck and nuzzled the back of his hair. He really needed a haircut. He was starting to look like a castaway; his beard black and thick, his hair wild and all over the place.

"Fine," Liva said as she walked into the hall.

Gwen was close on her tail, nudging her. "Yes, get out."

But Liva didn't go anywhere near the front door. Instead, she picked up her bag and pulled out a mobile phone. "This is actually worse than I'd expected," she said, her eyes serious on Sam as he joined them. He just nodded.

"Sam?" Gwen exclaimed. "Please, don't." But she was losing him, she could feel it, and it was tearing her apart.

"I'm calling my partner," Liva continued. "We need his help."

~~~

Sam made coffee. He'd always been more of a coffee person than a tea person. Gwen loved that about him. He drank it from his glued mug that Gwen had smashed. It was still his favourite.

They had all moved to the living room. Gwen had found her place in the nook by the window, once again gazing out at the rain, feeling somewhat calmer, yet a bit disheartened, and an overwhelming feeling of defeat was settling heavily on her shoulders.

Sam sat on the sofa, his back rigid and his eyes fixed on some invisible point in the middle of the room, while Liva walked around slowly. She blew on her coffee and studied the photographs on the walls.

"You've been around," she said.

Sam turned his head and blinked. "What? Yes. Those two are from New Zealand. We went there last year."

"And this one?" Liva pointed at a picture of Sam and Gwen in front of a waterfall.

"That's Iceland. Golden Falls or Gullfoss in Icelandic."

"It's beautiful."

Gwen rolled her eyes. "Are we doing polite chit chat now? I like you much better when you shut up."

Liva drank her coffee, ignoring Gwen as she continued along the photographs from Egypt, Japan and the US west coast.

Gwen had loved driving along the Pacific. That had been the most fantastic trip ever, especially the two weeks they'd spent in Monterey Bay. They had been so happy then. She gazed at Sam. He certainly wasn't happy now; trashed would be a much more appropriate adjective to describe him. It destroyed her seeing him like this, but she was the cause. She could put an end to his sufferings, but it meant that she had to let him go. With all they'd been through together, how could she let him go?

Gwen glanced over at Liva who was now checking her watch. "He should be here any minute." She shot Sam a comforting smile. He jumped when the doorbell rang just seconds later.

Gwen got up from the seat in the nook. She felt sick.

Liva's colleague was an older man. He seemed friendly enough; shook Sam's hand, smiled and introduced himself as George. He had an American accent. Gwen folded her arms over her chest and walked demonstratively upstairs.

"She's upset," George said.

"She often is," Sam commented.

"Any violence?" George asked.

"Yes," Liva answered. "There's been physical contact, and Sam, you said that she'd been throwing things after you?"

"Yes, but..." Sam stumbled to a halt.

"Don't protect her," George interrupted him. "You are not doing yourself or her any favours."

Sam didn't answer, at least not verbally.

Gwen found her way into the bedroom and settled down on the bed. It hadn't been made for days, weeks even. Sam's scent was everywhere in the room. It made her chest tighten and the feeling of grief was weighing her down.

She had to say goodbye to him. She had to walk away. But where would she go? She was scared. What if she got lost?

The door to the bedroom opened, the light flicked on. George was in front, Liva directly behind him, and Sam was standing way back, his tired eyes moving slowly with George's movements.

"I can feel her presence in here," George said.

Gwen rolled her eyes and shook her head. That George was really one of the sharper tools.

"Be careful," Liva warned him, touching his shoulder. "This house is highly active. The paranormal energy is like nothing I have ever experienced before. It's through the roof."

"I know you're angry," George said. He held his hands out in front of him as if he was expecting to feel her spirit.

Gwen sat up. The indentation in the mattress made both George and Liva gasp and exchange looks of astonishment. When Gwen got up from the bed and went to stand right in front of George, he was staring straight through her, his nostrils were flaring and his brow was getting sweatier by the second.

"Sometimes, when someone dies as suddenly as you did, Gwen, they get angry, because they feel that their purpose in this world wasn't fulfilled. You feel like you have unfinished business and you are frustrated that there's nothing you can do about it. So you cling on to this world. You refuse to accept that you died."

Gwen started to phase out George. She didn't want to listen to his theories. She didn't want to be forced out of her home, out of Sam's life, by a couple of strangers. No, she'd leave all on her own because she chose to, because now was the time. Actually, it was long overdue. She'd leave for Sam's sake; he needed his peace of mind, time to heal and to move on.

Gwen left George with his ramblings and walked over to Sam. Her knees were trembling. "I am sorry that I hurt you," she whispered as she leaned into him and breathed in his scent for the last time.

Sam looked down as if he knew she was there. She felt like his eyes were gazing into her eyes. "Please, let me go," he whispered, his voice breaking.

Gwen nodded. Her chin wobbled. "I will love you forever. And I will see you in the next world over when you..." She swallowed and smiled, bittersweet. "I will see you. Period. Goodbye, Sam, for this time."

"Is it me or is the energy fading?" George said, frantically searching for a cold spot with his hands flailing up and down in front of him.

"No, it's not just you," Liva smiled. "She's ready to go."

~~###~~

Author bio

Danish independent author of (mainly) fantasy. Born in 1976. Mother of two, wife (of one), reader of many. Love coffee, scarves and sea views.

http://www.neelkay.wordpress.com

#  The Moon She Miss a Piece

## Copyright George Gould

Inspiration

A conversation with an old cowhand during my travels through the Brazilian backlands.

~~###~~

Doctor Spalding? He call me for work for him because I speak English good.

Oh, you think? Thank you, thank you, you very kind.

But you see, my friend, in this town, Nova Jerusalem, nobody more speak English. People is ignorant, like goats. You see goat? Give to him one book, what he do? He eats. Ha ha! But me, I like very much read: policials, romances, mysteriouses...

Where I learn? The doctor before, Dr Menezes, he help me. He have Speak English Today discs for the gramophone he borrow me. Everyday I listen and listen, and so I learn. Then he give me some few books: English and Americans. Oh, I do many works for him. I help everything to Dr Menezes, and I am do houseworks for him, similar English butler. Is profession of very honour in your country, no? Yes. And you see: even I have moustache!

Good, no? You like? What you say? Ha ha!

Then come Dr Spalding, and I go work for him as well, natural. For him I traduce everythings: Portuguese to English, English to Portuguese... Everythings. When? Near two years ago. Doctor Spalding he come to Brazil with his wife, Senhora Elizabeth. Ah, my friend, she is beautiful woman. With face like Greek's statue and good, good figure. A little thin for taste of Brazilian, maybe, but a good figure. But I say with respect! My mother (that Jesus bless her, a good mother, she died now) she says always for me: Florindo, my son, you be careful of beautiful womans, the devil he follow behind theirs dresses!

And is true, my friend. Severina, the fat cook, she know. Eh? She is witch. Is true! Her great grandmother is slave in cane plantation, bring of Africa strange witch knowledge, teached to hers daughter, and hers daughter to hers daughter... Black, like bean, my friend. I see one day Severina with scissors cut eyes of photograph about woman she hate because she say bad things of her, and woman get sick. Hers eyes get infection sickness — you know? Soon, how you say, _cega_ , yes, blind. Severina, I glad she my friend, eh? Ha ha!

Hm? Yes, yes. I remember. It was the day one-eye Joaquim's horse stayed sick — a sweet little horse, with the knees together so cannot run speedy, senhor, but what a nice temper — and we all are in Dona Aurora's house, in the back drinkings coffee with corn and breads that left from the breakfast of Senhor Costa and his good family, when the boy, Pedro-the-Hairpin (he so thin, the wind he blow him away when there is tempest), he come shouting like a crazy because a stranger is arrived with his woman to stay in big white house, the house belong to Dona Aurora's son who go to live in São Paulo city. So we run. In small town new peoples is big news. But Severina, when she hears of this she say something is wrong, people brings bad luck, because in that morning she break two plates, the chicken lay a dark egg, and in the night the moon had a ring around. But we go see anyway.

My good friend, Zé Doido, he come with me.

Doido? It mean crazy. Crazy, _lunatico_. Yes. Why? Because he really crazy. He go everywhere I go, he no can speak. Nothing, not one word, not one sound he make. They say he see God when he was baby and it steal away his voice. I say I think it must be when he see his mother. She the most ugliest woman I ever see, my friend, with face like horse and a moustache and big cross-eyes. Ugh. She crazy, too, just like him. Ha ha!

So, when we reach the house they already is there, a man with white suit of clothes and big black glasses and his beautiful tall woman, hair gold, looking the driver from car taking luggages, many, many luggages. Driver is speak and Dr Spalding is not understand.

'What?' he say, and scratch his head. He do not look happy.

Of course immediately I catch opportunity and offer my assistance professional. They happy someone speak English. Good! I taked all bags into house, then driver say price and Dr Spalding becomes very irritate, say he don't understand why driver is ask so much moneys, say it no price they is agreed, say driver is thief. I say no, no: please, I speak to driver, and I traduces another things so driver don't get angry and make him to give good discount and everything is OK.

Ah, senhor, a man have to use his heart in this world and not only head. No good get angry for littles things. But Dr Spalding he no patience with stupids people; he is very clever man, an intellectual man of big university, Oxford, and a man of many, many books, so he no understands little brain of common people like us, poor ignorants.

He is doctor, you know. I already say? Oh.

Well, the house very big and very dirty from so long nobody use, only bat and rat and sometimes drunk mens. But soon I make do everythings to order: Maria and Graça, the sisters of Manuel who is barber, I ask they come to clean. I watch and say: 'Here!' and 'Here!' and now 'Here! Clean more, you lazys girls!'

Zé Doido try to help too, but he only do big mess, you know, so I have to take him outside.

Then I begin to thinking. I no understand is why this so great doctor, a very wise and experience physician of England, come all way to Brazil, and not even to one of our big cities like Rio or São Paulo, but to little nothing nowhere place like this poor town, Nova Jerusalem. A mystery, my friend, you no think? And Dr Spalding he no like here, I am sure. One day in first week he arrive I hear him say: 'I am come to live in toilet of world,' and he look very, very sad.

He have big crystal eyes, Dr Spalding, blue like sky of midday, and they sees every little defect, every little mistake very big, like magnify glass or microscopio of scientist, so was very hard for him, I think, to live in place so poor, so bad smell, so full with wrong and misery, and mosquito, and fly, and hot, hot sun...

But Mrs Spalding, she like here, I think. I never hear her say one complain about. Ah, my friend, what woman! She artist, do you understand, make drawings and paintings, so why she sensitive and see beauty even in ugly thing. Yes, this I think, and she so kind, too: I see her cry for little bird one day that have a wing broke. And it was no her bird, my friend, but bird in street outside, ugly and small, from old tree. Yes.

Now I tell you secret, my friend, but to you only, I no want peoples think I am like Dona Rosa and the old womens with snakes eyes and thorn tongues who sit by window all day and spy the neighbours then gossips, gossips, gossips — no. I say only because if you want understand what happen, it is, in mine opinion, one key, you know, so important, because it very hard understand why people does what they does, human beens, why behave like this not that, and sometime only little thing, tiny, tiny, bring together with other little thing, can to make picture for see more clear one situation. Is like puzzle, no? Or like when one detective, the great Sherlocky Holmes, pick up miniscule evidences, look one here, look one there, and bring together, and, _bam_ , he see whole picture, and catch murder, ha ha!

I discover this secret not fast, my friend, not in once, but slowly, day by day, working at house. Yes, I tell you now. It is: Mrs Spalding she love hers husband, but she no _love_ him. You understand? She love, but she no _love_. She good wife, kind woman, sentimental, but in spite of she so white and hers skin it so cool, she very _hot_ inside.

How I know? I _know_ , senhor! I knows womens! I have my first woman when I twelve. English, Brazilian, Japaneses, they all same, we all have built same way; inside God makes everything same, no difference.

So, I say, Mrs Spalding she have passion, she like volcano, but where she explode? Nowheres. Her hot all boiling inside, lava and, how you call, magmas, bubble alone, concealed, you see only on cheek sometimes, pink, and in eyes, always in eyes, like fire in night.

But Dr Spalding, he no a hot man. No, no. He hot only in head, in complainings, in preoccupations, little things. And one more thing I discover, my friend: Dr Spalding he have a worm eating the brain.

Yes. No, no, not real worm. Ha ha!

I mean he worry so much, he irritate all time, with little things, unimportant; he angry. I know something wrong, eh? First, I think he only angry because he here in toilet of world like he say. But is not that. Then I think it is problem with beautiful wife. But is not that neither.

Then one day after I go home I remember I forget to lock back door of kitchen and I go back. My mother (that good God have her) always say I have feets like of cat, because I walk behind her and she no listen and have frightened. So I come in kitchen, nobody hears and I go to close door but stop when I hears: boo-boo-boo, like this. What is? It is someone cry, I thinks. Why this, I ask to myself? And I go to discover.

I look in living room. What I see? I see Dr Spalding, sit on floor, with the head on wife's beautiful legs, and he cry, cry, his back so much tremble. I very surprise. This cold man, this fish man, this English doctor so serious, crying like one little girl. And I see Mrs Spalding she look down at husband's head and she console, very soft. 'There, there, my darling...' like this. And he look up and he say something, senhor — I not repeat it here — and then I knows: Dr Spalding he fell guilty, my friend, he fell very, very guilty...

It was day very important for us, 2 June 1970. How I remember: the first game of Brazil in World Cup of Mexico. Jalisco Stadium, Guadalajara. I very excite, like everybody else — everybody except young Vidal, the son of old Biu who own one little grocery store in corner of street by public baths (it is where I buy cigarettes).

He very modern, the son, big hair, colours shirts, listening musics of Beatles and Rollings Stones, and he say it is too stupid to supporting Brazil football. He say supporting Brazil is supporting dictatorship, President Medici (I can say now, senhor, Medici he look like Satan in photographs, very scare) and if Brazil win, dictatorship win, and people forget importants things: forget politic, forget oppression, forget friends have disappear, forget police do tortures; they not see real problems and only have eyes glue to television like hypnotised, to shout like fool when Brazil make goal, aaah, like this. Ha ha!

He crazy to say this in those time, it is very dangerous thing to speak bad things of government, even here in little Nova Jerusalem, and if someone had tell the _delegado_ , the sheriff, Beto Gonçalo, the boy he have big problem, big, big problem.

Me? I think two points: he has reason, yes, many bad things happen here in Brazil, but dictatorship is no so bad for me in my particular, you understand. I see nothing; I speak nothing. And anyway, I am not understand politics. I am only little man, senhor. Stupid, stupid. Also it is so nice to see Brazil win, you know? It is not possible for a Brazilian to see this game and not to shout. Children shouts, womans shouts. Only dead mens not shouts. Ha ha!

Hm? The first game of Brazil were against the Czechoslovakia. Yes, I ask Dr Spalding please I may go home early to see this play? But he very irritate when I ask this. He look at me with crystal blue eyes like cat look rat.

'Football?' he say. ' _Football_? You wish to not work for see _football_?'

I say no but please yes and I am very so sorry please and more please.

And he say, 'Of course not!'

But Mrs Spalding she talk to him after and say me to go, it is OK, I work more two hours next day. Ah, my friend, what lovely woman. And, ah, so beautiful.

Brazil win. Of course, ha ha!

Eh? Four to one.

Every body is very happy. With exception of young Vidal. I see him after I go out of bar; everybody watch in bar because few peoples has television and nobody colour one. Very quiet he go out; he annoyed with stupidity of common people who no understands political things. I feel much sorry for him, poor boy.

And two day after, Vidal, he disappear. I remember: it is day Brazil play against England, senhor.

Eh? We win one to zero. I am so sorry.

Where Vidal go? Nobody know. Big mysterious. His father, almost he go mad with preoccupation. He cry, he look for, he shout son's name in street in middle of night. But nothing, my friend. Then, boy's father, he begin thinks is the _delegado_ has done this, has killed Vidal and thrown away body where no one can find ever more. That is sheriff I say before, senhor, Beto Gonçalo, one evil man of who the name I don't like even to speak, it bring so bad luck — true. When he younger he take his own sister with force, make her to go in bed with him, many times, so this poor girl, she kill herself in river after. He cursed, Severina say. But he policeman, and in dictatorship policeman no can be punish. Vidal, he maybe is right, no?

We wait, we wait. Next week (the same day Brazil beated Uruguay three to one) we discover: the sheriff he no has killed Vidal. Vidal he has run away to join guerrillas. Can you to believe? We learn this because there arrive in town a big captain of the army with many soldiers, very serious, with guns and guns. They asking many questions to everybody, much suspicious. They are hunt for the guerrillas. They say revolution people have camp in the hills for training _guerrilheiros_ with bad communists from Cuba. We all very fear, senhor. I no want to be in war like Vietnam.

In house of Dr Spalding all is silence. But one day I hears behind door Senhora Elizabeth exchange hard, hard words with her husband. What this is? I think. I go to door. And then I hear: they is talking about the captain and his soldiers. She say they must do something for help; he say it is not theirs business.

There is noise. I go. I hear no more.

And then come big final. Brazil team go to Mexico City to play Italy. It was a great day, everyone go crazy: Brazil make one, two, three, four goals! Italy make only one goal, little one. Everyone so happy, there is firework, there is singing in street, party and dances.

Only, old Biu, he cannot to feel joy, he cannot to forget his son, Vidal. And all this time the captain's soldiers they go up to hills, hunting dangerous rebels in the _mata_ , that is bush, and in town we hear sometimes, very far, _pop! pop!_ Not firework now: gun's fire. Every day a few soldiers comes back, early in morning always, and sometimes one he is hurt, shooted by bullets of the communists, with much blood. And who must treat them? Of course, it is Dr Spalding, great English physician.

Mrs Spalding she help, too, even though she don't like soldiers, she so kind woman. One soldier — he still a boy — he almost die because he shooted in neck. It is horrible, senhor. But Dr Spalding, he save him.

Like this even, senhor, when they alone in house, I note husband and wife they no happy together. Not fight, you understand, but silence, big silence always, and cold, cold, like midnight air in hills. Brrr!

In morning I wake up sudden. There is shout, then one more; much noise in street. What it is? I run to go look. It is soldiers, senhor, they come to the town _praça_ , the little square with the fountain that is heart of Nova Jerusalem, and they bring with them the _revolucionários_ , the guerrilla soldiers they have capture in the night. There is maybe twenty or thirty, their uniforms torn and dirty, their communist beards hard with mud and blood, their wounds full of dust and flies. The soldiers have chained them in one long line, and is pushing them with rifles and kicking and shouting. The _delegado_ is there, and he too kick them, and spitted on theirs faces. Then I see old Biu and I remember: where is Vidal? He is here?

I look, one by one I look, but Vidal is not one of these men. Thanks God, I think first, but soon I say: no, if he no here he dead, maybe, God have pity.

Old Biu, he is so nervous, but he no can say nothing. The captain he is looking at the people of ours town, with eyes go from one side to anothers, very burning, and he shout to us, 'If I finds any one of you is help these miserable sons of bitch, you go be arrest in prison together with them! You understand?'

Oh, God. It is terrible thing to happen here in such quiet little town. But, like my mother — Jesus bless her, a wise woman — like my mother used to said when she was still live, senhor, the moon, she is very beautiful, but you know she miss a piece. Like we, my friend, we too miss a piece — nothing in this world perfect, no? Perfect only God in heavens. Yes.

And so prisoners go, big army truck takes them away to prison in city. Who will ever see them more? Nobody, I think. Vidal had talked many times of scientific police method of torture, how they know not leave mark on prisoner, use electrical shockings — on genitals, he say, and ears — and holding head under water, and most terrible of all, the _pau de arara_ , a thing which hold prisoner upside down hanging from ceiling, and then policials beat the feet with sticks, beat and beat...

But captain, he not go. He stay, because he say many rebel is still hide in bush, hurted, hungry, and they will come for food, and water, and if anyone give help to them... He look us with his black burning eyes, and smash army stick on wall, hard: bang!

For one day, two days, nothing happen. Everyone very feared. I work in Dr Spalding house, fix pipe, fix electrical things, and make the garden.

It is on day number three, senhor, that arise the danger.

Is late, near dark, I am at back of house to put poison for rats on wall. Suddenly, I hear: a noise moving in trees. I stay alert. What is? Big rat? Big lizard? But I very surprise when this creature he say my name, very soft, how you say, whisper: _Florindo!_

I near faint, ah my Jesus.

Why? I think is ghost, senhor.

And when I see who is, I still think maybe is ghost, because Vidal, he so thin, with big eyes like glass, and everything dirty and rip, like the dead body that has come out of the tomb in cemetery. A horror thing.

Then I see he no ghost, but I still very fear, because I remember what say captain with burning eyes. But, senhor, this Vidal, son of poor old Biu; what I can do? I bring him water, and give a little food. Then I see: blood, too much blood. He shot in stomach. Oh my God, I think, what I do? Help me, Jesus!

I go panic. I go in house, soft, soft, like cat, and in office of Dr Spalding — he upstairs, thanks God — and to find medicines, bandages. But what I know? Stupid, ignorant. And then more panic: Mrs Elizabeth she has come inside office and she see me take things from cabinet. What I do?

She look, and no say nothing. Like nightmare, my friend, I see everythings: she will find out I help Vidal, Dr Spalding will bring the captain, soldiers will hit me, then truck will take me to prison in city for torture.

'Please, Mrs Elizabeth,' I say, near cry with fear, 'I hurt...'

She look for hurt and see quickly this is a big lie.

She ask, 'Why you steal from us, Florindo? If you want one thing you only must to ask and we give it you.'

I burn with shame, senhor. I am honest man. So I tell to her truth. Because I think: she good woman, kind woman, she cannot let a man to die.

She say to me to take her see Vidal, and brings with hers medicines.

We find Vidal behind wall, and he is dead. Then I see no, he sleeping. Mrs Elizabeth she tell me to carry Vidal to house. I have much fear, but I do what she tell.

And then, senhor, horror! Mrs Elizabeth, she call to her husband, Dr Spalding. Ah, this no good, I think, this become very bad for me.

Dr Spalding see Vidal lie on patient bed and he go white — more white even than he is already by nature, my friend, white like bone in hot sun.

'Get out,' he say to me. And I get out.

But outside I wait. What will to happen? I very scared Dr Spalding will say to soldiers all is my fault, to save his beautiful wife.

What I hear, senhor? Mrs Elizabeth, she is shout; first time I hear her angry like this. And Dr Spalding, too, he shout, but there is mixtured in his anger much fear, like animal in pain. Have you heard cow with broken leg? No? Well, is like that, more or less. Angry, and feared.

And then I hear Mrs Elizabeth speak her husband's secret.

'I come here to this country because of your mistake, Robert. There is no excuse for what you have do. By rights, you should have go to prison. You know that as well as I. That poor young woman, she had her whole life ahead of hers. But she is died because of you. I could have leave you then; I could have stayed behind in England. I had every right. If you had go on drinking I would have. But I felt sorry for you. After all, I am yours wife. But now you have this chance to redeem yourself. You have the choice now. If this boy die, I promise to you, Robert: I never want see you again. Ever.'

So. It is a little more clear now, this sadness of Dr Spalding, no? But what he will do? Tell to soldiers? Help Vidal? What you think, senhor?

Me? I go. I run. First to home, then I think: Florindo, you must to tell old Biu. He must to know. So I go, senhor. I tell Biu, and he run to Dr Spalding's house. I not go. I go at my home and put everything important in the old travel case belonged my father, and take moneys from tin in roof to pay for bus, and wait for morning. And all time I shake shake for fear, and pray to Mary and Jesus and many Saints.

But the captain, he not come, the soldiers not come, the devil _delegado_ not come.

What I do now? I take bus? This must seem very suspicious to all. It is bad idea. I go to the house of Dr Spalding? It is very danger, too, I think. So I wait.

Nothing happen until afternoon. Then there is knock on my door, and I almost die. But is only old Biu.

Vidal, he is dead.

Dr Spalding not helped him? I ask.

No. Only Mrs Elizabeth.

Well, senhor, some men strong, some men not strong. It is nature. But it is luck, man who receives second chance, no? And it is fool who make same mistake two times.

Old Biu bury his son, but is secret place. Only I see. And I no tell.

Dr Spalding? He stay alone, one year, a little more.

Then he die. He is buried in the old cemetery.

It is a very hot place, with many flies.

Nothing is perfect, senhor.

~~###~~

Author bio

I read English at Bristol and Cambridge, and have since graduation worked both in the UK and abroad as a freelance writer and translator. Apart from writing, I also run a boutique book design studio, Hot Mug Design. My first novel, Mondo Kane, will be out later this summer.

# The Name of the Dog

## Copyright K.A. Krisko

The Ford pickup growled as it downshifted. Raye Kellin took her foot off the gas, flicked off the siren, and snatched the radio mike from its clip on the dashboard.

"Control, sam-three-zero-zero, on Dutch Mountain."

"Go ahead, sam-three-zero-zero."

Raye leaned forward and squinted out the windshield, one hand on the wheel. "Control, I'm at mile marker twenty-one, and I don't see a motor vehicle accident."

"The reporting party wasn't sure how far up they are. Twenty-one miles was a guess."

"You still got him on the line?"

"Sorry, no. I lost his signal and he didn't call back."

"Well, I'll keep going for a while," Raye said doubtfully. "I'll let you know when I find something."

She slipped the radio mike back into the clip, but didn't bother to re-activate the siren. She was sick of hearing it after twenty-one miles. Twenty-one slow miles, up the rising, winding mountain road through Bureau of Land Management property, populated only by mule deer and cows. Any other time, she'd be enjoying the view: the huge, striated hump of Dutch Mountain to the west with the radio repeater towers bristling from the top, the stark, red-rock canyons to the east and north, slipping in and out of sight through the scattered groves of pinyon pines and junipers. But now her mind was on the motorcycle accident that was supposedly waiting up ahead, with an unconscious victim and a busload of Japanese tourists sidelined by the collision.

She pulled into an overlook on the east side of the road. The little parking area sat up on a bluff and offered a view north along the ridge-top. As she pulled around in a semi-circle, she saw it: the bus, in the narrowest part of the road, where the two lanes zig-zagged between guardrails, a steep drop on either side.

Raye accelerated out of the turn and back down the overlook road. She blew the stop-sign at the intersection, but she had her lights on, and there was no one else on the road anyway. It was late in the season, the kids were back in school, the regular tourist season over, only a few retirees and foreign visitors left driving the scenic route. Her adrenalin began to pump as she prepared for what lay ahead.

She pulled over as far as she could towards the guard rail in the lane opposite the bus, surveying the scene as she parked. Full-sized tour bus with an obvious dent in the front left side. Motorcycle with a sidecar hung up on the guard rail. Man lying still on the ground, with another man bent over him, hands on knees, squinting up at her. He didn't look Japanese, but the faces staring out the bus windows did.

"Control sam-three-zero-zero, I'm on scene. We're twenty-six miles up. I'll get you a condition in a minute, but the victim's not moving. The bus is blocking one lane. What can you send me?"

"Nearest unit is still about forty miles away from your location. I can dispatch an ambulance from Crowley."

"Put a helicopter on stand-by. It'll take the ambulance too long to get here. This guy's already been down for a while. We can land it up the road a ways if I can get some of these folks to help me out."

Raye jumped out, jerked open the back door of the pickup, and grabbed her jump-kit and oxygen bag. She walked quickly over to the victim and took a first look. Not much blood; probably mostly internal trauma.

The man bending over the guy on the ground followed her with his eyes. "You a cop?"

Raye nodded curtly. "I'm also an Emergency Medical Technician. We do it all out here in the sticks. Did you call this in?"

"Yeah, I'm the bus driver," the guy said.

"What's your name?"

"Raul Salcedo. The guy was way over the line. I didn't have any room to move over. He hit me, I didn't hit him."

"We'll talk about it later," Raye said. She dropped her gear near the victim's head and knelt down next to him. "Do any of those folks on the bus speak English?"

Raul grinned. "Not really. They brought their own tour guide. I just drive the bus."

Raye pulled a pair of gloves out of her jump kit and unzipped the oxygen bag. She attached a tube to the cylinder's regulator and the opposite end to a mask, cranked it open, and fitted the mask over the victim's face. Then she began a quick overall exam.

"Was he wearing a helmet when this happened?"

Raul shook his head. "Nope."

"Probable head injury, possible neck and back, given the mechanism," Raye muttered. "Raul, I'm gonna need you to kneel down here and stabilize his head for me, okay? And don't let go, no matter what. That's your job from here on out."

She grabbed the microphone of the radio she wore on her belt from its clip on her shoulder epaulet. "Control, sam-three-zero-zero, I've got a Hispanic male, I'm guessing late thirties, unconscious, breathing, possible head, neck, back injuries, broken left leg above the knee. Mechanism of injury was a motorcycle collision with a bus, not wearing a helmet. Requesting that you get the helicopter in the air. Stand by for GPS coordinates."

Raye looked around uncertainly. "Uh... do you know how to use a handheld GPS?"

"No, sorry. I can't do it anyway. You told me not to move."

"Right. Don't move." Raye got to her feet and headed for her truck. The GPS unit was lying in the front passenger seat. She grabbed it and headed back to the victim, glancing up the road as another vehicle pulled to a stop behind the bus. A blond woman and man got out. Good; she could use some more help, and the bunch of non-English-speaking tourists staring out the bus windows were obviously not going to do her any good.

She dropped back to one knee beside the victim and keyed the power switch on the GPS. She leaned it up against her oxygen bag to acquire satellites and pulled a pair of shears from her jump kit.

The blond woman from the car walked up beside her. "Is okay?"

Raye glanced up. German, most likely, she thought. But many Germans spoke English very well. "You speak English?"

"No, no!" the woman spread her hands. "Not so good, yes?"

"All right." Raye sighed. "Can you... direct traffic? Stop cars? You understand?"

The lady looked at her blankly. Suddenly Raul spoke up, rattling off a stream of what sounded to Raye like German.

"I told her to make sure no other cars run into us." He shrugged as the woman trotted away. "My grandmother was German. I remember a little bit of it, not too much."

"Raul Salcedo. German, huh?" Raye slid the shears under the victim's shirt and slit it up the middle, exposing his chest. She saw two things right away: a dark red mark across his ribs on one side, and across his upper chest a series of tattoos, including one spelling 'MS 13'.

"Wow, gang tats, huh?" Raul said. "Prison ink, maybe. You know what it means?"

Raye nodded. "'MS 13' stands for Mara Salvatrucha. It's a Latino gang with a bad reputation." She glanced over at the wrecked motorcycle and sidecar, wondering what she'd find when she had the chance to search it later. "Never mind that for now. "

She picked up the GPS unit and flicked through a few screens until she got the one she wanted. Then she grabbed her radio mike again. "Control, sam-three-zero-zero, stand by for lat and long."

"Go ahead," the dispatcher replied. "I'll relay. Chopper's in the air; are you going to be able to go direct with them from the scene?"

"Maybe," Raye said. "You sure there's no one closer? BLM ranger? Anybody? I can't treat this guy and land a helicopter at the same time."

"Sorry, I'll keep trying to contact someone, but no luck so far."

Raye pulled out her blood-pressure cuff and stethoscope. She needed to get at least one set of vitals, but she wasn't sure how she was going to do that and help the helicopter land. Some of the air ambulance pilots would land without someone directing them from the ground, but a lot wouldn't, and they would want at least an estimate of wind-speed and direction.

She looked up as the German lady came trotting back. Another car had arrived, blocked in behind the bus and unable to pass because of her gear in the roadway. A tall, athletic-looking man was unfolding himself from the rather small car.

The lady began talking rapidly to Raul, who squinted at her from his position on the ground. "This guy that just showed up is Polish, I think. She says he doesn't speak English very well, but it's okay, she speaks a little Polish and he speaks a little German."

Raye sighed. "Okay, well..." She paused as the lady began again.

Raul looked at her. "She says he's a member of some Mountain Rescue Team in Poland."

"Ask her to ask him if he knows how to land a helicopter."

She managed to grab a blood pressure and record vitals before the woman returned.

"Yep, he knows how to do that," Raul confirmed.

"Great! Um, tell her to tell him there's a helicopter landing kit in the toolbox in my truck bed. It's a yellow box with a helicopter sticker on it. There are smoke flares and safety equipment."

Raul rattled off the instructions to the German lady. Raye was gratified to see the woman clamber into her truck bed, pop the toolbox, and head off towards the new Polish rescue-team member with the correct yellow box. She took the time to cut the victim's pants off up to the crotch to see the broken leg and started working on a splint. When she looked up again, the Polish man had cordoned off an area that looked the correct size, about a hundred by a hundred feet, up past the guardrails where the ridge spread out, using his car on one end and the Germans' car on the other. He was busily deploying purple smoke-bombs to indicate the wind direction, wearing the neon-yellow vest, goggles, and hard-hat from the kit. The two Germans were securing loose items in their car.

The man stirred on the ground. His eyes remained closed but he muttered a word.

"Pendejo."

"Wait, what?" Raye frowned.

"Pendejo!" the man said louder. He thrashed about a bit, as though trying to get up.

"Well, I know what that means!" Raye said, pressing him back to the ground.

Raul gripped the man's head harder and grinned up at her. "Do you?"

"Yeah, I've heard it translated as 'stupid idiot'," Raye said.

"That's close enough," Raul chuckled. "There's another translation. Nice guy, eh?"

The man opened his eyes a slit and spit out a string of words in Spanish. Raye grimaced. "You don't know any Spanish, do you?"

"Hey, just because my name's Hispanic doesn't mean I speak Spanish!" Raul growled. "My family's been in this country for three generations!"

"Sorry. I didn't mean anything. I was just asking."

The victim repeated the sentence. Raul frowned. "Well, the truth is, my other grandparents spoke Spanish. I know a little."

"Pendejo!" the man on the ground cried.

"Well, I guess I don't need a translator anyway," Raye said. "He's just calling us names."

"Um, actually, I think Pendejo is his dog," Raul said cautiously. "He said something about his dog riding with him. He wants his dog."

"His dog's named Pendejo? That's nice," Raye snorted. The man seemed to have subsided back into unconsciousness. Fine with her; she didn't want to engage in a discussion with a gang member who named his dog 'stupid'. Or something worse.

Anything more he might have said was drowned out by the noise of the helicopter as it buzzed them, selected a landing direction, and settled on the road. The paramedics arrived and for the next few minutes they were engaged in getting the victim onto a backboard. Finally the entire group, including the two paramedics, Raul, Raye, the German woman and her husband, and the Polish search-and-rescue team member, lifted the backboard and carefully moved the victim past the bus and into the body of the air ambulance.

After the helicopter lifted off, Raye made the rounds of her helpers, getting names and addresses on a notepad and thanking them as best she could. The two Germans and the Polish man took off shortly afterwards. Raul and his group of Japanese tourists stuck around a little longer while Raul examined the damage to the bus to make sure he thought it was safely drivable.

With the helicopter gone and the tow truck not there yet, Raye took the opportunity to examine the motorcycle more closely. It was draped over the guardrail, the side-car nearly detached. Sure enough, in amongst the wreckage she found doggie biscuits and other pet items. She didn't hold out much hope for the survival of the dog, which must have been ejected as the motorcycle came to an abrupt stop. But at least there was no doggie body crushed under the sidecar or under the bus when she checked. And there was no trail of blood leading away from the wreck, either.

Raye took a deep breath. There was nothing for it.

"Pendejo!" she yelled at the top of her voice. She glanced sideways as the Japanese tourists gaped out their windows at her. "Pendejo!" she tried again. She began walking along the side of the road below the guardrail, sliding on the steep slope.

A minute later she was startled by another voice. She looked up to see one of the tourists from the bus motioning to her. She guessed it must be the tour guide; he was wearing a vest with a nametag over a dress shirt and tie.

She clambered back up the slope towards the man. As she reached him, he gestured to his eyes and to the motorcycle several times, back and forth. Then he made a crawling gesture with his fingers and moved his hand. Finally he pointed to the other side of the road.

"You were watching the motorcycle and saw the dog run away?" Raye guessed. She spread her hands. "Where?"

The man pointed again to the opposite side of the road. Raye nodded and crossed to the other shoulder. The tour guide turned back to the bus. A minute later, Raye saw the entire group from the bus, about twenty people, disembarking. They trooped along the shoulders of the road, occasionally yelling, "Pendejo!" with Japanese accents.

A half-hour later she was about to quit, when she heard shouting. She hurried over to where several people were pointing and gesturing. There was a tentative whine coming from a pile of rocks several hundred yards from the crash scene.

She approached carefully. "Pendejo!" she called in a high voice. "Here, girl, or boy, or whatever."

There was a little scuffling and a large pitbull appeared from the rock pile. Raye stopped. The pitbull cowered ingratiatingly, grinning and wagging its rat-tail. It was golden-brown and, Raye noted, fairly overweight. She reminded herself that pitbulls were generally bred to accept human handling, and it was only other dogs that incited their aggression.

She edged a little closer, walking sideways instead of straight on, holding a hand out near her knee. As she got closer she noted the scarred-up face and ratty ears: a fighting dog. This fighting dog, however, was incongruously wearing a rainbow-print collar with colorful tags hanging from it.

The dog wagged its way over to her. She was relieved to see that it wasn't limping or bloody; an injured animal would be much harder to deal with. She turned and walked towards her truck, urging the dog to come. It followed willingly, still grinning, exhibiting its huge carnassial teeth and battered canines.

At the truck she opened the back door, but realized quickly that it was too full to squeeze the dog in there along with all her gear. It would have to ride in the front passenger seat.

The dog climbed in willingly, heaving its corpulent body up. It flopped panting on its side, hanging partway off the seat, revealing an almost hairless belly. Raye felt a stab of anger as she noticed the tattoo on the inside of the dog's thigh: 'Pendejo'. It wasn't fair to do that to a dog, she thought, to fight them to the death and cause them pain and injury.

She turned on the ignition to keep the truck cool inside and gathered her gear and trash from the scene. She shook hands with Raul and waved to the tourists who were climbing back aboard the bus.

"I'd like to know what happens to the guy," Raul said. "I mean, I guess our insurance company will find out, but I'd like to know on a more personal basis."

"I'll tell you what I can," Raye said. "There are some privacy issues. I've got your info and I'll pass it on to this guy and his family if you want, and tell them what you did for him."

"Um, I'd rather not give them my address, if you know what I mean. I don't need this guy's family knowing where I am, in case they blame me for the crash."

"Understood," Raye said. "Thanks for all your help."

To be on the safe side, she took the dog to her own vet after clearing the scene. The vet couldn't find anything wrong with him except that he was significantly overweight. He had definitely been a fighting dog, but none of the scars were recent. Raye bought a sample-sized bag of dog food and took Pendejo home for the night.

She had no idea what she was going to do with the dog during the day. She had a fenced-in yard, but no real shelter out there, and she didn't want to risk him getting loose. She let the hospital know she had the dog and asked them to call her if the victim regained consciousness and had instructions.

The next morning she received a call from dispatch.

"I've got a call from someone regarding that crash yesterday," the dispatcher said. "He's coming to pick up the dog. Can I put him through?"

"Sure," Raye said. She waited until she heard the connection.

"I understand you've got one of Michael's dogs," the voice said.

"I do." Raye spoke to the man for a few minutes and they agreed to meet in mid-morning to hand the dog over. Raye loaded Pendejo into her truck. The dog was actually kind of fun. She was conflicted about handing him over to somebody who might be associated with dog-fighting. She'd have to see what he seemed like, and then she'd find an excuse not to give the dog back if she didn't like him.

Exactly at ten o'clock, a dark blue Suburban pulled into the parking lot in front of Headquarters. Raye was waiting by her truck. A Hispanic-appearing guy stepped out. He looked fairly clean-cut, but the long sleeves of his T-shirt made Raye wonder if he was hiding gang tats.

"Hi, I'm Louis," he smiled as he stuck out his hand. "I really appreciate you taking care of Pendejo, and so does Michael. He's pretty attached to that dog. He was one of his first, you know?"

"First what? Fighting dogs?" Raye asked skeptically.

"First rescue," Louis said. "You don't know about Michael?"

"I guess not," Raye said. "He wasn't very talkative yesterday."

Louis nodded. "Well, look him up some time. He's an ex-gang-member who's dedicated his life to rescuing fighting pitbulls. Many of them can't be rehomed, so he's got a facility and a bunch of dedicated people who'll care for them for the rest of their lives. He's pretty well-known in the rescue world. Pendejo's a poster-child. He was found in a fighting facility with that tattoo on his thigh. Thousands of people would be mourning him if he was lost or injured. Nearly as many as would be mourning Michael," he laughed.

Raye nodded. She thought about the bus driver with a Hispanic name who spoke German, the Japanese tourists who searched for a dog named Pendejo, and the other people who had worked together to save an ex-gang-member.

"I'd like to keep track of Pendejo," Raye told Louis as he loaded the dog into a carrier in the Suburban. "I hope Michael will be all right."

"Sounds like he will be, but his motorcycle's toast," Louis said. "I'll keep in touch."

Two months later, Raye found a large envelope in her mailbox. When she opened it, she discovered several full-size pictures of Pendejo, information about the facility, and a personal note from Michael thanking her for helping him and rescuing his dog. After a few minutes, she tore off the 'sponsorship' coupon from the facility's flier and filled it out. She mailed the coupon and a check back with a note specifying that the money could be used wherever it was most needed at the facility. She pinned one of the pictures of Pendejo up over her desk, one in which the battered dog was grinning crazily at the camera.

~~###~~

# Damn Rubber Balls

## Copyright Annie Harmon

Inspiration

This story hit a little close to home. Our son was never in danger, but I used him and our moving experience as reference for this story. My husband read it and didn't speak to me for a few days; he was certain I was passive-aggressively telling him he was a bad father. Silly man – he's a WONDERFUL father who would never take his eyes off our son while swimming. But what kind of story would THAT make?

~~###~~

Geoff sat on the floor with a seven foot beam of blue light rising up from the floor to the ceiling. A pile of small red balls sat beside him and he rolled them through the light, one by one.

One by one, just the way they arrived. For the past several months Geoff would walk into the kitchen and there would be another ball. They would just be sitting there, as if they had been there all along. Only they hadn't. Someone was coming into his house and putting them there, as a message, although what the message could be wasn't clear.

Geoff pushed another ball through. This one he rolled slowly; it almost stopped before crossing the blue threshold. It gradually rolled that last inch, and as the blue light coated its rubber skin it fried the layers of the ball, a stinking mass of rubber came out the other end. That was what he was going for.

Of all his unsold inventions, it was his new insight to home security that had him feeling hopeful. Since the red balls began to appear, Geoff had created this new invention. He would set this up across the door frame and anyone crossing over would be zapped. Or...

He tossed another ball through the beam, this time faster, and as it flew through the beam it disappeared. Which was always the other possibility. Anyone crossing would either get zapped, or just disappear.

Geoff uncrossed his legs and stood up. His faithful Doberman stayed at his heel and Geoff patted the dog's head. "Luthor, I'm not sure if I should be asking where the balls came from... or is the real question where are they going?"

Luthor didn't have any suggestions to contribute; he only widened his brown eyes a little more and cocked his left brow. Then his head turned back to the beam of light waiting for the next Zzit of a ball before it caught fire.

"It is possible that the faster I toss them in, the faster they fry, and that is why the fast ones always disappear?" Geoff leaned in towards the beam cautiously.

Luthor's head snapped up. He turned toward the sliding glass doors of the dining room, his whole body tensed, and then let out a long whimper. Someone was outside.

Geoff turned his head toward the sliding glass doors as well. His hand absently stroked the dog's head. "Do you think...?" He left the question hanging. Of course Luthor already knew who it was, and of course it was the crazy turtle lady. When she had given up asking permission into his yard she began looking for her own ways in. Luthor stopped her every time. Luthor was his first step into home security.

"Feel like doing your job, Luthor?" Geoff walked over to the side door. "Come on, boy, out this way. No need for her to see you coming." He grinned, giving the large black dog a gentle push out the door. "I'll be watching too." But soon he was mesmerized by the blue light again.

~~~

Tamera stood on tiptoe and lifted her chin over the cinderblock fence to the back yard. The grass she stared at was very different from when she once lived here. She and her husband had worked hard raking up the gravel that the builders had laid down. Then they had seeded a large kidney-shaped area where a boy could run and fall and get back up again without scraping his knees. Now that same grass was yellow and littered with dog feces. Her eyes assessed the deck they built. The steps leading from the grass were still there, ending on a wooden platform where a tricycle could drive in endless circles, but the wood was weathered and no longer a safe place to play. Branching out from either side of the deck were the raised gardens, where weeds now smothered all their careful planting.

It broke her heart to see their hard work erased through neglect. It broke her heart enough to wonder why they had ever left it all behind.

She looked past the overgrown gardens and the dead grass, past the cement patio that butted up to the house, searching through the sliding glass doors that opened up into what was once her dining room. The new owner of the house was inside, the man who refused to let her find her missing turtle.

The house was in shadow, but she could just make out the homeowner sitting on the floor, his silhouette lit up by a light contraption that seemed to have his full attention. If he stayed distracted...

From the other side of the house came the ferocious sound of barking and the rattling of a choker collar. Tamera kept her cool. Dogs reacted to fear. "Hey there, Sweetie," she cooed. "Did you miss me?"

The dog's fur stood up like sharpened spikes along his shoulders. His teeth gleamed with saliva. A growl rumbled, long and steady like a lawn mower on a full tank.

Tamera rested the left side of her head on the cinderblock, looking at the dog out of the corner of her eye. She kept her voice soft. "Maybe this time I'll tell you more about David," She hesitated, not sure she could tell this beast what she needed to tell someone. The Doberman's ears stood up a little straighter as if he were finally listening and Tamera breathed a sigh of relief. "David loved dogs." She lifted her chin and smiled at the Doberman standing sentinel on the other side of the wall. "We always told him he could have one when he was a little older."

The Doberman stepped back and barked in sharp reply. Tamera wasn't sure if it was the eye contact or the empty promise of a dog that provoked the response. She laid her cheek back onto the cinder and tried to start over.

"So my son wanted a dog, and I wanted a pool. I imagined David being the popular kid with lots of friends coming over to swim. That was my criterion when we were looking for a new home; a pool."

Tamera hated that pool now. It was drained of water and filled with leaves. The laughter she had hoped to hear had died with her son. She spent every day wanting to hit the world; she wanted to slam her fist into the cinder wall right now. Instead she swallowed hard and slowed her mind. After a moment of silence she lifted her head and switched sides. As she did, she glanced at the dog, still standing at attention, waiting out her soliloquy. "I don't really have to finish telling you about David, do I? Everyone else saw it coming, everyone said, 'you better put a gate around it.' But a gate wouldn't have changed the story."

Tamera's voice was barely above a whisper now. She was soothing the dog, and soothing her heart. "I taught him to swim. We practiced swimming to the edge if he fell in. He never fell in."

She didn't say anything for a while, then she tried again. "You know turtles can swim?" she raised her head again, this time leaving her chin to rest on the cold block. Because it didn't feel like she was saying it unless she could look at the one she was saying it to. "But they can't get out of a pool. The ledge is too high for them to reach. So they have to swim around the edge until they can't swim anymore." The words slipped out of her mouth with an insidious feel. Like seaweed creeping around your calves, meaningless yet terrifying.

She swallowed down the despair and trawled for a new path. She settled on the decayed vegetables in the middle of the yard. "There. Behind you. That's where the turtles spent their winters. They hibernate, then, in the spring, they dig their way out, one by one. They hadn't all gone into hibernation yet, when we found our new home. Cyrano and Flea — they were me and my husband's turtles — they were still wandering up to the porch each morning for their bowl of fruit. But Speedy, David's turtle, we hadn't been seen him for days. I figured he went underground early."

Tamera hadn't heard a peep from the large dog guarding the yard. She broke contact from the garden and gazed down. The Doberman's fur had smoothed down, and although he still stood firm, his legs seemed less rigid. What almost made her hopeful though was the look in his eyes. One brow cocked higher than the other as if she had been sharing something worthy of his interest. Worthy, but still very puzzling.

She was about to explain it to him when she heard a woman's voice: "It doesn't matter."

Tamera meant to look toward the sound; instead, she doubled over with a sudden cramp. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw someone standing beside her. She lost sight of everything with a wave of displacement. It lasted only a second, and when she recovered she inspected the sidewalk behind her. She was all alone.

"It does matter," she answered, almost to herself, since clearly no one had said it. "We each had one. We went to a sanctuary and each picked out a turtle because they were the pet that would live longer than us. One we would never have to mourn. It seemed like a novel idea, not having to teach our son about death." She tried to laugh at the idea, but seeing nothing funny about it she choked out a strained sound.

"Cyrano — he had quite the long beak — was named by my husband. It was a misnomer though; Cyrano was not a lover by any means. Flea was mine. He had a shell that seemed to have been run over a few times, but he was the friendly one, always the first to show up each morning, and always the last to waddle away. And Speedy. Well, he was fast. What else would a four year old name his chubby-legged speedster?

"The first day we brought them home, David dropped Speedy — right over there," She pointed to the bricks that outlined and contained what was now urine-fried grass. The Doberman watched the movement of her hands.

"Speedy ducked into his shell and David picked him up to tell him sorry." Her voice no longer soft and compelling, but rather clarion in its pitch, she added, "That's another thing about four year olds, they aren't ever afraid to say they're sorry."

Tamera hadn't planned to talk about regret. It just came out. Speaking about apologies was a pointless endeavour. She knew she could never accept one if it came. She wiped the moisture brimming in her eyes and looked back down at the dog. He was finally sitting. Encouraged, she continued her story. "David picked Speedy up and tried to kiss the shell." She mused, "Seeing David's mouth coming toward him, Speedy must have found it very threatening. His popped his head out and clamped down on David's lips. It took us several minutes to get him to release. And do you think that made David resentful?"

Tamera kept her eyes on the dog as he absorbed the question. She let her arm drop just below the wall's edge, breaching the perimeter. Then she reassured the dog, "No, it didn't. He saw the fear in his turtle's eyes and became even more protective of Speedy.

"David had Speedy to love for a year before we moved. When we got word that the house had sold, I packed up Cyrano and Flea. Then I dug in the gardens for days looking for Speedy. I covered every inch, but he wasn't there. And we had to leave.

"I figured in the spring, when he popped up, I'd come back for him. But your guy in there," she glanced at the sliding glass door, but the view was empty, "he insisted he hadn't seen any turtle.

"So I figured maybe Speedy slept through. They do that, you know. Sometimes when they are stressed they will sleep right through the whole year, then come out the following spring as if they hadn't missed a thing." She took a deep breath. "If that's the case, he will be coming out now."

Tamera was ready to try. The Doberman had accepted her arm. Would he accept her legs swinging over? She raised her body and lifted one leg up onto the cinder block. The Doberman stood back up and issued a firm warning. She was not to cross.

"Come on, dog," she said soothingly. "It's just a turtle. What would you want with it?" Although she could imagine what he would want with it. "You didn't already find my turtle, did you? Have you been chewing on things that don't belong to you?"

And what if he had? Would finding Speedy keep her son close? Or would finding Speedy's shell kill her all over again?

"Damn it." Her curse was uncommitted; her gaze wandered off and landed on the plot of land the city had set aside for recreation. There was where David first learned to sled in the snow. In front of the hill was the playground where David made her mud tea, and mud brownies, where his Daddy taught him to play baseball.

Tamera hardened her features and turned back to her old back yard. "Look, dog, I promised." She looked for the homeowner. The house was shadowed and although it looked deserted she knew it never was. Even groceries posed no problem for this shut-in. They were delivered every Tuesday. She could only hope the dog would let her in without too much attention drawn to her presence. She softened her voice again. "I brought something for you."

She ducked down below the cinder fence and reached for the ziplock bag on the rocks. Inside was a T-bone steak; best to simply try to make friends first.

With a quick fling over the fence, the raw meat hung in the air for only a second before landing with a thud on the patio. The Doberman raced over to it and buried his teeth into the flesh and bone.

If he could stay distracted long enough for her to run to the garden and look for depressions in the dirt... Tamera swung her legs over the fence and raced across the yard. She paid no attention to the dog, she didn't have time to. She surveyed every suspicious lump in the ground near where she was sure Speedy would have gone under. She didn't hear the whimper, she paid no attention to the sound of the sliding glass door grating over the dirt-encrusted track, but when the homeowner cried out her head whipped up to see him huddled over his dog. That was when Tamera registered that the dog was making painful choking sounds. And that the only bit of the T-bone steak that remained was a small sliver of the bone. Her heart dropped. Had she hurt this man's dog?

~~~

Geoff rushed his dog into the house. He set Luthor down as gently as he could and reached into the dog's throat to pull out whatever was lodged in there. Shards of bone were layered across Luthor's tongue but the one causing so much pain was wedged into the soft flap of his epiglottis. Geoff rose up to retrieve a pair of tweezers when he caught site of the crazy turtle lady coming toward the house.

His eyes darted over the room. His new invention — that would keep her out. "Hold on Luthor. I know it hurts." He dragged the strips of his new project in line with the open sliding glass doors. Then he flipped the switch on and stood back.

The crazy turtle lady called out, "I'm sorry! Let me help!" as she ran forward into the blue beam and disappeared. Geoff closed his eyes and released his breath.

Human testing had come sooner than he expected. But the result was the same as with the rubble balls. The faster object goes through and disappears. Or gets fried too fast for the eye to see. He still hadn't figured that part out.

Geoff opened his eyes. He turned off the beam, shut the door and went in search of the tweezers.

~~~

Tamera spun around the empty room.

When she had run into the room, that weird blue beam had been around the door. Now it wasn't. In front of her had been the man and his dog. Now they weren't. And she could have sworn she saw a brown leather chair in the corner of the dining room. But to her side was a table.

Her table.

On the wall was a tiled picture of David and her husband. David had posed for it as a gift for Mother's Day. She had packed it up a long time ago. What was this man doing with it?

She turned around again. On the floor was a small rubber ball.

The past flooded back to her. Why she had wanted to move in the first place. The way they had started appearing every couple of days was something they had not mentioned to the realtor. Or how they would disappear again shortly after. She felt a little bad about that. And seeing how they still haunted this house, even after they had left, she even felt a little sympathy for the new owner. Perhaps that was why he refused to allow anyone in. Perhaps that was why he never left. He would have been worried over the meaning of those damn rubber balls.

Tamera looked back the way she had come in. And then she knew something alarming had happened.

She slid open the glass door and stepped outside. Green grass, almost due for a cut, rippled in the lax breeze. Beyond the grass was the garden, hugging both sides of the steps up to the wooden deck they had built. The garden was in the last stages of the season, leaves starting to brown, the vegetation overgrown, expanding past its borders. Popping around the garden edge was a turtle. A small but fast turtle.

"Speedy!" Tamera cried, unable to contain her joy at finally finding this long lost pet. The turtle stopped short at the squeal he had heard. He tried to turn his uncooperative body around, but it was like backing a boat out of a tight canal. She had scooped him up before he could manage a full circle.

"Could it really be you? After all this time?" And that was when Tamera had realized the gift she had been given.

Time.

The green grass, the tiled picture, the turtle. She half expected to see David come running outside to play. Somehow she had gone back in time.

"Speedy, we have to get you home. To your new home. In a little while we will get ready to move, and I'll find Cyrano and Flea, but I'll have a dickens of a time finding you. If I take you to our new home, you'll be there to wake up next spring with Flea and Cyrano."

She was walking toward the sliding glass door when she realized that she could run into herself at any moment. She had read enough books to know what an unwise thing that might be. She veered off to the side of the house.

She closed the gate gently behind her and lifted the turtle up to her eyes to lecture him. "You have no idea how much trouble you caused us, Speedy." She wanted to laugh and cry all at once. It had hurt so bad, but she had the power to fix it.

"You were asked about every day. And even though David has – _had_ – a new swimming pool to keep him distracted, he never gave up hope of finding you again."

And finally she was ready to tell someone. "The first time I came here looking for you was the last time I held my son. I should have known better than to leave while baseball was on TV, but Flea had woken up and David started asking about you...

"You see, the couch in the new house, it's right by the big window facing the pool. You can watch your child swimming from the comfort of your couch, or you could watch TV. Or both at the same time.

"The game went into overtime. And my husband forgot David was on the other side of the glass while the game was being decided in one last inning. When the Giants finally won, he went outside to share the good news with David.

"Flea was on his shell, legs frantically flailing above him. Water was still dripping down... and David..."

Tamera held her breath. She could finally say it out loud. Because she could finally stop it, like it had never happened.

But it had.

"David was a good swimmer. None of it made sense. Until we realized that the turtle must have been drowning. You see, Speedy? David hadn't learned to dive yet. It must have taken everything he had to keep pushing himself back down until he was deep enough to reach Flea. He must have been so tired..."

She rounded the corner of the house and saw her old silver SUV parked in the driveway. And surely there could only be the one. Was it possible for it to also be parked around the corner where she had left it in the future? It had no reason to travel back with her. "Uh, oh. Speedy, I just realized. We have no transportation home. Not in this timeline."

She kept walking, reaching the road where the street ran parallel to the cinder wall of her yard. She would walk that street until she exited the neighborhood, then follow Paseo Drive down to the highway. And on, and on she would walk.

She was thinking of that long walk when she tried comforting herself. "It doesn't matter," she said, one hand on the turtle, one scraping alongside of the cinder wall. Then the cramp hit. For a split second, Tamera saw herself, like stepping out of a mirror. She was leaning over the wall, talking to the dog. But that couldn't be, she was in a different time right now.

That was the moment Tamera realized why they had never found Speedy. She dropped the turtle as David had done so long ago. Speedy tucked into his shell and hid, never noticing that for a second there had been two Tameras. Never noticing that no one had picked him up to give him a kiss.

When he dared to come back out, he was alone. The crisp scent of autumn was in the air, and he knew he would need to hibernate soon. He wandered off the sidewalk and into the street.

Across the road was a park with lots of dirt for his winter burrow.

~~###~~

Author bio

Annie Harmon writes adult shorts and children's chapter books.

#  Dragonflies and Raindrops

## Copyright Ryan Stone

It starts with a single languid drop,

beating a hardpan drum.

Cicadas warble a scorched-earth vibrato,

rushing skyward, the long-dry undone.

Rusty tears trickle their bullnose percussion

on verandah iron and brass. While the red dusts of torment

yawn and drink deeply,

thirsty as fire-kissed grass.

My hard-bitten mongrels, in Waratah shade,

flick ears laid unseasonably low.

Drought threatens to claim what Tigers have not.

Limp tails tell tales of woe.

Resembling slender men, brown withered stems

raise limp hands, tattered and burned.

A chorus begins, Magpie trills and woodwind;

life to the outback returned.

Movement staccatos; even dragonflies pause

from their wild tumbles and dips.

A long-absent lover, in the final refrain,

bestows a moist kiss on parched lips.

~~###~~

* Tigers -> the venomous Australian Tiger Snake

# A Gift for Lily

## Copyright Charlton Daines

Inspiration

When I had finished writing Jack Dawkins, I had a recurring feeling that Reg was a character who would someday want a story of his own. This created a dilemma as I had already borrowed the character of Jack Dawkins from Dickens; although Reg was entirely my own invention, there were echoes of Jack within his personality, albeit expressed in different ways.

Victorian London had no shortage of poor lads turned to crimes both minor and further advanced for their survival, so Reg was just as likely a character as the Artful Dodger himself. Surely each generation must produce at least one lad clever enough to make the best of a humble start in life?

The Egyptian Hall was in full flower in Piccadilly in the late nineteenth century; using this setting allows inclusion of an aspect of magic and spirituality to Reg Dawkins' story, a character for whom I've developed a rather tender spot. Something tells me that he will have to wrestle the demons of his childhood many times before his story is done.

~~###~~

Reg walked among the bustle of shoppers in Piccadilly with the air of a man on a mission. I say he walked; it was more of a swagger as he proudly displayed the new top hat and long, black cashmere greatcoat that he had bought that morning with his hard-earned graft. The wind billowed the unbuttoned coat like an opera cape and Reg gloried in his own mental image of the effect. Even amongst the tapestry of citizens wearing everything from silks to shabby woollens with whom he shared the popular shopping lane, Reg cut a fine figure. He wore the blue and white striped trousers that he favoured and a dark blue silk embroidered waistcoat, worn over a finely cut ivory shirt that he had imported from France. To look at him, one would think that one beheld a gentleman of great fortune and no small amount of eccentricity.

In fact, there had been a time when Reg would have been picking the pockets of the more well-to-do shoppers in the lane that day. With the crisp, cold scent of winter in his nostrils and the dazzling, colourful window displays in the shops as Christmas approached, Reg felt a moment of nostalgia for the wayward childhood that he had long since left behind. Through the respectable influence of Lily he had learned to make an honest bob, first as a boy, then as a man.

Reg had known Lily in early childhood, when his mother had been alive. His trust in her and her inherent goodness often inspired him to try to overcome his beginnings and live an honest life. When she married Jack Dawkins, the couple had taken Reg into their home. At the tender age of nine, Lily had become like a mother to him and extracted an orphan boy from an ignoble life among the criminal classes and the clutches of a brutal stepfather whose only interest in the lad had been his usefulness for getting into small windows for the purpose of housebreaking. There had been no papers, no official decree of adoption and, in fact, Jack still referred to Reg as his nephew, but still they had filled the place of parents at a time when Reg had learned to live without familial love and care at too young an age.

Reg's mission for the day was to find a Christmas gift for Lily. As a young man in his twenties, now facing the prospects not just of a new year, but of a new century on the horizon, Reg strode with the optimism of youth that saw opportunity at every juncture. Perhaps too much opportunity actually. Reg had been finding honest work rather limiting and time consuming, providing only small amounts of money in return for many hours of his life.

The temptation to fall into old ways was ever-present and Reg had not always resisted when the chance to supplement his meagre wages had presented itself too blatantly to pass up. The occasional pilfered wallet or trinket that could be easily sold usually went unnoticed when the benefits manifested as a little extra food in the house or yet another new item for Reg's wardrobe that could be explained away. Reg had long since made a point of proclaiming his careful savings with intent to buy a new coat and hat as soon as he had saved enough money for something of quality. Whether Lily would accept his explanation that he had found a good bargain on that morning's acquisitions or whether she would give him that knowing eye, the look that said more than words when she had caught him out, was yet to be seen.

For the moment, Reg's concern was to find a gift worthy of his caring angel with only a few shillings in his pocket and one more pay packet before Christmas to explain how he had acquired whatever trinket finally fell into his hands, by whatever means. That was why he had risked the coat and hat so soon; whatever happened, Lily would know that the last pay packet of the year had crossed Reg's palm after the fact, leaving that money clear for purchasing her gift. Jack would understand. They both loved Lily in their different ways and wanted to shower her with everything her humble life had denied her, but her incessant honesty could sometimes make it difficult.

As Reg sauntered past the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly, he was struck with a fancy to enter the museum to amuse himself amongst the curiosities that might currently be on view. The building had been used for exhibitions of all manner of art over the years and had occasionally held displays of items of a spiritualist nature, which Reg found much to his interest. He turned and stepped into the pillared entrance, paid the shilling entry fee and began to browse past the collection of watercolour paintings that inevitably decorated the main room. He moved directly into one of the side rooms, where mysterious treasures were often to be found.

Decorative vases and Aladdin-style oil lamps greeted Reg's gaze as he stepped into the first of the small antechambers. The elaborate designs and earthy colours intrigued his senses and stimulated his imagination. Reg visualised dark caverns filled with treasure, and Bedouin tents in the desert decorated with brightly coloured cushions and exotic incense smoke floating in curls of ethereal aroma.

He moved slowly towards the next room, sparing a thought for the effect that an Aladdin's lamp would have on the decor of the humble English house in which he still lived with his adoptive parents. Reg's eyes flitted quickly from left to right, assessing the level of security that might prevent the fascinating item from disappearing into his topcoat, then he abandoned the idea as impractical. The lamp was fragile and probably filled with scented oil. It would be difficult to carry, even without the necessity of keeping it hidden from view.

The second room contained even greater temptations. Small items of exotic jewellery were displayed throughout the room, albeit in glass cases. Reg assessed the ease with which he could pick the lock on a display cabinet and smiled, feeling confident that anything that might take his fancy could easily be pinched if no prying eyes were watching. People wandered in and out of the rooms in a seemingly random pattern, leaving moments of privacy between interlopers.

Reg had taken a particular interest in a display of Egyptian brooches. One of them might well serve as a lovely gift for Lily, so long as she didn't question its source too adamantly. A false story about a reproduction purchased in one of the jewellery shops across the street at the Arcade began to form in Reg's mind. Reg waited until he was alone for a moment, then quickly picked the lock of the display case, using the small metal lock pick that he always carried in his waistcoat pocket. He listened intently for the sound of approaching footsteps and heard nothing, but some instinct caused him to stop once the lock had turned over and to step away from the case rather than opening it. Just at that moment, a dark-skinned man stepped into the room and looked directly at Reg, smiling.

The man was dressed in an elaborately embroidered jacket of some foreign style which Reg assumed to be Egyptian and loose ivory-coloured trousers of Egyptian linen, wrapped at the waist with long, colourful scarves. Reg returned the smile, then returned to gazing at the display cases and pretended to browse casually.

"You like the pretty things?" the strange man asked him directly.

Reg felt the man's eyes on him and gave in to the compelling urge to meet his eyes. There was something hypnotic about the dark pools that seemed to strip his soul and see into his blackened, delinquent heart. Reg felt sure that the man somehow knew of his larcenous thoughts and had stepped into the room when he had to thwart the intended robbery.

"I find the designs fascinating." Reg replied in his coolest, most nonchalant voice. "Are they for sale?"

The dark man smiled again and shook his head.

"Sadly, no. These treasures are beyond price and precious to those who find interest in Egyptian history. What you look upon here is the treasure of a Pharaoh. The brooch that particularly caught your eye was once a gift from a god to a queen; to Nefertiti herself. The Egyptian people would be woebegone should any of these treasures fail to return to our country at their scheduled time."

Reg had heard enough. The man even knew which brooch he had targeted. There was some magic at work here and Reg Dawkins knew when to walk away from a prickly situation. Just at that moment a burly cove pushed into the room as though he were in a hurry and shoved the little Egyptian man into Reg. He smashed the glass of the display case that Reg had unlocked and grabbed as much of the jewellery as he could quickly shove into his pockets. He was out of the room before Reg and the Egyptian could untangle themselves to give protest.

Reg shot out after him. He could see the way of the caper as if he had planned it himself. The man had obviously cased the building on a previous visit and knew exactly where to go to gather the most easily portable merchandise. A smash and grab inside a building would most likely have been a targeted heist. The thief probably had a buyer already waiting, perhaps even a collector rather than an ordinary fence.

By then the afternoon fog was beginning to rise. The prig had run as quickly as he could past the arcade and down Sackville Street where it would thicken quickly. Reg surmised that the time of day had been carefully chosen as the most conducive to making a fast escape under cover of the miasma of industrial London. Though Piccadilly was a little removed from the factory districts that spewed forth the worst of the choking black smoke that gave the city its characteristic haze, there was no part of London that entirely escaped the murkiness that spilled from the east end and from across the river.

Reg was very at home in the obscuring vapour. No man, not even Jack Dawkins himself, had ever been able to elude Reg's well-honed sense of direction and sharp hearing. What the eye could not see, his ears could easily follow through a visualised map of the streets of London. He was also quick on his feet. The years of working in every capacity from factory worker to office clerk had not prevented Reg from keeping his reflexes sharp. Lily would have been scandalised if she had known how many hours Reg still spent in the bad company of his childhood, though as a ghost now, remaining unseen.

Reg moved silently through the foggy streets. The good leather of his boots (a trick that Jack had taught him) kept his footsteps well muffled so that they did not interfere with Reg's concentration on the retreating footfalls. The wet mist added a distinctive echo to the clomping of the thief's unconsidered trample across gritty pavements.

Reg slowly closed the distance between them, unsure of what he would do when he eventually encountered the larger man. Such a rough character might well be armed. Even if he wasn't, he was big enough to break Reg in two. A new plan began to form in Reg's mind. Old skills would serve him best now. An honourable gentleman would probably encounter the fellow face-on and end up shot or beaten to a pulp. Reg had learned early in life that one could find more satisfaction in survival than in false honour. Besides, a common prig didn't deserve the courtesy.

The thief had run far from the shopping district now. No other footsteps obscured the clear resonance of heavy boots on dank cobblestones. Reg knew exactly where he was. They were getting near to the Strand Bridge, which was commonly known as the Bridge of Sighs due to its popularity as a jumping point for despondent young men and fallen women. Reg hoped the thief would tire and rest before crossing the bridge itself as the slight breeze on the Thames river would thin the fog sufficiently that a pursuer on the bridge might well be noticed. In his gentleman's clobber, Reg might possibly be able to pass as a resident who had nothing to do with the robbery, but he couldn't be sure that the thug wouldn't recognise him from the museum. As much as the brute looked stupid, Reg had not survived the London underworld by underestimating the observational abilities of low characters.

It was only after they had both run past The Strand that the thief at last stopped to get his breath. He had ducked into one of the narrow back streets in the Savoy District, just a few steps before the road that led directly onto the bridge. Reg could not see his quarry clearly, but he could imagine a practiced villain observing the fog over the bridge and listening for any sound of pursuit. There was nothing to hear as Reg crept cat-like towards the location where he had last heard running feet. The moisture of the river thickened the fog here so that a man couldn't see his own hand in front of his face as the early evening fell. With the winter sun dipping behind the horizon, visibility quickly became so limited that Reg nearly stumbled right into the thief as he stood gasping for breath in the murky fog.

Reg crept up from behind the man. It was, perhaps, a stroke of luck that the miscreant had been peering round a corner for any sign of followers, incognizant of the skilled pickpocket standing right behind him. Billowing coat pockets made for easy plunder and Reg didn't waste time, despite the danger.

Suddenly the thief whipped his head round to search the other direction for any sign of pursuit. He saw nothing. Reg had already slipped into the cover of the thick fog and hidden himself in a doorway, waiting for the sound of heavy footsteps to give him the all clear. The echo of footfalls towards the bridge told Reg that his freedom was at hand and he leapt off the doorstep into a quick stride in the other direction.

As soon as he had crossed The Strand again, Reg ducked into another doorway to examine what he had in his pockets. He was fairly sure that he had got everything the thief had stuffed into his pockets during the robbery. The collection of beautiful trinkets was dazzling to the eye, even filtered through the wispy fog that passed between Reg's hands and his eyes. The particular brooch that he had spotted as a possible gift for Lily was among the recovered loot. Reg turned it over in his hands several times, alternately coveting its beauty and reminding himself that Lily would never accept his story about a reproduction. The woman was clever. Honest as she was, her associations with the criminal classes through her errant sister had taught her a thing or two as well.

Reg removed only one item from the collection of objects newly spilled into his pockets. The thief had indeed been armed. A three-barrelled volley gun had apparently already been in the coat pocket before the jewellery had been placed there and Reg had simply emptied both side coat pockets. Reg lamented that the thief was apparently cautious enough to keep his wallet in a less accessible pocket. There had been no time or opportunity to rummage further than the two outside coat pockets.

Reg shifted the volley gun into an inside coat pocket and continued at a brisk pace towards Piccadilly. No doubt the museum and shops would be shutting for the day soon and Reg wanted to arrive before the Egyptian man should disappear. The thought crossed his mind that the man might have contacted the police about the robbery, but as he was clearly on his way to return the stolen items, Reg had little fear that he would be mistaken for a thief himself. He had always been a little more brazen than Jack thought quite prudent.

The shops had actually closed their window shutters when Reg arrived at Piccadilly, but the museum was still open. Reg entered, noting that there was no one at the door to charge him another shilling. Sitting on a bench under one of the watercolour paintings in the main room was the Egyptian man, alone. The museum was otherwise deserted.

"You have brought me the treasures, yes?"

Reg nodded, suddenly glad that he hadn't given in to the recurring temptation to shift just the one brooch into another pocket. He might have claimed that it had been missed, but as he beheld the hypnotic stare of the Egyptian, he knew in his soul that the dark man would have known his secret and probably knew even now of Reg's internal battle with himself.

Reg spilled the jewellery out onto the bench, making sure that every last piece cleared his avaricious pockets. The Egyptian appeared to tick off the artefacts on a mental inventory, nodding slightly as each item touched the bench. His genuine gratitude as the stolen property was returned touched something in Reg's heart.

"You have done a great service to the people of Egypt, for whom these treasures are far more valuable than money. This is our history... our soul. Those who would melt these pieces for the value of the gold and jewels would rob us of our ancient history and open a wound for which there could be no healing. Though some of your countrymen will pillage our cultural treasures in time to come, tonight you have shown me that there is honour among Englishmen."

Reg didn't know what the Egyptian meant by his prediction of future pillage, but he suddenly understood what the treasures meant to the Egyptian people. He blinked tears, glad that he had made the right choice in returning every item. He felt no shame over the momentary thoughts he had entertained on his journey back to the museum. The artefacts would have brought a great price and perhaps, over time, might have kept him in fashionable attire for the rest of his days. It was in knowing that he might have kept the valuables for himself that Reg took pride in making the choice to return them. He fervently wished that he could wrap that moment up and give it to Lily as her present. Reg knew well that Lily would value the glow in his heart and his conscious decision to choose integrity over personal profit more than any bauble at any price.

The Egyptian man began to unwrap one of the scarves from his waist. It was a quality piece of fabric, woven tightly in stripes of various shades of dark fuchsia. Reg watched him curiously, wondering what his intentions might be. The Egyptian held it out to Reg.

"This small token of my gratitude will suit an honourable lady far better than a costly jewel that would only attract thieves."

Reg smiled and took the proffered gift. The dark man was right. The scarf was fine linen and would keep the damp off Lily's shoulders. She would likely have kept the brooch in a drawer, afraid to wear it in public.

"Thank you," Reg said sincerely. He folded the cloth and stuffed it into his topcoat pocket, amazed at the lack of excess bulk in the finely spun threads of the fabric. He bowed formally to the Egyptian gentleman, for Reg had worked out that the embroidered jacket meant that the dark man must be a gentleman, if not a holy man. He took his leave and started walking towards home, satisfied that he had not only accomplished his mission to find a gift for Lily, but he had acquired a firearm as well as doing a good turn to a people he could little understand. Reg had a spring in his step as he made his way through the dark evening fog towards home, listening at every junction for any sound of the footsteps of potential thieves.

~~###~~

Author bio

Charlton Daines was born in London, but currently lives in the middle of England with his family, which includes an odd selection of common and pedigree cats.

Charlton Daines is an academic and an aficionado of fine Literature. As such, he has sought to add to the collective of world Literature with the occasional selection that might appeal to those with a love of Classics and Historical Fiction.

The occasional spot of humour or flights of fancy are likely to slip into this all too serious catalogue of self-indulgent scribblings.

# Sleep

## Copyright Elizabeth Los

Inspiration

Could dreams be a gateway to another reality? Time may be a man-made concept, explained during our waking hours, but is it applicable to the subconscious mind? Some people believe dreams are a way for our brains to discard unimportant data obtained throughout the day, but what if we are getting a glimpse into another world, a more spiritual dimension? What we do with such knowledge may be as important as life or death.

~~###~~

Rousing from an afternoon nap, Evie felt a fog lift from her mind. She could hear her roommate, Celia, busy in the kitchen, the clanging of pots indicating dinner was being prepared. Knowing she should get up and start moving about or she'd never sleep properly that night, she attempted to stretch. Alarms rang through her. Again the feeling of paralysis! She lay motionless on the bed, knowing she was awake, aware of the sunlight which streamed through the thin curtains. It seemed so real, what she 'saw' in her bedroom, the sunbeams on her duvet, the glowing time display on her alarm clock as the minutes changed. It felt like she was looking round, seeing the door, her dresser, her wardrobe. But she knew from experience that her eyelids had refused to open.

A low growl echoed in her mind, a remnant of a forgotten nightmare. Pain ached at the back of her head, as if something were scratching from the inside. Evie began to panic. Her limbs heavy, she felt something heavy on her chest. Her mind was alert. She struggled, but her body was unresponsive. Her breathing rate increased.

_What is happening to me?_ she screamed, only to realize she had not made a sound. She pushed and strained, but she was still paralyzed.

The harder Evie tried to move, the worse her panic grew until she was hyperventilating. She attempted to move her legs or clench her fingers. Nothing would move. She felt frozen and helpless, unable to call out for help.

Eventually, the tip of her finger moved. Though most of her body was still incapacitated, she was encouraged. She focused on that one small movement, attempted to propagate that success up through her hand and arm. It seemed like an eternity before the paralysis finally released her and her limbs responded once more.

After that incident, Evie couldn't shake off the feeling of dread. She sat in the kitchen, staring blankly ahead. She twirled a helping of the spaghetti her roommate had served. She stopped mid-spin, noticing the scratches on her arm: she couldn't recall how she got them. They just seemed to have appeared after the horrifying nap. _Something's terribly wrong,_ she thought, staring at her dinner, her appetite lost in her swirling thoughts. _I need help_.

"Hey, you alright?" Celia asked, leaning against the counter with her plate in her hand. She had been busily devouring her dinner and finished, while Evie's remained barely touched.

"Eh, I guess," Evie said with a shrug, her eyes falling back on the fresh wounds on her arm.

"Ok," Celia responded, as if she wasn't entirely invested in the conversation. She turned toward the sink to wash her plate. "Did I tell you about the neighbor's cat?"

"Huh?" Evie looked up at her.

Celia's cell phone rang. "Oh, hold on a sec." She held up her hand as she picked up her phone. "Hi!" She answered it cheerfully. "Me? No, I'm not doing anything." Her voice trailed off as she disappeared down the hall.

Evie leaned back in her chair. Taking in a deep breath, she let it out in a long sigh. She was exhausted, but the thought of what might happen prevented her from returning to bed any time soon. Cautiously, she rubbed the back of her head.

~~~

_Stress. Not me, surely? Is this doctor serious?_ Evie rolled her eyes, the action lost on the doctor who was jotting notes in Evie's medical chart. _What a joke. One folder, with a total of maybe two pages, is to sum up my overall health, my life? Whatever; I just want to get this over with._

"Here we are, my dear. Take one every evening, no later than five pm. That should do the trick." Doctor Lopez adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, scratched out a prescription and slid it over to Evie.

_The trick._ Evie quietly sighed. "And if it doesn't work?" she asked, hoping he'd catch her lack of faith. He didn't.

"Then you're screwed."

He chuckled lightly as he closed Evie's chart.

"I kid!"

He seems proud of himself for such wit.

"We'll deal with it if it comes to that."

' _We'll' deal with it? Like hell 'we' will. Jerk._

~~~

Evie took the pill at precisely 5:00pm. By nine, she was feeling the effects of the medication. Sluggish and bleary-eyed, she dragged herself down the hall and crawled into bed. Sleep hit her like a brick, but not for long.

Her heart raced. Something felt wrong. It was dark, save for the moonlight. A short distance away, she heard the same growl from before, but this time it was accompanied by movement. A creature crept towards her. It was hunched over with thorns running down its spine. She turned to run, but her legs wouldn't obey. It drew closer. She screamed.

Evie was hyperventilating. Her nightmare had frightened her into wakefulness. Eyes still closed, she struggled to comprehend what was happening. Evie attempted to roll, but her body didn't respond. Searing pain hit the back of her head. That same panic rang in her mind. She couldn't move.

Idiot doctor!

A strange weight held her down. She used all of her energy, but her body wouldn't budge. She fought for each breath, working to take it in and release it with some control. Repeating this again and again, her anxiety lowered until it was manageable enough to allow Evie to think. Again, concentrating on one finger, she tried through sheer willpower to move it. At last it twitched, and eventually the rest of her fingers freed up. As soon as she was able to turn her wrist, the hold had shattered. She sat up, gathering her blankets up to her neck. With a sigh of relief, she chanted over and over: _I can do this; I can handle it on my own._

Evie fell back onto her bed. Exhaustion immediately took over and she drifted off to sleep. Before entering a deep sleep she dreamily recognized a now familiar weight return to her chest. Her eyes flew open. Looking down she couldn't see anything, but she heard a snarl reminiscent of her night terror. She shoved her blankets aside and stood. Without a glance back, she headed to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

~~~

Evie stared at the blinking cursor on her computer screen. It seemed like hours had passed, but looking at the clock confirmed that it had only been ten minutes. She felt drained. It was difficult to keep her eyes open. She took another sip of coffee and checked the time: 8:06am. Seven more hours of work. She expelled an audible sigh.

Her co-worker, Nancy, knocked on the doorframe of Evie's office. "Breakfast!" she announced cheerily.

For Evie, breakfast was a cup of coffee, maybe two, but at that moment she craved a break. "Ok."

The two walked across the parking lot to the main tower. Inside, they navigated through the maze of the hospital, passed Radiology, the Emergency Room and Outpatient Surgery, until they were on the far south side of the building. The entrance to the cafeteria was down a long hallway.

"So, you can't move at all?" Nancy asked as they walked along the counter.

"No. And I'm scared. What if it's something really serious, like a brain tumor, or Parkinson's?" Evie asked. She studied the food displays with feigned interest.

Nancy chuckled. "You've been working here too long, hypochondriac. Have you seen someone about it?"

"Yes, but don't get me started on that," Evie grumbled in reply.

"Tell your doctor. Insist on seeing a specialist, like a sleep doctor or therapist or whatever."

While Nancy ordered a breakfast sandwich from the grill, Evie roamed about, looking for a healthy choice. _Yogurt with a piece of fruit? Nah, had that yesterday. Cottage cheese and peaches?_ She picked up a spoon half full of peaches but changed her mind and continued to browse.

"Hurry up already," Nancy nudged Evie on the way to the register.

"Fine, fine." Evie grabbed a package of mini chocolate donuts. Paying for her not-so-healthy choice, she followed Nancy out the door and back to her desk. She wondered why she felt the urgency to return, knowing she'd only end up falling asleep at the computer.

When her eight hours hit, Evie was already packed and out the door. Racing to the time clock, she skidded to a halt and crossed her arms, waiting as the last few minutes ticked away. Hastily swiping her badge, she was finally free to leave for the day.

The drive home was agonizing. Evie had stopped by the local coffee shop, but caffeine didn't help. At every red light, she leaned her head in her hand and partially closed her eyes. Those moments gave her little reprieve from the ever growing fatigue.

Once Evie arrived at her apartment, she stumbled through the door, tossed her bag on the floor and headed straight to her room. Despite her fear, she flopped on the bed. It took only seconds for her to fall asleep.

~~~

When Evie woke the next morning, she found more inexplicable scratches on her arm and neck. Fractured images from what she thought had been a bad dream came to mind. Staring at her reflection, she frowned. The lack of sleep had darkened the skin under her eyes.

I look awful.

After a hot shower, Evie grabbed her bag and headed out the door. All the way to the doctor's office, she yawned, some little, some big. Her jaw ached from the constant attacks. She rubbed her eyes, fighting to stay awake.

"I can't live like this," she said. Her tone and body language begged Doctor Lopez to empathize. "I'm so tired, but I'm afraid to sleep. And I've got scratches on my arm, I have no idea where from. I've had nightmares, like some demon is attacking me. I hear things at night. And the awful pain in the back of my head, it's like something inside is trying to get out."

"There, there, my dear," he said, his attention on her medical chart. More to himself than Evie, he said, "Your lab work came back normal. I don't see any obvious underlying cause for your changed sleep patterns, but the symptoms you've described are concerning."

Evie sat patiently and waited while Doctor Lopez continued to read. Evie glanced around the room, shifting uncomfortably on the examining table.

Finally, he spoke. "I'm going to refer you to a colleague of mine at the sleep institute down the road, Doctor Steinberg. He's been at it for over twenty years. I'm also going to schedule you for a CT scan of your brain, to rule out any other possibilities." He turned and opened the door to the exam room. "Dolores, would you give Gary a call, see if he can't squeeze this young lady in sometime today?"

"Yes, Doctor Lopez," said the disembodied voice of his medical assistant.

Doctor Lopez turned as he stepped out of the room. "Alright, my dear. Dolores will get you all set up."

Evie closed her eyes. _I doubt even this Doctor Steinberg will be able to help. But what do I have to lose? Probably at least another two to three hundred dollars._

~~~

"Just relax," the medical technician said. "A few more to apply and then we'll hook you up."

Evie felt embarrassed when he leant across her. She diverted her eyes and mind to his name badge; Martin, she read. She'd always thought it an uncomplicated, trustworthy name.

"Make yourself as comfortable as possible, as if you were home. You can read or watch TV, go to sleep when you feel tired. There's no need to force yourself to sleep early. In the morning, you'll be free to go. The data will be reviewed by Doctor Steinberg before he sees you at your follow-up appointment." Martin flashed Evie a smile.

Evie's face flushed a darker shade of pink. She looked down at her hands. The corners of her mouth turned upward.

Martin was youngish, probably mid-thirties Evie thought. His blond hair was cut close and neatly styled. His green eyes sparkled when he spoke and there was a kindness in his tone, an understanding. Subtle crow's feet appeared with each smile, very endearing.

"Ok," Evie answered. She glanced up at Martin, but as tears welled up she returned her attention to her lap. She bit her lip.

"Hey," he said softly. He stopped the application of sensors and squeezed her hand. "My co-worker and I will be in the next room monitoring your vital signs. You have absolutely nothing to worry about." He paused. "Tell me, do you have any plans over the weekend?"

Evie shook her head, avoiding eye contact. _Relax? Sure, I'll get right on that._ She offered a weak smile. "I, uh, no. No plans. Maybe I'll take it easy, watch an old sci-fi movie," she replied.

"I love the old black and whites. My favorite is _The Day The Earth Stood Still_ ," he said, the enthusiasm raising the volume in his voice.

"Mine too," Evie said.

She smiled, a small smile, but her eyes shone more brightly and Martin took that as encouragement.

Evie's skin flushed again to a dark pink when she saw his admiration for her.

As their conversation progressed, Martin finished connecting the sensors to wires that led over to several different monitors. The color slowly drained from Evie's face. She sat picking at a hole in the cuff of her jacket sleeve.

Martin fell silent and remained still until Evie risked a glance at him. She tried to look away, but he followed her gaze.

"Evie, you have nothing to fear. You've told me what you've been experiencing. Any elevation, even the slightest, in your heart rate, your respiration, and I'm here, waking you. If that isn't enough, tell me what would make you more comfortable."

Evie blinked the wetness from her eyes. She fiddled with the corner pages of the book she had brought in to read that night. She took a deep breath. "Would you..." she started to ask, but stopped.

"Would you like me to stay? As it happens, it's a slow night for us. Normally, I wouldn't have the time, but tonight I do. I could read to you. That might help you relax."

"Yes, please." She resumed tugging at the fabric of her sleeve, enlarging the hole in the process.

"Alright," he said with finality. "Let's get the rest of these on you. I'll be only a few minutes setting up the monitors. Amy will watch your vitals. I'll be back to read." He resumed his task, connecting the remaining wires. He nodded toward Evie's book. " _Time Ward_ , huh? I've been meaning to check that out. The cover alone catches my eye every time I run across it. What's it about?"

Evie talked about the author and the characters in the book. She fiddled with the bookmark she had placed a quarter of the way through it. As Martin continued to ask questions, engaging her in conversation, Evie's shoulders relaxed.

Hours later, Evie lay in the bed while Martin went through chapter after chapter. Her eyes opened and closed, the rhythmic tone of his voice soothing. At one point, he paused, but when Evie focused her eyes on him, his attention returned to the book.

The sound of crying woke Evie. It was like a baby's cry, yet more sinister. She looked around. It was dark. Martin was gone. Evie tried to sit up, but a heaviness held her down. The familiar weight from previous nights seemed to move up her body, but it was too dark to make out anything. She tried to open her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

Where's Martin? He promised me he would wake me. I can't breathe!

~~~

"Miss Frye? Miss Frye?" she heard Martin call out.

Martin shook Evie's shoulder. She stirred, moving her head from side to side. Something broke through. She felt relief from the pain in her head. She reached up, her hand covering her eyes. "Uh," she responded weakly.

"Evie?" Martin said, more insistent.

Evie's eyes fluttered open, only to roll back and close. One hand fell back, palm down onto the carpet. She clenched her fist, then opened, her fingers running over the fibers.

"Evie!" Martin shouted.

The strong chemical scent of ammonia and lavender traveled through her nasal passages. She coughed. Evie's hand slid down her face. She pushed against what she assumed was Martin's arm, but he held firm. Finally, gasping for breath, she blinked until her eyes opened.

"Where am I?" She asked so softly it could barely be heard. She shook her head gently and looked around. "How did I get here?"

Strong arms helped lift and guide her to a chair. Martin knelt in front of her. Behind him was Doctor Steinberg, speaking low into the phone receiver.

"You ok?" Martin asked, squeezing her hand, his thumb brushing against her skin in light caresses.

Evie swallowed hard and nodded.

"How about some juice?" He stood and took several small boxes from a small refrigerator in the office. Placing them on the counter next to Evie, he offered them. "We have apple, grape, orange, mixed fruit. Any of those sound good?"

Evie uttered throatily, "Grape." Martin took the straw out of its wrapper and jammed it into the box before handing it to her. She cleared her throat. "Thanks."

~~~

"Miss Frye, how are you feeling? You gave us a bit of a scare this morning." Doctor Steinberg sat down in a chair across from Evie. Martin took a seat by her side.

"I... What happened?"

"During the tail end of the study, you had a cardiac event — palpitations. It caused you to lose consciousness. I've made arrangements to admit you for observation. I would like to run some additional tests, lab work and an EKG, just to be safe. I don't have any specific suspicions at this time, so try not to worry. I believe this is all related to your lack of sleep. I've read in your chart that you've been experiencing some peculiar symptoms during moments of rest."

"I'm scared. There's something in my room, something evil. I think something's trying to... I don't know. Like something inside. It wants to control me, or get out. I don't know. It sounds crazy hearing it myself. Every time I check, there's nothing there. I feel a weight on me and I've received scratches on my arm and neck." Evie showed her arm, nervously running her fingertips across the tender welts. "But it couldn't possibly have followed me here," she said, on the edge of hysteria.

Doctor Steinberg gave her a patient smile. "Do you have a cat?"

Evie frowned. "No. Why?"

He pointed to the scratches on her arm. "Those look to me like cat scratches. They are all too familiar. My wife just recently adopted a feral cat. The damn thing hates me." He pulled up one sleeve to show similar, though smaller, wounds. "Plus, it looks like you have some animal hair on the bottom of your jacket."

"So, I've imagined all of it? My roommate started telling me something about a neighbor's cat, but..." Evie trailed off, not really believing it could all be down to a cat.

"You haven't imagined the paralysis. That is very real, I'm sure. As for the weight you feel at night, this is not uncommon. This affliction has been documented for years. The victim feels a weight on their chest, as if something were sitting on them. Or, they swear to a presence in the room, as you have experienced. Our bodies are amazingly designed. When we fall asleep, the brain releases a chemical that affects specific receptors, causing a temporary paralysis. No doubt this is to ensure that we receive the best quality rest possible. When it is time to wake, the brain's release of this chemical is halted. The body gradually returns to wakefulness as the chemical becomes inactive, thus allowing the body to move again. In cases of sleep paralysis, however, the chemical continues to be produced so the body remains in stasis. Your mind is awake, but your body is not." Doctor Steinberg reclined back in his chair after his careful explanation.

"Sleep paralysis? That's what's wrong with me?" Evie asked. Martin squeezed her hand again.

"Miss Frye, it is nothing to be too concerned about. It is merely your body's way, your brain's way, of telling you to improve your sleep habits. You need to ensure you get at least six hours of quality sleep each night. To start, I'll prescribe a round of antidepressants that you may take a few hours before going to bed. This should help regulate your sleep cycle. Doctor Lopez requested a CT scan of your brain; we might as well take care of that while you're in observation. After that, if I find nothing else, which I don't anticipate I will, you'll be free to go home. Pick a sleep schedule. If you decide to go to bed at nine, make sure you keep to that same time each night." Doctor Steinberg scribbled out a script, ripped it from the pad and handed it to her.

Evie glanced at Martin, who offered a quick smile. There came a knock at the door. "Come in," Doctor Steinberg called out. Two emergency medical technicians entered the room with a gurney. "Miss Frye, these gentlemen will take you over for observation. As per hospital protocol, you'll be transported by ambulance. Do you have any questions before you go?"

She shook her head. Looking over at Martin, Evie visibly relaxed.

"Martin," Doctor Steinberg called out. His voice was firm, a sharp edge to it. Evie looked up to see a stern look on the doctor's face.

Martin nodded. "You'll be fine," he whispered before leaving the room.

Once the men had helped Evie onto the gurney, she opened her purse to put the prescription note away safely. Her eyes widened in surprise. There was another small piece of paper, hastily torn off a larger page. Flipping it over, she read Martin's name and phone number. With a smile and a sigh, she leaned back into the reclined gurney.

~~~

It was late in the evening. Martin tossed his keys on the table by the door. Locking his apartment door, he headed directly to bed. It had been a long night for him. His flirtations had nearly cost him his job. He made up a story for Steinberg, convincing him it was all about customer service and higher Press Ganey scores. The doctor bought his excuse. It would have been grounds for immediate dismissal if he had known Martin had slipped Evie his number. Lucky for him, Evie was discrete.

Martin yawned and rubbed the back of his head. A dull ache that had started earlier that day was getting worse. He tossed back two aspirin with a glass of water. As fast as he could, he peeled off his clothes and snaked under his covers. Spreading out across the entire bed, he fell fast asleep with thoughts of Evie fresh in his mind. He began to dream of her, playing out potential ways to ask her out on a date and where to take her.

Soon his dreams changed. Evie's image disappeared. It was replaced by dark, blurred images of something sinister. The more he focused his attention, the clearer the thing became. A small creature, it was hunched over, with spines jutting out of its head and down its back. When it opened its mouth, its cries were a mix, half infant, half cat, though deeper in timbre. When it turned towards him he gasped in fear, tried to turn and run, but the sluggishness of dreaming left him struggling as it advanced. He heard a low growl and hiss from behind, then the creature pounced on him.

Martin cried out. His body jolted awake. He was breathing rapidly and his heart was pounding. He thought he'd just had the worst nightmare ever, but was thankful his headache had dissipated. Then he noticed the weight on his chest. He looked down. In the darkness, he could make out the shape of the creature from his dream.

"What the hell?" The creature lunged at his face, smothering his nose and mouth. He tried to scream, but the creature's pressure prevented any sound from escaping.

Martin thrashed about. While one hand pushed at the creature, the other searched for a weapon. His hand raked across the nightstand, knocking over a glass of water and stack of books. He reached out again, fingers grazing the lamp; it tilted and crashed onto its side. His flailing arms found nothing to fight back with. Within minutes Martin's movements, his fighting, stopped.

~~~

Evie heard a knock at the door. When she answered her eyes brightened, matching the growing smile. "Martin!" she said excitedly. "Huh, I must have been really out of it before. I could have sworn you had lighter hair."

Martin sauntered into the room. As he reached her bedside, he brushed the dark hair from his face. Evie looked up at him, her smile fading. Martin's pupils were larger than normal.

"Martin?" she asked with uncertainty.

Martin smiled. In one fluid motion, he smothered her mouth with one hand and clamped her nose shut with the other hand. Evie's eyes widened. Her lungs burned for air as she tried to push him away. Success came to her for only a second. She gasped, only for him to return to suffocate her. He hovered over her and she could feel the familiar weight. As she continued her futile fight, she noticed a hunched over demon-like creature reflected in the pupils of his eyes.

~~###~~

Author bio

Elizabeth uses writing as therapy, her release from everyday stress. At night, after work and once the children are finally tucked in bed, for the fifth time, she sits at her laptop and lets her imagination flow.

Elizabeth has produced short stories, one of which will be published in an anthology. She had a blast writing Sherlock Holmes fan fiction story entitled A Case of Need, based on the BBC's Sherlock. By July 2011, her first novel, Second on the Right, had been completed. She spent several years polishing the story in order to provide a high quality product to the public. Second on the Right is her first professional novel.

She currently lives in Southern California with her husband, children, as well as a rambunctious Black Labrador and an enormous yet lovable Saint Bernard.

#

# What Team Are You On?

## Copyright Jaq D Hawkins

Inspiration

The inspiration for this story came to me when our fearless editor, Jay Howard, made a flippant remark about someone opening a McDonald's on the moon. As it happened, I had been working on a science fiction story set on a moon colony and had been doing extensive research on the science and environment issues that a moon settlement would face. While I decided against actually linking the short story with the novel in progress, I made use of the environmental factors I had in place to write in a similar setting, although the fast food restaurant will not be making an appearance in the novel.

~~###~~

"What are we doing in here? I thought we boycotted this place before they finished building it."

The dark-skinned man who was being addressed, wearing a 'Rasta-style' brightly striped poncho and knitted hat with red, green, yellow and black stripes, grinned without taking his eyes off the menu posted up on the wall in the fluorescent-lighted fast food concession.

"Chill, Beatle, don't you ever want a burger instead of all that healthy space food we're growing up here?'

"I wish you'd stop calling me that, André," his shaggy-haired companion answered in a clipped English accent. "My name is Paul, in case you forgot."

"Paul was one of the Beatles, my friend," came the reply, as the bright white-toothed grin was turned on Paul. "You look just like him with your little white face and your little shaggy haircut around your ears and your English accent."

"My accent is from South London, the Beatles were from Liverpool."

"Same difference to me, my man. Hey, do you believe that? Five dollars for a bottle of water!" The grin disappeared as André examined the prices on the wall.

"How much is five dollars in English money?" Paul regretted the question almost as soon as he had asked it.

"I don't understand your Euro zone economic conversions." André took off his knitted hat and scowled at Paul. "You might as well get used to real money, 'cause NASA got us on the moon and NASA is America, no matter what that United Nations Outer Space Treaty has to say about it."

"Tell that to Darya," Paul retorted as he pointed to an attractive dark-haired woman giving her order at the counter.

André's eyes followed the gesture and softened as he watched Darya's graceful gestures and quick smile. "Mmmm... If only all the Cosmonauts looked like her."

It was Paul's turn to grin as he observed the obvious appreciation in André's eyes. "What I meant was that our life support systems depend on scientists like her. Is five dollars exorbitant for bottled water?"

André shook his head before he replied. "On Earth it would be, but it's a long way to ship it up here to the moon station. Beats drinking recycled piss though."

Paul laughed at his friend's analogy, then couldn't resist goading his Rasta friend. "You're a top level engineer, surely you know as well as I do that all water gets cycled? Your glass of water from the tap at home is water from a river someone pissed in before it got filtered and chemically purified. Until your department works out how to exploit crater ice and drill for magmatic water, you're stuck with recycled piss or bottled water at five dollars a pop."

"It ain't working out how to drill that's the problem, it's doing it without breaking apart this unstable rock we're sitting on."

As if on cue, the ground beneath them suddenly began to shake.

"Moonquake!" André shouted to the other occupants of the restaurant. "Get under a table!"

Paul and André dived for the nearest of the metal tables, securely bolted to the floor. The reduced gravity of the moon made their descent seem as if they fell in slow motion, taking six times as long to reach the floor as they would have in a similar situation on Earth. As it happened, Darya had been walking past with her newly purchased food and took shelter under the same table.

No one spoke as the violent shaking rattled the flexi glass on the windows. The ominous rattle similarly shook all of their nerves, even though everyone on the moon station knew that all construction within the dome was designed to withstand such conditions. Moonquakes were just one of the hazards that moon colonists quickly grew to expect after even a short time living on Earth's satellite. They also promptly learned to appreciate the training and drills that were required of all personnel immediately on arrival. Knowing what to do in the inevitably frequent crisis situations the moon presented reduced panic and had all but eliminated any casualty rate.

Another man with dark skin and short, black curls joined them under the inadequate shelter as the quake continued to rumble.

"Shallow quake," the newcomer said in a London accent that sounded more pronounced than Paul's English lilt. "This could go on a while."

Darya looked quizzically at the dark man and spoke in heavily Russian-accented English. "You are with the space program from India, yes?'

"No, Miss, my ancestors are Indian but I'm a geologist from Royal Holloway, University of London. Gajanan Bhandari, but just call me Gaj. Lovely to meet you." He held out his hand from his crouched position and shook hands with the Russian scientist, then glanced at his other huddled companions.

"Paul Collins, botanist," Paul supplied. "André here is a structural engineer with NASA and Darya is from Roscosmos, head of environmental control."

Gaj nodded to each as they were introduced, then turned to André. "I wouldn't have taken you for military."

André grinned widely. "Ain't no officers up here to check uniforms, and the commander says wearing civvies helps us fit in with the growers and other non-military personnel." Suddenly he frowned and looked around as best he could in the cramped conditions. "We get quakes in California, but one this big usually stops after a few seconds."

"The moon is dry, cool and mostly rigid, like a chunk of stone or iron," Gaj explained, "so shallow moonquakes set it vibrating like a tuning fork, even a relatively small quake. I guess this one was about 4.8, though I'll need to check the instruments as soon as it's safe to move. I take it you'll be doing a structural examination?"

"My staff get to go out in the space suits," André replied, suddenly dropping his relaxed demeanour to become the highly-trained structural engineer. "If you're right about the Richter scale though, they probably won't find anything. This dome is built to bend enough to withstand up to 5.5 without any cracks."

"Does anyone want some chicken nuggets?" Darya asked suddenly. "I have lost my appetite."

Darya had bought the children's meal that came with a box of only four small pieces of battered chicken. André reached for a nugget, frowning at the pitifully inadequate portion.

"Damn, woman, no wonder there ain't an ounce of fat on you. This wouldn't keep a bird alive, even with the extra lard they cook it in."

The little box was passed to Paul, then Gaj and back to Darya. By then the sharing of food, such as it was, had taken on a ritual connotation and Darya picked up the last piece to share in the ceremonial spirit, though her stomach threatened to rebel. The ground beneath them continued to shake, though it seemed to have settled into a gentle swaying motion.

"It isn't stopping," Darya observed. "We should get to one of the hatches."

Gaj shook his head. "I don't think so," he said. "It's slowing down now... I think it will stop soon and there is more danger of being struck by falling items if we move around than risk of a structural fault."

Gaj slowly crawled out from under the table to observe his surroundings and the other patrons and staff huddled under the protective tables. As if by magic, the trembling stopped. The moonquake was over.

"See?" he chirped. "We're okay."

André pulled himself out from the makeshift shelter and immediately began barking orders into a handset. Almost before he had finished, the inside surface of the dome outside of the restaurant was crawling with a team of structural engineers in bright orange spacesuits, examining the double-layered defences with an ultrasound machine that moved on nearly invisible internal rails. In the meantime, Darya, Paul and the other patrons had climbed out from under the tables.

Darya dumped the packaging from her meal into a nearby bin as they stepped out into the artificially organic surface of the moon colony. The section they were in was forested primarily with fruit and nut trees, though berry bushes and subtle vegetable and herb plants filled every available space beside the walking paths where the strategically placed grow lights could reach. No space was wasted within the moon dome project.

"You didn't just dump those fries, did you?" André asked in a tone that screamed of great calamity.

"They were cold," Darya answered sheepishly.

"It's alright," Paul interrupted. "Look, the fry jockeys are giving away the pre-cooked stuff that was under the lights." Paul ran back inside and joined the rush to the counter for free sandwiches and fries.

André took his handset out of his pocket again and communicated an additional order. "Pepé, get someone down to this burger joint to give them the all-clear so's they can start cookin' again."

Paul returned with a brown paper bag full of fries and four bottles of water. The small company continued walking out into the open dome as they passed the bag from hand to hand and shared the warmish fries, washing the salt down with the bottled water. Each of the small group had somewhere to go after a quake, but the four had become companionable and nobody wanted to be the first to break up the feeling of unity that a shared crisis can bring.

After a moment, André was the one to naturally take charge. "You should all be sliding down the emergency chutes to the underground shelter. I got work to supervise up here."

To emphasise the fact that the danger wasn't yet over, the ground began to gently shake again. Darya, Paul and Gaj began to move towards one of the sealed portal doors that had been built into the artificial trees placed throughout the dome project for emergency evacuation. Hazards on the moon warranted vigilance and frequently drilled emergency procedures, as well as escape route portals kept near to all personnel. Apart from their company, the structural engineering team crawling the dome and the restaurant staff, all other occupants of the dome had already slid down the chutes to the sealed underground compound. The three staff who manned the fast food concession appeared now, having shut down all energy sources used for cooking.

One teenager wearing a uniform smock broke away from the small group and trotted over to the scientists. Darya turned to see him first, noting a boy of about seventeen, which was in itself unusual for dome personnel. The Russian environmentalist observed the shaggy sandy hair falling into what appeared to be azure eyes, sparkling with intelligence, and wondered which officer's kid had scored a ticket to the moon by agreeing to work in a drudge job while he finished his studies. Nothing short of an educational connection could have pulled that one off.

"You must go through the portal," Darya barked at the young man sharply. "And so must we."

"I saw you consulting together and just wondered... is there anything I can do to help?"

"You can follow procedures," Darya snapped, sounding angry now. 'We have experts for what needs to be done."

Her eyes flitted towards the bright orange spots crawling on the dome surface. Just at that moment, a small space rock struck the dome near one of the spacesuited engineers. The man was knocked from his position on the ultrasound apparatus, but his fall was aborted by a standard safety bungee that left him hanging in mid-air. Of more concern was the loud alarm that began sounding just as the rock struck. The impact had caused a breach.

André was no fool. Though a small crack would depressurise slowly and chances were that his staff would have it repaired before a noticeable amount of atmosphere had floated off into space, anyone not wearing protective space suits was required to evacuate the dome without delay. He ran for the portal, calling to the others follow quickly. However, when he tried to open the sealed door, it would not budge.

André turned and looked up at the fallen man, noting that the bungee had done its job and the others on his team were helping him back onto the device. He swore under his breath, mumbling that he would have to give the team a good telling off for the delay in repairing the breach. One man could be left dangling for those crucial few minutes safely enough.

Paul and Gaj tried to help André turn the door handle, but it would not move.

"It's a code red seal," Darya explained. "We should not have delayed." She looked up at her companions. No language translation was necessary to see the look of terror in her eyes.

"Double security back-up seal," Gaj quoted from the indoctrination manual. "We're screwed if the pressure drops suddenly."

André grinned at the geologist. "That, my man, is why the plastics that keep us breathing under the dome are in two layers and reinforced with hemp fibers. It's not just ourselves at risk, but the trees and plants that make up this project."

André turned to Paul. "Beatle, get the environment suits out of that cupboard." He indicated a small door beside the portal entrance. "We'll be good with those."

Paul opened the small back-up cupboard and pulled out four orange space suits, complete with breathing apparatus.

"There's only four in here," he announced. All eyes turned towards the young fast food worker.

"See, boy?" André scolded. "You should have followed procedure and got your sorry behind down that chute. Now I gotta take my chances so whoever your daddy is doesn't get his shorts in a twist if something happens to you."

"No, wait!" The teenager shouted. "I can do this!"

Without asking leave, the young man pulled a small screwdriver out of his back pocket and dived for the control panel of the emergency portal. He began removing the screws of the outside panel.

"What are you doing?" Darya shouted, outraged. "Get away from that!"

The Russian scientist physically pulled the slim-built lad away from the panel.

"I can override to manual control," the boy insisted. "Mathematics, computers and electronic engineering are my thing."

"What's your name, boy?" André asked.

"Ben. Ben Fielding."

"Well, Mister Ben Fielding, I don't care what your speciality is, some student isn't going to fiddle with the life support system back-up for an entire colony. Not on my watch."

"I graduate next month and I'll be doing this for you officially soon after that. I know what I'm doing, Commander Jackson. The manual override is automatically set for thirty seconds and then it returns to an automatic seal. I just have to activate the override with the Silent Running code. The same code will open the door at the bottom of the chute. The LED lighting all down the passage will be sufficient to see the panel at the end. I've done drills for this."

André hadn't been called by his official title since he had first joined the moon colony. That the boy knew his surname at all supported his story. The Silent Running code was what convinced him though. Only top brass and certain specialists even knew it existed. Suddenly André realised why the name Fielding sounded familiar. Captain Fielding was the commanding officer for the entire moon colony project and had actually named the code, after an old science fiction movie that was a personal favourite of his. Who would have guessed that the base Captain's son would be working as a fry jockey while he studied to fill the old man's shoes?

"Okay kid, do it."

Darya looked at André as if he had grown a second head. Paul and Gaj also looked at him curiously. However, there was no time for explanations. In seconds the stubborn door opened wide and they quickly filed onto the chute one by one, leaving the protective environment suits shoved back into the cupboard where they had been found. André all but pushed young Ben in front of him so that he could be last in and secure his responsibility for making sure that all personnel had slid to safety. Almost as soon as he had cleared the door, the mechanism shut automatically and sealed the portal once again.

As they cleared the second door at the bottom, one of the engineering staff recognised André and brought him a report that the breach had been repaired.

"That's good news for the trees," Paul said.

"Indeed it is," André agreed.

"Just as well that you dress in all those bright colours," Gaj added. "You're not hard to find in a crowd."

André winked. "You got it, my man. The other top staff might not want to be bothered by every little thing, but I got to be found quick in a crisis. Don't think my guys up on the dome didn't see me standing down there keeping an eye on their dangling backsides. As for you..."

André turned to Ben. "When you're part of my team, I'll know what you can do. But you remember, it don't matter who your daddy is, you're part of a team. We work together and there ain't no room for heroes. You capisce?'

Ben nodded, grinning.

"And next time you come running up to me out of that fast food grease joint, you bring me a double bacon burger. Man does not live on fries and recycled river piss alone! Come on, let's go find your dad while these important scientists go report to their departments. You're on my team now."

André winked at Paul, then put his arm around Ben's shoulders and swigged the last of his bottled water as they walked away. The others smiled as each of them bid farewell to each other and headed towards their respective departments in the underground part of the colony to be head counted before everyone would be released to return to the surface.

~~###~~

Author bio

Jaq D Hawkins is a published writer with 10 books in publication in the Mind, Body, Spirit genre published by Capall Bann Publishing, as well as four Fantasy novels in print and E-book; The Wake of the Dragon, Dance of the Goblins, Demoniac Dance, and, Power of the Dance, published by Goblin Publishing.

Information on all titles can be found through her website at http://www.jaqdhawkins.co.uk

Samples from various projects occasionally appear on her blog at <http://indiewritenet.com/jaqdhawkins/>

_More information about the title and unique aspects of the new novel will be announced when it is nearer completion at<http://jaqdhawkins.co.uk/satproj.php> Jaq D Hawkins is a published writer with 10 books in publication in the Mind, Body, Spirit genre published by Capall Bann Publishing, as well as four Fantasy novels in print and E-book; The Wake of the Dragon, Dance of the Goblins, Demoniac Dance, and, Power of the Dance, published by Goblin Publishing.

Information on all titles can be found through her website at http://www.jaqdhawkins.co.uk  
Samples from various projects occasionally appear on her blog at <http://indiewritenet.com/jaqdhawkins/>  
_

More information about the title and unique aspects of the new novel will be announced when it is nearer completion at <http://jaqdhawkins.co.uk/satproj.php>

#  Beneath the Shadows of Stars

## Copyright Rohit Arora

Inspiration

This is an idea I thought I would develop into a book but I realized later that it was more suitable for a short story.

~~###~~

"You've got to choose a side, mate."

"I do?"

"Yeah."

"I choose the side of this world."

"That's no choice."

"No. I think that was the original choice. Before any of it, any of this shit, happened. Before all the self-righteous choice-makers pushed one of their choices down my throat. I think it is still the choice most people crave, only to be suppressed. You know what? I think there should be a country with people like me, all those who want to choose the side of this world; a country with no religion, no race, only people."

"Yeah? And what would that country be called?"

"Simple. It will be called the Earth." I paused. "At least till someone divides it."

~~~

I think I understood that day for the first time in my life why Azhar never talked to any of us for days each time Al-Qaeda, Lashkar-e-Taiba, Indian Mujahideen, or any other Muslim terrorist organization bombed any part of the world. He didn't feel scared for himself or his people; he didn't support them but he didn't feel shamed by their actions; he simply felt divided, disconnected from this world and its atrocities and barbarism. I understood it because I was feeling the same that day.

The war, as they called it, those who fought and died in it, was not something I wanted to be a part of. It wasn't my choice and it wasn't what I needed to protect my rights, not that day at least. And yet, wanting it or not, I was being made a part of it, forced by the leaders of my world, who every day came out in public calling for support, calling their people to come out, to pressurize governments and citizens, to come back, to shell out money, lives, families, to shell out freedom of choice.

It wasn't the first time this world was seeing a world war, when more than just a handful of countries were fighting for the fate of all, but maybe it was still unique, because never before had every square foot of land been so diverse and yet so similar. There was a part of each country in every country; all living in all.

It was in 2006 that I moved from India to the European Union, what is now, thirty three years later, the European Alliance for Protection and Sovereignty. I moved to that part of it still known as France, to be precise; it sounds strange now but the countries of the Alliance were known by their individual names. I went there as a young man in search of money, reputation and growth for someone with my skills. The country was smaller than I had imagined, stranger as well, but the people were nicer too. They accepted me with much more ease than I would've accepted any of them had they travelled to my home.

The world was still recovering from the recession. Recession is bad for economies but it had been good for souls, for it had done an amazing job in creating a unifying disparity in the world. There were those who had it easy, even during the toughest days, and there were those who were trying to hang on to whatever they could get, but everyone appeared to feel compassion for their own people. The race to defeat the rest and climb to the top was still prevalent, but those who succeeded in getting on the ladder now respected the groundsmen more. They were more helpful and a little less forgetful. I was one of them, I believe, for I had accepted that if not for a lucky night with my friends in a bar close to my college, I would have, I must have, ended up in the category of those people trying hard to get anything.

In 2003, exactly six months before I landed my first job, four of us, drunk to our throats in our favourite bar, had decided to enrol for the French classes on offer during the final semester of our engineering degree studies. German and French had suddenly become the new trend in India, for reasons that are still unknown to me. People who could speak them, even a little, had suddenly started considering themselves a notch above anyone who could only speak their native tongue and English. But our reason for joining the classes was not professional or social; it was rather hormonal I would say. The instructor was hot, very beautiful and in her twenties. Almost the entire college had been talking about her for two years.

Just for the record, now that I reflect on it, I find that an extremely crass reason to join a class. But it was after joining the French classes that I found the language actually interested me much more than the sleek, fair-haired instructor. I picked it up faster than anyone else in the class and never gave up on it. I didn't know that two and a half years down the line not only I would be better with French than with English, but it would keep me in work and provide me with options which hardly anyone would dream of during that dreadful three year recession.

My company sent me to France for only a year at first, but my relationship with Europe was destined to be a long and stable one. I had gone there with a plan and stuck to it no matter how hard my manager, or his manager, or any other manager, tried to break through. I made myself indispensable.

Less than a month after my return our prestigious clients in France started missing me and my expertise. They had no one capable of replacing me; they needed me, and they made that very clear to my managers. Soon after, I was sent back to France and that time I did not return.

After staying in France for three years and working on two different projects, I finally decided to pull the plug on my now not-so-lucrative job. The world had started recovering from the recession and businesses were forecasted, at least on paper, to perform better. I knew it was the right time to start something of my own, because when buildings drown, billboards drown with them. Industries and markets were, more than ever, looking for value, which meant opportunities for newcomers to bring extras to the table. That's what I did. I removed the fancy jargon from my presentations and talked the language my clients understood better — the language of money.

I don't really remember why but I chose not to start my company in the beautiful city that had shaped me; I decided to move to England. At that time, I didn't know I would fall in love with that country. I was just moving with the wind, enjoying every second of my ride, but as it turned out England suited me as much I suited it; we both found comfort in each other. That comfort lasted for a long, long time, almost twenty three years. Just when I had started to think that I would peacefully see my days end in the closed boundaries of a Hindu crematorium there on the loving, caring — but once despised by all Indians — soil of England, life proved yet again that someday all luxuries end and all loves die. The war broke out.

Everything was fine at first, as India did not become a part of it, but for some godforsaken reason, just a few months back, they decided to fight against the United Kingdom — actually against the European Alliance for Protection and Sovereignty if I go verbatim by India's declaration — and extended their support, though merely on paper, to the alliances of Russia, Japan and South Korea. Maybe their decision wasn't going to change the course of the war but it was going to change my world for sure. I knew it.

~~~

When the war first broke out I didn't think it would affect me much. An unfortunate characteristic of wars and riots, though, is that they spread, and when they spread they touch even those who are not remotely interested in them. This war, though originally started between the USA and Russia, spread throughout the world. I don't even remember how England, or any part of Europe for that matter, became a part of it. Someone attacked someone for hideous reasons and suddenly all that the morning news hours carried were speculations of a world war.

In the early days, people rejected the idea of a world war for many reasons: almost every country had nuclear power, the world was a global workplace, human rights, NATO. Needless to say, they all turned out to be nothing more than optimistic theories. Then there were the intellectuals who argued that the war would end in less than a month because some government or other would resort to nuclear weapons; that would force all countries to do the same and suddenly — bang, we have doomsday. I have to say that this particular theory was much more believable and lasted on people's lips, if I can recount properly, for at least three years. Every common man, politician and General was living each day like his last, in the fear of nuclear war. I gave up on this notion sometime before the end of the second year; a few others worried for longer and a very few others, like my wife, still live with it five years into the war.

Though most of the people were awestruck by the gore and the violence, I wasn't much since I had seen a lot in my native town. I do not say that the two could be compared in any degree or manner but it's just that I never differentiated between two murders. For me, blood is blood, no matter why someone is bathing in it. I cannot recall a single day of my life when I wanted to murder someone and maybe that's why the war had a different level of impact on me than on anyone else. It hadn't broken me but it had left me disappointed and disheartened.

I despised it, for many reasons; one of them — not the strongest but definitely the most intriguing one — was the economy. While news of fresh bombings and old fires kept rolling across the TV screens, the world fighting blindly on, trade continued apace. I found it a little hypocritical. Goods were being exchanged, business was being done, as though there was nothing wrong with the smell of blood in air.

Every country knew that they needed each other. The interdependency of economies had increased to such a level that an economic war could only bring the entire world down. Technology had made it possible for people to exchange information and conduct business across borders without really affecting the flow of the war. It amused me to know that men were more afraid of losing money than of losing their lives to a bullet. The only way they could find to settle their scores was to kill each other, for they knew that a gentleman's battle, one settled on the business front, would kill them all. I laughed at it sometimes.

~~~

The biggest impact of the war on my life was that it had changed the outlook of people around me. It was an impact no one could have understood, no one but Azhar maybe.

Azhar wasn't a good friend of mine. He could never be; there was no possibility of it, ever. I remember the days when Jack and I used to sit at a table in the east corner of the Sunlight Café. Steven liked the music to play incessantly in his small coffee house, so we always chose that corner where the music was the lowest and the most soothing. I'd been best friends with Jack for years and we enjoyed discussing all the large and trivial matters of life, those which affected us and those which didn't: the economy, politics, crime, police, industries, philosophy and many others. Often the centre of our passionate but mostly professional discussions was terrorism, especially on those days when Azhar occupied a seat right across from us.

Azhar had shifted from his native Iran to my neighbourhood a few years after me. He was a technical architect and used to work in a US-based company's UK office; globalization at its peak. How did I know so much about him? Well, he was my neighbour and we used to talk occasionally. At first I thought we would gel well, and was even thinking of inviting him to the café with me and Jack, but then, just a few days later, a series of bombs rocked London and everything changed.

Azhar was a devout Muslim, one who refused to let go of a few things he believed in for reasons that were beyond people like me. Jack and I didn't see him outside his house for days after those blasts and when we did he was still the same, with his long beard, scarf and Jubbah. That was the first time Jack and I discussed Islamic terrorists spotting him, and soon it became a ritual I am ashamed of now. We used to discuss how Islam made people zealots, how keeping a beard and wearing a Jubbah was a sign of that, and how no other religion produced fanatics of the same level. I had, by then, or during those conversations at least, forgotten about the Indians who wore Chandan Tilak on their foreheads or hung lockets round their necks. Jack had forgotten about his friends who invariably carried bibles in their briefcases wherever they went. We had forgotten because there was no need for us to remember; life was good and I had never thought I would soon be made to realise my mistakes. I had never thought I would ever have a conversation like the one I had a few months back with Jack but, as I said, things were changing around me.

It all started with that stupid decision by the Indian government to choose a side in the war. Suddenly the UK and India had become enemies, at least if one went by the newspapers. Pretty soon the internet was filled with gossiping about it and someone, some intellectual writer from south London, wrote a piece in the Metro; it was about how the large number of Indians living in England could give India an advantage in the war against them. It's not like he had made a discovery or written something people hadn't thought of, but as you know, the land remains barren till people _think_ about farming it. He had said something which was in every mind and now they all had a reason to make it public, to discuss it.

Everywhere, British and Indian friends were discussing the implications. Jack and I were no different, but what had started as a general discussion turned ugly within days. I was trying my best not to take any particular country's side, trying to remain a neutral, but he was continually trying to force me to choose between England and India. How could I do that?

It's a classic, age-old problem that people have been facing ever since the dawn of societies; if you had to choose between your mother and your partner, who would it be? India is my mother, the country I was born in, studied in, which nurtured me, but eventually I left her to find a better life with someone else. England is the love of my life, my fiancée, my wife. England had given me a new life, or rather, reshaped it. She had accepted me during my struggle for success, had taught me new things and now supported me as I grew old. How was I supposed to make a choice between the two?

I didn't want this war. I wanted India and England to be together, at least until I died.

~~~

Many of the Indians living in England, especially those who had flown in for short assignments, were returning home in flocks. Their communities, stronger than ever, were holding everyone close, trying to keep everyone safe. The move was welcomed by the English. But there were quite a number of us who decided to not leave our land. Then everything changed, and it all happened so quickly that I didn't get the chance to realise what had happened to the world I was living in.

It was a Saturday, if I am recollecting it correctly. I am not sure because I usually talked to my family in India on Sundays. My dad had died three years earlier, but my blood ties to my mother, my brother and the rest of my family were important; the Sunday phone calls had become a tradition we had been following for years. It's not like I didn't want them to come to England — I have always been a family man — but they loved India far too much to be lured by the charms of any other country.

My brother ran an NGO and often asked me to come back home and serve mother India. I think he considered me a traitor, even though I frequently sent home considerable amounts of money, donations for him to continue his patriotic work back home. That day it didn't suffice. They didn't blackmail me or call me a traitor, but they didn't leave any stone unturned either. My mother asked me to come back home — she didn't know I was at home already — and my brother reminded me why India needed its children, all of them, more than ever. She was more concerned about my safety in England, since the two countries were now enemies; he was more concerned about my allegiance, since I was on the wrong side of the border. He said I should be in my motherland, giving away my life for it.

I won't say I was affected by their prodding much; I am a strong person on the emotional front and besides, I was expecting a conversation like that with them. I gave them arguments that day which varied from my being indebted to England to my lack of belief in the reasons for the war. Also, I was a British citizen; there was no way the Indian government would renew my Indian citizenship during the war. For all I knew, or pretended to know, they would see me as an English spy and keep me under long hours of surveillance, or just ship me back to England as early as possible.

They were finally persuaded, and I was saved. But only for a day.

Call it coincidence, or a test by the Almighty, but the very next day something happened which shook me to my heart. I realised immediately it was the first instance of what would become a routine. On my way back from the grocery store two blocks from my house, a youngish man noticed the paper bag in my hands and changed his route to walk over to me. I don't know why, but that day I'd kept my eye on him as well, since I first spotted him on the road.

"Hey," he called.

I chose to ignore him.

"Hey, Indian, I'm talking to you," he shouted, his voice filled with contempt.

The rest of the conversation, his questions about my business with his country, is neither relevant nor a strong part of my memory. The relevant part was I being seen as an Indian, not a citizen. Many people would ask me the same question in the ensuing days and each time I would answer with the same zeal, "This is my place, my country, too."

To be honest, there are days, though very few, when I feel that they are right; not only those who call me Indian, but those who are fighting this war. I think that maybe God did want us all to fight; what other reason could there have been to make each race look different? I mean, I have lived in England for twenty three years and I don't look even half English. But given a choice would I want like to look like them? No.

There were days when I did wish for that but they didn't last long. I don't think I need to look a certain way to prove my love for someone. I am what I am and I can't change it; I don't want to, especially not because someone's doubts are based purely on the colour of my skin and hair. That was when I realised why Azhar had refused to let go of the beard and Jubbah. They were a part of who he was and he simply didn't want to change. He couldn't change it without losing part of himself and he shouldn't need to.

~~~

On 14th September 2039, almost three months after the grocery store incident, I started questioning my stand seriously. It was then that I first really evaluated my options. I decided to sleep on the terrace of my office that night. I lay with my head resting on my cupped hands, listening to the melancholic voice of nature, feeling the chill of its breath in my bones.

I saw the clouds hiking across the sky and thousands of stars staring deep down from behind them at me. I tried to see how our Earth might look to them. Would they see a neighbour? Maybe a distant one, just like the Indians to the English.

I saw an entire universe, one huge home created for us by the Almighty. Does He truly know everything or is He, too, unaware that humans haven't learnt to live like that? We divide our world into countries, states and provinces; this is my place, that is yours. There are races, castes, religions, languages, professions, wealth and poverty, men and women.

I wondered if the stars thought all humans were one family, sharing one home. Earth, a home with many rooms indeed, and each room separate. And you enter a room to find it, too, is a home, and that home has many rooms, and so the divisions continue, for division is in the nature of humans.

You know what the saddest part of my story is? That it's been three months since I returned to India and so far I have only been heralded as a hero in my town. People from all over the world are returning to India; suddenly the government is accepting them all with open arms. Back here, people from far — my friends, relatives, their friends and relatives — they all say that I have come back to pay my dues to my country. Now that's not a truth I want to accept because that would simply mean I do not love the UK, but unfortunately that doesn't matter to the rest of the world. People say I am an Indian again and I realize what Azhar must have felt every time someone reminded him he was a Muslim.

I envy the birds right now. I envy the stars shining high above our heads. They don't belong to a place, society or man; they are of all, to all. I often think of a time in the future when the war will be over; everyone left alive could start the country of my dreams. But then I feel we would soon divide it again. I know that is true because I would be the first one trying to secure a place in it called England.

~~###~~

Author bio

I am a 25 year old aspiring writer who has been dreaming of seeing his name on the cover of a book for almost 8 years now. I am a thinker by nature and believe that words have an extremely specific purpose — to impact lives. I am a fan of literature that is gripping and entertaining, and can successfully leave a lasting message in the reader's mind. I like to experiment with genres to find the one that satisfies me the most. There are a lot of characters queuing in my mind, knocking its door incessantly, but unfortunately I can't give them my full concentration due to my other commitments. I just hope that one day I will have only my characters in my mind and will be able to work on their tales in peace, without worrying about life. I work as a consultant in my pseudo life and live in Bangalore. I can be reached at rohit.arora07@live.com

# Something Alien

## Copyright Jason Parent

_Home._ The word evoked peace. Its manifestation conjured more. In a rigid landscape, frozen yet alive, home meant salvation.

The modest clay walls of her adobe were arms held aloft with promise of a welcoming embrace, baked strong by a hot sun now moons away. Snow cloaked her residence like a cowl, heaping in knee-high drifts on each side of her doorstep.

And there, it stopped. Not an errant flake dared enter. Each withered and died on her threshold along with the burdens of her world. Rayle would permit no sickness to sully her home, no disease of the heart or of the mind to enter her walls.

But today was different. Her mind could not find its balance. The sight of her children, sleeping without care or worry, blood-red reeds piled high and thick to keep them warm—an image tranquil like the lapping tongues and crackling embers of a warm fire pit—made her tremble.

_Fear punishes those who cultivate it_ , she knew, but Rayle couldn't help being afraid. _They_ were coming tomorrow, _they_ who would recondition her world, leaving only scraps of the old, vanquishing all that she was.

Would her children know her then? The world in which they'd mature would never again be the world in which they were born. Hers were the children of dying ways, too young to understand tradition, too pure to realize deceit. New marvels, shiny and magnetic, garnered more appeal than a natural history they'd barely known. Would they comprehend what made Rayle hope and sing, dance and laugh? Could they feel what made her love?

She listened to the soft breezes slipping in intervals through their pursed lips, a soothing cadence. After tomorrow, would their sleep come so easily? Rayle's eyes blurred. Would excitement blind them to caution?

Rayle slid free the beast that was strapped to her back and dropped it near the fire. Her day had been spent hunting game across the sky-soaked tundra, toiling hard for her reward, for their survival. She eyed her kill with pride.

She sat at her clay table and pulled her hide boots from her weary feet. Soon her children would smell the fresh meat. They would need food, but she was unable to eat. Her appetite had been slain by the worry of what lay ahead.

_Change comes when strength falters_ , Rayle thought. _I must be strong._

She shook her head, wondering what was really at stake. Preservation of a way of life? Survival in its purest sense? The questions were beyond her ability to answer. She knew that today was good and yesterday was grand and all the days before that were as they should have been. She had everything she needed. Her babies never lacked a thing.

She pounded her fist against the table. Little Kaya stirred. Rayle froze. Her daughter's eyes drifted slowly open, then closed, another moment of decency spared.

Let them have this. Tomorrow comes too soon.

Barefoot, she tip-toed out of the hut. The snow and mud felt alive beneath her feet, seeking shelter in the curves of her nails. Stars lit up the sky, looking innocent, hiding the masters of time. _Hiding them._

She looked at the red grass she had reaped and baled, sprung from land she had cultivated: her land. She admired the fishery she'd made along the stream that ran down from the mountains. Her imagination, her volition, had allowed her to be. It had always been enough.

The stream's silvery water darted through crags and fissures. Along the shore, among rocks of gold, the night worms were wriggling. The rocks were valueless; the worms were sustenance.

Rayle approached the stream, listening to its racing waters and the calls of the many creatures that called it home. She had taken from it only what she needed—nothing more. She choked back her contempt for what would be a parasitic trespass, intruders who wanted everything, who had no understanding of harmony and balance.

Cupping her hand for a drink, one of her three fingers slid into the snow, leaving an indentation. She stared at the marking, no more than a divot in the snow. Was this all the mark she would make on her world? Was this all that would be left to remember her by? Soon, this land would belong to another, a stranger to her ways. And when the snow melted and the suns returned, how long would it be before she'd be forgotten?

Rayle sighed. _Futility,_ she thought, the notion bringing something short of acceptance. She dug her fingers deep into the mud and laughed. _Three trenches to mark my passage. The dirt will know that I once tamed it. And tomorrow, they come to tame me._

She tried to picture it, the dark and light fleshy things and their declarations of goodwill. She saw them landing in their vessels, spreading their dogmas like parents to children, to her children. _Coming to craft another's world in their image,_ she thought, snorting. To them it was Planet X, a world not unlike only they knew how many others. To Rayle, it was home.

"Civilization" they had called it when they made first contact. "A better way of life" they professed as they told her people how to live. They raped her society of its individuality. They destroyed what made her people free.

Rayle cried for tomorrow. Behind smiling masks and false promises, the humans brought extermination.

She glanced down at the carved earth. A smile crept across her face as she thought of her children, their big green eyes always looking to her for nurturing and guidance. Her mark had been made. There, she'd be remembered.

~~###~~

Author bio

It is with great pride and deep hope that Jason tears himself from the darkness of his usual writings to participate in this worthwhile cause. If you would like to see more from Jason, he can be found at <http://authorjasonparent.com/>

on Facebook at <https://www.facebook.com/AuthorJasonParent>  
and on Twitter at Jason Parent

# Crossing Bridges

## Copyright Sylvie Nickels

Inspiration

Crossing Bridges was based on a true story told to me when I visited Serbia soon after the break up of former Yugoslavia.

~~###~~

You may not remember hearing of Novi Sad, even though a young man there was inadvertently killed in your name. A young man called... well, let's call him Ivan.

And when his young American friend, Joni, eventually heard the news in her market hometown in the Mid-West, she threw her guitar across the room and broke two strings. Then she wept bitterly, though she had mostly only known him from afar.

Novi Sad lies in central Europe, on the left bank of the river Danube in Serbia, about an hour's drive north of Belgrade. The name means New Town or, to be more precise, New Plant if you translate literally from the original name, Neoplanta. The name was bestowed, along with status of free royal town, by the Empress Maria Theresa in 1748. In quite a short time it became a place of elegance and culture for the refugees from Ottoman persecution who had settled in the area some time earlier. They were Serb Orthodox Christians who had travelled hundreds of kilometres across the mountains to create their own New Jerusalem; their old one, the town of Peć, was in a region called Kosovo.

Of course Joni knew nothing of this. Ivan was no doubt supposed to learn it all at school but probably paid little attention. He was far more interested in computer technology. And guitars.

They had met a few years earlier in a bar on an unpronounceable island off the Dalmatian coast. Like so many Dalmatian towns, it had great walls of polished stone and churches with slender campaniles, built by the Venetians who ruled there, on and off, for some centuries. The bar was built into the walls and Ivan, then a student, was playing the guitar there to earn money to fund his holiday. Joni was learning the guitar herself and went to a lot of gigs in middle America. She recognised rather quickly that Ivan was no average player.

After a while he noticed her appreciation and also that she was pretty. He smiled. It was a smile that illuminated and transformed his lean, studious face, and Joni smiled back.

When she came up afterwards and said enthusiastically _'dobro, dobro'_ , ('good, good'), he began to chat her up straight away. She just laughed and shook her head so that her hair swung in long silky veils from side to side.

"I'm American," she said.

Delving back into his not-so-distant schooldays, he said, "What you like drink?"

It was a boy-and-girl affair that bordered on quaintness. Perhaps this was partly because Joni's movements were circumscribed by the presence on the unpronounceable island of her parents. The holiday was a celebration of the end of her school exams.

"After this you're on your own," her Dad had said gruffly, pretending this would be her problem rather than his.

Whatever the reason, that's how it was. During the day, Joni and Ivan walked and talked: up through the pinewoods to an old monastery, where an amazingly ancient monk showed them age-encrusted bits of Roman pottery, dredged from the sea bed; or along the rugged coast by an Adriatic that was in turns opal, azure, purple, and always mirror clear; or through olive groves to a _kafana_ by a neighbouring cove, to taste sweet white local wine while fishermen mended nets on the quayside.

In the evenings there was the _korso_ , the ritual stroll at dusk when the whole community dawdled along the main square by the harbour, up and down, up and down, gossiping and sizing up the local talent. Then Ivan would take Joni's hand to let it be known that, for the moment, she was his. Later she went to the bar and sipped thick, fruity juices while he played.

"Don't go getting too fond of that lad," her Dad warned.

On the last evening Ivan said, "Next year you come to Novi Sad."

"Or you to America."

"No money," he said sadly.

"Nor me. Perhaps in two or three years."

She was surprised and pleased a few weeks later when a tape arrived, an improvisation by Ivan of some of her favourite Dalmatian songs. In return she sent him a tape of the latest Madonna and Queen hits. They exchanged Christmas messages and Ivan sent her an Easter card, which was how she learned that Easter wasn't always on the same date for everyone. It was not something she had ever thought about before. The card came with a tape of Ivan's souped-up version of Serb folk music; Joni reciprocated with U2 and Blur.

A year later, on a short visit to New York, she found herself by chance outside the Yugoslav National Tourist Office. They seemed rather surprised at her interest in Novi Sad but found her a brochure with pictures of a sprawling town by a big, busy river. There were pictures of mega fields of mega sunflowers, some wooded hills and old monasteries, and a huge fortress.

"Doesn't look exactly groovy," one of Joni's friends observed when she announced she was going there the following summer. "Anyway, isn't there a war going on or something?"

Yugoslavia had just begun to break up. After some minor military flurries the northernmost republic of Slovenia had declared its independence and seceded.

"You're dead ignorant," Joni said. "It's nowhere near Novi Sad, and anyway Ivan says it's all settled."

"Ah, Ivan," the friend said knowingly, for this immediately put an understandable label on Joni's strange choice. The fact, however, was that Joni found it perversely appealing to be different from her peers going to Europe, most of whom headed in twos or threes or with boyfriends for the sun, sea and sangria hot-spots of the Med.

It was not to be. By the following year, Croatia had also announced its independence and terrible fighting and bloody reprisals were showing up on the newspaper maps ever closer to Novi Sad. So Joni went instead with two friends to a Greek island. Her friends flung themselves wholeheartedly into brief holiday affairs with two local waiters.

Declining the attentions of a third, Joni spent most of the time nostalgically remembering her Dalmatian interlude with Ivan. Time and distance gave it an innocence and an importance that perhaps it might not otherwise have retained: a serious, adult sort of importance with a durability value quite unconnected with the torrid goings-on around her. In a lonely moment she sent Ivan a postcard.

He, too, retained memories... perhaps echoes of memories... of something sweet and gentle that he had shared with a pretty stranger before his world went mad. But recent months had been dominated by anger and bewilderment and... yes, fear. It was taking all his ingenuity to avoid being conscripted into a military machine which appeared to be running out of control. Though his father ranted loud and long about past and present injustices, real and imagined, Ivan did not want to know. Least of all did he want to carry a gun and start killing the very people he had probably shared a gig with last month, or a stretch of beach with last year.

Fortunately his bad eyesight made him a poor military candidate. In addition, he was highly valued by his boss in an embryonic computer software business; his boss knew people in influential places. Also, his boss's daughter, Mirjana, had taken a fancy to him, and he to her.

Joni had written, _"I'm on holiday in Greece with some friends. It reminds me of my time in Dalmatia but isn't nearly as nice. What's going on in your country? Are you OK?"_

She did not want to know precisely what was going on in his country, just that he was all right. Her question arrived just as Ivan was trying to work out the same thing, so he wrote down and sent her his thoughts. His involvement with computers had widened his knowledge of English, though not exactly refined it, so that his descriptions of attacks and retaliations, of burnt-out houses and churches, of friends lost or made homeless, and harrowing lines of refugees pouring from one part of the country to another, came in short, stark sentences which did little for Joni's overall comprehension. She did understand, though, that he was angry that 'you" (the West) had condoned the break-up of his country.

"Always were trouble, those Balkans," Joni's Dad said unhelpfully when she questioned this. "Anyway, what's up with you? Still mooning over that lad? Daresay he's got a girl by now. Time you got yourself a proper boyfriend."

By then she was at business college, doing well, and had an eye on a music student called Mike. She had only just admitted this to herself and was a long way from admitting it to anyone else. In any case, she found this totally irrelevant to her interest in what was happening in Ivan's world. She now recognised this was far more to do with the streak in herself that queried the norm: the division of the world into childhood-type Goodies and Baddies and the questionable conclusions that often resulted. She had become an avid reader, and much of what she read consolidated this view.

Then she chanced upon a particular book in the library, a novel called _The Bridge on the Drina_. It spanned over three centuries in the life of a small Yugoslav town, then part of the Ottoman Empire. Its author, Ivo Andrić, was an early Nobel prize-winner. It came to Joni, as a kind of revelation, that today's events were merely the outcome of a lot of yesterdays. She thought one day she would like to stand on a bridge that had survived so much.

Croatia's independence established, the focus of attention moved to Bosnia, the setting for _The Bridge on the Drina_. Yes, of course he had read it, Ivan wrote. Every Yugoslav had read it; but did anyone ever learn from the past? This seemed a seriously sad point of view, but it was difficult to dispute it in the face of all those refugees, and galloping inflation. Now there were also sanctions, that Ivan said made life very difficult indeed, not to mention that awful President of theirs. Both he and his friend, Mirjana, had taken part in massive demonstrations against him, Ivan said, but there wasn't much chance of change against such media and military control, and he hadn't noticed anyone in the West showing much concern to help.

"What do they expect?" Joni's Dad asked when she questioned it. "Can't interfere in another country's affairs. Always were trouble, those Balkans."

The Bosnian situation got worse. Three ethnic groups, who had apparently lived seamlessly together, gradually turned to mutual suspicion, then hate, rape, murder. The city of Sarajevo came under siege from an army that had once been its own.

Joni completed her business course and was offered a job by the college administration. She had not heard from Ivan for a while and the relationship seemed about to die a natural death. Well, hardly a relationship. She wasn't sure what to call it. Then she read an article about old people scavenging through dustbins in Belgrade in search of things to sell, and scribbled off a worried note on college paper. In a few days an e-mail came back to the college: _the poor and sick people have it difficult but i am OK._

Around that time she met Mike in their local market town. He had just been appointed as music teacher in a small private school and suggested a celebratory coffee; then a concert and meal; a gig; another concert... There were curious similarities between him and Ivan: lean, serious faces that lit up when they smiled, and the music interest of course. Mike's instrument was the piano and he leaned towards the classical, though he would try his hand at anything. Within six months they moved in together. Joni's father pursed his lips, but thought at least she'd got that foreign lad out of her system.

And yet...

The semi-resolved tragedy of Bosnia, now virtually a UN protectorate, began to give way to new foci further south: in Kosovo. Spasmodic killings and reprisals swelled into guerilla movements and manoeuvring armies, burning villages, atrocities and harrowing new processions of people on the move.

"Damned Balkans," Joni's Dad grumbled. "Always were trouble."

In their spasmodic e-mails Joni and Ivan kept clear of politics. She told him about Mike and his music ( _"he thinks your tapes are brilliant"_ ); he told her about Mirjana and their wedding, eventually about the son he was going to have. He'd had to sell his guitar. But they were OK. _One day we will meet_ , he wrote. _All five_.

A few weeks later the NATO bombing began.

"How is that going to help anything?" Joni demanded, stricken.

Then the power stations were hit and the e-mails stopped.

~~~

On a Spring day in 1999 Mike picked Joni up from work as usual. They had been living together for four years in a small flat in the old part of town, not far from the market place. The spare room was crammed with Mike's music gear, tottering piles of music, an old hi fi system he couldn't bring himself to part with, and Joni's guitar, which she had recently started playing again. Mike was good at improvisations too, and sometimes they'd have an evening experimenting with anything from ragga to Rachmaninov.

Joni had decorated the bathroom door with a poster of the Dalmatian coast, by then reinforced many times with sticky tape. The living room was a wondrous mess of books and newspapers piled on the floor; of photographs, mostly unframed, on the walls; of scattered rugs and cushions. The clearest place was the piano, strictly out of bounds to any clutter; not even the smallest potted plant.

On that Spring day, Mike led Joni to a seat outside the new shopping centre, by the canal.

"I'd like a baby," he said.

Joni joked, "It takes two to make a baby," then saw he was serious. "Why now?"

"Because there's nothing more I want in the world. Because I want to help make another human being. Because I only want to do that with you. Because..." He stopped, then said, "Will you marry me?"

"Yes please," Joni said.

On that same Spring day in 1999, Ivan went to visit his parents straight from work. His mother had been unwell for some days with bad stomach pains but the doctor had only grumbled that the right drugs were impossible to get.

"He was really grumpy, as though it was _my_ fault," she said. "You'd better stay for supper. Ring Mirjana and tell her to come over."

"What are you thinking of, woman?" his father said. "Dragging her over all this way in her condition?"

"She's only pregnant, Dad. It's not terminal." Ivan made himself sound casual because every time he thought of his future son he could forget everything else and shout for joy. Sometimes he leaned his cheek against her belly and, when he felt the kicking, he'd look up at her, grinning. "Proper little full-back in there!"

"Huh! You needn't think I'm producing fodder for Red Star Belgrade," Mirjana said, pretending disdain.

Now his mother was saying, "It wouldn't have been 'all this way', would it, if she'd done what I suggested and come to live with us while all this... this nonsense is going on?"

_She's safer over on the other side of the river_ , Ivan wanted to say, but didn't because it would only make Ma more anxious. And NATO had always insisted they would avoid civilian targets — apart from the odd residence, hospital wing, or block of shops they got by mistake. What did they call it? Collateral damage.

He rang Mirjana anyway.

"Don't be late; I feel a bit queasy," she said.

He really had not meant to be late, and wouldn't have been if he had not heard the music on his way home, coming from the bar right by the Danube. It was a haunt from long-ago, carefree days and he put his head in just for old time's sake. And who should be there but Matko, with his one leg and crutches, invalided out of the army. He'd stepped on a frigging mine, he said.

A couple of guitars materialised from nowhere and they were off: the _rakija_ flowing — never any shortage of that — and, with it, all the old songs and improvisations. Even the Dalmatian ones he'd written for Joni a thousand years ago. Time he e-mailed her again.

In a lull they heard the air raid warning. Sometimes it came before the bombs, sometimes not. But Ivan wasn't thinking about bombs. Stricken, he pushed the guitar away and shouted, "God, I must go."

His footsteps clattered on the deserted late night street as he ran for the bridge. The military police were there. One said, "Sorry, young fellow, the bridge is closed while the raid's on."

Ivan pushed at him impatiently. "My wife's over there on her own. She's pregnant."

"Now, you're not going to be difficult, are you? You know how those bastards have taken a fancy to our beautiful Danube bridges..."

But Ivan, with the extra vigour from a fair intake of _rakija_ , shook himself free and ran.

He was half way across the bridge when the bomb struck. A smart bomb; a direct hit.

"Sweet Jesus," the military policeman whispered, and then, in a howl of rage, "I _warned_ you, you bloody idiot."

Far away, in middle America, Mike felt Joni stir in her sleep.

~~###~~

# Moon River

## Copyright Jay Howard

"'And that's what happens when you don't do as you're told,' the Fat Controller told Thomas, very cross at the bother he'd caused." Meredith turned the page and paused for her son to look at the next picture. She saw his finger move along the words, his lips moving slightly as he read.

Meredith continued reading out loud, wondering how much he'd read correctly. "'Now you'll be stuck in that shed for a week while you're mended,' he continued, 'so let that be a lesson to you.' Look, Chris, see how unhappy Thomas looks?" she said.

She loved how the magic of stories connected generations. As a child she had regularly begged her mother for another of the Reverend Awdry's stories at bedtime. He'd written them for his son, also a Christopher, and now her own son immersed himself in that same fictional world, one that had relevance for the real world.

"Sometimes," she said, "when you're told you shouldn't do something, it may not seem to make any sense, or you don't think it matters if you disobey just once, but adults know what things can cause accidents."

Christopher twisted sideways in bed to look up at his mother. "But I'm not a Tank Engine."

"No, you're not," Meredith said, chucking him under the chin, "which means it's much harder to mend you if you get broken."

She got up off the bed and leaned down to kiss the top of his head, burying her nose in the clean child-smell of his hair. She brushed it down but it refused to stay flat; his hair was as full of energy as he was. Her own waist-long dark hair had swung forward, tickling his face and making him giggle. She tossed it back over her shoulder.

"Time for sleep now."

Christopher snuggled down under the quilt while his mother turned off the reading light, leaving just a small night light glowing.

"Can we go swimming again tomorrow? And make another sandcastle? A bigger one?"

"Bigger? Today's was an enormous motte-and-bailey, complete with ditch and palisade."

"But we could do Windsor Castle next, or the Tower of London," he said, eyes sparkling in the light from the hallway.

"OK, we'll give it a try. But only if you go to sleep _right now_." Meredith paused by the door and blew him a kiss.

He reached up to catch the kiss, grinned and shut his eyes tight. "I'm asleep!"

She pulled the door mostly shut and went downstairs with a light step. Quite deliberately she had brought nothing more than a couple of sketch pads, charcoal and a small box of watercolours. She checked they were in the beach bag at the bottom of the stairs, then stuffed in some freshly laundered towels, ready for the morning.

Just two days in the holiday cottage on the Cornish coast had done wonders to reduce her stress levels. The biggest benefit, though, was creating quality time to spend with her six-year-old son. He hadn't adapted well to school. Meredith had the distinct impression that he was bored. Sometimes a keen intelligence and an enquiring mind could be a disadvantage. She decided to check her options with private schooling that would stretch him more. If they had to move, since she wouldn't contemplate boarding, then so be it. As for the cost, expenditure would need to be prioritised. This holiday might well be their last for a good many years.

She poured herself a glass of wine and went out onto the decking to enjoy the warm evening breeze. The glass nearly slipped from her fingers and her eyes widened when she saw the man seated there, staring out to sea. There was no doubt in her mind. How could she ever mistake that silhouette? Most of her life had been spent following Aiden, getting caught up in his dreams and adventures. Lit from the window behind him, the roughly-cut, leonine mane that skimmed his broad shoulders glowed the same russet as her son's.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry. "Aiden," she said, as coolly as she could, "what a surprise to see you here."

He got up and turned to her. They stood, just looking at each other, so much history and so many unanswered questions between them. "Meredith." His voice was low, throaty. Slowly he raised his arms to her. "I've missed you."

Meredith cleared her throat and resisted the temptation to run into his offered embrace. She'd always forgiven him for everything, all the hurts, small and large, all the trouble he'd got her into through their childhood and teens. He'd been the lynchpin of her life. He had made life fun and worth living.

Yes, she'd forgiven everything... everything except running away. But forgiving or not, she had never managed to stop yearning for him. How can you stop loving the other half of your soul?

She thrust her glass into his hand. "Take this one. I'll get another."

Before she could escape Aiden caught her wrist and turned her back to face him. "Meredith?" He put the glass down on the table and cupped her cheek, ran his thumb across her full lips.

She stood there, trembling, unable to move away, willing herself not to respond. His tawny eyes held her spellbound. Her lips parted slightly.

He released her wrist and cupped her other cheek, raised her face to accept his kiss. As their kiss deepened she couldn't help herself — her arms crept up round his neck, her fingers pushed through his hair.

"Oh, God, I've missed the taste and feel of you, Meredith," he said.

His words brought her back to the moment, the awful fact of his betrayal. She turned away so he wouldn't see how close to tears she suddenly was. She'd cried too many tears; now she had to be strong. "I'll get that wine."

When she returned he was sitting once more, again staring out to sea.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said.

Meredith followed his line of sight. The early summer night sky was just deepening through the darker shades of blue to a velvety blackness. A full moon cast a ribbon of light across the gently swelling waves that rustled and murmured up the beach and around the rocky headland of the bay.

"A moon river."

"That was your favourite song," he said. "I'm hoping it still is."

She turned to him, eyebrows raised in silent enquiry.

"'Two drifters, off to see the world'," he quoted, his voice excited. "Meredith, I've seen so many places, so many amazing things, these past years. Will you let me show you? Will you come with me this time?"

Ice water poured over her head could not have turned her blood colder. "Do you truly not remember why we split up?" she asked. Her lips felt numb and her heart thudded painfully. She felt a howl building inside her, the same howling she had felt when he left her, the howling that only ended when she first held her son.

"Of course I remember!" He took her hand. "Our child can come too."

He grinned, the old infectious grin she remembered so well, but this time she didn't see the situation as humorous. " _Can_ come? You think I have an option or desire to go off with you and leave him behind?" She suddenly realised her voice was rising with her level of disbelief and took a calming breath, not wanting to disturb Christopher. "You don't even know the sex of _our child_ ," she hissed.

She ripped her hand out of his and grabbed her wine, taking a big swallow as she battled to control her anger.

"Meredith, that wasn't what I meant." He groaned, looked at the floor and ran his fingers up through his hair, pulling at it. He looked up at Meredith, covered his mouth with his hands then held his hands out, palms towards her.

Meredith remembered their childhood mime of stuffing wrong, hurtful words back where they'd come from, the open palms a promise they had gone forever, a plea for forgiveness. If she placed her palms on his... She shook her head, retreated a step and held her hands behind her back.

"What makes you think you have the right to come back into my life and try to turn it all upside down? Seven years without any contact whatsoever and you think you can just turn up on my doorstep like this and be welcomed back?"

His face was so expressive, and she knew him so well, that Meredith was able to read all the things he was feeling at that moment. She knew her rejection had hurt him.

"You know me," he said sadly, "foot-in-mouth disease, all cattle beware." It had been a long-standing joke between them, but neither laughed.

"It's a good job you write better than you speak," she said.

Aiden took a sip of his wine and sighed. "May I start again?" he asked. He paused and his eyes lost focus as he stared out at the river of moonlight. "I really am sorry, Meredith." He glanced up at her but she kept her expression neutral and the dark pools of her eyes gave no clues. "I admit, I was a real shit to you and deserve to be hung, drawn and quartered for being such a coward. My only excuse, and it's a damn poor one, is I was too young."

"I was young too."

"Yes, you were, but you were always wiser than me." He looked at the floor then grinned again, sheepishly this time, looking up at her with his head still bowed. "I do know I have a son, you know," he said softly. "I've even got photos of Christopher."

"How?" Meredith demanded. "Have you been spying on us?"

"Yes and no..." He shrugged. "I've used a private detective a few times. She told me you'd come here on holiday."

Meredith's skin crawled at the thought of being watched, of her and Christopher being photographed without her knowledge.

"I'm not an unemployed wastrel any more; I have the means to support a family," he murmured. "See that yacht there?" he asked, pointing out into the bay.

"How could I miss it? It's enormous." She'd noticed the yacht dropping anchor earlier that day and wondered about the owner, wondered why they would choose this small bay to stop in.

"That's mine. That's what the three of us can go travelling the world on. Us and the crew, that is. You wouldn't have to pay for a thing, Meredith. Whatever you desire I will buy it for you."

She sat straighter. "So you think you can buy me?" she said. "I pay my own way in life."

Meredith didn't yet command top fees, but she'd seen the prices for her work increasing year on year. She didn't know that Aiden had had a hand in her success. She didn't know who it was who, over the years, had paid whatever it took to own their favourite paintings and sculptures, then anonymously lent them for display in galleries all around the world. She had been unaware of whispered words in the right ears to lubricate the process of her art becoming better known and hence more desirable. But seeing the size of that yacht, and hearing his words, a niggling suspicion was dawning.

"I'm not trying to buy you, Meredith," he said. "I just want you to know that I can take care of us now."

They heard the clang of a bell, the sound carrying clearly across the water on the light breeze.

"That's _Edith Moon_ 's bell," Aiden said and jumped up. "I named her for you and your song." He gently flicked the end of her nose with a forefinger.

Meredith remembered him doing it when they were young, thinking to tease her. As they'd got older he continued to do it until she demanded he stop. He'd admitted to her then that he often wanted to touch her, but didn't know how to handle those feelings, not at first...

She batted his hand away, annoyed.

He hesitated then grinned and said, "Come on, let's swim out to her!"

Meredith stared at him in amazement. "You don't get it at all, do you? The first thing you learn about being a parent is that there's someone else's life in your care, and that life is more precious than your own. How could you think for one second that it would be OK to swim out there and leave a six-year-old boy alone here? You're not too young now to understand. Your old devil-take-the-hindmost adventures were fun when we were young and there was only ourselves to consider, but that attitude is no good from a father. I guess you're still not ready to be a parent. Goodbye, Aiden."

She turned her back on him and went indoors, ignoring his pleas for her to stay, to hear him out. She locked the door, turned off all the lights and went to bed. It was to prove a restless night for her, though. Sleep evaded her until finally she drifted off just before dawn.

~~~

She woke to bright sunshine streaming into the room and a gentle breeze wafting the net curtains. Her eyes flew wide open as she heard her son outside, in conversation with a man whose voice she knew so well. In a few fluid movements she was out of bed, dressed in shorts and a tee-shirt and down the stairs.

"Christopher," she said, a sharp edge in her voice, "I've told you many times not to talk to strangers."

Christopher squinted up against the sunlight and rubbed the side of his freckled nose. "He's not really a stranger, Mum," he said. "His name is Aiden and that's his boat out there." He pointed out into the bay, where the yacht swung gently at anchor. "She's called the _Edith Moon_ and you have to call boats she, not it, because they're as beautiful as the women they're named after. And Aiden writes books which he says I won't like now but I might when I'm older." He dragged his spade through the sand, leaving a deep furrow. "Soooo, if I know all that he's not a stranger any more, is he?" He looked back up at his mother, waiting for her verdict.

"And what about before you knew all this about Aiden?" she said, in the forcedly reasonable tone that warned Christopher he wasn't yet out of the woods. "When you first saw him you saw a stranger, but that doesn't seem to have stopped you from disobeying me."

"But I didn't speak to him, because he was a stranger, so he spoke to me and told me stuff so he wasn't a stranger and I could talk back."

Meredith loved the way Christopher's mind worked, the way he used prior knowledge, logic and extrapolation to make sense of his world, but it could also be very annoying.

Aiden chuckled. "He's very bright, isn't he?"

"Very devious, I'd say — like his father."

Christopher looked from one to the other, looking puzzled, then shrugged. "I've never met my father," he told Aiden. "He went away before I was born to find something."

Aiden looked serious. "What was it he was looking for?" he asked Christopher.

"Mum said he didn't know, and that's why it's taking so long for him to come back. It's very hard to find something when you don't know what you're looking for."

Aiden nodded. "That's true." He looked at Meredith. "But you can be certain the moment he knows what it is he'll be back."

Meredith was becoming more uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking. "I think it's time for breakfast." She took a few steps towards the sea and drew a line in the sand with her foot. She squatted and held her son's hands, catching and holding his gaze. "Christopher — you're not to go an inch closer to the sea than this line, OK?"

Christopher nodded; it was a familiar instruction.

"As it happens," she told him, "I know Aiden from way back. We were next door neighbours for many years." She paused, thinking about those years they'd grown up together, then pulled herself back to the present. "Aiden — come up to the house and help me prepare." She stood and led the way.

Aiden realised she meant more than the meal by 'prepare' and meekly followed. "See you in a minute," he said over his shoulder to Christopher.

Meredith stood in the kitchen, hands resting on the table as she waited for Aiden. "Don't you dare tell him who you are," she said as soon as he entered. "He can live with the idea of a new friend who doesn't stay in touch. It would be devastating for him to know he met his father, only to have you just walk out on us again."

"Don't I have any rights as a father?"

"You would if you'd ever _been_ a father."

He turned a chair round and sat down, resting his crossed arms on the back. "I'm saying this all backwards again." He paused and rubbed his chin. "Meredith," he said, "I have no intention of walking out on the two of you again, not now, not ever. I'll be forever grateful for whatever degree of access you'll grant me to your lives. I'd like it to be full-time, but I'll accept whatever you can find it in your heart to give me. I intend to earn a father's rights, not demand them."

Meredith put the milk jug down on the table so hard some milk sloshed over the top. She stared at the white puddle as she said, "Just remember one thing, Aiden — it is _my_ decision, and mine alone, if and when I tell Christopher who his father is." She looked up, searching his face for his reaction.

Aiden nodded his agreement. "OK. Now, shall I make some toast?"

~~~

Over breakfast the conversation was almost entirely led by Christopher. He seemed fascinated by Aiden and it dawned on Meredith that her son had experienced very little in the way of male company.

"How many books have you written?" Christopher asked around a mouthful of cornflakes.

"Five so far," Aiden said, "every single one written with the swell of ocean waves beneath me."

"On a raft?" Christopher asked. "Like Kon-Tiki? I made a raft with Mum and we tried it on our river back home but it all came apart and we had to swim back to the bank!"

Aiden laughed. "Your knot-tying hasn't improved then," he said to Meredith.

Meredith could swear she saw the cogs in Christopher's brain clicking and rotating as he evaluated that statement. "You've seen the yacht," she said to Christopher. "Why would you write on a raft when you have a lovely boat like that?"

"Because it's more fun?"

Meredith paled. Her son's attitude to life was so like Aiden's: look for the fun, look for the adventure, never accept the easy or mundane.

"You know, Christopher," Aiden said, "I don't think it would make any difference what type of craft I was on, just so long as I could feel the waves."

"And keep your laptop dry." Christopher looked guiltily at his mother. "They don't work very well when they're wet."

Despite herself, Meredith felt her lips twitch as she remembered that particular episode. She could see the funny side it now, but she certainly hadn't at the time, not when his prank included borrowing her laptop to Skype his friend and then promptly spilling cola all over it.

Aiden reached across for more juice and another slice of toast. "I started off working on other people's boats and that's when I found I wrote my best work at sea." He finished slathering on marmalade and licked some off his thumb. "So when I sold lots of copies of my first book I bought a small yacht so I could write my second one. And you know what?"

Christopher shook his head, totally engrossed in everything Aiden had to say.

"I found out it is awfully hard work, crewing a yacht all by yourself. Then they made a film of the first book, and lots of money started rolling in, so I bought the _Edith Moon_ and now I have a crew to help me. I can write when I want, crew when I want, and when we call into port I can go and do lots of fun things on land. Perfect!"

"Mum, can we get a boat, huh? You could paint the sea and sunsets and boats and ports, and I'd crew the yacht."

Meredith stood up and started gathering the dirty crockery. "I think you're a tad too young for that yet, Christopher." She put the plates and dishes on the drainer. "Now, it's a lovely day so why don't you go back out while I clear up here? Then we can go swimming together."

"Will you come swimming too, Aiden?"

"You bet!" He paused and looked at Meredith. "If your mother's agreeable, that is."

"Mum?"

"OK, OK. Go on, out with you." Meredith turned and held tightly to the edge of the sink, her shoulders tense. It was all too sudden, all happening too fast. She didn't feel ready for a full day of Aiden's company, which would entail watching every word she said, every minute monitoring what Aiden said.

Aiden held her upper arms and guided her back to a chair. He started running the water to wash the dishes and spoke with his back to her. "I'm not trying to force you into anything," he said, "but please think carefully about what I'm offering. At sea you can paint, I can write, we can both teach Christopher. And think of all the experiences he'll have." He looked over his shoulder at her, a plate in one hand, the dishcloth in the other. "It's an amazing world, Meredith; let him experience it for himself, not just see pictures in dry text books. When we tie up for shore leave he can meet children and learn how they live, learn their languages, just by playing with them. It will stretch his mind, teach him to appreciate what it really means to be a human being living on this incredible blue planet. It will colour the rest of his life, help him achieve his potential. It will -"

"Stop! Stop! I can't think straight right now." She held her hands over her ears and went out to join Christopher.

~~~

That evening, with Christopher asleep and the balmy air once more tempting them onto the veranda, Meredith felt calmer, less pressured.

"Thank you for a wonderful day," she said, leaning back with a contented sigh. "I appreciate the way you put up with Christopher's barrage of questions with such good humour and, er, the times you turned the conversation."

"I've been the bad guy for seven years," Aiden said, "but I intend doing my damnedest to be the good guy from now on." He leaned across to stroke her arm. "So, will you come with me? Both of you?"

Meredith's mind was whirling with all the possibilities, all the factors to take into account, all the shattered dreams that now seemed possible again. All the hopes that could still be dashed...

"Aiden," she said, looking deeply into his eyes, "once upon a time I thought I knew your soul, but the going got tough and you let me down." She saw how he winced, how much it hurt to hear it, to think of it. She knew about hurt, crippling hurt. "I believe you wouldn't do anything like that again. But I don't _know_ that."

"So you're turning me down." Aiden's voice was flat, defeated.

"No, I'm not," she said, "at least, not yet."

Aiden cocked his head in enquiry, in hope.

"Get to know your son. Let him get to know you. Ask me at the end of the summer if we'll come away with you."

He grinned his wonderful, life-loving grin and Meredith had to fight hard not to throw caution to the wind.

"You'll not be able to turn me down after a whole summer's opportunity to persuade you." He winked, and then his expression changed, became thoughtful. He took her hand, lifted her fingers to his lips. "I've found what I was looking for."

~~###~~

# Finding Mandel

## Copyright K.A. Krisko

Inspiration

Finding Mandel is a true story. I've tried to keep it as true to my memory of the events as possible, although of course I can't remember conversations word-for-word.

~~###~~

Half of my story was missing.

I was in fifth grade. All the kids had been asked to make a presentation about their ancestry as part of learning about American history and the world. The children spoke proudly about American Indian, German, Italian, and French progenitors. I was able to talk in depth about my mother's side of the family; in fact, we had a little book with a blue cover, detailing our Scottish family tree for generations and hundreds of years.

My father's side of the family was a different story, or rather, it was no story at all. My grandmother was already dead, and my grandfather had no idea where his family was from. He could recite a little nursery rhyme in some other language, but when we recorded it and sent it to American linguists and even to Europe, no one was able to identify it farther than "It's some Slavic dialect". When people asked me, as they often did, "What kind of a name is Krisko?" I had to tell them I didn't know.

I was an adult before my father found out more of his family history. My dad's cousin had inherited some paperwork on my father's mother's side, and in combing through it he had discovered something interesting. My dad had never been to church as a child, although my grandmother had joined the Red Cross and called herself a Catholic. In fact, she was Jewish. Notes and letters indicated that her family, the Schlings, had not thought it safe to reveal their heritage, and my grandmother had been placed in an orphanage as a child, after the death of her mother, for which she would not have been eligible as a Jew. Slowly, a few of the names began to reveal themselves: Klimpl, Meisel, Klepetarsah. But there was no origin, no record at Ellis Island or elsewhere, of any of them arriving in this country, or from whence they came.

It was years before Cousin Joe discovered more. A few handwritten pages scrawled across lined notebook paper in bad English, written by my great-great-grandaunt Clara Schling, detailed the English and Jewish names of ten relatives who had immigrated to America between 1894 and 1903. She went further back, too: her father, her father's father, and before that. But where had they come from? There was a single clue: a name, in Yiddish, that Clara spelled Ober Zerekeve.

'Ober' means 'over' or 'upper' when applied to a town, so Cousin Joe began looking for towns in Eastern Europe that might fit the bill. Eventually he located two little towns in the Czech Republic, about an hour and a half from Prague, called Tserekev. And there was a lower ('Dolni') and an upper ('Horni') Tserekev. The family home? We didn't know, nor did we know how to find out.

In 2012 my younger brother Steve and I decided to take a trip to the Czech Republic. Mostly it was because I'd visited Prague two years previously with my uncle and been fascinated by the city, but we figured we'd try and take a drive down to Horni Tserekev out of curiosity's sake as well. My previous visit had been in February when it was too cold and snowy to do much exploring.

I arrived first in Munich Airport and went to collect the rental car and my brother. His plane arrived; he didn't. In fact, he was delayed for more than a day, but I finally collected him. By that time I knew there was something going on with the Nissan Qashqai manual-shift car we'd rented. Specifically, I couldn't get it in gear, especially reverse. I had a bad right shoulder, and I just couldn't get it to go. Steve and I eventually settled into a pattern: I'd steer, operate the gas and brakes and the clutch, and he'd shift gears from the passenger seat. Off we went to Prague, our first destination, with me stamping on the clutch and screaming "Shift!" at regular intervals.

We parked the car at the motel in Prague and spent several days doing the city on foot, visiting all the normal tourist attractions such as St. Vitus Cathedral in Prasky Hrad, the Matthew Gate, and the Charles Bridge. We also stopped by Pinkas Synagogue, upon the walls of which are written the names of every Czech Jew who died in the Holocaust, by city. We found Horni Tserekev there, but we didn't recognize any of the names. Still, it was interesting to think that maybe those people had been neighbors of my relatives, or had at least lived in the same area.

After a few days we decided to head for Horni Tserekev. The weather was nice. We had a good map. We hauled out the Qashqai, which was squashed into a tiny slot behind the motel, surrounded by six-hundred-year-old walls and much newer vehicles. It took many maneuvers to get it out of there. Things got more complicated when I realized I couldn't see the bumpers of the cars next to me, and we were perilously close. Steve was going to have to guide me from outside the vehicle. After several minutes of him leaping back into the car every time I needed to shift the car from forward to reverse, then getting out again to make sure I didn't hit anything, we extracted the car.

It was a pleasant drive, an hour and a half through hop fields punctuated by groves of dark pines. It was pretty and pastoral. With few issues, we arrived at the tiny village, found a place to park, and took a foot tour through the town: narrow streets, a single lane wide, between multi-colored multi-storied buildings, interesting plaques upon the walls, flowers here and there, a river and a railroad track. There was a Catholic church, but no synagogue or any other indication that this had once been a town populated by Jews.

There were very few people out, and the City Hall was closed and locked. We wandered down to a commercial building that turned out to be an inn of some type and then, having seen the whole place, headed back for the car. As we passed the closed City Hall, we noticed a man washing a car which he had pulled up on the sidewalk right in front of the building.

Both of us had learned a little Czech in preparation for our trip, me a little more but barely enough to get by if we were somewhere where no English was spoken.

"Do you think I should try and ask him something?" I whispered to Steve. He shrugged. "I'll never forgive myself if I don't," I decided. I walked up to the man.

With my broken Czech and poor syntax, what I asked came out something like, "Excuse me, please, do you know, is here, cemetery for Jewishesses?" The man stared at me for a second, then dropped his sponge into his bucket of soapy water, wiped his hands with a rag, and motioned to us to follow. I glanced at my brother and we trailed quickly after him as he strode off.

The gentleman led us down an alley and unlocked a door that led into part of the City Hall. Upstairs was a tiny library. He rummaged around for a moment, then pulled out a map and spread it on a paperwork-cluttered table. We all leaned over it.

He oriented the map correctly, took a pen, and circled an area that appeared to be several miles out of town. He tapped it emphatically with the pen, then folded the map, handed it to us, and gestured with his palms, giving me to understand that we were to take the map. I thanked him as profusely as I could in Czech and Steve and I trotted back down the stairs and headed for the car.

I handed the map to Steve. We slowed at the railroad tracks to make sure we took the correct turn onto a narrow country lane with no markings. Hops and other crops grew tall along either side. The houses of the village disappeared behind us.

"I think this is it coming up," Steve said. I slowed and stared to the left.

"Steve, this is a two-track through some farmer's field," I said.

"Yeah, but I think this is it," Steve confirmed. He showed me the map. I had to agree, there didn't seem to be any other option.

"Shall we?" I asked. I had no idea what the little SUV could do, and no idea what condition the little rutted track was in. Steve shrugged so I took a sharp left turn and bumped off the road into the mud.

The Qashqai flew up the track, bouncing from side to side and sliding a little in the mud. I half expected some irate farmer to come roaring through the fields on a tractor at any minute, shaking his fist, but I saw no fence or sign indicating we shouldn't be there. We topped a little hill and started down the other side. Spread out before us was a landscape of rolling green hills and copses of pines. No cemetery was in evidence.

"I'm not sure this is it," Steve said doubtfully, staring at the map again and then around at the unpopulated countryside. "I don't see anything."

"Well, we'll just go a little bit further," I said. "There's no place to turn around right here anyway and... what's that?"

Steve leaned forward and frowned through the windshield, now liberally coated with flecks of mud and insect carcasses. "I'm not sure. It's weird."

It was weird. It was not natural, that's for sure. It was tucked into a grove of trees that jutted out into the field a half-mile away. It was dark gray, tall, thin, and a very strange shape, like a wavy pyramid. And the little road seemed to be heading right for it.

As we got closer, the object resolved into a bizarre little roof set atop a tiny building.

"I think we'd better stop here," Steve said. "The road looks pretty bad up ahead. We don't want to get stuck."

I stopped and turned off the engine. Grasshoppers bounced off the car. We stepped out into tall grass. The odd little building sat to our left, several hundred feet ahead. We walked hesitantly towards it. It was white-washed gray, crumbling, with a heavy wooden door and that strange, tall roof, shingled with wooden shakes.

As we got closer we could see a wall stretching back into the woods from the side of the building. The wall itself was ancient piled stone, falling down here and there, covered with moss. The forest behind it was deep in shadow. There was a little gap between the building and the wall. We stepped through into a silent cemetery beyond, our footfalls deadened by decades, maybe hundreds of years, of fallen pine needles.

Almost immediately I saw names I had seen on the wall of Pinkas Synagogue. I knew we were in a Jewish cemetery, the one associated with Horni Tserekev. Some of the graves had huge trees growing right up through the middle of them. In other places, headstones stuck out of the sides of pines, so old that the trees had enveloped them and lifted them clear up off the ground. In a few places, what appeared to be ancient headstones were simply jumbled, any markings worn away by time.

We wandered in the dim light beneath the canopy. I stopped at one grave. To my surprise, there were several newer votive candles scattered around the stone. Someone had been there fairly recently. I knew there were very few Jews living in the Czech countryside anymore; most of them lived in Prague, or had moved out of the country. But someone had come here, maybe traveled for a distance, and visited this grave. Once again, I wondered if the person buried there had known some of my relatives. There was no way to know.

"What are some of the names we're looking for?" Steve called to me from further down in the graveyard.

"Klimpl, Meisel, Schling..." I repeated.

"Well, this one says Schling," Steve said.

"What? No way!" I hurried to join him. The marker was tall, made of a dark gray stone covered in places with green moss. The inscription was in Hebrew, which I could not read, and also in German, oddly enough, some of which I could guess. And the name upon the stone was Emmanuel Schling, and his daughter, Josefina.

I pulled out my photocopy of great-great-grandaunt Clara's handwritten note. There it was: Emmanuel Schling, known to her as Mandel — her brother and our great-great-granduncle.

Suddenly the cemetery became much more personal. For the first time, I knew exactly where we came from. I knew that my ancestors had stood there, some of them upon that very spot. I knew they'd looked around at the rolling hills, the copses of dark pines, that they'd chosen to tuck their cemetery back into the trees here, just outside the village in which they lived, worked, were born, and died.

I knew also that they were gone. I knew Cousin Joe had been unable to find evidence that any of our relatives in Europe had survived past the Second World War. No one visited that grave anymore; no one, save the two us, even knew it existed.

But there was someone who visited that cemetery — someone unknown to us, but someone who shared certain things with us, a certain connection to place. That person, or those people, were the ones who had left the votive candles at the other headstone.

"Steve," I said, "it's traditional to leave a stone on the headstone when you visit a Jewish relative's grave. No one really knows why, although there are a bunch of stories."

I picked up a small smooth stone and laid it on the grave. Steve spent more time looking for the right one, but eventually he placed his stone there, next to mine. The next time someone visited the cemetery and the grave with the votives, they would know that someone had visited the Schling grave, too. They would never know who it was, but they would know it was someone connected to them, in however tenuous a manner. They would know that Mandel Schling had been found.

~~###~~

Author bio

I'm currently a park ranger working in Colorado in the U.S. I've written fantasy and mystery novels as well as a collection of short stories. My website is http://www.kakrisko.com.

# Dreaming of the Sea

## Copyright Raissa Falgui

One last step and she was at the top of the crumbling stone staircase. Marisol Morris looked out from the old lighthouse and held her breath at the sight; a broad sweep of sea was spitting surf upon the pristine white-sand shore of the uninhabited island.

It was far more beautiful than the view of Manila Bay that Leonard had shown her that first time they had spoken, really spoken, to each other. You could not call it the first day they met, for of course they had met before. They both worked at the international bank, which occupied a tall building near enough to the bay to have a view, if you were fortunate enough to have an office with a window.

Marisol had found that if you peered through one small window of the coffee room, at just the right angle, you could see a bit of the bay. One day she was staring at that view; puzzled, Leonard had gone to her side to ask what she was looking at.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" she had said to him then, and it made her start to hear those words now echoed by another voice just over her shoulder. She looked around. In the gloom she could barely make out a woman peering at her and smiling.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" the woman repeated in her raspy voice. "Beautiful enough to soothe a troubled heart."

"I don't have a troubled heart," Marisol said, trying to blink back the tears that belied her words, and failing utterly.

"Would you like to tell me about it?" the woman asked.

She crumpled to the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks. She did not know this woman or where she came from, but she felt a need to unburden herself. Stuttering slightly, she spoke of her husband and their relationship, which had begun that day when she stood by the tiny window in the coffee room, dreaming of the sea.

~~~

"It isn't much of a view," he said, in a voice tinged with amusement. "Are you so fond of the sea?"

"My parents took me to the beach a few times when I was little, but after my dad died, when I was in high school, we never went on trips any more. In college my friends and I would talk about going on beach trips but somehow we never seemed to. I've been longing to go for so long but never seem to have the chance."

"I used to visit my grandparents in Cape Cod every summer," Leonard said. "There was a stretch of beach near their house and I grew up playing there with my brothers. But I can imagine the beaches must be very different here. Funny, I've been working in a country famous for its beaches for months and I've never visited a single one of them."

There was an awkward silence; Marisol stared down into her empty coffee cup, thinking she ought to excuse herself to get back to work, but she didn't really want to. She murmured something, he nodded and left the room.

As she reached the end of the corridor she saw him standing at the door of his corner office, watching her approach.

"Got a moment?" he asked. "Come inside and I'll show you something."

Without waiting for her to answer, he opened the door and led her to the window. He tugged at a cord and the blinds opened, revealing a broad view of the rippling gray bay, then he stood back to enjoy her delight.

"Oh," she breathed softly, "I would never close the blinds on a view like that."

"It's too beautiful, too distracting," he'd told her. "I'd never get any work done."

On their first date they walked by the same bay they had viewed from that window; they smelled its pungent saltiness and felt its spray. Together they dreamed and planned whole days, weeks even, exploring beaches. It was a few years, though, before they actually could.

Marisol's older sister was kept busy by her medical internship so her mother often felt lonely. She expected Marisol's company throughout the weekend and became jealous of anyone else claiming her time. Also, before he died her father had charged her with her mother's care, so Marisol felt guilty about spending too much time away from her.

Leonard and Marisol mostly met in the city, culminating in hurried, passionate escapades in the privacy of Leonard's apartment. They planned their marriage and a blissful honeymoon at a secluded beach resort. Unfortunately, as it turned out, Marisol was in the early months of her pregnancy when they married. Boat rides made her nauseous and heat and activity quickly made her dizzy, so she could hardly enjoy water sports alongside her new husband.

Three busy years passed before at last they decided their son, Andrew, could spend a weekend with his grandmother. At last they could go off alone to pursue their dream; together they would discover the enchantments of her country's shores.

They were exhausted from their long trip when they arrived at the resort and just fell into bed and slept. At breakfast they had little to say to each other.

"Let's go on an adventure together," Leonard suggested. "Just like we've always dreamed of."

She shrugged. "Okay, what will we do?"

"I read in the guidebook there's an uninhabited island nearby with a pretty little beach and a two-hundred-year-old lighthouse. We can hire a jet ski and explore it."

"That sounds like a lot of trouble. There's a nice enough beach here."

"Which we have to share with dozens of others. Come on. When was the last time we've gone anywhere, just the two of us?"

She sighed. Since Andrew's birth she had stayed at home. After all, they could afford to live on Leonard's income. At first she had found life cooped up with an infant isolating and dull. Over time, though, she had come to embrace that quiet life, shaped by routines that she was in complete charge of. Eventually she had stopped seeking adventure in her life and now she had forgotten why she had ever wanted it.

Most days Leonard seemed to find his work life exciting enough. It surprised her that he still had the energy and desire to seek something new. But then, it seemed she didn't really know him any more. Their worlds had diverged so that their only common meeting point now seemed to be their son.

A solemn, self-contained boy, even at less than three years, Andrew seemed to be independent, content to live in a world of his own. Sometimes it seemed that each member of their small family inhabited a bubble containing him or her, separate from the others, at times touching, then bouncing off each other rather than merging.

She'd never even really settled into the feeling that she was a married woman. She still thought of herself as Marisol Alunan, Maria Soledad Alunan formally.

"I looked up your name on a list of Spanish names on the web," Leonard told her as they walked along the sea wall on that first date. "It said it means 'sunny sea.'"

"Really? I don't think my parents were aware of that. It's not even my real name. It's short for Maria Soledad."

"Which means — let me guess — Maria the solitary?"

She shrugged. "Probably. It was my grandmother's name. Do you know what Alunan means?" He shook his head. " _Alon_ is Filipino for wave. That kind of wave." She indicated the rippling water. "Alunan means to be swept over by waves. Something like that."

"Like this?" he asked, and swept her into his arms.

It had felt right then, even though he was over ten years older and divorced, even though her name rolled off his tongue oddly in his foreign drawl and his last name, Morris, just didn't fit her name or her sense of self. Neither did it fit her father's name, Felipe, which she'd wanted to give their son. And of course Philip Morris was out of the question. Leonard had suggested Charles or Andrew as a name, an allusion to the sons of England's Prince Philip. She'd thought that clever then.

To be sure, a Filipino name wouldn't have suited their boy at all. He was too fair-skinned, with wavy brown hair, a little Leonard, really. People often acted surprised to learn she was his mother, her skin being a warm beige and her fine, straight hair a glossy black. It seemed all their boy had inherited from her were his long, thick lashes and maybe, some said, his shy smile.

That first morning of their holiday, looking out at sea as they finished their breakfast in silence, Marisol reflected on the irony that they had chosen to wander far from home in order to reclaim common ground. Though neither of them said so while planning their vacation, they both knew they were doing this to revive their faltering four-year marriage. They were not unhappy together, but neither were they particularly happy. Leonard and his first wife had ended their marriage for similar reasons. She had reason to fear he would do the same again.

She willed her body to thrill as it did before when she pressed against him, riding the jet ski. It did not. She felt neither the tender warmth of familiarity nor the rush of desire. It was just clammy skin against her face. She told herself to focus on him as they walked on the pristine beach of the uninhabited island together, his arm casually draped over her shoulder. She could not.

"You're thinking about Andrew, aren't you?" he asked.

"Yes," she admitted. She had been worrying about what her mother was feeding him, but Leonard didn't want to hear about it.

"You worry too much," he said, as he always did when she voiced her concerns. "Whatever damage is done in two days can't be that much."

His drifted his fingers down her exposed back. "Why don't you just relax and focus on the here and now?' But she flinched in irritation and moved away from him.

She tore off the long sarong she wore around her waist and fought the wind to spread it out on the sand; she laid upon it while he ran out to the breakers. She closed her eyes, and was not sure how long it was before he returned. She only knew the warmth on her face was dissipated by a shadow, and she blinked up at him.

"The water's too rough to swim now," he said. "And too rough for us to go back just yet. So, what would you like to do?"

"I was fine as I was." She yawned.

"Is this all you're going to do?" He looked good-humored enough, but she heard a tinge of impatience in his voice.

"Maybe," she said.

"I don't know what you want, Marisol," he burst out. "I brought you here on a vacation so you can relax. Look at this place." He swept his hand to indicate the stretch of soft white sand, the tantalizing greenery and the moodily frothing gray sea. "All the beauty you could ever dream of, and you close your eyes to it."

"It isn't that I don't appreciate it." She sat up slowly.

"Well, what do you want?" His drawl was never more pronounced, more grating to her ears, than when he was angry.

She winced and struggled to come up with an answer, but couldn't. She didn't really know what she wanted.

"You never talk to me any more," he said, "about anything but Andrew. He's a great kid, but there are three of us in the family. If you don't want to be with me any more I can look after him just as well as you..." He let the double threat hang in the air between them.

"I never said I wanted you to leave," Marisol said.

"Well, say something to make me want to stay," he challenged.

~~~

Marisol's voice trailed off, lost in that terrible moment down on the beach.

"What did you say?" the woman asked, bringing Marisol back to awareness of her surroundings.

"Nothing," she said, feeling numb. Her thoughts returned to that time on the beach.

No words had come to her and he had stomped off. For some time she was alone. There was peace in the solitude and soon she had begun to embrace the idea of being Maria the Solitary again. He might very well take their son to the States with him; she would live alone in their apartment, refusing to move in with either her mother or her sister, the doctor. She would live her life according to her own whims for the first time in her life. It was something she had never done before, and it would be an adventure.

With the rising of the wind, her pleasure in this thought had fluttered away. She had grown anxious, wondering where Leonard had stalked off to. He would not have left her on the island, surely? The water was too rough, as he said. She had decided he must have gone exploring. She remembered he had mentioned something about an old lighthouse. Her searching eyes could just make out the top of it among the lush trees. She had shaken the sand from her sarong, wrapped herself up and started towards the tower of stone.

She had found a path that wound among the trees. From the cool of the forest she had emerged into a clearing; the imposing gray Spanish lighthouse stood in the center. She had peered into the darkness and tentatively called into the gloom. The hollow echo of her voice had not led her to believe Leonard was there, but she had felt compelled to follow those winding steps to the top.

And now she was here and so was this strange woman. Having wept her heart out, she started to wonder about the young woman beside her. She was petite and her hair was pulled back from her face, curling down to her shoulders. She wore a full-skirted dress with an old-fashioned dowdiness to it.

"Who are you?" Marisol asked.

Her laugh was deep and throaty, and soon gave way to coughing. "I suppose you think it strange to find me here," she said at last, when she had caught her breath. "My father was the lighthouse keeper. I didn't exactly grow up here. I lived with my aunt and cousins on the mainland so I could go to school, but I visited frequently. I returned to live here permanently during the War."

"War? What war?"

"I had married and had a son, but by then I was alone," the woman went on without answering. "My husband had been away down south for some days with his work — he was an engineer. The day the War broke out he hurried to get back home to us and his boat was bombed."

"No! He died?" Marisol said.

"That's what they told me. He never came home, of course; still, I could never quite believe he was gone. I kept hoping. I raised our son alone through the War, for a little while. He was ten when his father died and after that he seemed older sometimes. He was always determined to do everything he could for me.

"When the Japanese invaded Manila, they sank whole ships loaded with rice; do you remember?"

"Japanese invasion?" Marisol said. "That was years ago." More than sixty years ago, in fact. But this woman simply could not be that much older than her. Was she mad?

"They sank them in the Bay, so the Japanese army wouldn't commandeer the supplies. People remembered this when their food situation got desperate. And it did for everyone, sooner or later, including us. We had relatives living with us, my cousin's family. And we soon ran short of food.

"We had heard that some of the older boys in the neighborhood were diving for rice in Manila Bay. My son decided to try it. I don't know what happened. He was nearly twelve by then and a good swimmer, but they say he got trapped somehow and couldn't resurface fast enough. And so my boy, my only child, he drowned. Some older boys brought his body home to me and I collapsed and wept over him right there in the street.

"I don't know how I kept on living after that, but I did. Later, I decided to come stay with my father, here on this island."

What had Leonard said about the lighthouse? When had it last been in use?

"How long have you lived here?" Marisol asked. "Where is your father?"

The woman coughed. "Out there," she rasped, gesturing towards the sea. "I got a chill the other night — the nights here are always cold, but that night was damp and rainy as well. My cough hasn't gone away, and I feel a pain here." She pressed a hand against her ribcage. "He's sure I have pneumonia and need penicillin. He went to the mainland to get it and should return soon. He doesn't like to leave me alone here after dark. Will you look and see if he's coming?"

Marisol obligingly looked out toward the sea. She felt the woman lay a hand on her shoulder; lightly, but the icy fingers transmitted a chill to her body, right down to her bones. As she looked out at the view, the waves seemed to grow rougher, and the sky dimmer. Rain rushed down in a torrent and storm winds raged, threatening a small boat pushing forward through the towering waves. It rode one swell after another but one struck the boat at an angle and turned it over. A man fell out, and Marisol saw his head strike the edge of the boat. She watched, horrified, as his unconscious form sank down, down, into the water, and rose no more.

There was a scream, which did not sound like her own, yet seemed to issue from her own throat. She leaned out the window, stretching her body across the broad sill, extending her arms as if vainly trying to reach the man, to fish him out of the sea. But she could not, of course she could not. She felt herself falling, feeling not fear nor despair but only a desire to end the horror. For there was no life for her now, not now that every person dear to her had been taken by the sea; she would be with them at the end of this falling, falling...

She felt hands grab her by the shoulders, then her feet were against a hard, solid surface, and there was only the slightest sensation of spinning.

"Marisol! My God, you weren't going to jump, were you?" Leonard shook her a little then pulled her to him, holding her tightly as though he'd never let go.

"Of course not! I'm not stupid. I don't want to die. I don't want to die," she repeated firmly.

She looked up at Leonard, who was still holding her by the shoulders and gazing at her intently. "You know, at first I wasn't sure it was you?" he said. "You looked different somehow."

"How?"

"Your hair was sort of pulled back from your face and fluffed up. And your sarong was billowing around you like a full skirt. In fact, it looked like you were wearing a dress with sleeves and all. An effect of the light and the wind, I suppose."

She felt his fingers sliding through her fine, smooth hair. She looked round and saw only the two of them within the circular room. She reached up and held his face in her hands, suddenly moved by a desire to kiss him. But she held herself back for a moment before losing herself into him, pausing to clear her mind of the disorienting feeling of being that woman whose life was so wrapped up in her husband, son, and father that she did not feel she could live her life without them.

There was a rumble of thunder, and Leonard glanced out of the window, then all around. "There's something about lighthouses," he said. "We used to stay in a lighthouse keeper's cottage in Cape Cod every summer. On days when my older brothers were picking on me too much, I would climb up to the top of the lighthouse to be alone. The character was very different to this one; it was metal outside, lined with brick inside, very clean and industrial and still in use, though it was about as old as this solid stone one. But what really mattered to me was that it was peaceful, secluded, sort of above everything. Is that why you came up here?"

She shook her head. Of course not; she had been looking for him. Never in her life had she sought to be alone. She had never actually been Maria the Solitary. It was not that she had never wanted to, only that being alone had never seemed to be an option. It now seemed to her such a foreign, frightening thing but she did not want to cling to him merely out of fear. Not even the fear of losing him.

The wind ruffled her hair and she shivered again. No, she did not want to lose Leonard, much less their son, in the sea or anywhere else. An empty space in her heart would not help her find herself.

She was struggling to frame what it was she did need, when there was a blinding flash of lightning and a crack of thunder that felt like it would split her ears. They were surrounded by a shower of sparks that threatened like thin, menacing fingers.

They clutched each other in the gloom until the might of the storm had passed and it was silent once more. Gradually, they heard birds calling, and the gentle susurration of the waves on the shore.

"Shall we go?" Leonard asked.

"Yes," she said. She held on to his hand. She would keep holding on to him but knew, too, she would keep a part of herself separate, watching from above. Perhaps then she could rekindle the light within her that would make her visible to her husband and child, a beam of light that would draw them to her and connect them.

~~###~~

# Agoraphobia

## Copyright Kerry Dwyer

We don't make house calls. We talk to people on the phone. There's a new drop-in centre where some of the other Samaritans speak to people face to face. But I've always preferred the traditional ear on the telephone support, see. I like being a Samaritan. It was a bit odd at first. The training was tough. You wouldn't think there was so much to listening, but there is. The police checked me out too. Made sure that I hadn't ever done anything I shouldn't've. Well they have to, don't they?

I get on all right now with my team. We look out for each other and make sure no one is getting too involved. We only speak to someone once usually. The night shift get it worse. It's at night when people get maudlin and suicidal. I mainly do mornings. Sometimes I get idiots wanting me to pay their leccy bills. And once I had this woman screaming at me 'cause she needed someone to look after her kids so she could go to work. When I asked if she was feeling suicidal, we always do, see, she said she felt more like murdering someone.

Sometimes someone'll latch on to you and it's hard to get them to move on... Once they know when it's your shift they just call at that time, see. We can always get the shift leader to sort it, if it gets too much.

I've been talking to Margaret for about six months now. She got me the first time she rang the hotline number. It's in the morning, just after her husband, Jim, goes to work that she feels the need. She's agoraphobic. She hasn't set foot outside her house for years.

She tried therapy, years ago now. Didn't do her any good, poor cow. They tried what's called exposure therapy. So, they take her to a park, don't they? It wasn't too bad, she said, until Jim needed a wee. Well he goes into the public loos and she's left outside with this therapist who she doesn't know from a bar of soap and she starts shaking and sweating. By the time Jim comes out she can't breathe. So she clings onto him — her husband, not the therapist chap — and she demands to be taken home. Which he does, even though the therapist's harping on about how she should face it and get over the fear. Wanted her to stay for an hour he did but her Jim took her home. She never wanted to try it after that. She refused point blank to see the chap again.

She can't remember when it started, the agoraphobia. Funny how we say 'agra' isn't it, when it's written AGORA? Or you hear some folks saying 'agrophobia', like you're afraid of aggro, which I suppose you are. Anyway, she told me about one Christmas time, when she was nearly due with her last. She was enormous and she had to go shopping, see. So she had the two little ones and this great big belly and she was in the queue for the cash desk when the woman at the till gave her a sympathetic look and that was it. She burst into tears. They had to get her a chair and a glass of water and call Jim to come and take her home.

She told me she felt ashamed and the kids were upset too. It put her off going into supermarkets again. She had to force herself to go out when the kids were small. She had to take them to school and clubs and what not. Then as they got bigger she had to go out less and less. By the time they left home she was hardly going out at all. When Jim offered to pick up the groceries on his way home she jumped at the chance. She just stopped going out altogether.

She likes talking to me. She says it's great that I don't tell her what to do. I just listen, which is what she wants sometimes. Her family, she says, always tell her what to do. Her kids are the worst. They tell her she should pull herself together and get on with it. Well, I read up on this agoraphobia, see. She can't just get on with it, otherwise she would, wouldn't she? Her kids just don't get it. For all their fancy jobs and posh houses in somewhere-under-Lyme they can't work it out. Margaret's brothers and sisters don't visit much. When they do they get at her. Jim protects her though. He tells her they don't understand. He tells the kids to leave her to it.

Her husband sounds like a love. She was bored indoors so he got her a job that she can do at home. She gets these boxes of parts delivered. They come in a van every Monday. The guy drops them off in her front porch and picks up the boxes she's left at the same time. They are different parts that make up lampshades. She has to put them in packets and stick the labels on. It's not much of a job. It keeps her busy. They're different every week, but the principle is the same. She has to make sure that each pack has a frame, top and bottom, instructions and the shade. Flat pack lampshades! I ask you?

He does all the shopping as well. Wish I had a bloke who would do all the shopping. She writes him a list and he picks it up on the way home from work. She doesn't use the internet. She never wanted to learn. I told her about shopping online and having it delivered but she wasn't interested. Said she would have to get used to another delivery and one a week was enough.

Anyway, the first time Margaret called me, Jim had just been diagnosed with the cancer. Well, you can't help feeling sorry for them, can you? She was in a right state. He's the only person she has any trust in, see. She was so upset she didn't make sense at first. He's not very sick yet, still working, but he's got this lump in his head and they can't operate on it. He gets right bad headaches which is why he had the examination.

She's calmed down a lot since that first call. She still calls me nearly every week to tell me about it. She feels a bit pathetic not being able to go with him when he goes to the clinic for his treatment and the like, but what can she do? Always gets a bit distressed when her kids have been for a visit. It never goes the way she wants it to. She was hoping that one of them would offer to come home again once their dad died. They've made it clear that she will have to pull her socks up and get on with it. They don't want to see their dad more than they used to either. You'd think they would, wouldn't you? Now that he's dying and all.

Once she gets talking it all comes out. Margaret wants to be strong for Jim. She doesn't tell him about her worries. It's right, she says, that they should all think about him. It's Jim that matters the most after all. Jim has maybe a year to live, if he's lucky. What they don't talk about is her. Not that she wants them to, but what is she going to do? She will have to go out and she's frightened. She knows she can get some help. She's got some telephone numbers and leaflets from a society Jim contacted. She's still terrified. Without Jim, she says, there will be no one to understand her. Without Jim there will be no one who will let her stay at home where it's safe. Without Jim there'll be no one to protect her. She says she feels ashamed of herself, thinking like that. The poor chap's on his last legs, she says, and she's worried about who's going to put the bins out when he's gone.

Like I said, we don't do house calls. We don't get involved. But when Margaret called me this morning she sounded so upset. I felt that she just needed a shoulder to cry on. Tea and sympathy. Someone to be there. On her own all day with Jim at work, poor sod. She told me where she lived and I know I shouldn't've, I know it's against the rules, but I said I'd be round in half an hour.

It's not far from mine to Margaret's. Just over the flyover and round the back of the leisure centre. She said she'd get the kettle on. Better at hers than at the drop-in centre; the tea there comes out of a machine and has the taste of coffee and soup.

It wasn't hard to find my way and I was soon at the front gate. Nice little road this, with all the houses the same in the terrace. I'm not fond of these pre-war terraces. There aren't too many of them left and what there are have been done up with stick on bricks and pebble dash. No one seems to care that in the middle of a terrace there is one that's different to the rest. This terrace, though, they are all still brick with wooden doors and windows. Margaret's house looks neat from the outside. The paintwork is clean and you can see the curtains drawn back. Jim does the garden and Margaret watches him. From the gate I could see all the flower pots and garden rubbish pushed up against the front of the house. It wasn't a big pile of stuff but it did make me smile. Of course she wouldn't be able to see that from inside the house. What you can't see won't hurt you.

So, I ring on the door bell and she shouts to open the door and come in. The hall is neat with coats on coat hooks and shoes on a low rack. There are two pairs of men's shoes and one pair of women's that look dated but almost new. Margaret comes out of her kitchen with a tea tray in her hand. She's put biscuits on a plate with a doily on it. She's calm but her eyes and nose are red from crying. We go into the living room and sit by the window. I was right about the garden rubbish; you can't see it from the living room.

Margaret tells me that I am not what she expected although she doesn't know quite what she expected. She says she thought I would be older and have longer hair and maybe be wearing a dress with a housecoat on top, as if I was going to clean offices. I tell her that I nearly always wear jeans and trainers and she nods. I get ready to listen and put my listening face on; concerned and interested without looking like you're constipated.

The cat wanders in and Margaret tells me that it's her daughter's. She tells me how all her kids had pets. She tells me that when they left they left their animals too. Didn't take them with them, did they? The old cat is the last one left. Margaret says her kids nagged at her to get them each a pet and then abandoned them when they left home. Margaret says she feels a bit abandoned too now.

So then Margret asks me if I want any more tea. I tell her no thanks. I tell her I can't stay too long. And that's when she asks me to call the police. And that's when she tells me she's killed her Jim. And that's when she tells me why she called me; she wanted someone she knew to be with her when they came for her.

I say nothing for a minute. I don't know what to say. And then she tells me how she did it. She tells me that she put lots of his cancer medicine in his breakfast tea. She tells me he died quietly. She tells me it was like he just went to sleep. And I still say nothing. I can't believe I'm hearing this. They didn't train us for this at the Samaritans. I feel like I should scream or run away but I don't; I just sit there with my biscuit and cup of tea.

She doesn't look batty. She looks quite normal. Then she tells me how everything's going to be all right now. She tells me Jim won't suffer a long and painful death now. She tells me she'll be all right because she'll go to prison and won't have to go out ever again.

~~###~~

# Flood Tide

## Copyright Barry Gray

Here on the creek where unremitting wind rattles the wire rigging

the hulks rest out long hours between the tides

dreaming of past voyages.

The sea lives on the next horizon

and only comes here with her blue dress soiled;

bringing salt mud and weed to colour them dun and dirty.

Only the old men now remember which was "Morning Star" or "Mary Anne"

and which was red and yellow, which was blue and white

and how they roared with choke let out

and smacked their way to sea;

returning on the flood in clouds of gulls.

Their last line cast,

their last pot dropped,

the old men slowly sup long pints

in half-lit run-down pubs

or blankly stare in nursing homes

till once a month their daughters come

to take them to the shops.

Only the big flood tides

fecund with wrack and mermaids purses

now ripple up the creek to float these boats;

some lift and gently rock,

some wallow and half drown.

No one repairs them.

Slowly, tide upon tide dismantles them,

their wooden bones bob in the slack,

shadows of gulls pass over them;

blessings perhaps, or fading afterthoughts.

~~###~~

Author bio

I grew up in the Somerset town of Frome and at 17 moved a few miles north to the city of Bristol where I still live.

Ever since my mum told me "Don't play near the river" I have not been found far from water and retired from the UK Environment Agency in 2007, having spent most of my career working on water pollution issues. For a few years I was lucky enough to work in the same office as Jay Howard and remember competing with her to name the colours of the dawn ("I've got cerise." "Really? How about lavender?") as the sun rose over the car park and air conditioning system.

A lifelong birdwatcher, I now spend much of my time watching birds of prey and working to conserve them and their habitats; activities that take me to the Somerset Levels, Severn estuary, Wiltshire downlands and Welsh mountains.

I started writing poetry as a teenager and had a handful of poems published in the small "Underground" magazines of the early 1970s. I then wrote almost no poetry until about 12 years ago. Many of my poems celebrate the natural world or touch on the uneasy relationship that modern man has with his environment and fellow creatures.

Occasionally one of my poems appears in a magazine or book. I'm still not prolific but am edging my way towards a slim volume.

# Roots to Water

## Copyright Gloria Ng

Inspiration

Roots to Water is a stand-alone adaptation of an excerpt from my short memoir, Well Water Woman, written for the purposes of this WaterAid anthology.

~~###~~

Dig beneath your feet, there you will find a spring. The place where you are now is crucial. Never try to avoid that which you must do.

~ Daisaku Ikeda

I was a sophomore in high school when my family made our first trip to China. Prior to that, we somehow made it through day-to-day life in San Francisco as a nuclear family, divorced from extended family. I envied those of my peers who had three generations in their New World homes, their grandparents shouldering the demands of immigrant life in America. Both of my grandparents from my father's side had already passed, yet here we were — Mama and I — standing in the dusty courtyard of the ground-story complex in which Grandma had lived.

This, then, was Baba's home, the village in mainland China where he had grown from a boy to a man.

I stared at the wooden panel covering the courtyard well. _Could I manage without piped water?_ I wondered.

_Baba is her favorite son, her favorite child_ , my mother had said many years before, speaking about my grandmother and my father.

I recalled her words, trying to imagine that favorite child, playing in the courtyard between these gray walls—were they cement or plaster? I had no idea about building materials, but I was certain of the fine dust in this corner where the well stood.

Further from the entryway, covered by the roof, was a kitchen with the biggest wok I had ever seen. Mama also told me that Baba had cooked for everybody in the village when he was growing up, because he was the best cook. Was that why he rarely cooked in America and left it to Mama? Perhaps he cooked too much and tired of it? The whole village was full of extended family. I tried to visualise them all living and eating here together way back then.

To this day, when I think of China, I don't think of Mama's Hong Kong metropolitan upbringing but this place where my father grew up — Grandma's rustic place. How different would life have been if Grandma was alive and lived with us in America? Would I have felt so lost as a girl, growing up in a place I didn't quite call my own? Would I have felt as disconnected as I did — not quite Chinese enough for China, yet not quite American enough for America? Would growing up with Grandma have given me the roots I needed early on to feel secure within myself, to know my place in the world?

But she left this world, left me with no answers to those questions. Left dangling with bare and vulnerable roots, I sought water from her taciturn son; water, the giver of all life on this planet; water, the ultimate embodiment of the feminine in Traditional Chinese Medicine. Grandma's absence meant my father was my only clue, my only connection, to this mysterious woman. I somehow knew that understanding her was an integral part of understanding myself.

~~~

"He dug this well by himself — by hand," Mama told me, eying the solid brick stones that lined the sides of the well. Although she stood stoically by my side, I could hear the trace of admiration in her voice.

Mama, a city girl, somehow met and married my farm boy dad in Hong Kong. Not only did he make his way out of a village across the waters into the British colony, he also gave Mama a daughter (me) and moved all three of us across the bigger bodies of water and land masses to the United States.

Still . . . Wow! Baba _dug_ a well? I wished I could be as self-sufficient, with the courage to do such a thing. I was almost afraid to open the wooden panel and look down to see how deep the well ran.

Beside the well stood a metal bucket with thick rope tied to its handle. Judging by the length of the rope, the well ran deep.

"When he was down there, digging, as soon as the water flooded in, he tugged on the rope and someone pulled him out of the well," Mama continued.

I lifted the wooden panel and peeked inside. The well ran so deep I could only see darkness. Rock and mortar lined the sides. How many rocks — big and small — needed to rest at the bottom of the well to help filter out underground insects and wildlife?

I shuddered, wondering how many long hours it took to dig the well and how dark and confined the space became with each dig. How fast did water fill a well when the pick and shovel hit the water table? How long did someone need to work with Baba to get all the sides lined up with rock and mortar?

"He was a teenager when he dug that well," Mama said.

He could not have been much older than I was at the time, for I, too, was a teenager.

Baba was a doer. When he had an idea, no matter how much hard work the task entailed he was up for it. When he wanted to get out of China, he made a break for it. He swam the same distance as San Francisco to Alcatraz when he swam from mainland China to Hong Kong. So many refugees landed in Hong Kong that he was deported back to China. Undeterred, he swam the distance again shortly before Hong Kong strengthened its porous borders. When the opportunity arose, Baba moved us to the United States.

Grandma, did you teach Baba about hard work and determination?

How could I be related to Grandma and Baba? My life, day in and day out, halfway across the world in San Francisco as a high school student, waxed and waned with chores and homework. Chores I detested. Homework I loved. Indulging in my studies made me a lazy, spoiled brat who got away with minimal household duties. Bare minimum.

While in school, I did things in spurts, when I _had_ to do them. I indulged in my academic strengths, sitting on my tush, crunching in last-minute study time for exams and papers. When I achieved a passing grade of a D in middle school algebra, I gained a horrid scolding but plenty of forgiveness in laxity on chores missed. As soon as I pulled up my grades, I fulfilled my household maintenance responsibilities. Otherwise, everything else went neglected. Procrastination was my best friend.

Look at that craftsmanship.

Baba's voice echoed in my mind. He always admired people's handiwork, perhaps because he was such a handyman himself. If something needed to be done, he did it all the way and he did it well.

Examining the well, I could tell Baba was detailed and thorough. Rock by rock, Baba sealed that well's lining. No gaps, no cracks. That well was solid, a testament to Baba's track record.

_He made this well for you, Grandma._ This was the well that nourished her in life and now her descendants in death.

Baba did things when they needed to be done. He also did things that he wanted to do. He had a dream, and he pursued it.

I was dreamless. I did not know what I wanted to do or wanted to be. Every day was drudgery. The accumulation of knowledge titillated me while in school but that itch passed just as quickly as it appeared. Every new thing I learned became the next fix as if I were a busy bee going from one flower to the next, never satisfied with just one. Every tide of information ebbed and flowed, leaving me unsure on which shore I'd settle. Adrift on a raft atop a massive ocean, I lacked patience and persistence. I floated wherever the current or winds took me. I had no anchor, no foundation.

Grandma, I need you. Tell me who I am.

Baba was different. He knew his place. He mastered himself and braved the elements in his environment. He had ambition to go beyond his place, beyond his place of birth. He had courage to leave what he knew and embrace the unknown. He dared to live his dreams.

Grandma, you taught Baba well.

I covered the well with the wooden panel and surveyed the courtyard. Mama had disappeared. Her absence highlighted my stark surroundings. Rainwater from the previous night filled several large metal buckets strategically distributed around the courtyard, ready for collection and distribution. Helping one of my cousins retrieve the water, taking it to the outhouse and to the kitchen, I realized for the first time the heaviness of water as the weight pulled at my shoulder sockets.

Baba, the first in his entire clan to leave China's borders, dodged bullets to get there, to get beyond China's guarded turf. To leave mainland China meant betrayal or disloyalty to one's country. Hong Kong, then a British colony, was a coveted land, a ticket to freedom from the known to the unknown. The United States, seen as a land of opportunity where one's determination and hard work resulted in an upgrade of social class for oneself and one's family, meant the ultimate ticket to freedom. Baba—the link between continents, between Grandma and myself—taught me about living in this new and unknown world, this United States, more than Grandma herself ever could.

~~###~~

Author bio

Gloria Ng is an Oakland-based mother of three who writes on Owl Time. Her work has appeared in anthologies, including YELL-Oh Girls! Emerging Voices Explore Culture, Identity, and Growing Up Asian American. (HarperCollins, 2001) Seeing the lack of bilingual books to read to her children, she created the Amazon bestselling Mama Gloria Chinese-English Bilingual Books series. Well Water Woman is her first independent work for an adult audience. For forthcoming book updates, visit http://www.GloriaNg.com or sign up for her newsletter at <http://eepurl.com/fSDdD>.

# American

## Copyright Jason Parent

Inspiration

I would like to thank all the readers of this anthology for their help in bringing clean water to those who need it. You, the readers, are my inspiration.

~~###~~

A plainly-dressed woman, just shy of thirty, walked hand-in-hand with her chocolate-smeared toddler down the snow-layered streets of Vermont's capital. Montpelier was hardly noticeable from the interstate, buried in trees and nestled within mountains. Shrouded in blankets of lush greens in summer and clean whites in winter, it was a good place to hide.

The folk of Montpelier were locked in a simpler time, with moral hearts, open minds and a sense of uniformity in nonconformity previously unknown to Rashida. The community contradicted benchmarks that had guided her for decades. It had shown her tolerance, sometimes acceptance, balm to a soul who had fled an oppressive regime, then oppression of a different kind.

Raised outside Kabul, Rashida had been immersed in customs that had devalued her. But it had stopped at her doorstep; inside, her home had been filled with love and temperance. She had been home-schooled until her eighth birthday, when her father had moved them into the city. Rashida hadn't known it then, but she had been among the first in her country to experience compulsory female education.

She smiled, thinking back to her father. He had worked so hard so that she could have the best, yet it was her mother who had suggested a Western education. Her father had objected. She had never seen him so angry, shouting that the Western world was filled with corruption that would somehow corrupt her.

Rashida's pleading had eventually swayed him. Scholarships had secured the transition. And although Kabul had progressed toward gender equality, Rashida could not remain in a place where even her mother clung to some of the bastions of a culture that once considered her inferior and, in the minds of too many, still did.

Rashida pictured her mother, afraid to leave her home without a male escort, forced to cover her beautiful features with a burqa. She saw a little of her mother in the mirror each time Rashida tied on her scarf. She loved her mother, but she didn't want to become her.

Back home, change had come too slowly. New-world values had offered her a fresh start, had given clout to her ideas, her opinions, her voice, yet she had never fully embraced her radically different lifestyle. She had let enough of it in to know she had moved beyond her heritage, if not beyond its reach.

Despite her feelings for another, she had submitted to an arranged marriage in accordance with her family's old-world, patriarchal customs. "He's a modern man, Americanized," her parents had promised. If only that had been true.

His type of man had no rightful place in a just world. Right from the beginning, he had asserted his dominance. It had been subtle at first, but before long, she had become a kept woman. Her education had been wasted, her life no longer hers to control. She had protested, often at first. Her trips to the emergency room could attest to that.

Slowly, her misery had dulled her passions. The vigor had vanished from her movements. Her long black hair had begun to gray. Laugh lines spread almost to her temples, though she could not remember laughter. Her marriage had lacked joy, lacked anything resembling human connection.

Her eyes, always tired, had watched as the world passed by her, her husband barring her membership. She had become detached and remained that way until a reason to fight returned.

A child had been born.

Morality and American law had pulled Rashida in opposite directions. A Boston court labelled her a criminal when she had first fled with their child, though her husband's actions in dragging her back should have earned him the title. Where were the feminist ideals America preached when she had needed them most? Equality had been fleeting. Or had it always been a mirage?

It wasn't long before her husband began to assert his principles upon their daughter. He had gone from Islamic to Islamist, despising the country he had chosen to make his home. He spewed hatred, called for retribution to imagined affronts to his faith and the far-off place he had abandoned, all in front of their baby.

Rashida had only her daughter in mind. She had waited patiently for their chance to escape, knowing Hadiya might never understand.

What alternative had she? The American legal system had never claimed to be perfect, but it hid well its infinite flaws. Put her faith in it? Rashida had known better. How could black-letter words on paper, lacking conscience, come to a decision steeped in humanity?

It could not. Rashida had looked to her own hands. In them, she had found her only means to enact justice — real justice, not that cheap, watered-down imitation promulgated by the courts.

So she had fled once more, without direction, and Fate had guided her to Vermont. She loved Vermont, thought of it now as her home, a home where she could raise her daughter her way.

Her thoughts of the past were stifled by the sound of footsteps, boots clomping on the pavement behind her. Their pace quickened and, with it, her heart. Panic rose in her throat, choking her. Her body stiffened. Had he finally found her? She held her breath as she turned to face her reason for running.

"Got you!" a young boy with freckles and a pom-pom hat shouted as he tackled a smaller boy into a snowdrift. The two laughed while their arms shoveled snow upon each other.

Rashida released her breath. Her heartbeat decelerated. _Not him. Not today._

As her lungs took in the frigid air, her hand went instinctively to her ribs. Their fractures had healed, but the memory of him shoving her to the floor, kicking her while she cried and begged his forgiveness, made the wounds feel fresh. And the other damage done, the non-physical kind, left scars tougher to hide than all the cuts and bruises: scars that ran deep, scratching fissures into her soul.

_Never again_ , she had sworn, even if it meant a life looking over her shoulder. She might have been able to take it, regarded lesser for a variance in chromosomes, since for most of her life it had been the norm; now, though, she had someone else to consider.

"Mommy, can we get ice cream?" Hadiya asked. She was bundled up in a thick winter jacket zipped up to her chin, her arms like penguin flippers extending from her sides. On her head, she wore her favorite Hello Kitty earmuffs; she refused to leave the house without them.

"It's the middle of winter, joonam. Aren't you cold enough? And you just had chocolate. You'll spoil your dinner."

"But I love ice cream." The little girl pouted. With her hair in pigtails, droopy sad brown eyes and puffed out lower lip, she was the boss of her mother.

"Okay." Rashida smiled. "We'll pick up some ice cream, but you'll have to wait until after dinner to eat it. Deal?"

"Deal!"

After wiping the Hershey bar sweetness from her daughter's face, Rashida led her toward Sal's Market, a block from the nearest bus stop. The snow on the sidewalks was only a few inches thick, not enough to scare anyone in their neighborhood into remaining indoors. Montpelier had seen far worse, and far worse was on its way. She welcomed the snow that would overlay the city, secluding it, keeping her and Hadiya safe.

They walked up Haverill Street, passing several eclectic shops, a few of which had been boarded up, yearning for warmer times. One that had remained open caught Rashida's eye.

"You look frozen stiff, honey," Rashida said. "Your nose is shining as red as Rudolph's!"

Hadiya giggled and rubbed her nose with her mittened hand.

"Let's go in here for a while to warm up." She took her daughter's hand and led her inside. Walking the aisles, she eyed the vast array of useless and impractical items, looking for anything of interest while biding time and warming up.

"That's some foul business, that is," a man's voice bellowed from behind the counter. He was big and burly, his voice booming, everything she'd been told to expect Americans to be from those who had never met one. His eyes were fixed to a television screen propped in a corner.

Rashida scanned the store. Other than the man, herself and her daughter, it was empty.

"Excuse me?" she replied.

"There's been a bombing. Another Muslim bastard blew himself up and took a bunch of innocent people with him," the man continued. "No place is safe anymore. The whole world's gone to shit."

"Please," Rashida said, her tone suggesting her indignation. "My daughter..." She knew it was naïve to think she had escaped bigotry in all its many incarnations. America, just like her own country and all others across the globe, had its share of altruism and ignorance. In moving, she only substituted the prejudices of one culture for those of another. Still, she would shield her daughter from it as best she could and pray for a time when she would no longer have to.

The man's eyes widened as he turned to face her, apparently for the first time noticing Rashida's beautiful caramel skin. "So sorry, ma'am," he stuttered, his face redder than a baboon's ass. "I meant no offense." He returned his gaze to the television.

Rashida made her way to the door, shuffling her daughter along. As she did, she glanced up at the television, her curiosity momentarily getting the best of her. Her jaw dropped open. Sadness washed over her, almost suffocating. The photograph of the reviled was one she knew well, one she had hoped despite it all could someday, somehow, be a father. She buried Hadiya's face against her leg, hugging her close.

"Mommy?" Her daughter tugged at her sleeve. "You're hurting me, Mommy."

"I'm sorry, baby." Rashida released her grip. As tears pooled in her eyes, she knelt beside her daughter and hugged her gently.

"What is it, Mommy?"

"Your father, he's..."

"Is he coming to visit soon?" Hadiya's face brightened. A big smile curled upon it. "I can't wait to see him again."

Rashida stifled a cry. She had to look away, unable to look innocence in its big brown eyes. "He... We'll talk about it when we get home, okay?"

Her tears fell freely. What had she done? Like a thief, she had stolen Hadiya from a man who would have subjugated her, told her she was less than him; a man taught to think that Rashida, too, was beneath him, no better than cattle. She wondered if her intentions mattered. Had taking their daughter away from him pushed him toward the extreme? Was this the cost of securing a better life for her daughter?

"Ma'am, are you all right?" the man behind the counter asked. He shuffled his feet, no longer able to make eye contact. "I'm truly sorry. I really didn't mean to..."

"Yes, I'm fine." Rashida straightened. She saw sincerity in his eyes. He was not a bad man, just one who presumed too much — not unlike her father, not unlike herself. She forced a smile.

Outside the shop, she found her composure. And with it, she released her first truly free breath. Though her heart ached for her daughter's loss, a burden on it dissipated. Freedom always came at a cost. The old ways needed to die. Complacency had allowed them to persist, instilled them into generation after generation in cyclical apathy. From death, new life could arise: a real life for herself, a meaningful future for her daughter.

Rashida raised her head, resolute. She would not allow guilt to fester, not after so long being a victim. She took her daughter's hand in hers. Smiling down at Hadiya, she vowed to teach her to value herself, to be strong, to be as good as any man, any _person_ , could be. America wasn't the den of evil her husband had preached it to be, nor was it the land of opportunity promised in long-forgotten propaganda. But it did offer possibilities denied by her homeland, forbidden by her husband and vilified by her culture; possibilities perhaps too late for her, but not for her daughter.

She lifted her daughter high in the air, spinning her playfully. Hadiya giggled, her eyes rolling back with dizziness and delight.

" _Za la ta sara meena kawom."_

"I love you too, Mommy."

"Let's get you some ice cream," Rashida said, planting Hadiya's feet back on solid ground, fertile earth to tread, a path that would be all her daughter's making. She cleared her throat and wiped her eyes. Grinning proudly, she brushed Hadiya's hair from her forehead and planted a kiss where it had been. There were no sacrifices she wouldn't have made for Hadiya. She lifted her chin, took in the horizon, confident that her sacrifices would bear fruit.

America offered nothing more than a chance. Here, the influence of the old ways could not reach Hadiya.

As they left the store, Rashida looked up at the plump gray clouds above. A snowflake alighted upon her nose, the first of many. Giggling, her eyes wide and her dimples big, Hadiya stuck out her tongue, tasting what the sky had to offer.

Rashida laughed. She stuck out her tongue and tasted something sweet.

~~###~~

# Snowfall

## Copyright Lara Biyuts

The blend of snow-flecks –

snow as a tardy revenge to the rebellious grass of summer.

The whirl of snow-flecks –

a dreamlike wing, the plural of white non-existence.

The temper of snow, the pain from the snow –

to dissect oneself in the sky to be forever one on the earth.

The time of snow –

the cyclic fairy tale, snowy roads, weird mist, hardly comprehensible.

The sadness of snow

beginning from sources and learnt by heart.

The call of snow –

the winter's soft touches falling from the dark to my craving hand.

~~###~~

Author bio

Lara Biyuts is author of 8 books of fiction, writer of the blog http://RevueBlanche.blogspot.com, collage maker and photographer for her book covers, translator, who signs her translations as Larisa Biyuts. Her novella A Handful of Blossoms is listed among the Best Gay Historical-2012. Her works are accepted for anthologies: Hope Springs a Turtle (Lost Tower Publications), Cat's Cradle Time Yarns (Time Yarns Anthologies), Authors off the Shelf (Lazy Beagle Entertainment), The Black Rose of Winter (Lost Tower Publications). Her old tale and poems were recently featured on TheHolidayCafe.com. Her essays are published at FlexWriterBlogsOnline.net. She is a Goodreads librarian.

<https://www.facebook.com/bijucie.lara>

<http://www.linkedin.com/pub/lara-biyuts/3a/870/bb2>

The poem Snowfall is from the book of poetry Icebound Minstrel, available free at Smashwords.com.

#  Winslow Homer Never Painted This

## Copyright Mark Bell

The town was postcard rustic: quaint buildings, trees gracing side streets and a pace that invoked memories of a supposedly better time. Change wasn't a subject for discussion or thought. Either the change in seasonal temperature or the defoliation of the hardwoods was the only occurrence that reminded the townspeople that time had moved on. Its closest encounter with real change came when the largest uranium deposit in North America was discovered underneath the surrounding countryside. The discussion went no further than a large mining concern's offer of a mineral lease. The price of uranium fell and the option was withdrawn. Life went back to normal.

It should be no surprise to learn that when the four-term mayor died six days before the election, most voters just didn't bother to mark anything in the mayoral check box. Since writing in a candidate on the ballot would require an effort, most asserted their right of obstinacy and left it blank. The exceptions were the regular patrons of The Blue Room Bar and Grill.

The election was held on a Monday. Since most of the patrons were a bit hung over, they used the excuse of voting to postpone the inevitable shitty Monday morning at work. Patriotism was required that chilly morning. Complete sobriety was not.

Jack Winslow was the father of the movement. It started out as a joke. At least he made that claim later.

A week earlier, Jack should have been home with his wife and newborn child. He was feeling lonely and rejected. He couldn't understand why his wife was deflecting his advances. The baby was six weeks old and Jack was feeling a bit randy. Her "hell, no!" response made Jack sure it was time for a beer at the Blue.

He didn't see anything wrong with his proposition to Betty. They both needed a little bit and what was the harm in a little 'sexual exercise', as he put it. It wasn't like it would be the first time for them to do a little dance. And that was true: Betty had done the side alley bump and grind with him, but that was before he was married. Although she liked a young stiff one every once in a while, she sure as hell wasn't going to hump a horny new daddy.

Her reply was delivered just as the jukebox stopped. It wasn't her intention to publicly humiliate him, although she really didn't mind, but her suggestion to "go home and soap the weenie" became the catch phrase of the bar. Too long a stay in the john would elicit, "What took you so long? Soapin' the weenie?" Late arrival to the bar would get you a "Where you been? You stop at Jack's house to soap the old weenie?" For Jack it got old real quick, but not to every other patron.

Betty was not a mean sort. Her age was indeterminable. She was north of forty but she had that look that said late twenties. She was the first teenage girl, according to oral history, to be knocked up and remain in town to raise her child. She refused to slink out of town although it was suggested on several occasions. Betty was the town's anomaly.

She had raised her child while working at the bar, living in a little apartment above it. She managed well without a man and sent her boy off to college. Betty believed that her life's work was complete and she was ready to bask in the muted glow of oblivion.

She was not a drunk or a druggy although she was known to imbibe from time to time. She made it a rule to never sleep with a married man, a rule that she would not break. That put most of the married women at ease; although if they were mothers they might have to worry about their eighteen-year-old male children. Betty's only vice was that when she wanted sex, she wanted it from a man younger than herself. She had popped the cherry of several of the virile young men about town. If the town's vocabulary had stayed current she would be called a cougar. Since that was not the case she was quietly known as Betty the Baby Bumper. Many a young man went off to college or the armed services carrying a torch. For her part, she was never interested in a relationship and she reasoned that a young one every now and again was more fun than buying batteries.

Betty's write-in candidacy was concocted on the Sunday night before Monday's election. Jack was hell bent on one-upping Betty and putting to rest the soapy wiener fiasco. The write-in conspiracy was a casual remark that grew. Before the night was over Jack had lined up thirty or so solid citizens willing to write her name on the ballot. No one thought about the possibility that she would win. They only thought of the fun they would have calling her Mayor Betty or shouting over the jukebox for the honorable first citizen to bring another cold one.

Bobby Blue, the bar owner, thought it was a great idea. He had heard that the town do-gooders were thinking of mounting another campaign to stamp out the iniquities brought on by demon alcohol. This was nothing new, except this time Edith Ware stood a good chance of winning a Town Council seat. Edith's ax was sharp. Bobby reasoned that if, by some fluke, Betty won, she could blunt any of Edith's attempts.

Edith knew that one seat on the council could make the difference and she wanted it. She would have died if anyone knew the real reason for her hatred of alcohol's purveyors. For Edith, it was more the purveyor than the alcohol that she wanted closed down. Fact is she liked to slip a good snort of sherry every chance she got.

She wanted Bobby to feel pain, to pay for love scorned at a young age, with the caveat that Bobby had fathered her one and only child. She loved her boy. It was the one thing that allowed Edith to keep a piece of what she had wanted her life to be. She had paid dearly for that privilege. Now that her son was off to college she was left with the remainder of her bargain. She had to continue to live with a man who was her husband only because she dangled her inheritance in front of him.

Societal scorn was not something that she would, or could, tolerate. She was, after all, the queen of all that was deemed good and virtuous in the community. The strain of keeping an open secret made Edith desire evil things to happen to Bobby. Humiliation was avoided because her husband never suspected that his equipment was faulty. He assumed that something had happened when Edith gave birth and she was the reason they never had other children. He never wanted children and the less talk about it the better. He was convinced that it was his wife's problem because, as a younger man, he had proven capable and assumed that nothing had changed.

The undercurrents swirled as the election plodded forward on that fateful Monday morning. All of the players were so intent on getting elected, or trying to keep someone from being elected, that the fact that the mayor was dead never got around to being discussed. The mayor's widow thought that she would claim the prize by default. She was his widow after all. State election law didn't see it that way and all ballots cast for the deceased were voided. That made Betty's thirty write-in votes the majority and she was declared the winner, provided that she accepted the vote and the office. No one really believed that she would. She was a barmaid, a beer-sloshing waitress for God's sake, and knew less than nothing about the intricacies of governing.

Betty could have killed Jack Winslow when she found out about his silly little plan but the more she thought of it the more she was inclined to accept the responsibility. She thought of all the years that she had been stuck in this pigeon-holing town and how one mistake, one lapse in judgment, had forced her into a life that she had not asked for but was willing to sustain for the good of her child. She was not bitter about it. She had her son and she was awfully proud of him and what he was doing with his life but she had the rest of hers to live. She wanted to do something for herself that would make her proud when she was old and sitting in the proverbial rocking chair.

It also didn't hurt that she could and would go head to head, toe to toe with that sanctimonious bitch Edith Ware. Betty was one of the few who knew the paternity of Edith's child. Bobby had let it slip one time when he was drunk and feeling sorry for himself. Bobby didn't remember telling and Betty never brought it up but she never forgot it. It would surface in her mind every time Edith did something spiteful or made one of her catty comments about "little bastards afoot". Betty knew that more than one bastard was afoot, not to mention a bitch or two.

The town bylaws gave her a week to decide if she would accept the election results. The local weekly devoted the entire front page to the story. It was a slow week in the local news biz. No one had bagged a decent deer or bobcat; the high school varsity basketball team had refused to commit hara-kiri after a 1 and 30 season, the one being a forfeit, and if the paper played up the story it could parlay it into a couple hundred more papers sold for the next month or so.

The editor/owner was hoping to prime his subscribers with a few tidbits and a subtle leading paragraph, then sit back and watch as the fur started to fly. He knew all of the participants and counted it as a win-win for his paper. He knew Edith would be good for a quote or two. Betty could be coaxed into a rebuttal. Throw in Bobby Blue and the liquor question and the editor was set for a four-week run of titillating front pages. It might not be the Hatfields and McCoys but it sure beat Cherry Festival queens and library book drives. He was even preparing to talk to the dead mayor's widow, just in case the story needed a little spice around week two or three.

Unfortunately the editor's plans were washed away by a tidal wave of national news outlet reporters. His fifteen-hundred circulation paper never stood a chance because he failed to consider that it might be a slow news week nationally as well. Instead of keeping his good fortune quiet, he was so proud of himself that he submitted his front page story to the wire service. He also wasn't worldly enough to understand that nothing was allowed to stand in the way of feeding the news beast. They had to fill that twenty-four hour void and they needed a few quaint human interest stories.

A reporter, one David Summerset by name, was desperate to keep his job and needed a quick and easy piece. He also needed an excuse to leave headquarters. He was first to pick it off the wire and act since he was also first on the list of who had slithered around the sheets with the news director's wife. His thinking was 'out of sight, out of mind'. At least out of target range, for the news director was an avid skeet shooter.

He was the first to arrive but certainly not the last, for if one national channel has it, every other is sure to follow. One day after his arrival the town was lousy with satellite trucks and pancake makeup. All had one goal in mind: an exclusive interview with the now elusive Betty. She was nowhere to be found. She didn't report for her shift at the bar and Bobby was glad.

The reporters sat around waiting and it was not long before they began to soak their ambition and superior attitudes with alcohol. Edith Ware thought that the time was right for her to don her temperance armor and make a stand for the good of the community and, if possible, the betterment of the nation as a whole.

Edith searched for any available reporter to give her acceptance speech to. Yes, she squeaked out a victory for the council seat, but in her mind her agenda was now nationwide. She wanted every state, every town, and every crossroad to know that temperance was the answer to a good life. In her mind, she saw herself rising above Carrie Nation's stature of national leader. After all, in Carrie's time, cable news was non-existent.

After stopping by the Wash and Set beauty salon for a root touch-up and donning what she considered her best national leader outfit, white for purity, she raced to the satellite truck encampment. After pounding on all of the major news outlets' doors she finally found one that was occupied. Love Thy Neighbor was emblazoned across its side. Inside sat LTN's at-large reporter, Mindy Menton.

Mindy was there because she needed solitude. A cruel text message had forced her to seek solace in the deserted satellite truck encampment. Her husband of six weeks had informed her, in an oh-so-impersonal way that he was leaving her, a text message clarifying why tossing her bouquet was the only deflowering that occurred on her wedding night. Explain perhaps, but it certainly did not assuage her pain; pain she felt night after lonely night, praying that something would move her then husband, at least a part of him, heavenwards.

And so the pot began to simmer: a gaggle of reporters looking for a story, a vain woman wanting to tell her story, and one lonely and frantic newlywed trying desperately to hide her personal pain. Betty was the heat necessary to make this cauldron boil and she was AWOL. Instead of frantic reporters crushing forward to gain an interview they were busy getting inebriated and contributing their composing skills to new 'soap the weenie' jokes. Edith, with graying roots well camouflaged with jet black dye and decked out in her most virginal white dress, was set to fly into the stratosphere of the new national morality. Mindy Menton was desperate for anything that would ease the pain that felt like a sledgehammer successfully fracturing her breastbone. No one, it seemed, was going to receive what they desperately needed on this foggy night.

It was not foggy underground. Betty's search for direction and solace led her to seek out her special place, a place that served as a backdrop to many of the monumental occurrences in her life. It was a known but seldom visited spot, an old abandoned gold mine. It was where the geologist had confirmed a large uranium deposit. Betty remembered those times when the town was abuzz with visions of wealth. Anyone who owned a few acres was busy contemplating what color Rolls Royce they would buy.

Betty could certainly attest that time had moved on. Twenty odd years ago she had sworn her love to someone in these subterranean rooms, lost her virginity and was a party to the successful fertilization of her egg. It was that particular room that she walked to. She was shining her flashlight around looking for a carving in the rock of a heart with her initials inside. She directed the light beam around the room until she spotted the modern day love hieroglyph.

Memories began to wash over her as she moved closer to the heart. She remembered a young girl sitting alone, half-clothed, and believing that if she scratched it on the wall, that simple deed would make it come true. The memories, unleashed, continued to flow. The flashlight had, on the other hand, had enough. The light faded to nothing. Betty reached into her pocket to retrieve a fresh set of batteries but she never got the chance to replace them.

The darkness was replaced by a luminous glow that was being emitted from behind. She whirled around and was confronted by what looked like a Star Wars storm trooper. She stumbled backwards until her back slammed the mine wall.

"Greetings, Betty," the alien said.

Betty could only stutter an unintelligible reply.

"Would you prefer a different image? Although this one is still a top ten Halloween rental," it said in a soothing tone.

The light flickered and instead of Star Wars she was looking at a giant tabby cat standing on its hind legs.

Betty regained her composure and with a clear voice said, "All things considered I would prefer the first one. Giant cats standing on their hind legs are just creepy."

"As you prefer," said the alien as his image changed back.

It may seem strange that Betty could take such a cavalier attitude when confronted with a creature that obviously was not of this planet but Betty's senses and sensibilities were already under attack. That was why she was there in the first place. She had left her apartment above the bar before all of the reporters had arrived. Her election might have started out as a joke but Betty was not the kind of girl to shirk her responsibilities, no matter how she had collected them. She was after all, the girl who had refused to give up her child and had elected to raise him by herself in a town that was never known for forgiveness.

"How do you know my name?" she asked.

"The same way I know that you have a strawberry mark on your buttock. I was here when you conceived your child. Does the phrase, 'Betty! Oh, Betty, I can't hold back,' jog your memory?"

Her memory was indeed jogged. But, Betty felt sure that twenty-some years ago, lying naked in a subterranean love nest with her future son swimming toward inception, she still would have remembered seeing a Star Wars looking creature. The alien introduced himself. His name was Ronco and he quickly explained that his real being was the size of a pea and at their last meeting he didn't feel the need to alert anyone to his presence.

"So you saw me naked?" was the last question that Betty voiced. This seems like a strange question to ask when faced with an alien being but, to every female member of this planetary orb, it was not only plausible but justified. In this respect the alien was as confused as every male member of the planet.

Every time that she started to ask a question, he would answer before she could voice the words. Something in her brain made an audible click. It was as if Ronco had opened a portal that allowed information to flow from each of them without the use of language.

Betty sat on the sandy mine floor, the only illumination being Ronco's hologram. He explained to her how he was from a distant planet, unknown to inhabitants of this planet. He informed her that he was of a different molecular structure than the carbon-based species that she was familiar with. In fact the basic molecule of his being was close to what earth natives know as Teflon. He had given a scientist a molecule of his being in the hope that he would design a coating that would allow humans to travel to other planets and galaxies. Ronco was hopeful that the scientist would build a shield to deflect heat build-up that is so dangerous to carbon-based life. Instead all the scientist had managed was to keep an egg from sticking to a frying pan.

Betty's first thought, _why didn't you just give him a shield?_ was answered instantaneously.

"It is forbidden! Universal law only allows knowledge to be transferred," stated Ronco. "Like any newborn, you must learn by doing. Your non-stick coating almost cost me my travel privileges."

Information was flowing into Betty's brain at speeds that would make the most advanced data transfer system heat up and fry. Ronco began with the history of his family's encounters with the human race. It was Ronco's father who instructed the ancients. His father's paternal nature forced him into the first contact with humans. He first spotted a group of wanderers, sitting on an island with nothing to do and too much time to do it in, so he singled out the leader of the band and suggested that he and his friends should pile up dirt. Ronco's father instructed them how to make sleds to haul the dirt because, at the time, they only knew how to carry it in their hands. One thing that his father realized early on was that the native species were able to absorb knowledge only in small doses.

His return trip found a nice mound surrounded by a moat. The natives included a moat by happenstance. They only wanted to haul dirt a short distance so it made sense: down was closer than any other spot away from the mound. They knew nothing of excavation but their leader learned that dirt cliffs will collapse. Ronco's father sensed numerous remains buried beneath the moat wall.

A new group of natives were hanging out around the moat; it seemed like the first experiment had worked out well so he taught this band how to brace walls and, just because he thought it would provide a landmark for future travelers, he offhandedly suggested that if they got around to it they might want to stick up a few rocks just for giggles. You know the rest.

That little experiment was so much fun that Ronco's father tried it again at a later date. He told Ronco that his mistake was imparting more knowledge than the natives could handle. The Maya, Incas, and Aztecs proved his folly. It seemed that the natives of this planet would do the right thing only if they had no other choice. Ronco had experienced that result several times himself.

He had imparted knowledge with the intent of securing this planet's power supply. Instead the natives made a bomb and blew up an island. He felt bad for the ones bombed so he gave them the answer to transistor miniaturization. This, he thought, would surely allow them to create a revolution in manufacturing. Instead they decided to make little radios that didn't work. He also told of giving a native the design for an apparatus to slice genes. Instead the native made something that was called the Ronco Slice and Dicer. No diseases were cured but humanity could now have a julienne fry.

As the data transfer concluded, Ronco's hologram faded into darkness. The transferred information settled into the eighty percent of the brain that humans don't use. Betty sat in the darkness and was mesmerized by the feeling that knowledge of the universe commands; then she felt sadness for all of the things that had been done in the name of progress.

"What am I supposed to do with this now?" Betty whispered to herself, assuming that Ronco was gone.

A high-pitch squeal threatened to burst Betty's eardrums. She covered her ears for protection and rolled around in the sand. Ronco's hologram returned as a Chinese Terracotta Warrior along with his apology for not using his translator.

"What are you? Some terracotta dog whistle?"

"I apologize. Don't get me started on terracotta. My father told him to raise an army of men without feelings and what did he do? Ninjas? No, terracotta!" Ronco moaned. "Use your newfound knowledge if and when you can," was Ronco's reply. "I picked you because of your character and ability to withstand pressure from your fellow inhabitants."

"What do you know of me?" Betty queried.

"I was here when you conceived your offspring. You were of pure heart, not like the one who impregnated you. Had I sterilized him sooner..."

"You sterilized him?" Betty whispered.

"He was deserving. You were the third specimen collector that he had entrapped while I was here collecting U238 fuel. His intentions were what your culture would call 'less than honorable'. It was painless and quick. One shot of compacted radiation and those little groin ornaments shut down production." Ronco stated matter-of-factly.

He went on to explain that he had locked on to her life force, which allowed him to know everything that she had done. He was impressed by her restraint and ability to refrain from retribution, qualities that made her perfect for the task at hand. He also lauded her for her work: teaching younglings the art of insemination. He wanted her to spoon-feed the knowledge to the natives. The one thing that Ronco and his predecessors had not been able to do was judge how the natives would use their new knowledge. He asserted that the natives refused to rely on logical thought but seemed to hold a great store by something termed 'emotion' in the native tongues. This was incomprehensible to Ronco.

What he wanted Betty to do was use her human sensibilities to lead her fellow planetary inhabitants into a better way of thinking and acting, slowly giving them spoonful by spoonful of information, allowing them to grow at a pace that would be beneficial to all.

"You want me to be the kindergarten teacher to adults acting like five-year-olds with missiles in their hands!" Betty shouted.

"For the most part, yes," Ronco replied. "If you find the task unbearable then all you have to do is repeat your last phrase verbatim and your new-found knowledge will disappear."

Betty watched as the Terracotta Warrior faded into blackness. She pondered on the things she had learned and what she might do as mayor to begin the process of bettering her town and then humanity at large.

It was a weighty responsibility that she refused to take lightly. In that respect, Ronco had chosen well. But first she had to get out of the cave and into town. Fumbling in the dark she retrieved her flashlight and dug into her pocket to retrieve fresh batteries. None were found. She tossed the flashlight down; as it struck the cave floor it flooded the cavern with light. So bright in fact that the flashlight was more like the light saber toy that she remembered her son had insisted that he absolutely couldn't live without. As she made her way out of the cave and headed home things were not as peaceful and sedate as they should be at that late hour.

Mindy Menton was not at a complete loss when it came to operating lights and cameras. It felt good doing physical work, so good that she continued to unload the truck's supply of lights. If two will do, then eight is great. She set up the camera on a tripod, pushed 'record' and flipped the switch on the light array. With mic in hand she stepped into the light. The first couple of steps were fine but when she turned to address the camera her retinas revolted, then retreated. Mindy stumbled on one turned heel, then the other. She waddled under the lights like a duck in high heels and managed to flip the light array off. Prudence would have told her to let it go but Mindy's deteriorating personal life had escorted prudence out of town.

Meanwhile, inside the Blue Room, the light was so intense that some of the reporters thought that it was Roswell, New Mexico all over again. In their inebriated state all they could think of was intense light must equal alien spaceship.

Mindy was not to be deterred. She unplugged a couple of lights, redirected a few more and tried it once again. This time she placed Edith in front of the camera, set the focus to infinity and positioned the camera so that Edith's face was in middle frame. She pressed 'record' and moved into the interviewer position. Edith, experiencing her first time in front of the glaring lights, didn't know the first rule of acting: never look into the lights or at the camera. In violating that rule she reduced her vision to seeing large, glowing white balls as she stared feverishly into the camera. But Edith knew that destiny waits for no one.

Her virginal white dress suffered from her attempt to smooth the wrinkles and became a cruel joke. She only remembered that fire axes are equipped with spikes when she heard the tearing of fabric and the tell-tale pop of brassiere hooks. Her light blindness continued and all she was capable of was staggering around, swinging her ax and bosoms to and fro.

Inside the bar, journalistic curiosity was overriding inebriation. The gaggle of reporters and crew members rushed for the door, en masse. The light array assaulted their eyes as they rushed out of the bar. The first one out the door stumbled and fell and the following horde piled on top.

It was at this time that Betty arrived at the stairs leading up to her apartment. The sight that confronted her was of Edith Ware looking like a serial killing, two dollar hooker, stumbling around with an ax. Mindy, with her back to all of this, faced the camera and, with that perky little cadence of a valley girl, explained Edith's one-woman campaign to stamp out inebriation.

Betty stood on the steps leading up to her apartment and thought of Aztec sacrifices, non-stick pans and Edith Ware. _Not much has changed over the centuries_ , Betty thought. The bright lights were beginning to overload the circuit breaker that provided the electricity. The pile of reporters and crew members were beginning to roll off each other and stand. David Summerset was the first to spy Betty on the landing.

"Betty, have you made your decision?" he yelled.

As Betty prepared to speak a shot rang out, killing one of the spotlights. Electrically charged shards rained down. Into the illumination of the remaining lights stepped Summerset's boss, the very same man whose wife David Summerset had been diddling. David Summerset didn't hang around to hear Betty's response. It was at this point that even the circuit breaker could not stand illuminating this travesty of human hypocrisy and it blew up. A stream of sparks spewed from the satellite truck. The only illumination left was the neon sign hanging in the bar window that stated W-E-L-C-O-M-E in red and blue.

Out of the darkness Betty's voice rang out. "You want me to be the kindergarten teacher to adults acting like five-year olds..." She stopped in mid-sentence.

The sun rose in all its glory the following morning. The satellite trucks were gone. Bobby Blue was sweeping up shards of glass, the only evidence of the previous night's fiasco. Some of the trees were letting go of their leaves and the town looked like a picture postcard again. Betty came down from her apartment and asked if the coffee was ready. Bobby assured her that it was.

"Big night, last night," Bobby deadpanned.

Betty entered the barroom, poured herself a cup of coffee and pulled out a camera flash drive, placing it on the bar. She sat down and blew on her coffee as she reviewed the secrets of the universe. Betty smiled as she thought of the patience required to be a Terracotta Warrior.

~~###~~

Author bio

My conception on a hot, muggy night in Alabama was predicated on my father's forgetfulness and his lack of restraint. For that I am eternally grateful. Other than the nine months that followed that night, I accept full responsibility for my actions and output.

I am credited as a screenwriter and short story author but, in truth, I am no more than a teller of tales, a weaver of plot threads, and a practitioner of dry humor. My aspirations are to entertain, educate, and never ever become a bore. After reading my work I hope that you can say, "He passed muster."

# Daydreams

## Copyright Sylvie Nickels

Inspiration

Daydreams was triggered by a pleasant daydream.

~~###~~

"You won't get away with it," Pete said calmly.

The young car thief spun round and Carrie saw he had pulled a knife. "Oh yeah?" he snarled.

She flung herself between them screaming "No-o-o-o!"

"Any more coffee?" Pete asked.

Carrie catapulted back into the here-and-now of three-bedroomed suburbia and stared at him across the remains of breakfast. "What?"

Pete met her eye. "Ah!" he said, his familiar face managing to look simultaneously knowing and resigned.

Carrie smiled at it. It was a face that made you want to smile: sort of crumpled-looking, with no special feature — well, except for those gold-flecked brown eyes that were the most expressive she had ever seen. Anyway, the total effect had grabbed her the first moment she saw it. That was four years ago, when he came to book a holiday in the travel agency where she worked and she had talked him into switching from a sun and beach package to a trekking arrangement in Andalucía. Carrie prided herself on knowing — well, sometimes knowing — what clients needed better than they did themselves.

"You're a star," he came to tell her a couple of months later, looking lean and fit. And that Andalucian sun tan... wow!

Over a 'thank you' _paella_ in the new nearby Spanish bistro he told her he worked for an advertising agency. He added, "Of course, one day I'll have a gallery of my own."

"Yeah," she told him, equally serious, "like I'm going to travel the world instead of arranging it for everyone else."

They married less than a year later and Billy was born a year after that.

Billy was rather an accident. When, still in some disbelief, she told Pete, he shouted joyously, "You're magic."

She'd grinned and said. "Well it won't exactly be a virgin birth," and wished she could feel as enthusiastic. It was all too soon. Morning sickness didn't help, especially when it became any-time sickness and she had to give up work. She really minded that, knew she was good at her job, at making people's dreams a reality. She was also unsure how equipped she was for this ultimate responsibility.

"I don't think I'm ready to be a Mum," she wailed over the phone to Suzi, her sister and best mate.

"Never fear, half the world is waiting in the wings with advice," Suzi reassured her. "Mums, friends' Mums, Mums' Mums. Not to mention baby clinics, drop-in centres, babes and toddler groups..."

It sounded dire.

And then, during the sixth month, Carrie discovered Virtual Reality. Not the sort associated with computers. In fact the all-singing-all-dancing-model Pete had given her as a kind of Dazed-and-Amazed-Father-To-Be present sat almost untouched in the spare room. She quite simply found it in her head: a vibrant other world that punctuated her waking hours, as if she had thrown a switch and walked straight into those very brochures from which she once sold dreams to other people.

After the third overcooked supper she told Pete about it. " _And_ I've stopped throwing-up."

"It'll be your hormones," Pete said. "Neat, though. Free medication and entertainment all in one — well worth a few burnt offerings." He added hopefully, "You'll probably straighten out when Billy's born."

They had both agreed it would be a Billy.

Billy erupted into the world in the local cottage hospital, one early evening in October. Carrie looked at the red, wrinkled scrap and waited for this maternal thing to happen. But he just went on looking like a red, wrinkled scrap.

Perhaps it would come later.

In the meantime it was a relief to find that Virtual Reality had not abandoned her. Intriguingly, it had completely changed its nature: turned into a quest like one of those treasure-hunt type video games.

"How's dreamland these days?" Pete asked quite early on.

"What? Oh... You were right," Carrie heard herself say. "It's gone. Almost."

Later she wondered at such economy with the truth. OK, so this quest thing might sound pretty off the wall, but Pete had always claimed her dizziness was one of her special attractions. "You are seriously scatty," he had told her more than once. And then, softly, "And I seriously love you."

And now there was Billy, as amenable a scrap of humanity as you could wish for. Sometimes observing him as he reached for sunlight twinkling on an ornament, or grinned at her in the middle of a windy burp, she said aloud, "I really don't deserve you."

It was just so weird that he didn't seem to have anything to do with her. Not like that other world living in her head.

In one way it remained the same, for she still found herself in far away places, but now there was unquestionably an underlying purpose. What this was remained tantalisingly elusive, as is the way with dreams, though she was always quite clear about her immediate goal. It might be a viewpoint, a rock formation, a building, a tree. And when found, it always yielded new riddles to be solved on her next visit, for a 'next visit' was never in question.

It became increasingly difficult to come back to the reality of here-and-now and be ready for Pete's return from the studio, trailing in wafts of an outside world in which she no longer felt truly at ease. Once, over supper, he asked curiously, "So what do you two get up to all day?"

There was an undertone of envy which Carrie translated as criticism. She pursed her lips consideringly. "Let me see. After clearing away the breakfast, I made the beds and changed Billy, who'd pooed. Then he pooed again twenty minutes later. Mother rang, and then Gran." (Suzi had been right about _that_ anyway) "At ten o'clock the milkman called and we had a nice chat about the weather. Then Billy and I went to the shops, where he exercised his vocal chords in a way that went down like a lead balloon with most of those present. And by the time we got home he'd pooed again. Where does it all come from?" She stopped.

Gold-flecked brown eyes surveyed her with concern. "Doesn't sound a lot of fun — we'll do something mad at the weekend. Anyway, your litany of achievements didn't include this _cordon bleu_ of a steak and kidney pud."

He was trying so hard to be sympathetic it seemed unnecessary to mention the pie was in fact a heat-up supermarket convenience food job. "Ignore me," she said. "Billy is normally so angelic I sometimes wonder if he can really be mine."

It was not a problem Pete shared. Sometimes she stood at the foot of the stairs, listening with envy to Pete's deep laugh and Billy's shrieks of joy at bath time.

"There must be something wrong with me," she said to Suzi when she dropped in for nephew-inspection one morning.

"Yeah," Suzi agreed, adoring gaze fixed on Billy. "How about more fresh air? You look like boiled asparagus."

"Thanks," Carrie said.

She launched into long walks with Billy, determinedly making friends with the contents of other push chairs encountered en route. She tried calling in at the local babes and toddlers playgroup. The decibel level was sensational.

She bought a playpen and had a go at the computer, propping Billy in the playpen beside her in the spare room. He squatted, legs in the half lotus position, gazing fascinated at the screen with its moving lines and symbols.

Carrie was just getting into her creative stride when Billy began rocking himself gently to the chant of, "Wa- _wah_.. Wa- _wah_... Wa- _wah_..." beaming beatifically at her as soon as he had caught her attention.

When it had happened twice more Carrie said, "It's not working, is it?"

"Ahg," Billy agreed.

There was no special plan when she curled up in a corner of the sofa with a scribbling pad. From his play pen Billy watched her.

"I'll tell you a story, shall I?"

"Nnnng," he said.

"Right. So this will be an adventure story about a Mummy and a Daddy and a little boy who are looking for a secret treasure." She began writing, reading the words out slowly as she wrote. _"The young man reached the crest of the hill first and drew in a sharp breath of excitement. 'Have you ever seen anything so beautiful... and so... untouched?' he asked softly and reached out for his companion's hand. She joined him looking out over the valleys to hills extending as far as they could see..."_

Carrie looked up. Billy was still watching. She told him, "The young man is your Daddy, of course. And he's tremendously brave in every situation..." She smiled at him. Billy beamed back and waved a small fist.

Carrie went on, _"The little boy on her back was fast asleep. Suddenly, she felt terribly afraid and, as if he had read her thoughts, the young man said quietly, 'Don't worry... as long as we have each other we can manage anything...'"_

The words began to flow faster, tumbling over each other. After a while Carrie stopped reading aloud, covered two, three, four pages. At last she looked up. Billy had rolled over on to his tummy and was chuntering quietly to himself, eyes fixed on a small wooden horse just out of reach. She watched as he heaved himself closer and grabbed it with a shriek of triumph. He glanced across at her and grinned again. Carrie thought, _it's OK being a Mum_. And said it aloud, experimentally.

"Arg," Billy said.

"Love you, Billy,"

"Arg," he said again.

It became their routine every afternoon: Carrie curled up in a corner of the sofa, Billy in his play pen building his own castles in the air. Occasionally they didn't hear Pete come in and Carrie would come to with the clatter of pans and the waft of something cooking.

"You looked so absorbed and at peace," he said, and again she detected a tinge of envy in his voice.

It was quite soon after this that she decided to have another go at putting her creation on to the computer. It was by now a substantial saga.

"What name shall we save it under, Billy?"

"Day-dem?" Billy suggested.

"Good idea." Carrie typed in Daydreams and pressed 'Enter'. _Do you want to replace the existing Daydreams?_ the computer asked peremptorily. Carrie looked at it in surprise, and went in search of the 'existing file'.

And spent the next hour in open mouthed amazement, moving between a number of sub files, each representing a series of enchanting drawings. Almost instantly she recognised them as illustrations for a very familiar story.

But how... why... what?

A final file was headed 'to whom it may concern'. She read: _Hello, my 24-carat, lovable dreamer. Can I join you? Sounds fun. And it's a bit lonely out here._ Stricken, Carrie stared at the note, and finally understood.

By the time Pete came in that evening, she had printed out the illustrations and set them alongside her scribbled texts. Addressing an imaginary audience she was already on a best-selling tour of North America, explaining how the _Daydream_ series was born, ending with a flourish — "and here is the illustrator — my husband — without whom none of this could have happened..."

She turned "... and whom I love very much."

Pete gave her a wobbly smile. "It's a relief to hear we're all taking part in the next episode." He came over and enfolded her. "I'm so glad you've come back," he said into her hair.

"Who's talking dreams?" Carrie murmured. "Harry Potter, eat your heart out! We'll be the first author-artist partnership with a baby carriage in tow. Or perhaps we could fit him into a rucksack?" She turned her head and grinned at Billy. "What d'you think?"

"Erg," he said.

~~###~~

Author bio

I started writing as a child in World War Two, and have barely stopped since. Much of it has been as a travel writer for major UK newspapers and magazines. More recently I have returned to my first love of writing fiction and have self-published five novels, an anthology of short stories, a true adventure (The Big Muddy — a canoe journey down the Mississippi) and more recently a YA novel dealing with addiction. A recurrent theme has been the effect of war on the children and grandchildren of participants (as in my trilogy 'Another Kind of Loving', 'Beyond the Broken Gate, and 'Long Shadows'; and another novel 'The Other Side of Silence'). Currently I am working on an anthology of short stories based on a Care Home with the aim of showing older people in a more positive light. Reconciliation is also a recurrent theme. as is my belief that it is better to be part of the cure than part of the problem. Reviews of several can be found on Amazon and http://www.thebookbag.co.uk.

# The Raven

## Copyright Angelica Pangan

Jaelynn sat by the window sill with her legs tucked underneath her, as she did every afternoon before her third shift at the diner. There was comfort in the routine and predictability of it. Writing letters to Brian brought an inexplicable peace to her soul, something she searched for desperately throughout the day. Her calloused hands painted the elegant characters on the special stationary that she reserved for his letters.

Brian, my love,

I miss you more than you can imagine. It's been so long since you went missing — eleven months, three weeks, six days. They tell me that's too long and that you're probably gone for good. But I know you better than they do. I know you won't give up trying to get home to me, any more than I'll give up waiting for you. Every time I see the ring on my left hand, I remember your promise. When you first left for Iraq, you swore to me that you would do everything in your power to come back in time for the wedding we've planned. I know you still remember.

That day is in two weeks. No one is planning to come, but all I need is you. I just need you to come back to me.

The last letter you sent me before you went MIA, I've saved it and memorized every word. You said that you weren't sure if you were strong enough to be on the front line. The bloodshed and death were haunting you, giving you nightmares. I've berated myself endlessly for not being able to give you comfort in any of my previous letters. It's long overdue, and I need to do it. I'm almost ashamed at how long it's taken for this memory to come to mind.

Do you remember our freshman year of high school? We weren't dating yet, but we were good friends. You were always the tough, bad boy and I was the quiet, shy girl. How we became friends, only Heaven knows. One day, when we were at lunch, you stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and looked around. Some tiny, imperceptible sound had reached your ears and your sharp eyes—those lovely hazel eyes—never missed a thing. They searched and searched, until finally they found the bird: a raven.

Something was wrong with it, but I couldn't tell. You watched it silently before saying softly, "Its beak is broken." I followed your pointing hand to see, and it was so. The poor thing had broken its lower jaw somehow. "It's going to starve," you whispered. It was already so weak that you easily caught it in your hands.

I'll never forget the way you tucked it against your chest like you were cradling a child, oh so carefully, as if that broken form was the most precious thing in the world. Your fingers stroked its head gently before wiping the blood off of its breast; its beak had not stopped bleeding. Everyone around us watched you in fascination. For me, the entire world narrowed until there was only you. The colors faded away until all that was left were shades of gray, just like in those black and white movies that you love so much.

I was the only one close enough to hear you whisper, "It'll be ok. The pain is going to end." With the quickest twist of your wrist, you broke its neck as cleanly and painlessly as possible. It didn't even make a sound. With the same tenderness, you laid the broken body at the foot of a tree and covered it with dried leaves.

The crowd stared at you in silent horror. Some girls were crying. Many others glared at you with visible loathing. They scorned and cursed you. But you said nothing, your face stony and hard. Your silence did not end until the next day, but I remember watching you as you turned away to go to class. I alone saw that single diamond tear slip down your cheek.

In that moment, my heart broke for you and your quiet, selfless strength, your willingness to suffer for anyone else. It is part of your essence. You would not be the man I love if not for that deeply compassionate streak. Regardless of the repercussions, you always do what needs to be done. The choices might not have been easy, but that never stopped you. You bear the weight of every consequence on your shoulders, never once asking someone else to bear the burden, never seeking justification or redemption. You always knew that you were right and that was all the validation you ever needed.

Brian, love, you are the strongest man I have ever met. There is not a single doubt in my mind that you are strong enough to finish what you've started. I have faith in you. I pray that my letters will find you and bring you home to me one day. Until then, I'll wait. This engagement ring is the only reminder I need of your word and your love.

With all my love forever,

Jae

With trembling hands, she sealed the envelope. She kissed it one last time before mailing it. _Find him_ , she prayed. _Bring him back to me._

~~###~~

# Between The Notes — On Music as Universal Spirit

## Copyright Steven Donoso

Inspiration

Writing about an experience that does not lend itself to words.

~~###~~

Everybody's saying that music is love, everybody's saying it's love.

\- David Crosby, Music is Love

...Music is the one incorporeal entrance into the higher world of knowledge which comprehends mankind but which mankind cannot comprehend.... We do not know what knowledge brings us.... Every real creation of art is independent, more powerful than the artist himself and returns to the divine through its manifestation.

\- Ludwig van Beethoven (quoted in a letter by Bettina von Arnim to Goethe, recounting her first talk with Beethoven — Translation by J. S. Shetlock).

Our tradition is that sound is God — Nada Brahma. That is, musical sound and the musical experience are steps to the realization of the self... to a realm of awareness where the revelation of the true meaning of the universe — its eternal and unchanging essence — can be joyfully experienced.

— Ravi Shankar

Music has always had the ability to affect me on a deep level, to translate beyond the boundary lines of country, culture and language. I experience music speaking to that which we universally share, as it penetrates to the center of our being.

Throughout my childhood, in my family's apartment in the South Bronx of New York City, classical music drifted over the FM waves in our living room and kitchen where we heard Bach, Beethoven and many others. On our family trips to the beach in the summer, the AM waves took over via portable transistor radios. Sitting on the beach, as a seven year old, I heard the Beatles, American pop, British Invasion groups, and Stan Getz's lilting saxophone accompanying Astrid Gilberto singing _The Girl From Ipanema_. Three or four years later, for Christmas, my older brother Peter gave me the album _West Meets East_ , a collaboration between Indian classical sitarist Ravi Shankar and Western classical violinist Yehudi Menuhin. The recording struck me, even as a ten or eleven year old, as a revelation.

It was in college that my friend Julie came over to my room one winter's evening with a handful of LP recordings and proceeded to put them on my turntable: McCoy Tyner, Miles Davis and a number of records by Ahmad Jamal. It was my first real introduction to jazz and Jamal immediately held my ear, both then and now.

On another winter's evening, almost thirty years later, I attended a performance by the Ahmad Jamal Trio at the University of Maine at Orono. Jamal, known for his use of space, time and silence, was in the middle of his eighth decade and in fine form. As I sat in the front row, the melodies and rhythms washed over and through me. During one song in the evening's performance, I experienced a shift in location, in identity. Without warning, the solid being I assumed myself to be simply dissolved. My consciousness, free of my body, was now inside the music, as a wave inside the ocean. I was the music and there was nothing other than music. The pianist, bassist and percussionist were all playing, though they simultaneously were and were not individual musicians. They were playing, sounding in colors, as notes in a chord, each inseparable from the whole. And the chord they were sounding was joy woven everywhere, not as a result of the music; joy simply was the music, imbuing, pulsing, throughout every thread of being. I soaked in the music, in the joy, in the all of everything. Somewhere near the end of the song, time resumed and I was aware again of being in a physical body, sitting in a seat. For a moment there was the resonance of silence, then we were all applauding.

Grace moves in its own unfathomable way. It acts without leave and responds to questions with silence. Then it departs as mysteriously as it arrives. And here I sit in wonder, grateful for dipping my toe into the sound stream that is joy, attempting to put names to the unnameable.

~~###~

Author bio

Steven Donoso was raised in the South Bronx in New York City and has been drawn to spirituality and consciousness from an early age. In the last four decades he has presented hundreds of films and live events. He has also presented Parabola Magazine's Cinema of the Spirit festival and for six years he presented The International Film Festival of the Spirit. He is the author of Returning The Gift: Dialogues with Eckhart Tolle et al.

He and his wife, Rebecca, currently reside both in the US and in Ecuador, where they are surrounded by mountains that formerly spewed molten rock, yet now inspire majesty and wonder.

#  A Few Things That Terrify Me

## Copyright Kerry Dwyer

Girls in black dresses with tattoos and piercings

Hoodies on corners with sharp eyes that glisten

Dogs without owners that jump up with glee

These are a few things that terrify me

At a bus stop

In the airport

On the TGV

Too many people all crowding in

Is suffocating for me.

Narrow dark alleys and footsteps that follow

Empty park benches and trees that are hollow

Bats that flap by me and movements in trees

These are a few things that terrify me

When a door bangs

At a red light

When a stranger stares

I cannot escape from the nightmares I've had

And I become more aware.

Mice that scratch floorboards and insects that scuttle

Alone in a crowd when I'm taking the shuttle

Reflections in windows of nothing I see

These are a few things that terrify me

When the stairs creak

When the taps leak

When I'm all alone

I simply remember the films I have seen

And then I lay back and groan.

~~###~~

Author bio

My life changed tremendously when I moved from the UK to south west France with my husband. This was not solely due to the cultural differences between the two countries. I also moved from a city to a country life, became a mother and later an English teacher. In London I had worked in finance and my life was one big rush. They take things a lot more slowly here in a little French village. I have now slowed down several cogs and really appreciate the way of life I have here. I love nature and walking in the countryside around my home. If you would like to find out more please visit <http://kerrydwyer.com/>

#  The Wisdom of Butterflies

## Copyright Ryan Stone

Inspiration

Butterflies is a melding of many emotions that wax as the moon in the night: loneliness, dislocation, a need to be loved and, underlying it all, a desperate hope that we are meant for more than this.

~~###~~

Thirty years old. Single. Alone. No friends, mundane job; mundane life.

Dark thoughts tumble like twisters through my mind as I lie in bed, alone, chasing the elusive oblivion of sleep. The red neon projection on the ceiling above my head taunts me with a 5am smirk. Two sleeping pills, swallowed at 4am, have done nothing to calm the tingling of taut nerves. No air circulates through the small, smothering cave some might call an apartment. Relentless, truck brakes and traffic noise from outside assault my ears and the knot at the base of my skull. Sleep has escaped me. Again.

Getting up, I cross the cluttered floor. My bare foot crashes through cardboard into something that may have once been pizza. It smears into the carpet as I continue. By the time I reach the fridge, my foot is clean once more.

Thirty years old. Single. Alone. No friends, mundane job; mundane life.

The nagging voice in my head dulls with the first gulp of freezer-cooled Vodka; by the third it disappears completely. The oppressive, clammy heat is stifling. Throwing on cargos and a tee, I escape to dawn's streets.

Along shadowed highways and dimly-lit byways my feet ferry me; a leaf adrift on a zephyr. The grey buildings of day are darker by night and no more inviting. An occasional glow brightens a window into someone else's world, but doesn't extend to my sidewalk.

Grey building, grey building, light in a window, grey building, road, grey building...

I despise this city and its falsities as much as I despise the promise that brought me here, so far from the sandcastles of my childhood. Even as the city wakes, it is a drunken, fetid awakening, like the rank, farty dreams of a lush.

Overflowing bins burp obscenities, as rats and ferals glare and hiss at my passing. 'F the PoPo' some genius has sprayed across playground equipment. The orange paint looks like an alien fungus, glowing faintly in the pale moonlight.

I catch a reflection of myself in a window as I pass. If it's true that eyes mirror the soul, my soul is in desperate straits.

Grey building, grey building, grey building, butterfly, grey build — Butterfly?

My peripheral vision cracks a whip to my mind, dragging it back to the now. Retracing three steps, I probe the dark, trying to recapture an oddity. Nothing but grey stone and shadows. A jest of vodka and pills? Yet, as I turn to continue, I catch another hint of... what? Without moving my head a fraction, I raise my arm to the side and touch a finger to a finely-wrought wing. Some trick of the light, or game of the night, has conspired to hide a gate from my sight. I contemplate continuing without investigation, but that thought passes as soon as it forms.

There must be something more than this existence.

My arm is an anchor and guides me true. A strange old gate, from a time that has passed, sits in drab building shadows. A craftsman's skill has breathed life into images of butterflies and vines, intricately interwoven. On hinges of air, the gate swings open with a whisper.

I step into a garden, leafy and vibrant, veiled from casual sight and thriving in the borderlands of awareness. The butterfly gate swings shut behind but my eyes are already ahead. A night-dew bouquet, of starlit jasmine and lavender musk, soaks my nose in scents of seduction, far-removed from the stench outside.

Burnt orange and black piebald, a butterfly appears and dances a flittering jig. She settles on my shoulder and the corner of my mouth lifts in an expression long unused. Wings lower, then rise, then lower once more. The butterfly remains.

'Hear' is the wrong word, as I don't use my ears, but I 'hear' a tinkling near the front of my mind; a faint sound like wind chimes in the lightest of breezes or, perhaps, heard from afar. More disconcerting than the sound of chimes is the accompanying voice: soft and sensual, almost musical.

And so you wake.

Nothing stirs in the garden but the butterfly on my shoulder, seeming to regard me strangely.

"Are you talking to me?" I ask the butterfly.

Who else?

The tinkling of chimes.

"I see what you mean."

Open your mind, it is preferable to speech.

Not wanting to offend, I open my mind and find the butterfly is right.

"Is this real?" I ask.

There are many types of real; many degrees.

"You speak in riddles."

Perhaps you only hear in riddles. What is real?

"Real is solid. Real is something you can touch or hold in your hand."

That is a somewhat limited definition, especially for someone without hands, but it is a starting point. So, by your definition, your wings are real?

Confused, I look down at my hands and find they have turned into wings, emerald and azure, while I have been speaking.

"They... Yes, I guess they are real."

And yet, your arms were real moments ago?

"I see what you mean," I answer again, not seeing at all.

The butterfly smiles. I don't see her smile, but feel it in the same way I feel the conversation. Her smile is a feeling of unfettered joy that spreads from her to envelop me like a blanket. Continuing my inspection, I realise that my whole body is different than it was.

"Have you turned me into a butterfly?"

More wind chimes tinkling.

You have always been a butterfly.

"I was human when I walked in here. I have been human for 30 years."

Thirty years old. Single. Alone. No friends, mundane job; mundane life.

You are a butterfly and have always been so. You have been asleep and dreaming. Now you have woken.

"I don't understand."

A simple explanation: humans are merely projections of the dreams of butterflies. Simple but not complete.

"I haven't dreamed my life; I have been living it for the last thirty years."

What is time to butterflies? What is time to dreams?

"More riddles. Time is short for butterflies. You only live for a day or two; why do you waste your time with riddles?"

Time is not wasted when it leads to understanding. One day or two, it matters not. How one lives for the time one has is all that matters. Which is the better life: two days of happiness, of love and togetherness, or thirty years of suffering and loneliness?

"I haven't suffered for my entire life. I have had times of happiness. How do you know that I'm not a human, dreaming I am a butterfly?"

For that is not the truth.

"You seem to know a lot of things."

The wisdom of butterflies runs deep; a well that links us to that which is, that which was and that which may be.

"Then, what is the meaning of life?" I ask, for no other reason than that is the question people always ask.

We each must seek our own meaning and purpose.

"You hint at much but answer little."

Only because you aren't asking the right questions.

"What happens when we die?"

Again, a tinkle of chimes and warmth of a smile.

We never die, we simply change form. As water we start and to water we return. Water is life. It is our beginning, our sustenance and our being.

"Why are you answering my questions?"

Because you are an essential part of me, just as I am an essential part of you. Once you accept that there is no death and we are all part of life's cycle, time loses the relevance you currently accredit to it.

The longer we speak, the greater my sense of calm. It seems we have conversed for hours, yet I cannot discern any change in the morning's light.

"Can I leave if I want to? Walk back out the gate into my life, my dream?"

You found the gate as it was your time to awaken, but there is always a choice. You must be prepared to live with the consequences of any choice you make. I cannot tell you what lies outside the gate or even if you could find it again, but the choice is yours.

As I ponder her words, I already know the path I will follow. A new feeling has taken root inside me. At first, warmth. Then comfort, the type that seeps into every part of my being; a feeling similar to the first minute or two after making love. Like lying under blankets in the arms of a lover as rain beats a tin roof drum, the alone vanishes for a few tender moments.

The time fast approaches where your choice must be made. Spread your wings, fly with me if you dare. I will show you happiness. I will show you love.

"One more question?"

Of course; I have been waiting.

"Who am I?"

The tinkling grows louder and I realise it is the sound of her laughter, joy and happiness; none of these things and all of these things.

You are one and you are all. We are each of us unique, we are all special. We are many small voices that make up the song of creation. And with that knowledge comes the greatest of all truths: you are never alone.

~~###~~

Author bio

Ryan Stone is a freelance writer, poet, guitarist from Melbourne, Australia. He shares his home in the Blue Dandenongs with his wife, two young sons and a German Shepherd. On daily walks through his forest surrounds, he often peers down rabbit holes.

# Popping the Cherry

## Copyright Jay Howard

Marie popped her head around the twins' bedroom door. The children both looked up, one face scowling as only a seven-year-old boy can scowl, the other beaming her delight at having got her way about which game they played.

"You two OK there for a little while if I pop down to the greenhouse?" Marie asked.

Heather nodded vigorously, setting her brown curls bouncing on her shoulders. "We're giving Annabel and Trixie their supper," she said, lifting a tiny plastic cup to one doll's mouth, "and then Jody must help me bath them and put them to bed."

"No, no bath time," Marie said, her tone making it clear that this was not going to be open to debate. "No running water or using anything electrical while I'm not in the house." She paused, looked from one pair of grey eyes to the other. "Agreed?"

Heather pouted but nodded. Jody looked relieved. "Don't want to play this stupid girls' game anyway," he mumbled.

"Why don't you put the dolls to bed and then play dressing up?" Marie suggested then left them to it.

Jody went to the window and watched his mother hurry down the path. She was struggling to keep the hood of her rain jacket up, the blustery wind driving the rain almost horizontally at times. He sighed heavily, his hope of getting out to play with his favourite toy guns and bow and arrows as remote as the sunshine they hadn't seen for a week.

"Jody," Heather called, "you're supposed to be putting the children to bed with me."

He turned from the window and plodded over to his sister. He picked Annabel up and tossed her into one of the tiny cots.

"Jody!" Heather shouted. "You've hurt her!"

Jody shrugged and leaned back against the dressing up trunk while Heather settled the dolls under their quilts, murmuring soothing words to stop Annabel crying.

"OK," Heather said eventually, "get off the lid and we'll play dressing up next, like Mummy said."

Jody remained where he was. His moment of inspiration had a devil dancing in his eyes when he spoke. "Not this stuff," he said. "Mummy knew we were playing Mothers and Fathers, so when she said 'dressing up' she must have meant dress up like they do when they go out. Come on!" He dashed off to their parents' bedroom and pulled the wardrobe door open.

Heather stood in the doorway. "Are you sure this is what Mummy meant?"

"Positive," he said, and pulled his father's white dress shirt off the hanger. His tee-shirt was off in the twinkling of an eye and he disappeared inside the shirt. It had been hung with the buttons done up to keep it in shape but his head popped up through the collar without a problem. The sleeves hung down below his knees and he laughed, flapping his arms up and down. "Give me a hand, Heather, roll them up for me."

She sidled into the room and complied, then helped Jody find the ready-made-up bow tie, the one with velcro fastening. She giggled when he started to do a little jigging dance in his finery, especially when he added his father's black leather shoes and clomped around the bedroom.

Jody stood in front of the full-length mirror and admired his appearance. "Come on, Sis," he said, "you need to look smart too if we're going out dancing."

They both looked through the dresses hanging from their mother's rack. Heather found the turquoise dress with masses of sequins on the bodice and down the full skirt. She loved sparkly things. She stripped to her knickers and slipped inside the dress. As it was a calf-length dress for her mother she had to hold it up with both hands. Jody got out the strappy sandals their mother wore with the dress and Heather pushed her feet into the ends, her heels resting half way up the soles. She tried to dance but could only shuffle forwards, dragging the sandals across the carpet.

When she got to the dressing table she pulled the dress above her knees so that she could climb onto the stool, letting the sandals fall off her feet.

Jody wandered over to investigate his father's bottles of aftershave. Heather opened her mother's make-up bag, selecting a scarlet lipstick to wipe across her puckered lips. She checked her reflection, turning her head this way and that, smacking her lips together a few times before moving on to the mascara. That turned out to be a trickier job than she'd expected; with the first couple of brushes she managed to get some on her lashes, even more on her cheeks. The third time she poked herself in the eye. Jody laughed at her cries of anguish.

"It's not nice to laugh when someone hurts themselves," she said accusingly. She threw the mascara wand on the dressing table, leaving black smears across the polished surface. She rubbed her eye furiously, smudging the mascara even further down her cheeks.

Jody was now bored again. "What next?"

Heather paused and thought about it. "After you've been out dancing, you say goodbye to the babysitter and then check on the children and then go to bed." She was positive about this as she'd been awake once when their parents had returned.

They both went to their own bedroom. Jody stayed by the door while Heather went and rearranged the quilts over her dolls.

"Sssh!" she said, one finger to her lips. "They're both sleeping well." She led the way back to their parents' bedroom, and let the dress fall down her wiry body. She stepped away from it and went to her mother's side of the bed to retrieve her nightie from under the pillow. "Get your jimjams on," she instructed Jody.

He grumbled but pulled them out. "I can't wear the bottoms," he said. "They're way too long and the waist is too big."

"Just wear the top."

He rolled the sleeves up, and then rolled them some more before he could see his hands out of the ends. "They don't go straight to sleep," he said. "I've heard them making noises for ages after they go to bed."

"I wonder what they do?" Heather said. "I can't see any games in here."

A flash of bright red among the white tissues in the small bin by the bed caught Jody's eye. He reached in and lifted out a limp piece of rubber. "Looks like they play with balloons," he said. "Bet Dad had to throw this one away as he spat in it too much."

They both recalled helping blow up all the balloons for their party the previous week. They'd each had to throw a couple away when their mother objected to how much spit they'd got in the balloons. "It looks horrible," she had said, "sliding around in there. Yuk! And what if it burst over one of your friends' heads?" They'd both giggled, thinking about it. "It would hang off their nose like a bogey!" Jody had shouted, making Heather laugh louder.

Heather examined the deflated red balloon her brother held up and wrinkled her nose. "Put it back in the bin. Let's find some more new ones."

Jody opened the bedside cabinet drawer and saw half a dozen red balloons there. He looked at them dubiously. "I think these might be very expensive ones," he told his sister. "They're wrapped up separately, not like our party balloons, all in one big bag."

"Pass one over," Heather said. "I'm sure Mummy won't mind if we only take one."

Jody handed one to her and watched her open the foil. She raised it to her nose.

"Smells like my cherry sweets," she said and began to blow it up. She licked her lips. "It tastes like them too — here, you try it."

Jody licked the balloon. "It does; definitely cherry flavour. Do you think Mummy will buy us some fruity balloons if we ask?"

Heather finished blowing the balloon up. "It looks like a cherry, too, all shiny red and it's got a little stalk too!"

Between them they managed to tie a knot in the end. Heather stood up on the bed and started jumping up and down, patting the balloon towards the ceiling. The nightdress slid from her shoulders, freeing her near-naked body to jump higher.

Jody pulled his father's pyjama top off and jumped from the bed to the dressing table stool. "To me, Sis, over here."

She batted it towards him and he jumped from stool to bed to reach it before it dropped back to the floor. Heather took the chance to jump to the stool, Jody jumped to the chair, they both jumped back to the bed, each trying to pat the big cherry-coloured balloon every time they jumped. Their shouts and laughter got louder and louder, their leaps more and more daring, their bounces on the mattress higher and higher.

The door opened.

Jody and Heather froze.

Their mother stood there, mouth open, taking in the scene before her, the scattered clothes, the cosmetic-smeared face of her daughter. But mostly her eyes were transfixed by the red inflated condom. She grabbed up a brooch from the dressing table, captured the condom and pricked it with the brooch pin. The loud bang was followed by a moment's stunned silence.

"You popped my cherry!" Heather wailed, ever-ready tears forming in grey, accusing eyes.

"I... what?" Marie flushed scarlet, and then started laughing.

"What's funny?" Jody asked.

All Marie could do was shake her head, holding her hand over her nose and mouth, wiping away the laughter tears. After a while she got herself together again and cleared her throat loudly. "Come on, you two, you know you're not allowed to bounce on the bed or wear our clothes or use my cosmetics, so off to the bathroom and wash your face, Heather. Jody — put your father's shoes and my sandals away. I'll need to launder his shirt again." She leaned down to pick it up, then hung up her turquoise dress. Lastly she picked up the burst condom and put it in the bin.

~~~

Much later that day, Graeme sighed a deep, contented sigh and dropped a used red condom into the small bin by his bed. He pulled Marie in to his side and she rested her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat settle back to a normal beat.

"It's been a rather interesting day," he said, "and that was a perfect ending. Thank you."

"You may have noticed I wasn't objecting," she said and reached up to kiss his chin.

"Did you and the kids have a good day?" he asked.

Marie tried and failed to stop a snort. Her lips twitched. "You could say it's been a bit of a red letter day for the twins," she managed to say in a rather strangled voice. She tried and failed to stop the laughter bubbling up again.

Graeme felt her body begin to shake and looked down at her, wondering what was coming. What came were gales of laughter that would not be contained, but he had to wait quite a while before getting an explanation.

~~###~~

Author bio

I live in the beautiful English county of Somerset, cramming my writing into every spare moment outside the day job. I have published two novels and two collections of short stories.

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