 
### A compendium for the broken hearted

Published by Meredith Miller at Smashwords.com

Copyright Meredith Miller 2016

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

# Table of contents

Blurb

Breaks-- --Hearts

Story 1\-- \--Story2

Story 3\-- \--Story 4

Story 5\-- \--Story 6

Story 7\-- \--Story 8

Story 9\-- \--Story 10

Story 11\-- \--Story 12

Story 13\-- \--Story 14

Story 15\-- \--Story 16

Story 17\-- \--Story 18

Story 19\-- \--Story 20

Connect with Meredith Miller

# Blurb

If you are reading this, it may be that you are broken hearted. If not, then I am very glad, and hope you never will be. I hope this book evokes your interest and serves as a positive experience.

If you are, then please do not despair. Here is a compilation of short stories created in order to bring peace to shattered remains. In all likelihood, we'll not meet. If we do in passing, we may not recognize one another.

For all that these reasons may make it unreasonable, I would like to think that this book is a hug, from me to you.

I will try two things in order to comfort you. The book is separated into Breaks and Hearts. The Breaks shall show you the horrors and sadness possible in this world, hoping that in their shadow your situation may not seem as bad. The Hearts are meant to give you hope, and present the beauty of the human heart. Perhaps you'll see how sweet life could be.

If I fail in this quest, I cannot apologise enough. Please don't take it as a sign that it will never get better for you, or that the world is a bad place. Just think that an incompetent woman was unable to make your day better. Also, try not to get too mad with me.

After all, I wrote a book just for you.

# Story 1

Connor was wrong about being alone.

Meredith knew her older brother to be a kind and gentle soul. For one, He took her to the park whenever she asked for it, mostly. He also helped babysit when their parents weren't around. Finally, he'd always been there to comfort whenever she fell whilst playing or got scared at night. Present parents were a rare occurrence for Meredith, because both of hers worked jobs that often took them away from home. Nancy taught older children for a living, while John spent much of his time fixing things in other people's homes. Connor replaced both brilliantly. Her mother smelt of chalk and dangerous rulers smacking hands, and Connor was a midsummer breeze blowing away any problems with the sweet scent of flowers she could not name. John wore women's perfumes when he came back from work, and he'd often go away to spend his nights with friends. When that happened it was her brother's musky fragrance, smelled from a short distance, which comforted her.

Their little family had few other relatives, yet Meredith remained content. Connor complimented her constantly: On her clothes, her drawings; even how fast she learned to count and read letters. When she was taken to the park to play, she wasn't scared. Swings didn't move too fast, because adults made them and they wouldn't make anything unsafe for children. The little girl especially liked the feeling of holding the rope all by herself, ignoring the fact that her father wasn't looking at her, instead reading a magazine about playing with bunnies. When Connor took her for the first time, he surprised his little sister immensely, for he stayed behind her and pushed her on the swings. Despite being perfectly capable of swinging by herself, Meredith was very glad for the help. The park's equipment was rusty and sometimes ocean salt would get into her nose, mixing with the rust and stinging her. Whenever it happened, Meredith was not afraid because she was a big girl, despite being only four or... what was it again? At times, she would think that she wasn't perhaps as smart as she thought she was, because of course she was young and had a lot to learn. Still, Meredith knew that if she tried hard enough, anything would be possible.

Connor was a good student as well as a great teacher. One day, when she was still in first grade, Meredith walked into his room to see him working on maths. He had no problem with her looking over his shoulder, and would answer any questions she had. After a while of looking, the little girl noticed something strange. "It's wrong, Connor." She said this time, frowning slightly. She could tell he smiled, even without seeing his face.

"What's wrong, mermaid?" he inquired of her, still scribbling on his pieces of paper. It looked like he was doing many lines of long questions, but she could tell he was slacking off. After all, all of the questions had similar numbers. Meredith frowned once more despite the use of her favourite nickname, already biting her lips as she often did.

"You put minuses but there's nothing in front of them." He'd made that mistake repeatedly, in fact. Meredith waited for her brother to go back and change his work, and thus became surprised when he gave a minty laugh instead. She was sure he wasn't laughing at her, and so giggled along. Connor never laughed at her.

"These are negative numbers, sweetie. They're what minuses are made of." He looked at her slightly confused expression then sighed in that smiling way of his. The older sibling then pulled out a fresh sheet and drew a straight line on it, then other lines. Above that, he drew one person, then many. Meredith's face brightened when she realized that it was a group of people playing tug of war. She loved playing that game at school and home. After all, at home Connor always lost on purpose to make her happy. Right in the middle, her brother wrote 0. "One team is minus," he started explaining, motioning with his hands, "and the other team is plus. Now, if there are two people in the plus team, and one in the minus team, how much would they win by?"

She thought for an instant and then announced, "One!" eliciting a short clap from Connor for her mathematical abilities. He then asked a few more times with different numbers, getting correct answers. Finally he asked slyly, "And what if the minus team has two people and the other only one?" Meredith almost said one again before catching herself.

Using that momentum, Connor explained to his little sister that there were numbers below zero, and they just mean that you have less than nothing. If she promised him three apples and only gave him two, she would need to go get one more for him, leaving her with less than zero apples. "But..." she declared, "You'd forgive me if I'm missing one."

They shared a laugh again, and he said, "Yes, yes I would, mermaid."

The next day she explained what she'd found out for her teacher and Miss Miller made everybody clap for her then gave her not one, but two star stickers.

One particular day, a playmate named Peter Jones joined Connor and Meredith to get ice cream together from the small shop near the beach. Peter was as sweet and odd as cinnamon sticks. His mother had called out to Connor to take him, because he was a trustworthy youth and she was busy with something or the other that day. Thus all three made their way to the shop, which smelled oddly of a variety of sweet things mixed with cool air-conditioning and salt. The smiling cashier was coconut and curry and Meredith liked both very much, so decided that he was a friend despite knowing that not all people were good. "What kind are you kids going to get?" called Connor after the two sprinting children.

"Strawberry!" exclaimed Peter.

Meredith countered with, "Chocolate."

While the two went back and forth, Connor asked them to look for something with pineapple in it for him. Even after looking through the towering ice cream fridge twice, no hint of pineapple was to be found. It was only after the Connor himself looked over that last elusive topmost row that he found one last piece. It was the kind that came in two smaller sticks in order to be shared, but he took it with a smile before going to coconut man. Money exchanged hands, and although Meredith asked to be in charge of that transaction herself, people waiting in line behind them caused her brother to refuse.

They had only been outside a minute, talking with one another and paying no attention to roads or other such things, when Peter's foot caught on one particular nasty red brick and he fell right over. Connor caught him just in time, but not before his poor strawberry flavoured ice cream went flying out of his hand. It plopped on the brick pavement with a horrible sound. Almost instantly, Peter's face contorted like a withered flower. In order to comfort him, Connor patted the boy's shoulder while checking his foot for injuries. It was like in a doctor's office, but the good kind, the ones that don't reek of needle juice. "There, there," he said, "don't you worry about the ice cream. The important thing is that you're alright."

Still, Peter's crying did not stop immediately, as Meredith's usually did. "Mom can't always give me money for ice cream." He mumbled the words, and Connor's face changed.

"It's all right, Peter. You're a big good boy, and deserve strawberry ice cream, right mermaid? He came second in his class' quiz yesterday, wasn't he?" Meredith nodded, because Peter had told them about it earlier, on the yellow seesaw. "How about I get you another one?" he offered, but Peter shook his head vigorously, lips pursed in determined manner despite his wet eyes and flushed cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Connor, but we don't take money."

In that moment, Meredith remembered the stories Connor sometimes told her about knights in shining armour who slew dragons. She decided that Peter was a knight, all rust and set jaws. She didn't fully understand the significance of the boy's words, but Meredith glimpsed pride for the first time. Connor's expression had less mint in it, and more a mixture of dark chocolate and honey. "Well, why doesn't our brave boy take a half of my ice cream?" he wondered aloud to no one, before adding "It's pineapple though."

After a second of hesitation Peter took the offered half of Connor's double stick dessert with a polite, "Thank you."

As they went back, the little girl said, "Connor, I think nice knights are good, just like the brave ones," eliciting a confused laugh from her brother. From that day on, Meredith always bought ice cream in two sticks, just in case.

Then her brother went away. A university took him, and Meredith learned that there were other things in life beside school and play. To cope, her parents got a babysitter occasionally, generally trusting the eight year old to be good at home. And good she was, for Meredith had learned a lot from Connor. She went to school diligently, played quietly and was nice to everyone in her class. This caused her to become slightly popular, which wasn't a bad thing. Still, every day when she finished doing her homework and studying, the little girl preferred to get out of their little messy house. In time, that place had started to leave a bad taste in her mouth, like sour candy that was five days too old. Mostly the sourness came from John and Nancy's constant fights. Luckily, both preferred her out of the way for those, although they sometimes wanted her to sit in the living room and pretend to watch TV. She heard John once tell one of his friends that children were a little stupid; when they watched TV they couldn't hear anything you did. So Meredith left the two adults to their ways and instead went to the park to meet Peter and his mom. They were nice, and always happy to see her. Meredith began to spend a lot of time building sand castles in the pit, and as time sped along, it became one of her favourite things to do.

At first her castles were little more than upturned sand buckets with holes poked inside of them. The first time she tried it, half the topmost castle crumbled off before she could do anything. Still, Peter had been fascinated by her creation. "Wow, there's space for cannons and everything!" he'd exclaimed, hopping about in excitement.

"It's not great," she had retorted. In her mind's eye the castle should have been completely different.

"Sure it is," said peter, marching around the castle like a soldier looking for a breaking, "I can't get in, can I?" at that Meredith had laughed. There was no way Peter could have fit into such a small castle.

From then on they had alternated in playing each other's games: Meredith would go on the monkey bars with him and he would pretend to be a soldier trying to break into her castles, stomping around and pointing out weak points. He had a real knack for it too, because his father used to love books and had left a lot of army stories lying about. As Meredith added moats and bridges and separated burnable building components so they could be easily cut off in emergencies, Peter told her about defence mechanisms and clever contraptions. Each of the two had, inadvertently, found a calling in life.

Meredith didn't know what an engineer was, and so had asked her sitter, Chung, about it. The girl was nice enough, although she herself was often preoccupied with talking to her boyfriend on the phone and so sometimes wanted Meredith to be quiet. "Sweetie, I'll explain everything about building castles in a bit, so can you please go to the side and play with your building kit for now?"

About an hour later, Chung came over to where Meredith had built a small two story house out of tubes and building blocks acting as joints. She had added simple sheets of paper as red brick wall, completing her project. A couple of seconds later the whole thing fell apart and the baby sitter giggled. Taking the opportunity, she explained to Meredith that people who designed buildings were called architects, and that they need to study things called physics and geometry in school. Meredith was shocked, because nowhere had she ever learned physics. "Don't worry, kid," Chung had soothed, all bubblegum and perfume and smiles, "You're too young. People probably start learning physics when they're in ninth grade or something. I think I was that old when I did."

Meredith felt relieved for an instant, despite having to wait so long. She was still in third grade. But if you needed to be that old... "Is Physics really hard?" asked she, at once hopeful and afraid. What if it was terribly difficult and she couldn't make castles?

"Well..." Chung pondered for a second, causing Meredith to grow even more frightened. She almost hunched down before the older girl with her short hair laughed, "I was an arts major, so it sure was difficult to me!" Seeing Meredith's worry, however, she pressed on. "Everybody has things they are good at and things they're not, but if you really like it, I'm sure you'll do just fine, girl. I'm cheering for you."

A couple of months after that, Connor came back home for the holidays. It was the first time a fresh breeze had gone through Meredith's home that entire year, and she welcomed him with a fierce hug. He would go with her to the park and they would talk with Peter, as well as her numerous friends. There was no snow where they lived, but sand worked just as well for clump throwing purposes. Connor read her stories again and she snuggled in close as he did, taking in that musky perfume he'd always had. Things came to a welcome change, and Meredith wished her brother didn't need to go away and finish learning computer things at all. Still, the girl was empathetic, and understood that just like how she wanted to build castles, Connor wanted to type things into computers. She had the confidence in herself to wait until he finished everything in university and came back home for good. By then she would be able to show him how much she'd grown and what she'd learned. Connor would be surprised once she was allowed in the kitchen. She'll make him pizzas with pineapples one them.

It was this same empathy that allowed Meredith to notice the bitterness creeping into her brother's visit. It only poked its head out at times, and was hidden promptly by a shiny smile, as if pushed back by force. One such time was when she had asked Connor about how his studies were going. After a dark look, her brother had laughed and said, "University is harder than high school, mermaid."

"You can do it, Connor," came her determined reply that time, wishing nothing but the best. They had been sitting in front of the TV, although her brother paid more attention to her trying to build a particularly long bridge out of split drinking straws.

"I'm sure I can, in time."

A week after that came a similar chilly stench, when Connor had complimented Meredith on being able to make so many friends. She had turned around to him and exclaimed, "Of course, bro, I have just as many friends as you!" her observation was, of course, unfounded, because she didn't know how many friends Connor had outside of town. She'd simply assumed he was popular in university, and wanted to prove herself his equal. Why wouldn't such a sweet kind brother have many friends? His look, in response, lasted only an instant, but it was one that Meredith had rarely seen in her house, other than when her mother sat alone in the kitchen and cried because John had been out too long and came back so tired he tripped over his own feet.

In the second Connor contemplated her proclamation, the scent of beach and sunshine and happiness was gone. You could have told Meredith that she was in a dark mouldy cave and she would have believed it. Then Connor smiled and said, "It's okay, sweetie, I think you win on that one. You're a special girl."

When Connor left, Meredith shed a few tears, but she knew that he would be back sooner or later. John didn't seem to care, and Nancy was too busy to see him go, although she had scolded him earlier and told him not to forget to bring his test results when he next came. Thus an entire year whizzed by until her brother came back again. This year was spent with school and play. However, she was old enough able to help out at the house a little bit. Cleaning, tidying things up, these were her skills, and she used them as often as she could. After all, people were supposed to be good and help out. She remembered that being something Connor had told her. Chung started to come over less frequently, and was now more trusting of Meredith.

When he came back next, however, Connor seemed to be caught up in his own issues. He noticed that she had become a bigger more helpful girl, and complimented her extensively on that fact. Still, he seemed preoccupied with his essays, which Meredith didn't truly understand. Essays weren't too bad as long as you did them little by little. Why, she had done one just that past week. Of course, she didn't say that to her brother, because of the lines on his forehead. Connor had lost much of his healthy pudginess, had a ragged look in his eyes, gained about two inches of hair, and worst of all, her brother forgot to shower sometimes because he was too busy with his studies. That holiday, Meredith spent much of the vacation complaining to Peter and Tracey, another friend, about her brother's disappearance. "He's just always in his room." She'd said.

"Grown ups," huffed Peter in mock disgust, "Mom's always too busy too. It's okay Meredith, he'll finish up and then come play. Let me show you what I've found out." Peter brought out a book, which he flipped through to show her something called, "Underground rivers"

"They use them in castles." explained he. "Maybe you can do something like that with sand." By now, the kids were allowed to traverse a bit further alone, and so sometimes went to the closest stretch of beach. In a few seconds, Meredith forgot all about Connor being busy, despite deciding to do something nice for her brother. It was hard to remember far away troubles when you're looking fun in the face, after all.

That same evening, sleep had just begun to settle into Meredith's eyes when she was jolted awake by a frightful sound. Below her, voices rose in argument. She was used to John being angry, but something else disturbed Meredith. Connor was yelling back! As quiet as a mouse, the little girl snuck from her bed and went down the stairs one at a time, hugging the wall as she went. The staircase could have been a cave full of bats, so scared was she. Slowly the voices began to become clearer as she descended the stairs, hugging a wall.

"Dad, I'm telling you, I just ca-"

"Don't you dare tell me you can't pay rent!" John's voice boomed, and his words weren't tied right. "While you spend all your time partying out there, I do all the work arrround here. Now lllook here, boy. Either you come back every holiday and work your ass off like the rest of us," Connor almost began to say something, but their father cut him off brutally, "or you stay where you are and work your ass off there. Support yourself, and send money while you're at it."

Connor gasped. "What about my student loans?!"

"I gave you two choices. Pick one. No mmiddle ground, ya hear?!"

A few seconds passed, before Connor mumbled something. That seemed to anger John, and the next thing Meredith heard was a thunderous crash. Frightened, she ran all the way upstairs and cried in her bed, covering her face as she did.

The next day Connor left the house with a bruise on his face. He embraced Meredith tightly in the driveway before he did, and told her that he needed to stay away in university and work on holidays to help pay for his studies. He had no idea that she had overheard the conversation between him and John, and so mistook her hot tears for those of a child who would miss her big brother. He told her he would miss her too, and the scent of flowers and musk made her sad for the first time. He didn't come back for three long years.

People have a remarkable talent for getting used to things. Despite missing Connor and being furious with John, Meredith went on with her life, focusing on the childish aspects of studying and the serious parts of playing. She was determined to become an architect, and spent most of her break times in the school library, looking up books on the matter. Of course, they needed to be simple books, and illustrated, she was still twelve. However, Miss Chase (who was the school librarian) was very impressed with Meredith's resolve, and so helped her find the right books. When she wasn't reading or studying, Meredith helped out at home or went with Peter to play their usual game of build and destroy. She would build castles, and Peter would come up with ways to knock them down with the least amount of force.

So the years passed until one day, the little girl was astonished to find none other than Connor standing in their living room, bags still in his hand. She had her own backpack on, and unslung the pink thing as she ran over to her brother, already crying. It was a tearful reunion, but in a good way, because university had released her brother.

The first few months were bliss for Meredith. She was back in her old home, with her old brother, and things couldn't be happier. They went to the park together and he took her and Peter to buy icecream made of two sticks. She cooked simple dishes for him and he loved eating them. She had never cooked anything for John or Nancy. Meredith had only one parent, and he was finally home. She never said this directly, but rather whispered it deep down in her heart, hoping Connor could hear. Lastly, they watched each other work in turn. He would watch her build things out of sticks and glue, and she would sit with him in his room as he applied for jobs from his computer. When he went out for interviews in his suit, however, she wasn't allowed to come, even if she didn't have school that day.

Then, two things started to change. First, Connor began to look sadder and sadder the more he worked on his computer. This was perhaps because his interviews never went well. He would always come back home all shrivelled up and Meredith would try to breathe new life into him. Simultaneously, her brother began to have that same thin dishevelled look to him that he'd had three years ago. He lost weight and gained bags under his eyes. Gradually, he started to stay alone in his room, not allowing Meredith to watch him apply for jobs. He also began to avoid John, who got grouchier as time went. It was good that John spent much of the day asleep or drunk, because it stopped him from yelling. Connor's changes made Meredith sad, but she really didn't know how to stop them. Even Peter didn't have any advice this time.

One night, it happened again. Shouting, but this time one sided. As had happened the first time, Meredith snuck down the stairs in her pyjamas. She could see them from the foot of the stairs, sure enough. At the table behind the sofa to the side sat Connor, John standing up and facing him. He yelled, and although he had his back to her, Meredith could tell that his face was red and spittle was flying. With Meredith peeking from around the wall, Connor couldn't see her either.

"What was the point of studying all this time if you can't get a job?!" he screamed.

"It's not that simple," Connor argued, his voice quiet and his eyes sad. Suddenly old dust floating in the room made Meredith feel like this room was a castle crashing down, or old musty ruins. She didn't know which was sadder. "It takes a long time to get credibility. For now I need to freelance and then maybe in a year's time..."

"A year?!" John sounded outraged. "What kind of person waits that long? A bum, that's what!" Connor stayed quiet and the man pushed on. "At least get a tempora-"

"Dad, freelancing gets some money, and I need time to do it. I can't get another job or it'd just take me longer to find something proper." He seemed resigned, although his eyes looked so bitter and ashamed Meredith could almost taste it. Almost like an apple core, it was.

"That's an excuse if I ever heard one... Look, if you can't start contributing around here, then I don't see the point of having you." The words fell like a cannon round, and only paralyzing fear kept Meredith from darting out from her hiding spot to protest.

Quietly, Connor put his head in his hands. "Dad, please don't do this..." His voice cracked.

"It's for your own good, boy." For what it was worth, John sounded sad too. It almost sounded like he believed what he said. "You aren't doing what you need to, not carrying your weight. All this talk about needing your precious freelance money to see a shrink, I won't have it. Soft, that's what it is. You can pack your things in the morning, and leave next week. This is tough love, boy." The man turned to go finish watching his show and Meredith quickly scurried up the stairs with barely a squeak.

She cried for almost an hour, although quietly. Another hour was spent hardening her resolve, and the house kept its peace, as if it was holding its breath in anticipation. The only sound during this time was Connor bumping into his bed in the next room. When it was done, Meredith went and got her backpack, put as much of her things as she could inside, then got a plastic bag for the rest. By now John had gone to sleep, and the house was dark as a tomb. She could only see because she was used to the darkness by now, having closed her eyes for an hour. Meredith got her things packed, tucked her latest architecture book safely in, and zipped the bag. Miss Chase would want an apology, but Meredith wouldn't go back to school in order to return the book.

She was going away with Connor, because he needed her and she needed him. He would take care of her, and even if they didn't have much money, she would be happier with him than she would be with Nancy and John. Those two had never been good parents to either of them. They'd live together and he would be a programmer and she would become an architect. It would be perfect.

Quietly, on tiptoes, the little girl crept to her brother's room, making sure not to make a peep as she traversed the dark corridor. She didn't want John or Nancy to find out what she was planning. Softly she knocked, but was surprised to find out the door wasn't locked. Happy Connor never locked the door, but sad Connor always did. Meredith knew which one she'd seen a couple of hours ago, and hoped her brother wouldn't be too startled to see her standing at the head of his bed.

The door swung inwards with barely a whisper. His room was a mess, with things scattered everywhere across the floor. The air was dank with sweat and tiredness, for he'd apparently kept his window shut all week. His bed was done neatly however, and she could tell that he wasn't sleeping on it just then. Eyes swept the room from right to left, but Meredith at first didn't see her brother. Then she thought she did, and wondered why he was standing on his chair on tiptoes.

Then she realized what she was looking at.

"No," she screamed, breaking down and flinging the light switch on, exposing herself completely to the scene. "Why?!" she wailed, sounding like only a hurt little girl could. "Why did you do it?!"

She knew why he'd done it, even as young as she was. Connor had been in despair, thought that no one cared, that he was alone.

Connor was wrong about being alone.

# Story 2

It should have been a beautiful night.

It had all that was required of a beautiful night. A summer breeze, sweet scents drifting off from beyond the city lights, some cello street performer exhibiting his skills to a crowd of oogly eyed teens. Robert reflected on how perspectives could pervert such a night into being a potential sick joke played by fate's hands. In conclusion, this night had everything that could make a summer night beautiful, except that Laura was sick. She lay on an operating table not a hundred feet from where he stood. His wife was going through this. Alone. He had never felt his reach could be so short. Just a few hours earlier he had her flushed face cupped in his hands, yet now he wasn't even allowed to watch. The feeling of helplessness was crippling in its own way and Robert was sure that if he didn't keep pacing through this very same clean white corridor he would go insane instantly. The thought of something happening was enough to take him right to the edge.

Hell, he cursed silently, she told me earlier that she wasn't feeling too well. Why didn't I listen? Of course, it didn't matter to the art consultant that his wife hadn't been feeling well for the better part of the last six months, making that day's occurrences normal. His breath hissed inwards and he let it do so with reckless abandon. He swore that he'd never forgive himself if anything happened to her. As he looked out a large square window in this sanitary and suffocating white corridor, Robert noticed a reflection behind, making its way to him. He turned about in excitement, only to be met with the lanky figure of his brother Steven. He hugged him anyhow.

"How is she?" asked Steven breathlessly, sinking into one of those plastic green chairs hospitals had nailed to the walls. Robert had often wondered why chairs needed to be nailed to walls in this manner, but it was all crystal clear now. He could pick one up and hurl it out of the window.

"No news yet," he answered curtly, his mind spinning out of control as his brother dabbed at his forehead with the tip of his sleeve. How could the world keep going on? It was supposed to stop and share in Laura's misfortune; hold its breath. Something, at the very least. "They said they needed to do an emergency C- section and rushed me out. T-there was blood everywhere." The last words sounded nonsensical as they sputtered out of his mouth.

"Things are going to be alright," Steven whispered quietly, his breath regained. His eyes followed Robert's short frame as he went back and forth, keeping the window to his side, swinging like a pendulum. "Those surgeries are much safer than they used to be. I heard the mortality rate is only fifty out of every hundred thousand now." Robert stopped in his pacing, swinging about to look his brother in the eyes, his blue eyes flashing like a lightning bolt over an ocean. The taller of the two took a few seconds to understand his blunder before lowering his head in something akin to shame. Robert had never realized before today just how large of a probability fifty out of a hundred thousand was. It was almost unbearable to think of. "Catherine is better than me at this..." His brother half mumbled the words but Robert still caught them and almost felt sorry for the guy. "She's just tucking in the kids and she'll be right over. I was at work when I heard..." Steven prattled on as Robert drifted off into his own tortured thoughts.

Kids. Why on earth did he ever want kids? It wasn't like they did much good. It was her that he lived for, loved, needed. His life had been nothing before they met, and since that day everything had gotten better. Laura made him want to become better in a religious way. It wasn't a petty sense of pride that made the blonde haired art consultant want to improve. It was more like someone who looked up at a blue sky and tried to fly. She was simply so bright, so perfect, that he wanted to fly next to her. And now she might be one in two thousand women.

As the night wore on, more family members and friends came by to wait by Robert's side. They tried their best to offer him advice. All the while he never stopped his pacing, never took his mind off the operation nor his eyes off the room's doors. They were almost imprinted into his brain now: double white doors, no window panels to show comfort. They had an iron bar across them, which needed to be pushed to open and allowed doctors in a rush to breeze past with their patients upon wheeled hospital beds. Robert had naturally already tried the door, but of course it wouldn't budge while someone was being operated on. Plastered upon the door was a sign warning family not to intrude upon the sterile hall within.

Robert hadn't really realized it earlier, but hospitals were much like churches. They had their own atmosphere, their own people, their own colours. Churches elected for solemn browns and bright window patterns while hospitals went for a faded green and a white as sharp as a scalpel. He hated those colours with a vengeance.

A church held your soul in question, but a hospital decided whether you lived or you died. That was the feeling the blonde haired man got from this place. If something went well, then it was a doctor's hand that brought health in a gift basket. If something went sour then it simply couldn't be helped.

Preoccupied by the relatively menial task of making his pilgrimage through this hallway, Robert ignored the now idle chatter of his loved ones. He let his mind wander in melancholy spiced with an unhealthy dose of panic.

There she lay now, Laura, eyes closed. He imagined her with pale green sheet draped over her torso. In his mind's eye she was perfect, beautiful as she was earlier that day, her hair unruffled despite that weird hospital hat thing doctors slapped on your head for no real reason. The hospital lights did her good, it seemed. But down by her torso was chaos, Robert noticed. The green faded sheet had a rectangular piece cut out of it to expose her belly. Her belly, in turn, was... No, he couldn't think about that. He just couldn't. Instead Robert allowed his mind to go back to her face, ignoring the rushing of doctors and nurses, the yelling, the chaos punctuated by the irregular beeping of that damned heart rate sensor. She had her hair in a ponytail as she liked to when she was working out or cooking. He liked watching her cook. Laura had a habit of turning on music in the background and turning the mundane task of cooking dinner into a show of grace and beauty, bouncing away this way and that as she made dinner. She used to tease him whenever he tried to help her with the cooking as well, nose all scrunched up and lips pursed. "Go away," she'd shoo her husband away with a towel or something similarly offensive waving in her hands, "You make the music bad and the food bitter!" once she even made a cross with her fingers, laughing while as she pretended to be the Van Helsing to his Dracula. She had always been sunny and he pessimistic by nature.

In a way, Robert understood what it meant to have children. They had discussed the matter extensively, after all. At home, the baby's room was already decorated with pink and beige, everything readied so as to welcome this child to a wonderful home. They had even worked together to paint one of the walls into a meadow under a shining sun. Trees and bunnies were littered around the simplistic drawing. Despite his abilities, Robert had decided to go simple, for he had left space for the baby to draw the family into the wall when she was older. However, at the moment he could not help but question all of that. How much could a person love a child? They had no way to know if this baby would grow up to become a judge or a mother or a free loader.

It was Laura who mattered. It was she who made the world turn. A teacher by profession, she not only captured his heart, but those of her schoolchildren as well. She skipped around the five and six year olds like a floating angel, and that was exactly how he saw her. Robert remembered the first time they had met because the sight of her with the sunlight washing over her from a nearby window had caused him to stop in her tracks. She had tucked her straight wash of golden hair behind an ear as she bent down to take a look at one of the kid's drawings. Then she had turned over, adjusting her green cardigan, and looked him in the eyes with her big piercing eyes. As he fumbled about his words, trying to explain that he was coming to pick up his friend's son and that she should have gotten notified already, Laura had smiled at him. In that instant everything became okay.

It had all went uphill from there. Originally a small time artist working from job to job to pay the bills, he had landed a place in an art gallery and she had come to see his single painting in a lonely corner. If the tall teacher had recognised the angel in that painting, she never said it. However, he still gathered the courage to ask her out that same day, and as they had a humble meal with the money he had gotten from selling that painting.

A month later the two decided to try a longer term relationship, and were married within a year. Being around Laura brought out the best in Robert and took out the ever present pessimist in him. His worries were nonexistent as long as she was happy. Proposing to her was the most difficult thing that the just then hired consultant had ever done. It was in the same hall where he'd asked her out, and he had sat her down next to him instead of kneeling before her. To him it was going to be a difficult conversation.

"Look, sweetheart," he had started, hands clammy and brow beaded with sweat. She had looked at him with worry. Robert was sure she had been afraid he was ill, as she usually was. "It's been a wonderful year with you. The best I've ever had, but..." At that her eyebrows had creased a bit. "I'm... not stable. I'm always worried, scared, afraid of things. I try to stay in control of things all the time, I get depressed and then I need someone to treat me like a child. You're wonderful, you can turn a weed into a sunflower and night into day. You can make crying children giggle and do a thousand different things at once while laughing at me because I'm too worried about something unimportant. You deserve a carpet of petals wherever you walk and instead you're on a road of thorns with me."

"Baby-"

"Laura, honey, let me finish..." His voice had caught with fear as she stopped trying to tell him how great he was and waited. "My love... what I'm saying is... I am weighing you down, I know that... You can have any man you want, and you deserve the best, not me." Robert had taken a deep breath, with her hands in his clammy ones and them sitting next to one another on a white plastic bench. He had become almost lightheaded with nerves as blood pumped about his body so fast his ears throbbed. "So I'm going to be selfish. Would you please walk this prickly road with me? Will you choose me over all these better people? I'd rather be colour-blind than lose you, so please, Laura De Lyde, will you be my wife?"

Silence had reigned then. As Robert looked up, he'd noticed tears in Laura's eyes, and had been resigned to a no. Because of that, her leaping from her seat and into his arms, screaming yes at the top of her lungs had taken him (and the rest of the hall) completely by surprise. The wedding preparations hadn't taken too much time, and her parents had taken things better than expected. It turned out they had just wanted him to have a proper job with a monthly pay. Though Robert would have married her in rags, the wedding dress had been better. Honeymoon and first months had rolled by like a train heading towards a bigger station.

Things had gone by so fast until they decided to have a child. It was all normal at first, checkups were done, pictures were seen, and preparations were made for the arrival of their newborn. The pregnancy had been slightly stressful as all pregnancies were, but nothing that should have caused any serious problems. Then their life had taken a turn, for although Laura should have had a normal childbirth, something had happened that he didn't understand and she had to be rushed to the hospital for an emergency C-section, perspiring and weakened to a degree that caused him physical pain. Then as she was wheeled into the operating table, almost out of his earshot, her parting words had been, "If you have to choose, save the baby." It was too much for Robert to take. He kept the possibility out of reach in the corner of his dark mind, where it fed on dark crevices and turned into a gnawing.

So he paced the room as family members talked.

Less than an hour later, a sound behind him alerted Robert to someone leaving the operating room. It was a nurse in green scrubs, carrying something small in a bundle tenderly in her hands, eyes downcast. Steven and the other gasped as Robert rushed forward, asking "How is she? How is Laura?" He couldn't stand the wait as the nurse looked at him, slightly alarmed by his tone.

"She's tired and weak, but she'll be fine in a few days." The nurse smiled as all the breath rushed out of Robert in a rush, causing him to slump a little. His knees rattled. Then she told him he will be allowed to see the mother in a bit. The mother.

For the first time, Robert noticed the bundle properly. A baby nestled in it. She had baby skin and closed baby eyes and a tiny baby form. Robert brushed his hair from his eyes as the others oohed and aaahed. He looked at the baby, who appeared to be sleeping , in wonder. Then it smiled.

Who knew you could fall in love this fast, thought the art consultant to himself silently as he reached a hand gingerly, realizing that this little child had Laura's nose and his lips.

An hour later, Robert sat next to his sleeping wife, cradling his new daughter in his arms. He hummed to himself peacefully, hoping that they were dreaming happy things and thinking himself quite foolish for worrying so much. Outside, he knew that a clean summer breeze blew and a that while a cello player sat by a road, captivating a crowd of impressionable teens, beyond his city's lights flowers were blooming quietly.

It was a beautiful night

# Story 3

All Michael ever wanted was parents.

Everyone in the orphanage did. Parents were magical because they made you feel safe and warm and happy. Parents loved you, the kids whispered at night, more than anyone can love anybody else, and for no reason. Michael saw it in movies. There were sad movies and happy movies, funny and scary ones.

When you were scared, parents would hug you and remind you that you weren't alone.

When you laugh, they'd hug you and share the giggles.

When you were happy, they would hug the happiness so deep into you that it never left.

When you cried, your tears would be wiped by a parent's warm shirt.

Michael came down the stairs thinking that because he'd not had a hug in, well, forever. He felt like he needed it, and clinging to Mrs. Stinson's grey skirt didn't really count. Children did it sometimes even if they didn't want to ask her anything. To her credit, Mrs. Stinson never pushed you away when you did that, and often she would be seen performing her duties around the orphanage with a gaggle of children holding on to her skirt. Clothes got warmer the more love you had in you, Stanley had told him that before. Mrs Stevenson didn't care about any of them, and so her clothes were cold like ice. Being the head mistress of Mercy Orphanage was just a job for her. Whatever love she'd had before had been wiped off her scowling face long before Michael had been born.

Then again, maybe she had no love for orphans. Her face changed when her own kids happened to visit. Michael was sure she was warm then, at least.

Michael knew that he needed to hurry. There was little time to worry about hugs and Mrs. Stinson's cold skirt, for it was already almost seven in the morning. That was when breakfast was served and although porridge wasn't Michael's idea of a perfect breakfast, it was absolutely better than nothing. Barely enough sunlight streamed through tired glass panelled windows to warm up the cafeteria. Mercy orphanage was large, and its cafeteria housed many more rows of benches than other places. When parents came here to look at kids, this place was converted. The benches were pulled away and replaced with neat little tables and chairs while every child who was due for a showing would receive a long painful scrubbing. Parents were asked to go from table to table every few minutes, greeting children and making small talk as they went, but many of them never lingered long before whisking them away or moving on. This made Michael happy because to him it meant parents must love children so much that they can't help themselves when they see one in such dire circumstance. His day would come too. He knew it.

From so far away, Michael couldn't see Rachel wave even though he had his glasses on. Her voice was unmistakable, however, and he made his way surely to where the curly haired girl sat with Stanley. They huddled a little to make room for him, and there hunched a bowl of porridge on the table, waiting just in case he was a few minutes late. Michael waved his thanks to them and noisily took his place on the bench, barely thinking to eat. "I had a dream again," he remarked almost absentmindedly, trying to catch together his dream's strands into a thick weave he could remember properly.

Rachel was obviously excited, and demanded, "What was it? Oh, your dreams are the best!"

He smiled ruefully. Despite being only nine years old, he sometimes felt much older than he actually was. This felt especially true when he compared himself to Rachel, who was more childish than him yet ten years old. "I was in a really big field and the sun was shining outside. It was warm for a while and I walked around, trying to look for flowers."

"Flowers? You can get them outside if you want." Stanley joked.

Still, Michael did not understand and so answered innocently, "Not here, in the dream. I was looking for flowers and then things got very very cold. Then the sky became at night, but without stars." Michael paused in his story, sensing a question coming from Rachel.

"And then what happened?"

"And then a big monster came and she started to chase me. The monster was big and scary, made out of ice. I fell down and looked for a rock to throw at her, but when I grabbed it, it was a sword and-"

"WOW!"

"Yeah, a really big sword. When I grabbed it, it grabbed me too, almost like it wanted to shake hands. It felt soft. And then we beat the cold monster together and he, uh, she turned into a house and the sun came back and I went inside." With that, his story was complete and Michael turned around to his clapping peers. Not just Stanley and Rachel, but a few other boys and girls sitting close had listened in and had apparently enjoyed his tale. "Maybe you're going to be a super hero with a sword!" a boy called Russel had exclaimed. Russel Stern, he was called. Michael knew this not just because the boy was of similar age, but also because he had a last name.

"No, Russel Stern," said he wryly, almost savouring the way a true last name name rolled off his tongue. "Dreams don't come true."

Russel Stern didn't seem happy as that, and murmured, "Miss Mary said that dreams come true..."

"Silly, it's not the sleeping dreams. Miss Mary meant the kind of dream that you throw far away in front of you and then walk over to meet"

"What does that mean?" asked Rachel, interrupting the whole thing, and Michael told her that he didn't know, he'd seen it in a picture book once. After that all the kids chatted together about picture books until a supervisor came along. She snapped at the kids to finish off their porridge so they could get to classes. "Unless you don't want to have breakfast?" she hissed, and that got all the kids to wolf down much more efficiently. After finishing, the kids were scolded for dallying one last time before being sent to their classes. Michael sighed in relief. At least Martin was nowhere to be seen today.

Martin was a Mercy, just like most of the other abandoned kids in the orphanage, only bigger and meaner than most of them. He also had a habit of not getting caught when he did something bad. Luckily, the boy had been ill this week because snow came and he went out without permission, and so he'd been out of everyone's way, unable to torment the other kids. This Michael told Stanely as they made their way out of the cafeteria, feeling quite happy with this moment of peace.

He was surprised when Stanley elbowed him, hard. "Oh Mike," he lamented sadly when the boy looked at him in surprise. "Look behind you..." Slowly, Michael did and almost came face to face with the toothy crooked grin belonging to one of Martin's goons

Michael had never been complimented by any of Mercy's staff on his looks, but in his opinion this boy was on a whole different level of unpleasant looking. Rover's face was too big for him. Everything on it was overly large, from his forehead to his ears to that mouth filled with front teeth. There was only one exception to the rule, for he boasted a stubby nose, which looked like it had been stolen from another kid. Maybe it had, thought Michael to himself as Rover sneered at him and pointed upwards, towards where Martin must be sleeping on the second floor. Rover was known to have quick hands, perhaps his only redeeming quality other than a huge amount of loyalty reserved for people who didn't deserve it.

"He'll hear about that." The boy snorted happily before brushing Michael aside. Stanley was too old for him, though, and almost as tall, so he moved around him.

That day, classes went almost well, despite fear of future punishment clouding his mind. Michael was a smart boy, especially good at maths and logical things. Still, because he'd been signalled out by Martin for a long time, the slightly scrawny boy with his round glasses barely ever had the chance to concentrate in class. It was a problem that he and his tormenter were the same age and had to live together in the same dorm, he reflected. Real brothers would never do that, so despite what Miss Mary said, Michael was never going to treat Martin like one.

Magically, Martin always recovered from his cold when it was time for sports class. That day, he sneered at kids as he made his way around to the front of their wedge shaped formation, confidently taking his place at the head of line. Mr Spoker, who almost looked like an older meaner version of the boy, smiled affectionately at him. The man had promised to take in Martin in time, as long as he kept him his excellence in all manner of physical activities. Some of the staff didn't like the way he favoured his younger version, but none of them said anything.

The class went on for about an hour. They had to do jumping jacks and other exercises in the cold, and even though Mercy supplied warm sports clothes for the winter Michael felt horrible by the end of it. When sports class was done Martin started to cough again and Mr Spoker took him upstairs, patting him on the back. Micheal dreaded the fact that in three days, Martin would join classes again in earnest.

When done with dinner, the children were ordered upstairs to brush their teeth and go to sleep. There Martin waited, sitting on his beds with legs crossed. He smiled as Michael came up the stairs slowly. "I heard you said some really mean things about me."

"Not true..." the mumble was half-hearted at best. Michael's eyes were set downwards and away in the darkness, but he could tell Martin saw the lie in his face.

The golden haired kid's face contorted and twisted with rage, his face flushed and his voice went just a little bit louder. Children from their ward, all between nine and ten, shuffled into the long room lined with small beds silently. In Mercy Orphanage, the kids never talked to the staff. It wasn't something that you did unless you wanted everyone to hate. However, they talked amongst themselves freely, and by now all knew what was going on. "Don't LIE to me!" Martin hissed, "Rover's stupid but at least he knows how to tell the truth. Come here, Rover!"

At his command, the stubby nosed boy shuffled over obediently like a troll. At Martin's bidding Rover told repeated everything that had been said within earshot that morning. The dream part made the golden haired boy scoff whilst reddening Michael's ears, but the bully brightened at hearing the rest of it.

In order to save up on electricity, sleeping wards used candles hung up from the ceiling instead. Tonight that orange glow illuminated half of Martin's face, making his skin look like it was stretched taut across his face. Most of the room drooped in shadows and the walls loomed horribly closer, as did the ceiling. Everything looked like it was closing in on Michael. No other child moved. Even Rachel stood back, as if hiding, but the darker haired boy didn't blame her. She couldn't help, so it was better for just him to take it rather than place herself in trouble.

They held him down, made him cry, took his glasses and slapped him lightly across the face. All the while Martin told him how he was a weak ugly liar and that he hated him. "At least you're smart, so you're gonna learn not to be rude again!" he exclaimed in glee while Rover and Sam pinned Michael down. Not that he could have done anything.

None of the children tried to help, and Michael was too scared to try and fight back beyond a feeble struggle. In a way he felt alone, as if the other kids were watching him struggle in a circle of fire. He felt like Martin was larger than life, like that fire demon from the movie with the ring. And he was just one of those short curly haired people.

What good did being smart do when you felt like that?

They stuffed him in his mostly empty wardrobe to sleep, and Michael didn't try to push his way out. Sure, the wardrobe's walls closed in on him in a way that made the young child's breath catch, but at least here he could cry in peace. Through the crack in his prison, he saw children talk to one another nervously.

That night Michael dreamt that he walked a windy desert at night. The sky was made of walls in every direction. His feet sank deep into the sand with every step and he could smell salt with every breath. When it was all too much and the loneliness had him almost frozen solid, the small boy with face caked by sand and tears reached an oasis where the sun shone bright. There, he found fresh water to drink and a tree to clamber up for fruit. The tree looked down and it spoke to him to go into a tent and sleep with the others. With that, he woke.

The next three days were alright, as long as he stayed away from Martin when it came time for bed. Other than Stanley being furious to hear of the matter and wanting to fight the boy, there had been no danger. "You'll win, but he'll just come back hurt me more when you're not around." Michael had reasoned calmly despite fear pumping in his veins like liquid ice. Those words had the desired effect and the eleven year old's wind went right out his sails that day. After that it was just a matter of waiting, going to classes, keeping his head down like he was supposed to.

On the same day the Martin was finally told to leave his bed and join classes, parents were scheduled to arrive at Mercy orphanage. The night before, even the grounds outside were made pretty with vibrant coloured decorations and artwork made by the residents of Mercy. Even the big brass worked sign out by the gates was spray painted. The cafeteria looked almost ten years old again, with only small clouds of dust floating about. Of course, small chairs and tables lined every wall, each facing towards the centre with two more chairs in front for the parents. Sunlight streamed through the two completely open windows high up by the ceiling.

Parents! What a wonderful magical thing they were! They could scoop you out from a horrible life and flood you with love and happiness in a way that nothing else can. They were like the sun or the wind or a furry blanket when you weathered winter's bite: Just good solid happiness.

That morning Michael was absolutely sure that his day had come. Today parents would visit the orphanage, and although most couples wanted a child who was cute or athletic, Mrs Stinson had told him that being smart mattered almost as much as those things, and that there were couples who always wanted to see a child's academic record before they took him away. Baseless optimism took over the young boy that morning. Even the gloom in their ward, caused by there being one solitary window in the area, could not detract from this powerful feeling. Without even realizing, Michael took his glasses off and stretched his arms to both sides, smiling paying attention to nothing.

"Are you ignoring me?"

Michael spun instantly to where an indignant Martin stood, face already red with rage. Apparently he'd said something to Michael, perhaps a taunt about how he'd slept in the wardrobe a few days ago. The boy hated being ignored more than anything else and Michael knew instantly that he had committed a grave error, but before he could even stammer a hasty apology something smacked his face, hard. Pain blossomed from his nose and everything went white for a second. He fell and Martin fell upon him. He's going to kill me thought the dark haired orphan to himself as Martin Mercy pummelled him until an adult was called to separate the two.

Obviously, Michael had played no hand in the fight. Because of this he was taken to the infirmary, where Miss Mary applied bandages to his face whilst making soothing noises. He didn't cry, and when she asked him about it he explained everything: The dream, how he was sure that his parents were coming for him that day. Of course he said nothing about the night he slept in the wardrobe: Snitching wasn't allowed at Mercy. "I don't believe in dreams because they just come while you sleep, but this one felt real. I'll finally have my turn at a home," he shot hopefully.

"Oh my..." said Miss Mary. Her kind face usually bore a smile, but now she covered her mouth with one hand.

Michael waited for her to keep working on his face, but when the lady did nothing he started to get worried. "What is it, Miss Mary?" he wondered aloud. When she whispered, her eyes were full of pity.

"Sweetie, we can't have you go to the meet and greet with these wounds. It wouldn't be right. You'll...You'll need another month." That was when he started to cry and plead. He tried to explain to her that today was his day to find happiness, that if they didn't let him out he was going to miss his parents. They were going to go away and he was never going to find them again. Miss Mary said there would be other chances. "It wouldn't be them!" he protested, hot tears streaming. For what it was worth, she cried along with him.

Shortly after the incident, Martin was banned from going to meet and greets for three months (although he probably didn't care). More importantly, the golden haired boy was moved out of their ward and into the ward for eleven and twelve year olds. There, Stanley made sure that the boy was kept nice and in line. None of it mattered to Michael anymore.

By the next month he looked almost normal again, if not for the new jaded look in his eyes whenever he prowled the hallways. It all looked so predetermined to him. He was going to live in misery from now on, so everything looked drab. He stopped telling his friends about dreams. His parents were gone. Maybe they found someone else. Maybe they left without taking anyone.

The night before their next parent meet and greet, Michael had a dream again. In this dream there were many small people walking towards a great mountain. Each figure tried its hardest to see where it went, but they moved as if blinded. As they went some stumbled into thorny bushes and brambles, fell into shallow rivers that they could not get out of, or simply lost their way before being leapt upon by drooling wolves. As the multitude of figures went Michael realized that he was one of them. One by one his peers fell until he was the last, walking that bare landscape.

Finally, he reached the base of the mountain... and found that there was a house, warm and happy, just out of reach. Between him and that house stretched a chasm as deep as an ocean after midnight. He reasoned that if he fell inside, its walls would close in, trapping him forever. Furthermore, this wide deep hole stretched forever, both to his left and to his right. He didn't know how he could ever get across, and he had no wings to fly.

Beyond him, in the house, happy children sat with their perfect parents, the magical ones meant for them after their real ones ran away. For every special little boy, there were special parents just waiting to be found.

Michael awoke in a daze, unprepared for what was going to happen today. When Rachel asked him about why he wasn't excited, he said, "Nobody ever wanted me before. Why should today be any different? Besides, the special ones are gone." She looked upset with his answer, but didn't say anything.

The meet and greet was mostly spent with Michael looking at his toes, waiting for a couple to stop by his table in the cafeteria. Occasionally one would and would chat with him politely for a few minutes before excusing themselves and moving on to another table. Maybe they could tell that he didn't care anymore. Maybe it was the one remaining bruise on his face. Finally, Michael's attention was captured by a man and woman talking just in front of his table. "But look at the poor thing, Stevie!" exclaimed she finally, and the man relented.

"Alright, Alright. Aah, women..." he mumbled, moving over to Michael and pulling himself a seat. "Hey kid. What's your name?" he asked. Everything about the man was average, even his name. The redhead behind him looked as if she was about to cry, and Michael realized she was looking at his bruise.

"Michael, sir," answered the boy in a hollow voice.

"Now, me and the missus were looking for a kid maybe a little older, but you know how soft women are. She says she wants you home, and I'm here to please her anyways so what do I care?" The man paused as if waiting for a reaction from Michael, but the boy kept his peace. "How're you doing at school?"

"I'm doing fine, sir. Top of the class in maths."

"And your teachers, you polite to them?"

So the interrogation went. Michael told the man everything he knew about himself, except for the dreams and Martin. Those were private. He told them about his friends and Miss Mary and Mrs Stinson and how practical she was. He told them how kids in Mercy were taught to be polite to their elders, and all he knew how to do around the house.

Michael did this in simple answer format until the woman told her husband to be nicer and stop asking so many questions. "What if you scare him?" she demanded, her voice soft and quiet.

"Ah, he'll be alright. I like how quiet he is. Seems like a sensible enough kid to replace..." his voice trailed off for a second before he caught himself. "Well anyways, he'll study and help out and stay out the way when I wanna be alone with you, sugar. That's all we need. We'll take him!"

That same day, the paperwork was signed and Michael said his goodbyes to the people that mattered. He promised Rachel and Stanley that he'd be back to visit, and he promised Miss Mary that he'll come back to work in Mercy when he was older. All three hugged him fiercely. Then Michael went back with Steven and Flannery Cole to their small home. The name tasted strange on his tongue. Michael Cole. There, he learned of a new life.

Steven was usually busy at the factory, and when he came back he was usually tired and out of sorts. He would relax and expect his house in order and dinner served. Michael was expected to go to school, come back and study, then help out with the chores until Steven came by to have dinner. After dinner the boy would be allowed his time, as long as he didn't disturb Steven.

Michael learned quickly to give his father a wide berth. The man had only gotten him to appease his wife, and had little time or patience for children. When he made mistakes, such as being late to class or being in Steven's hair, the man would be quick to stand tall and yell at Michael. He was great at yelling at people and did it often.

Flannery was a sweetheart in every sense of the word. Despite being tired after cleaning the house, cooking three meals, taking care of most of the chores, she would often urge Michael not to help her out and to focus on his enjoyment. When Steven came back from the factory, she'd listen to all his loud mouthed complaints whilst giving him an affectionate shoulder rub with a smile on her face. Beyond that, Flannery Cole also soothed Steven when Michael got on his nerves, reminding him that the child had never lived with parents and needed to get used to them. "Maybe we do some things at home that they never did in the Orphanage, Stevie, please calm down and give him time," She'd told him once after Michael forgot to do the dishes. Then she would take the brunt of his tongue silently for a while.

Steven would always apologize to his wife later, after he calmed down. He never apologized to Michael though. Things in this house were shaping up to be quite different to what Michael had seen in movies.

Almost six months later, Michael's birthday came. In Mercy, each evening names would be called out at dinner and those children with birthdays would get an extra bit of dessert whilst everybody else clapped. However, Flannery had hugged Michael when he told her that and said that she'd do things right for him.

On Michael's birthday his new mother looked pale, had huge bags under her eyes and sweated profusely. Even her voice sounded wane as she told Michael not to come back immediately after school. "I want time to make things special!" exclaimed the redhead in as much fuzzy warmth as a person with a cold could muster. After school, Michael spent a number of hours trying to play basketball with boys in the neighbourhood. He wasn't particularly good at it but the kids didn't penalize him too much for inexperience. All in all, the dark haired boy returned home with a generally good feeling. Maybe things here could be good, if he learned how to make Steven happy.

Upon reaching home, however, Michael heard Steven talking in a loud voice. Apparently he'd had a horrible day at work and was about a hair's breadth away from exploding. Michael noticed how tired Flannery looked and suggested that she go take a rest, but Steven dismissed his remark with a wave. The man wiped his face off on his wife beater, which already had a couple of stains on it. "Dinner first," he'd said gruffly.

They went to the table, where roast beef was readied with three plates and something hidden under a large upside down mixing bowl. Michael, sure that he was about to have his first birthday cake, felt his heart clench but kept quiet. He was determined to feign surprise for his new parent's sake.

Poor Flannery had tried her best, but it was difficult to make a perfectly tender roast beef when you're as ill as she was. As he bit into dry meat, however, Michael couldn't care less because she'd done all this while feeling so terribly ill, just for him. It was almost too much for him to understand, and he was truly glad to be living in her home.

Steven, however, didn't feel the same way. After a couple of bites he threw his fork down onto the table, clearly upset. "Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed, a vein appearing on his forehead. "You cooked the taste right out of it!" He looked furious, and Michael couldn't believe his words. Couldn't he see the state his poor wife was in? As usual when Steven got like that, the boy stayed still and quiet.

Flannery cast her gaze downwards, obviously hurt. "I tried my best, Stevie..."

"Well, trying isn't good enough. I didn't marry you to laze around, lady."

This seemed to bring his wife even further down. Usually this was the point where Steven would calm down, and then he'd apologize a day later for his words. Still Steven grumbled for a bit, not taking his seat. Flannery, wanting to appease him, said in a weak voice "I'll make you something else later, Stevie." Her eyes were glued on the thing under that upside down bowl. "Later, but for now I have a little surprise for our little-"

"Don't you dare ignore me!"

Almost without warning, Steven's rage blazed like a great forest fire. He pulled his hand back and mercilessly struck his wife across the face, bringing her right down to the ground. Everything seemed to stop, and for the first time in his life Michael yelled, "Mommy!"

Another crack resounded and the boy went flying a couple of feet, his broken glasses going off his face. As soon as he got his breath back from his thud against the floor, Michael scrambled to his feet and ran to his room. He could barely see without his glasses, but the young boy managed to lock the door behind him and then hide under his covers, enclosing himself within a doubled prison.

As time went, Steven's shouting quieted down, and then he started to soothe his wife, telling her that he was sorry, that he didn't mean it. He would make it up to her. She needed him. It was only the second time after all, she had to forgive him. Michael tried to wish himself to sleep, but he knew deep in his heart that he would never dream again.

Why would anyone in their right mind ever want parents?

# Story 4

There had always been something different about Warren Schmidt.

As far as he knew, it had nothing to do with his looks. He was neither tall nor short, a bit on the scrawny side of things perhaps but nothing too drastically different from everybody else his age. He had slightly curly black hair that ruled over its kingdom and defended it furiously from the onslaught of the comb aunt Milly had in her room, yet that was no reason for it to be pulled constantly. Warren also had large black eyes, if boasting perhaps more alarming bags under them than was usual. Still, his eyes did not excuse the looks that the young man was now almost used to. Warren's skin was pale like milk, yet of an unhealthier sheen, and perhaps that type of skin was more tempting than others and had thus caused him to be treated a little like a whiteboard or fresh canvas whenever he fell asleep (which happened more often than he himself would have liked). All in all, the fourteen year old thought to himself as he left home and made his way to the bus stop miserably, he shouldn't be able to stand out in the way that he apparently did.

An October chill hit suddenly and Warren shivered involuntarily. It was stupid that people had to start school at eight in the morning, he thought to himself. Why not let kids have a bit more time to sleep in and stretch out the end of school an hour or so? It just didn't make any sense to him. Especially not in this weather and without a jacket. Aunt Milly had bought him a sweater a couple of months back on his birthday but it wasn't quite enough this particular year. Warren shivered again at the school bus stop, trying to shield himself from the biting wind by leaning behind a large tree. At least it wasn't sunny, thought the teen to himself as he peered miserably at the hastily darkening sky above him. He didn't like sunny weather, it struck him very much as a lie.

The bus arrived slightly later than usual, and for once Warren didn't mind the smell as he climbed up and into it. It always smelled here, but he usually had other things to worry about. As soon as Warren came into view all other students in the bus suddenly became careful about where they put their bags. One by one the teenager saw free seats disappearing as people refused him place beside them, and he moved towards the back of the bus to stand as he usually did. He only received a few kicks as he went, and didn't trip up even once. Miserable yet defiant, Warren smirked as if he enjoyed the silence and allowed himself to be shut out. Yes, he was different from others. People didn't like him in general, and Warren Schmidt disliked them in turn. Sometimes he thought that people could see through him. Maybe they saw a seed of darkness in his soul. Maybe that was why people automatically knew to be careful of him. Or maybe he just rubbed people the wrong way.

It didn't matter either way.

Since childhood, aunts and uncles were always careful around him, quick to point out his mistakes and checking to see if he was taking other children's treats. Strangers smiled at him less than they did at other children. Adults and children alike had presented masks when he was present and feigned kindness for the sake of his parents, back when they were still among the living. Then again, such kindness always was feigned, was it not? People just did what they had to do to get what they wanted anyway. If the world was Hogwarts, he thought as he stepped off the bus to jeers, then everybody would be split into people who pretended not to be in Slytherin and people who accepted it. Warren accepted it. He liked to think of it as his own brand of honesty, and embraced the melancholy inside him instead of running away from it.

Crows cawed in the distance as he made his way across the playground, avoiding kids as well as one could when surrounded by them. Laughter followed him as he went through the wide playground but Warren placed a mental barrier between himself and other, existing in his own little space. He wondered if he would ever meet people that he genuinely liked, then decided that it would be nice to have a friend with a similar outlook on life. Warren had no idea what activities the two would participate in together, but he guessed shared world views did not reflect shared interests anyway. He personally liked drawing, although he wasn't as accomplished an artist as he wished he were. As he reflected on things, a bright orange ball rolled a few feet from Warren as a voice called out from the distance. The teenager ignored both, pulled his backpack a little higher and walked on. A few seconds later he quickened his pace as a rock flew dangerously close by, heading for the school's safe hallways. A few minutes later, he entered a mangy, familiar doorway.

The classroom was a mess. Chairs and tables lined the room in what was, presumably, the ghost of a long lost order. Now it hardly had the semblance of it anymore. Available floor space was taken up by either people or bags supposed to be packed full of books but looking emptier than an average student's notebook. Children (although Warren himself was of similar age) pranced about here and there, exchanged laughs and looks, and a group of four were gathered around a fifth boy, watching something or the other on his phone. Warren could not help but allow a small hint of envy to creep into his disgust. Aunt Milly couldn't afford to buy a phone for children, he recited half religiously in her voice, although the poor lady had never said so directly to him. The mantra kept him from asking for a phone, she had more important things to spend her money on.

Bustle was what classrooms were usually made of and this one was certainly no exception, yet it quieted down when Warren walked into the room. Despite being classmates for a long time, he still had that ability to make people feel uncomfortable with his presence.

Warren saw Malcolm Thatcher pocket his phone carefully before shooing off his friends and sneering at Warren. His pudgy face, contorted in a way that had to be uncomfortable. Warren smiled back, cool and confidant as usual. He had dealt with worse than schoolchildren. Malcolm's mouth missed a tooth, and Warren's smile intensified as he wished that this boy never grow a replacement. After a second of staring at each other, Malcolm's smile erased itself from existence and he started name calling, which was usually the signal to others that he wanted support.

Other boys joined in happily and Warren sighed, knowing how it always turned out. The young man walked over to his desk, and though nobody dared do anything over the top (due to an ancient rumour concerning him, a knife, and another boy's face) they still managed to be a nuisance. Paper balls smacked his head every so often and he made a show of gathering them in his arms and putting them in the bin. Things quieted down a tad more when Mr Herps walked into the room, a usual handful of papers in his arms.

Mr Herps' face always teetered on the edge of a sob. He had large wet eyes, a whiny voice with an attitude to boot, and a knack of making things difficult for others without apparently meaning to. Warren doubted his intentions very much, naturally. Warren knew that Mr Herps' stack of papers was usually mostly empty and for show, but he doubted if anybody else in the class had paid enough attention to notice that particular fact.

Warren doubted that anybody in the entire school had noticed, but Mr Herps used his stack of papers to add purpose to his weak looking shuffle. Besides, he always used the same stack. Warren had made sure by making minute marks with his pencil on one side of the stack a long time ego, and he could see the irregular dots even now. If anybody bothered to arrange the papers just right, they would spell "Lazy" along one side.

"Children, quiet down please," wailed Mr Herps, his sad attempts to pat down his comb over proving fruitless as always. Glasses were folded and put upon the desk next to him as children decided that they did not want to quiet down just then. Mr Herps pouted for a few seconds, exclaiming that "I will not start until you are quiet, children!" In fact, this threat was routine and it usually took a few minutes of begging and bargaining to get a desirable outcome.

When all was done and only a few of class C chatted with each other in hushed tones, the short potbellied man tried to stand straight. "Good morning, children," he said, grinding his hands together. Warren could barely hear him from where he was sitting, in the leftmost seat smack in the middle of the room. He sighed inwardly as some of the students told Mr Herps to repeat himself. "Good morning, children," he tried again in a most nasal manner. Warren wondered if this is what flies would sound like if they could talk. As he looked on, Warren noticed two figures moving behind the classroom door through its shaded glass section. One was extremely round, and Warren placed his school principal immediately, conjuring forth his permanent scowl in his mind then dismissing it promptly.

There was another figure there, standing before the principal and gesturing. That second person's identity escaped the fourteen year old, but something else just then blew even that mystery out of Warren's mind. A loud, booming laugh. Rolling in waves, it was harsh, earnest, and unmistakably belonging to the principal. Warren's hair stood on edge. That man never laughed. "I have an announcement to make today before I hand you your maths quiz marks. Tut tut, Anthony," continued Mr Herps. Anthony parker was one of Thatcher's goons, one of the more stocky and empty headed of the bunch. He blushed a little but managed a smirk at the hint that he had failed his quiz as always. Warren wondered what it would take for the kid to shape up. "So," continued the teacher, "I received some... surprising news this morning." He shifted from place to place.

"We are going to be having a new transfer student starting today." At once, children's voices clamoured and fought to create a crescendo. Warren kept his peace although his curiosity peaked just like the others'. A new student, this late in the year? He hadn't heard of such a thing before. "He moved here a few days ago due to some family circumstance, so I hope all of you will treat him in a respectful and friendly manner. Luckily, his old school had the same curriculum so he'll be able to write his end of year exams with all of you." He raised his voice. "Child, come here please."

A sandy haired boy walked into the room. He was tall but still within reasonable boundaries, and he smiled immediately at everyone in the room. Within an instant, Warren felt every ounce of tension in the room escape like air out a balloon, leaving his peers deflated. Then they smiled back. Warren checked out the corner of his black eyes and sure enough, even Malcolm had a stupid grin on his face, looking almost agreeable. Suddenly it was as if summer had come early. Confidently, the newcomer walked right in front of the class, exchanged a few polite words with Mr Herps, and when prompted he looked over to the class and smiled again. He had the gall to look shy for an instant.

"Hi," he said. He locked eyes with everyone in class at once. "My name is Alex Luis. I moved in a few days ago and I don't know anything about the town. You're all already so close together so this might be selfish, but I'll be staying a while so I hope that we can all be good friends and have fun together." He paused for a second, which was a second too many. The class had already started to applaud in open admiration of this new addition to their society. Then Alex turned to Mr Herps again. "Should I talk about my hobbies and stuff, sir?" he asked, and was told it wasn't necessary. Mr Herps instructed Alex to go over and sit next to "That black haired one with the squinty eyes."

Warren moved his table closer to the window as multiple kids groaned at the teacher's decision. There was a shuffle of chairs to his side, but he paid it no attention, choosing to stare out the window at trees almost ready for winter. Then he noticed something tall next to him, and looked around. Alex was still standing, his hand held out and his face belching sunshine. Warren had to fight the urge to grimace or squint, careful that all eyes in the room were recording his every move for future reference. He smiled weakly in return but pretended not to see the hand, looking to his left again as those around booed him loudly.

Another paper ball smacked Warren and his new neighbour took it and put it in the bin.

*

Warren Schmidt had a theory: the more you pretend to be a good person, the blacker your inside gets. This was a different life outlook and he embraced it fully.

Thus Warren became wary of Alex Luis. On the surface of things, Alex was simply the nicest boy to ever grace this town: he cared for others, helped Anthony parker with maths work, was kind to the girls and even got asked out by both Felicia Day and Tyra Misworth. The two girls had been friends previously, yet decided that they both wanted to go out with Alex. When the sandy haired boy heard about it he went to both of them and explained that although going out with one of them would certainly be a lot of fun, they were likely to stay friends for a very long time. That in itself mattered more to him, and he could not accept either of their advances, so as not to drive a wedge between them.

Warren did not care much for the opposite sex because as people, they had the same flaws as everybody else, yet a part of him still seethed at Alex having gained such attention. What made it worse was that it seemed to be completely deserved and entirely unwanted by the young boy, who just insisted every time he was thanked for something that he was "just helping out" or that it was his "pleasure" to be so straight laced. Warren didn't buy it one bit. Nobody just spends his evening with an old lady to help her with her shopping and have tea with her. No one.

Yet that was exactly what Alex had done with Mrs Stoneshower.

What made matters worse was that despite being aware of Warren's dislike for him, Alex tried to win him over to his side. These constant attempt were usually met with spectacular failure as well as frustration from both Warren and everybody else around him. Even Mr Herps tried to advise Alex to keep his distance from Warren so he doesn't get influenced by his "personality issues", but the hazel eyed boy refused to listen.

Due to Alex's attitude and disregard of the class's wariness of the black haired one, their hatred mellowed down to a slight simmer in deference to their new leader. They started ignoring Warren pointedly as opposed to their earlier failed attempts to drive him out of the school. Still, he refused to take this apparent kindness at face value, and instead plotted to expose Alex's true self to everyone. The fair boy was ugly on the inside, just like everyone else. However, closer inspection, monitoring , and even going through his locker when no one was around produced no results.

Warren needed some more concrete evidence.

One day, he approached Alex after school. He was sitting with Malcolm, Anthony (who was apparently dubbed Tony for short) and a few other kids. All five of them stood in a circle just outside the school wall, Alex leaning against it and keeping quiet while the others exchanged jokes. He laughed from time to time at something particular, acting every inch the calm leader. When the others noticed Warren their guard went up. He could tell how wary they were of him, and it gave the pale boy a measure of pleasure to see them so. Alex, however, broke immediately into a grin and waved at him. It was to Alex that warren made his way, trying to arrange his face into a friendly expression. "Hi, Alex, what are you all doing today?"

"Ho, Mister silent!" Alex exclaimed with a laugh, "Nothing much, me and the guys are gonna go chill near Tony's farm. We're building a hideout there. It's gonna have electricity and everything." Warren whistled, acting impressed

In fact, he already knew all of that already, but said, "That's pretty cool! Can I tag along? I don't have much to do today..." even the way his voice lapsed at the end of that sentence was studied, and Warren looked down in mock embarrassment as everyone watched in stunned silence. Even Alex was surprised, but after how much he had pretended to want to be friends, Warren knew the faker wouldn't refuse now.

"Wow, I finally got to you huh! Alright then, come right on with, you're the newest addition now! Is that alright, Tony?" The others stiffened but no one argued with Alex's decision. Tony nodded lamely.

As they made their way out of downtown Warren stopped the group by a small shop and got each of them a cola by way of apology. In fact he just needed to stall them for a few minutes, but the cola opened up even Malcolm, and by the time they got closer to the farm, he plodded behind the group as they started cracking jokes again. Deep within his mind, Warren leered at how the cola made everyone accept him.

There were trees on either side now, and in a way Warren felt like he was making his way along a dirt road set smack in a jungle. "Ah, you're not so bad," teased Tony and he smiled sheepishly, making small talk with people here and there as Alex beamed so hard you'd worry for his jaw. Discreetly, Warren checked his cheap watch and found the time to be a few minutes to two. He bent down to fix his shoelace. "Go on ahead, I'll be right with you," he called when the group slowed down to accommodate him, and a protesting Alex got dragged away. When he was done, he tried to catch up to his companions but they were already way ahead.

About two minutes from where Warren had stopped, the dirt road intersected a rail track. This track was used only for cargo trains, and one came every two hours. As it arrived, guard rails came down to block cars. There was little to no traffic here, and it was known that cargo train drivers got complacent. There was no way for the drivers to be able to see through the thick canopy of trees on either side of them as they came through here.

As he crossed the track, everyone else more than a hundred feet away from him, Warren pitched forward smack in the middle of the track. He couldn't move his left leg, which had gotten stuck on something. He looked to the left in a panic.

A train was coming straight towards Warren, black and hunched over like a raging muscular bull of iron. Warren managed to almost stand up. His leg was stuck in the track itself, and he had no way to get it free. The train was now perhaps twenty seconds away from splatting him, and approaching fast. At this distance he felt like it was coming towards him on purpose.

The boy began to yell out, waving his arm. "HELP! I'm stuck! Please, help me!" The boys turned around and saw him, but they were too far to safely attempt to help. They would arrive just as the train did. It would be suicide to jump in front of a running train like that, he thought to himself.

It would take a selfless idiot to do something like that. People in real life wouldn't manage it, their insides would turn lukewarm and their legs to jelly in the face of danger. Over the train's roar, he could hear the other boys calling out his name in rising alarm and looking to Alex for leadership. By now the train was dangerously close, and yet it showed no sign of slowing down. Perhaps it had a will of its own and hoped to run him down. The sound was deafening now, the tracks shaking with vibrations and almost making Warren's bones ache. He jerked his leg one final time in an attempt to free himself, then he concluded that neither he nor anybody else was going to save him. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes in disappointment, his suspicions about the reality of people and the world confirmed.

The train passed by, unslowed. Its roar cascaded over everything, blocking out every other sound, although he could still hear somebody shouting out and perhaps crying on the other side of the speeding train. It seemed strange to the boy that anybody would cry over him.

Warren lay on his back on the other side of the dirt road, looking up at three things and studying each with the intensity of confusion. He saw the blue sky, pure and unsullied. He saw the sun, bright enough to make his eyes water. On the other hand, perhaps his eyes watered because he also saw Alex's face staring straight at him in open worry, panting at the effort it had taken him to sprint in and tackle him out of harm's way.

Later, Warren watched as Alex sat on a swing alone with the sun setting behind him. One of his ankles was bound by Tony's father. His family had been notified and his uncle was coming by to get him. All the other kids were long gone. To Warren, he looked like a shadow in front of the sunset. He walked over and said hello, but Alex remained silent for a few seconds. At last, he remarked quietly, "Your leg wasn't really stuck."The accusation was pure and true, but even now Warren sensed no malice in the young boy's voice.

"No," he admitted, "I wanted to prove that you were just pretending to be a good guy. Once you chickened out, I was going to jump out of the way myself. Everyone would know the truth about you and be safe of your lies." Silence reigned for a bit. "But you saved me, and you didn't even tell anyone that I was faking it." Warren's voice began to climb higher upon seeing the shock on Alex's face. He needed to explain things to this fool. "All people are bad inside, but some are better actors than others. Can't you see it? Everyone just thinks about themselves deep inside, you can't trust anyone or rely on people more than you rely on yourself.

"Haven't you ever thought about it? This is why people have wars, and why some have nothing to eat while others eat too much. Nobody will be like you, nobody would jump in front of a train to save you. You need to understand that, if you want to survive." A few seconds of silence passed by and Warren shivered in the breeze. There, he had finally said what he had pent up inside. His little shard of evil was naked for Alex and everybody else to see.

Then the sandy haired boy smiled at the black haired one, and it was his usual wide grin. "I don't know much about all that," he said, "and you sure are the craziest person I know, but you're still my friend, so I helped you and I won't tell anyone that you faked being stuck. Mr Parker would kill you for that. Look... People are people, everybody is different. The way I see it, I just need to be the best person I can be, and things will work out." Warren stood with his mouth hanging open.

Alex had just said the stupidest thing he had ever heard.

He started to giggle, then laugh harder than he ever had before. Soon, the two of them were doubled over with tears streaming down their faces. Warren wasn't even sure Alex knew what was so funny.

*

Warren Schmidt had always been different. Perhaps it had to do with his sickly pale appearance or black hair and eyes. Maybe it was because he was moody or distrustful by nature. It might be because he rarely smiled and when he did it looked a little unpleasant. People were careful around him, seemed to think that he was a little dark, perhaps even deceitful. Nobody could quite put their finger on what they found so off-putting about him. People generally agreed, however, that Warren Schmidt was still a good enough boy. He was polite, helpful, and reliable when he needed to be. Above all his actions were always kind, when push comes to shove, like a hidden nugget of gold at a river's bottom.

He was just different.

# Story 5:

Rebecca's sister drove, trying to ignore the sobs as much as she could.

It was not an easy feat to accomplish. Sobs were often the more heartwrenching way to cry when compared to open wails, sniffles, streaming tears of anger, and so on. There was just something about the pain in your chest when trying to stifle a sob. People moved in these situations and tried to calm you down. Beth, however, knew her sister and the situation far better than that. Rebecca could practically hear the gears grinding in Beth's mind. Be understanding, she knew they said. You have no idea what she's going through.

Despite knowing her sister felt bad about being unable to provide assistance, Rebecca's anguish was not to be quelled. She was known to put others before herself usually, but today such a thing was unthinkable.

Rebecca's mind was blank behind her soft, age kissed features. Years of smiling patiently had sculpted her face, etched laughing lines here and there before fleeting by. Her blonde hair was tied into a neat ponytail, and she had no idea whether she herself had tied it or not. She spared no thought for her appearance, but had she dared check she would have discovered that nails, face, and clothes all carried an air of practiced competence. All were clean and simple, despite her outfit being a little too darkly coloured for her usual tastes. She had always been the image of simplicity: what she considered an outfit was something you'd see on a lady working on her herb garden behind the house.

Still Rebecca West wept as if it was a thing to do. She started to feel aches in her throat and in a soft spot nestled just behind her heart. She looked out the passenger seat window and watched her town's familiar streets weave in and out of focus as she cried. Her mind remained blank as if she was in a dream. She barely registered everything that was happening around her. In a way, people making their way to work or the supermarket for a day's shopping didn't exist. A fever dream, a voice popped into her mind's silence, that's what those are called. Backpacks bouncing on children's backs in front of a school building made it seem as if there wasn't anything wrong with the world.

Soon the scenes changed; became more sporadic as the car headed to the outskirts of town. Here and there were shops, but as she lived in the middle of town, things felt empty to the older of the two sisters. Streaming sunrays betrayed midmorning's approach, but there really wasn't much more to go until they reached their destination. Rebecca had been here a few times before, but the ride had never impacted her this much. She found herself thinking of excuses to stop Beth, make her pull over for a while. Sooner rather than later Rebecca's view gave way to a large park, populated majorly by four things planted into it: short grass, beech trees, stones with named etched on them and lastly, people.

"Here we are," announced Beth warily, sneaking a peek at her older sister. Rebecca's sobs were still going strong, but she didn't have many tears left in her. With a few deep steadying breaths, she nodded. Still it felt like it was all a dream, but Beth apparently took her to be lucid enough.

Beth parked her car noisy, coughing car. She got out and helped Rebecca out, steering her towards a crowd of people and something raised upon a dais. It looked a little bit like a cot, judging from its size. Despite knowing what was awaiting her, Rebecca still found herself wishing that object to be a cot, or perhaps not finding anyone she knew among that solemn crowd.

Maybe it'll be her funeral and she'll look down to find herself a ghost, she thought hopefully.

There, in the middle of the crowd, stood Peter with his own brother. She went up to him in a rush, embracing him, letting the tears flow away. With her head buried in his shoulders, Rebecca's eyes pointed not towards the hole, but in the opposite direction. This way she could pretend she was still having a dream brought by fever. In that world, there was just her and Peter and everything was alright. She was crying purely due to something else; it hadn't happened and never will. Then she noticed shaking and realized she wasn't the only one crying. "There, there, sweetheart," Peter breathed into her neck, voice choked up but holding the faintest glimmer of a smile within it. It wasn't his usual open musical laugh, but rather a shadow, a promise of hope coming another day.

There was one more powerful form of sadness, it is said, than could be held in sobs. It was the silent tears of one holding himself together for the sake of another. In this form of kindness, one can crystallize the concept of love. This was what Rebecca received from Peter. Instead of weeping harder or wailing, she felt the rain in her eyes warm up. She said, "Yes, baby, he's gone to a better place."

At that moment, Rebecca had no idea whether she believed her own words. She fancied herself a naturalist, but who could say that becoming a tree was better for David than living the rest of his life with his parents, growing and going to university, marrying? Just a few days before, she'd told Peter of a dream where David's kids came by to visit. And now there wasn't opportunity to make that dream come true. Instead, her child was stuck in nature.

Still, Rebecca said the words to ease her husband's heart, stood beside him, and held his hands as their five year old was buried. Words were said, people cried, and little David's coffin was lowered beneath the ground. Then they went home.

Later, people came to her and said kind things. She accepted their condolences gracefully, feeling glad that she and Peter had such people around them. The two were kept apart mostly, as Rebecca had to stay with her own parents and offer them strength. Jane and Frank had loved the child dearly, and had spoiled him. "I can't believe he's gone," Frank said one more time. He looked it, and the hint carried through. They sat in the living room. Peter was nowhere to be found.

Apparently, Frank hadn't been clear enough for his wife. "Five years without a word." Jane's voice was low yet furious, causing her daughter to wince. Rebecca sighed, knowing deep in her heart that she couldn't argue with her mother now. Going head to head was going to tear them away from each other.

"I'm sorry, mom. We just didn't want to ruin his chances at a normal life."

When both husband and wife had said goodbye to every relative and family friend who had come by, they finally had a chance to work things out emotionally, in private. Naturally, there was a lot of crying involved, for the house was too quiet. Peter was a good cook in his own right, so he whipped them up a pasta alfredo and biscuits on the side. "A hearty meal can do wonders," he'd exclaimed, albeit with less enthusiasm than usual. To keep herself busy (despite her husband's orders for her to rest) Rebecca went out back to pick a few fresh herbs to brew into a good soothing tea. She was going to get them a few hours of peaceful sleep if it was the last thing she did.

It took weeks for things to return slowly to a semblance of normalcy. Making breakfast for two instead of three that first day was a challenge. Usually, her cooking involved a great deal of flourish. She would cook with the best interests of her family in her heart, and so her movements would take on a certain degree of finesse. Peter often called it a form of art. Now, however, she felt trapped in her own body, lethargic and wounded. For all intents and purposes, she walked with a wide gaping gash in her body. She even forgot to add lavender to her gruel. Still, Peter ate quietly, absentmindedly. She ate standing on the other side of the wooden kitchen counter, still in a pink and white apron. Hardly a word was said between the two of them, for each was lost in his own thoughts. Both knew what the other was thinking, but neither wanted to burst open the doors to that flood gate just yet.

When he was done with his breakfast, Peter finished up straightening his tie carefully and meticulously. Far more carefully than he usually did, it was as if he had a personal vendetta against an elusive perfect form. He squeezed her hand tightly when he was done, whispering a quiet "I love you" before leaving out the front door. His tie was still askew.

Rebecca usually worked from home, helping keep a friend's online business intact by managing orders for her small flower shop. She had been given a long vacation, but the lonely mother couldn't bear to stay here. It would be too difficult to resist the urge to go there. Even then, the pain in her body wouldn't give way, no matter what she watched on TV. It felt like the box was taunting her with children's shows.

Her father had once told her that children were created out the flesh from a parent's heart, and now she felt the truth of those words. Due to this, a call from Lidia came as more than welcome, and she answered enthusiastically. "Hello, sweety..." came her friend's hesitant husky voice. Rebecca had always found it strange that Lidia's voice didn't match her girly look at all. Even now, her friend looked not a day beyond twenty two.

"Hey," she replied, then decided not to waste any time. "Please say some work came up and that you need me."

"I, um... but sweety, don't you need some time alo-"

"Lidia, honey, I know you only want the best for me. Peter got called to work, I'm all alone here and it's driving me insane. I love you, but just listen to me. Please say some work came up and that you need me."

A moment of silence passed, then two. Lidia was a shrewd woman, and was probably now considering whether her friend was stable enough to come to work or not. Eventually she sighed. "Some work came up and we need you at the shop." Rebecca smiled inwardly, although she wasn't able to bring her expression of mirth out into the world just yet.

"Thank you," she exclaimed, then hung up before her freckled schoolgirl lookalike of a boss could say another word. She almost skipped her way up the living room, thumping on the beige carpet loudly. She would have gone up the stairs three at the time, but getting old was no fickle matter. She went through the hallway, trotting. Rebecca passed right next to a door on the right, and stuttered to a stop.

His door was white, with a pinned up whiteboard bearing a drawing of the three of them standing together in a field. For his age, his drawing skills had been impressive. In capital, skewed letters, the word "David" had been painted onto the white door. The paint had gotten both of them furious, yet their child had been proud of his handiwork and it had been allowed to stay. Even now she could see his proud red splattered face with its trademark grin, so reminiscent of his father's. That door loomed larger and larger right before her eyes until it grew to gigantic proportions. It felt like Rebecca was a quarter of its height; the knob teased her from high above her head. "Come in," it said, "Maybe he'll be here. Maybe he's lonely. Maybe he needs you, hm?" It was all too much for her to take, and suddenly her hand was on that doorknob, preparing to pull. She could see her hand visibly shaking.

Rebecca pulled with all her might, but no strength would go to her hand. She couldn't do it. She was about to collapse and cry herself to sleep right against that door, but the thought of Lidia waiting for her spurred the mother to action, and she managed to extract herself away. She dressed and got ready, steadied herself with a few deep breaths in front of the car's driver seat mirror, then drove to Lidia's flower shop.

There was something soothing about a flower shop. Rebecca had no idea if it was the scents, simple decor of such shops, or sights of flowers of all shapes and colours. Something about a flower shop gave you a sense of being close to nature's most beautiful aspect. Personally, she enjoyed the more earthy solid truth of a garden, but nothing could beat the smell of a flower, objectively speaking.

On this day even this place could do little to replace her perpetual sadness with peace. It was strange to be a sad person: it hung in the back of your head like a single tone. She went to the girls, and after greetings they just dove right into work, chatting a little. After a few hours of working to get a large order of bouquets ready in time, the conversation began in earnest. A talkative intern called Dianna listed off news about some actor or the other that she found to be particularly attractive. In response to this, the other younger workers steered their talk to revolve around boys. Rebecca and Lidia kept quiet, except to urge their helpers to talk less and work more or to offer concrete advice about relationships.

Rebecca had little interest in actors and singers or other men. Peter was kind and spontaneous and quick to laugh, he had brown hair and eyes that fit together perfectly, and his chiselled jaw and muscular frame were slowly but surely giving way to a small belly most associated with kind uncles. Still, he hadn't let himself go and neither had she. Age changed the way they looked without taking from their attractiveness. In time, that same chiselled look her husband had had would get passed on to- Rebecca shook her head to banish the thought, excused herself to the restroom.

She had forgotten for an instant. That realization came with crippling guilt, yet she had felt so happy while it lasted.

When she came back, everyone was talking about cooking techniques. "Ah, there she is," Lidia remarked, eyeing her over before apparently concluding that nothing was wrong, "This lady here has all you need to know about cooking stuck in her head..." The rest of the day was spent with her teaching a gaggle of modern women how to turn food into a masterpiece. Soon enough, her day's work was done and she had to be shooed away.

A meal sat ready on the counter when she arrived, despite it still being five in the evening. She caught a whiff of pistou soup. Well made, too.

Her husband was nowhere to be seen. Their house was not naturally well lit, and so at times Rebecca felt it got darker in this place earlier than usual. Now, in particular, there was an eerie sense of foreboding. It was the feeling that you get when you wake up late at night, perhaps even in that fabled minute after midnight.

Rebecca could see over the counter to where had had left a cutting board with a knife on it, as well as a heap of vegetable shavings.

"Peter?" she called out, but there was no reply. He wasn't in the living room either. slowly, Rebecca made her way up the stairs, keeping her eyes glued on their top. Darkness shrouded the corridor as well. There was only one window at the far end of the corridor, and apparently he'd turned the blinds there.

Rebecca turned on lights as she went. Reaching the end, she squinted ahead. She could hear him breathing. She breathed a sigh of relief. We've been watching too many crime movies, the blonde reflected. With a smile, she almost called out to her husband, her hand on the last light switch. Then she froze. He was standing exactly where she had earlier today.

She flicked the switch. Light flooded their corridor, and he turned. "Peter?" she asked, more subdued. His face reflected open anguish, silent and deep. She went to stand behind her husband, her hand on his shoulder, and they watched that massive door together. After a few seconds of silence, the pair nodded to one another other. They knew what they had to do. Peter squeezed her hand for reassurance, and pushed the door open.

David's room was bright, brighter than most of the house. It had originally had one window, but another had been added in a desperate attempt to add brightness to his life. They had thought perhaps sunlight would do him good.

There was a sense of peace in the room. A quiet beyond reckoning. In a way, it was as if their little boy lay asleep here on his unmade race car bed. His toys lay neatly in one corner of the room, in a blue chest. Video games lined a small shelf. If you kept quiet, you could almost hear him laugh. Each of David's parents stepped to a different corner of his room. Peter went to the toys, pulling out a few of them and smiling. Rebecca made his bed absentmindedly, wishing he were here to do it himself. When they were able to pull out from within themselves, Peter and Rebecca drifted towards each other in the middle of the room like dancers.

The pain was senseless, devoid of any handhold they could use to crawl their way out of, and worked like crashing waves upon their souls. It was only then that Rebecca wailed. "It shouldn't happen," she complained to the world through her sobs. "A little boy should never die before his parents! It's wrong!"

Peter could do nothing to comfort her, and she knew he wholeheartedly agreed.

# Story 6

Summer is received differently, depending on who you are.

If you like to snuggle in bed alone, covered in multiple blankets in your own little world whilst flicking through channels aimlessly, then it might not be your thing. What some people call "good weather" is in fact sweltering hot for most of us, and tends to cause embarrassing situations after a few hours outside. However, there are also those who don't mind switching colours to stay in season, swimming their way through the days and passing evenings in the company of chilled glasses filled with more ice than drink. These particular people like summer quite well. Lastly, there exists a third type of individual that has no real preference between frost and flame. For these people things may depend on their outlook on life, situation on that particular day or week, or even a simple mood swing.

Peter thought of none of these things as he hummed his way through a large circular park halfway through the afternoon. His mind was blank, in fact. He walked slowly and leisurely to such a degree that people around him, whether child or adult, kept their eyes on his portly figure for a second more than was strictly necessary. When people usually walked, they kept a studying gaze fixed around them, attention focused generally below eye level. This was to make sure that there were no obstacles in their path seeking to stub wayward toes, and was a habit that most all humans developed sooner rather than later after a few painful toe experiences. This was a habit Peter mostly ignored, for he quite liked the sky. If one were to ask, he would likely say that refreshing his eyes with a long stretch of blue was well worth tripping once or twice. Luckily no one had never asked, and so Mr Bellamy was spared the strange looks he was sure to have gotten otherwise.

Now, when you or I are told of someone with a blank mind such as Peter, we generally conjure a particular picture to mind: Eyes glazed over, hair mostly gone or attached to the scalp in tufts, a silly walk for good measure. Sometimes we even imagine such people to have gaps in-between teeth, or an unorthodox laugh. Mostly these people were scatter-brained for good measure, and answer most inquiries with "huh?" Such people may happen to have blank minds, but Mr Belllamy was of a different breed.

Peter was a successful man, tall if not thin, with a healthy shock of blonde hair, and he walked with a spring in his step, as long as he wasn't going up anything particularly steep. His big brown eyes burned with fierce intelligence, and he lead many of the people dedicated to keeping the country's financial security. His best friend was a dentist and made sure his teeth were healthy. However, Mr Bellamy was scatter-brained, and with little excuse.

Children played around the grassy park, kept in check by watchful parents. As Peter made his way towards his favourite hill, a stray ball rolled slowly from the right, kicked by what had to be the child with the cutest cheeks he had ever seen. She had her light brown hair made up into twin horns, each jutting out at skewed angles undoubtedly perfect when she was taken from her home earlier. Bright green eyes looked up at him, torn between fear of this new stranger and the will to have her ball back. The girl's lips pursed in sudden determination. Still, she took not one step further towards Peter, despite his smile. He was fixed on her now, forgetting his surroundings momentarily. He looked around and saw that there were no parents about who looked like hers. She apparently realized the same thing, and took one hesitant step backwards, forcing one of her white shoes to squeak. Still, the child seemed curious than anything else, and she eyed Mr Bellamy earnestly.

The girl wore blue jean overalls tucked over a pink shirt and bright blue and white shoes, just large enough that he could hold them between his thumb and forefinger. Peter looked down slowly and deliberately at his feet, where his black business shoes touched the blow up beach ball. A breeze blew, rustling grass all about and pushing the ball slightly away from him. His mouth popped open in shock as he bent over to pick up the ball, then straightened. The man's expression remained amazed as he looked from the ball to the young girl twice, for all intents and purposes not believing his eyes. The little girl put up her left hand to her mouth, giggling shyly. Peter wondered where she'd learned to do that. When the little girl gave him an expectant look, peter tossed the ball gently in her direction, where it bounced once and rolled a bit. Being a child, she didn't have the hand eye coordination to pick up her prize, and so had to follow it for a few seconds. The thirty nine year old had to hold in his exclamation of "awwww!" at the spectacle. He loved how children walked when excited, almost bobbing about out of rhythm. After she took the ball, she turned her head with its little hair horns towards him in a smile, but he already had his hand outstretched. After rolling the ball towards each other for a few seconds, Peter crouched down and she shook his hand shyly. Mr Bellamy smiled in triumph.

*

Half an hour later, James and Mary had to pry little Suzy off of Peter. James apologised over and over but the businessman insisted that he would indeed be willing to become a permanent playmate for the little girl or even babysit at times. In the end they took his phone number and promised to call whenever they needed someone to fill in. Peter watched the parents walk away with their daughter clutching each of their hands and felt happiness swell in his heart. At first the couple had naturally been alarmed when they saw Suzy playing with a stranger, but their initial fear had been extinguished by her loud giggles. They had all talked for a while and agreed that it was a happy coincidence that caused Peter to find their daughter and not someone busier. She had stayed with him for over half an hour. Most people would have just pretended not to see the child and let somebody else worry about it. James had calmed Mary's tears while Peter explained that even young children can wander off at times. Mr Bellamy considered playing with Suzy a job well done, and it was only after sighing in content that it dawned upon him that he might be running a little late.

Unperturbed, the blonde businessman pulled out his phone and called his secretary, telling her to cancel his appointments for the day. Beth went deathly quiet for a few seconds before asking him "Are you insane? You have a meeting with Mr O'Donovan from Tepco in an hour!" There was a hard edge to her voice, but Peter laughed lightly and he could hear her sigh in tired acceptance as he apologised. "You always do this, you know. Without me you'd go bankrupt." she complained with a smile in her voice. With that done, Peter made his way to the highest point in this park. It centred everything beautifully, and you could get a nice view. Due to that, Peter came to this park almost every day. He kept it safe from sharks swimming in the market, looking for a place to build new and tall buildings. He'd paid a lot of money to buy it, in fact. With it privately owned, the place was safe as long as he lived, for he hardly needed the money companies offered him to purchase it. To Mr Bellamy, a few million dollars hardly made a difference.

With a mid afternoon breeze come a plethora of scents. Sometimes, how pleasant a summer breeze really is can be determined almost entirely by what scents it brings with it. Some brought hints of an ocean's salt, fresh fish, and pink coral. Others had the earthy musk of forest, primal yet calm like an elk. At times, they carried the homely taste best suited for barns and slowly cooking pies. However, it just so happened that almost everyone liked the perfume of roses and flowers. Theirs was the go to, the simple answer to relaxation and happiness. A particular breeze raised Mr Bellamy's tie just then, and it embodied exactly that scent.

Peter breathed it in hungrily. Flowers always were good, he thought to himself. He couldn't exactly pinpoint the mixture he'd sniffed out, but he was sure he caught jasmine and Lavender in there. He smiled, thinking that it might be cheating that he knew exactly where this scent was coming from. On the other side of the hill, beyond his eyes but apparently not his nose, lay a long rectangular field of flowers. He had tried his best to acquire most types of flowers he could name, and many he could not. These were all planted there, for the enjoyment of those around. Dandelions, sunflowers, tulips, roses and lilies and orchids lined that field, as well as many more types of flowers, creating a place of simple magic. A smile touched Peter's face at the certainty that more than a few couples had gone there and held hands today. He wondered how many relationships he had helped bridge unwittingly, with the single act of buying flowers. Mr Bellamy was content, but in the back of his mind he knew he still had to reach the centre of that hill.

Due to his weight a climb like this one could not be called easy, yet Peter had traversed the distance many times. All it really took was patience and the willingness to take a break here and there. He lacked neither trait, and so the treck was more enjoyable than not. In his breaks Peter mostly gazed at the bright blue sky, tracing shapes in his mind's eye and then wiping them clean, like a child presented with a blackboard. He wondered how such beauty could be gleaned from something as mundane as colour, but he doubted this was a mystery he was about to solve, lying on the grass in an expensive suit. Still, his suit was practical for sitting on grass purposes. To Mr Bellamy, this suit represented everything in his life. There was no joy in hoarding money, he'd learned that long ago.

Despite being enchanted by green grass and blue sky and heavenly scents, Peter pushed himself to his feet, huffed and puffed his way up the hill, and waved by way of greeting to the lone figure sitting on a lone bench. Frank looked understandably annoyed, and his only response was, "Next time you stop by I'll have all your teeth, Peter." Peter naturally did his best to chuckle, but doing so proved too difficult whilst doubled over and panting. It took the businessman a minute to regain his composure, but even then he didn't try too hard to apologise. He and his friend have been playing this exact game for years. Instead Mr Bellamy noticed that summer was doing the flowers down below them, on the other side of the hill, quite a bit of good.

They really had nothing much to chat about other than little nothings. More important was the company, the sights, scents, and quiet. Quiet was a beautiful thing, if it wasn't the heavy oppressive kind. Their brand of silence was punctuated by natural idle chatter from both men and birds. If not for the skyscrapers all about, it would have been difficult to imagine that this much good waited in a city. The blonde man felt at peace, and then chuckled when he realized that was his usual mood anyway. Frank asked what was wrong with him, and when told the reason for Mr Bellamy's laugh he merely grunted.

Peter could hardly imagine a moment in time more isolated and perfect. It was as if the sun's final rays of the day were kisses captured within a bubble of warmth and distributed evenly between all senses. To accentuate his point he scratched at the bench beneath him absentmindedly, feeling the cool solid wood. It baffled him that such a perspective was within everyone's hands and yet so few people took the time to slow down and enjoy it. They seemed to him too preoccupied by more complex matters, and could not see the beauty in simplicity. It was strange. People called him an optimist at times, but the term was just as confusing to him.

To Mr Bellamy it really didn't matter who you were and how you thought, summer was truly a beautiful thing.

# Story 7

Maximilian, or Max for short, had a horrible life.

Homelessness greeted his birth. It was a strange feeling, knowing that there are warm buildings all around you, but not being able to go inside. A soft yellow glow coming from windows all around teased Max each night as he went to sleep under whatever cover he could find, whether it be a box or a small crack in between two walls he could use for shelter. Heavy rain would follow the skulking child as he paced streets looking for any kind scrap of food he could find. If he was lucky, it wouldn't be rotten.

Children wouldn't play with him, probably because of the way he looked. Often when he tried, rocks and insults would be thrown at him, and after a few times he learned that there was little place for him in this world. Still, things weren't always all that bad, as long as you were careful. He and his closest sister would sometimes even find joy in a park somewhere. Miranda, his sister, was the best out of them all when it came to finding food. At first Max thought it was due to scavenging skills, but in time he realized that she was just much cuter, and so was given things. The thought filled him with a strange feeling. One could argue that you should never be envious of your sibling, but it became slightly understandable when they flourished just because of how they look. She only got enough for herself, and though Max was glad that she avoided starvation, that didn't spare her his resentment when their other siblings began to drop off one by one. Say what you wanted about his willingness to steal, Max had always shared.

Their frail mother, who had always tried her best to provide, would weep bitterly in a broken manner each time she buried one of her flesh and blood. She would get the rest to help out, and they would scoop up dirt and rocks to hide their other's death. In time, five would help, then three, then only Max and Miranda were left to her, and she became more reclusive.

Miranda survived because of her pretty face and legs, but Max needed to rely on other tools early on, and had developed both a fearful savageness as well as a rogue's streak a mile wide. In truth, he was a simple child and only wanted happiness, but situation and desperation can drive one to great lengths. Then again, some would argue that happiness was as ambitious a dream as can be. When he was done with his day's work, he would come back and curl up next to his parent for as long as he could, trying his best to give her the love of seven children combined. Sometimes she'd cry, and he would kiss her and hug her to sweet sleep, the only escape she had.

In time mother found her other escape, the lasting one. Max and Miranda buried her, and then drifted apart. Despite harsh words being said between them, he couldn't help but wish the best for her. He roamed familiar streets alone, thinking of what to do. He was now old enough to fare for himself, and thought of perhaps joining a gang or something similar. Safety was in allies, after all, but it was unlikely that he would find anyone trustworthy. In the end, the matter was decided for him, and he joined a group out of desperation. They had a system where everything found was shared, and Max found this ideal useful for the weaker ones, although some members used the opportunity to slack off.

Within the span of a few months, Max rose in ranks due to a number of fights. He was starting to gain much respect, mainly because in contrast to his huge size, he treated others fairly. Max learned to be harsh, but many feeble members of their gang found protection at his side. Perhaps it was his way of repenting for his inability to aid his siblings.

Then it happened. One day, Max roamed the streets alone. He now had one long scar running along his face, marring one eye. It gave him confidence, and perhaps even gave his ego a boost. In his mind, no one would dare attack him.

All of a sudden, a screech came from right next to him. It was a van, pulling to a stop deliberately close. Before he could do anything more than leap and turn around, they'd had him. Three men muscled him into the van, put a sack over his head, and drove off. He yelled and kicked and tried to fight, but they tied him down to restrict his movements. One of them said something in a language Max didn't understand, and in an instant something sharp stuck into his neck. Then he drifted off to unwelcome slumber.

They put him in a cage, one of many filled with other unfortunates. There was a girl in the cage in front of him, and she cried often. She wasn't the only one. There was little of comfort here, other than a bowl of food and water, a spot to relieve yourself, and a heap of hay to sleep on. Twin rows of cages, with a hard cold cement path running down the middle, smelled mostly of fear and mould. Sunlight rarely came through and thus those few harsh white lights hanging from the ceiling provided all the illumination his left eye saw. Max understood that he was in a horrible situation, but could find no way to escape, for the guards left nothing which could be exploited. At least, he thought, he was still alive, and they didn't seem to want to torture him or, actually, do anything at all. Their captors seemed content with them simply being caged off.

Horror dawned upon Max, however, when he realized he'd been taken to a slave market. It froze his earlier complacency right in his veins. People would come once every few days, point at one of his fellow prisoners, and a man would drag the unfortunate victim off. Paper would exchange hands, and that was that. At first he'd thought the prisoners might be dragged off to be killed, but one day girl in the cage in front of him was taken kicking and screaming the whole way. Someone told her to go quietly in an old tired voice, but Max felt a tiny surge of pride at her struggle. That old one knew nothing. No matter what, you can never stop struggling or give up hope. A few hours later a guard came in, and through the open door Max glimpsed her leashed by the people who'd bought her and crawling on all fours on the grass, fearful but submissive. It was one of the most pitiful sights he'd ever seen.

One day, to Max's astonishment, his turn came. He'd noticed that usually it was the pretty ones who were sold off, for whatever sick reason. He was big and scarred and had only a single eye, but that didn't seem to faze the man who'd bought him. Max fought tooth and claw every inch of the way, so they drugged him. The man and the slave owner talked the whole time, and as he drifted off, Max wished he could speak their language to curse them. He settled for a scream so unsettling it could make a man's hair fall off, and in it he packed hate and sorrow in equal measures.

When Max next awoke, he was in another cage, this one of glass, in a sanitary room. He wasn't alone in the four by four space, and the old timers told him that they were in a horror house. Here they would be experimented on until they died. He didn't believe it, and told them that somehow, some way, he was going to get them all free. They smiled at him sadly, as if they knew something he didn't. Max insisted he would help the old timers but still, he had no idea where they were. The room boasted nothing other than glass cages and a single door. White took over everything, and it frightened him.

The next year was the worst of Max's life. People in white coats would come into the room and press a button. Instantly something would hiss, and a few seconds after that everyone in a single glass cage would fall asleep. The coat wearing men would take them out of the room. Max learned the hard way that you can't avoid it, because eventually your turn will come. He would wake up strapped to a cold metal table with a blaring light in his face. Then they would... do things to him. Force feed him, put things on his face, inject him with strange liquids that would alternately make him sick and then heal him. Max did not know why anyone would do such a thing, but in time he stopped caring. Bouts of healing and illness, strange chemicals, and psychological stress took their toll on him. He aged ten years each day, and felt eager for death. Everything ached, even his pride. In the end, his eyes sank and went dull, like everyone else's, and he hated himself for it. Eventually he stopped fighting them, and not even a bark would escape him when they did their work. There was nothing to live for, he would just eat and sleep and wait to die.

One day, two of the scientists came into the room, and that old fear took over him. He started to whine pitifully, but luckily it wasn't his turn. It was another, a newcomer in a separate cage, who was taken. He had spoken earlier of breaking out of here, and Max felt pity for the young one, knowing he would one day grow old and crooked. Then the two men started talking, and Max instinctively knew they were speaking about him. He didn't know what they said, because he never managed to learn their language. If he could, this is what he'd have heard:

"That's what I call ugly..."

"Don't say that, Rob."

"Huh? it's true!"

"Yeah, but look at the poor thing."

"Ugly."

"Scarred, hurt, one eye full of sadness. It looks so miserable."

"...This is our job, man."

"True." He paused, then "Hey?"

"What?"

"It's our job, but we might as well be decent about it."

"What do you mean?"

"Just, like, try to feel bad for them. Maybe be kind."

"Meh."

"Seriously. I mean, look at this one. Battle scars are pride for a dog. It doesn't feel ugly, I bet."

"Weird."

"Yeah... I dunno, buddy. I just feel bad for it. It must have had a horrible life."

# Story 8:

Children bustled about their mother's feet much like Tolkein's dwarves, albeit with less facial hair.

They shouted their various pleads and apologies, as well as a few well intended confessions. Voices not yet harmed with time's passage rang true and Fredrick could see both women and men all about him talk in what amounted to a crescendo of sounds. In the midst of it all he sat quietly in his armchair, sighing contently.

The room's decor lacked modernisation, that simple sleek touch he saw on television. Through a glass screen, he often noted that people preferred a small living room lined with black and white chairs gathered neat and business like around a sturdy metal table. Perhaps a lamp somewhere in the corner would shine with white light, covered with some art cloth thing, all curves and beauty. Here a more cluttered kind of practicality was preferred. Carpeted floor held up chairs of various makes and builds, muffling resident footsteps while one solitary light hung from the ceiling along with a fan that hadn't been used in many years. That light was of a style Fredrick could not rightly put a name to off his memory, so he called it an upside-down-frilly-umbrella light. A single yellow bulb cast a warm glow upon the rest of the room.

All in all, this place was special for Fredrick. His relatives stood all around, exchanging polite conversation with plates in their hands. He assumed they were enjoying themselves in such company, for he could see few people sitting down and to him that reflected an eagerness to interact with one another. It was very O'Briany of them, he reflected happily. Even more expected was behaviour he noticed from those few people NOT on their feet. A single shining example was Patrick, Mathew's son, who looked like he had gained his fair share of pounds this year already and had eyes only for his heaped plate of mashed potatoes and chicken legs. So intense was his concentration that a few strands of his straight brownish hair hung precariously above the gravy. Every so often he would try to tuck these betrayers back behind his ears, but to little avail.

Similar were the others in that living room, not allowing their eyes to stray too far from their meals unless it was to glance affectionately at the table in the middle of their setting. It was old, older than some people in this room in fact.

That table had done its fair share of work over the years, and Fredrick could now almost hear it creak with the combined weight of enough food to feed more than fifty people. It shifted uncomfortably each time someone came over from the kitchen to Fredrick's left to replace an empty plate with a full one. Had it been a living person, he could imagine it as a senile old woman trembling with the effort of cutting an apple. Instead of sadness, the image brought a smile to Fredrick's face. Being old had its perks, he thought to himself as he surveyed the room and its happy guests. He hadn't been asked to help with a thing today.

"Gapa!" intruded a small squeaky voice on Fredrick's thoughts. That voice came from below his knees, and he saw a small freckled thing, barely two years into her life. She had her hair cut short, which he didn't entirely disapprove of, although it had been considered highly unusual when he himself was a child. He peered at her again, considered quietly for an instant.

It was a well-kept secret by grandparents, that they remember far more than they let on at times. What they did not remember outright they could certainly pick up well enough by association. This little girl a certain stubby-ness to her nose that reminded him of Melissa. Her husband, what's his name, he had green eyes didn't he? Ah, this must be their youngest, Jessica.

Fredrick smiled to himself, letting none of his mirth reach his face. He leaned over in his rather comfortable armchair. He had found a perfect spot on it, and would have to shuffle for hours to reach this level of relaxation again, but little Jessica was certainly worth the trouble. "Who is this little imp?" he wondered aloud, although his voice couldn't carry far in this kind of atmosphere.

Fredrick peered at her through one eye, taking out his glasses and placing them upon his admittedly long hawk like nose for sheer effect. "I don't know anyone like you!" he boomed in mock shock, taking the little girl in his arms and giving her a good look over. "You're mine now though, you cute little girl." After that performance he affected an evil laugh. In turn Jessica wiped at her dark green denim dress for no apparent reason. That must be shyness, he thought quietly. Smart for a two year old. "Grapa!" she admonished, pawing at his face whilst bubbling. He played with her a bit, feeling proud that his line produced such friendly children.

After a few minutes children gathered around, a gaggle of about eight ranging between nine years old and two, for Jessica was his youngest granddaughter. Of those five were boys, and after a while all the playing got to be a bit too much for Fredrick, old as he was. He stood up and a few clung to him, but he could see their mothers keeping a watchful eye in case he wanted to be left in a bit of peace for a while. Instead he waved noncommittally at them, conveying that everything was fine. He tasked his namesake, Fred, with taking his plate away to the kitchen and a girl called Lisa to calm the children down.

Lisa had more of her mother's side of the family in her than O'Brian, and it showed in her looks and mannerisms. She was less jovial then the others, had raven black hair and sparkling blue eyes, and was paler than most of his family. Her eyes betrayed more than colour, and he could tell that this girl of eight years old would grow to become a young lady to reckon with, for even now Fredrick saw in her reliability and sharp intelligence.

It was around seven pm now, and the old man thought it best to give the adults a little break for the rest of the evening. If not, they might end up being too tired from playing with children to clean up properly later. Besides, it was the least he could do after such a wonderful visit from his entire family, they came over too rarely for his liking as it was.

Thus, he called around for the rest of the children to gather around his chair. He gave Jessica to Fred for safe keeping, since she apparently liked him best. She giggled in the boy's lap as the grandfather, now approaching seventy years of age after many years of hard labour, struggled to get his puppeteering kit from where he had it hidden atop a cabinet nearly as tall as he. That cabinet held many sets of china that got as much use out of them as the living room's carpet. Fredrick was a sensible man, and certainly not one to buy things he had no intention of using.

With the set in hand, Fredrick shuffled over to his chair as carefully as he could with kids making way before his slowly moving feet. The old man settled in with a sigh as children already began bombarding him with requests. Some asked for scenes from movies, others parts of books or cartoons that he didn't even know of.

Puppeteering was an art that took a large amount of time and preparation. Just making the puppets could take a long time, if you wanted to be thorough. It fit a retired old man's lifestyle perfectly, and especially helped him capture the children's imagination with an extra sense of style. In a digital age where kids could go on the internet and watch videos and cartoons whenever they want, puppets had lost and gained a certain appeal. In a way, they died out, but on the other hand they provided a pleasant surprise for children who had never seen them on the streets.

While he got things set up Fredrick listened out for any particularly good suggestions. Most of his flesh and blood wanted either a fantasy setting or something from his own life. It wasn't unexpected, for the older children were bound to have heard his own tales often enough and wanted change while the younger ones were fascinated by this old relative of theirs.

When their voices grew a bit too loud for his poor ears and his middle daughter peered her head out the kitchen into the living room, now devoid of adults, Fredrick came to a conclusion and brought his grandchildren's excitement back down to a simmer. Still Jane stood there, a tender look upon her face and her hands placed on her hips. Uh oh, he thought, She saw something she wants to draw.

Jane was an artist, and was bound to take a while to get her things. Still, Fredrick was known for being indulgent and he managed to stall the kids long enough for her to give him the okay. She sat now in that rift between kitchen and living room, her colours waiting on a plate and with a paintbrush poised before her canvas. In his opinion, it was her that ought to have her picture captured in a painting.

Fredrick's face was hidden behind the "stage" while his hand, and the cloth puppet in it, popped out the from behind a small red curtain. "There he was," he started in a grandiose fashion, startling some of the children to laughter. He indulged himself in a smile while the puppet bowed. This puppet wore a helmet with a flashlight on it, wore blue overalls, and appeared to hold what could only be a badly sewn pickaxe. "Our hero, he went beneath the ground, where there was no sun and no trees and no flowers." His words, despite being simplified, were still too cryptic for some of his younger audience members. Still none of their gazes drifted off him.

He had been told often that he was a natural storyteller, yet rarely was Fredrick gladder for that gift than when he entertained children. He could not see them, yet he knew that about fifteen eyes were locked on him with earnest gazes. Old eyes closed, let his memory wander and mingle with his imagination. The young ones had wanted fantasy and they had wanted a story about him. Fredrick reached deep into his creativity to oblige.

"All around, it was dark. Where he could see, he could see only stone. Brown and black and black and brown it went. There were big rocks and small rocks, some so round that you could not step on them and some sharp like knives so you could not touch them. Our hero was young, although not as young as you little ones." A smirk there as he heard a rustle of movement. Gregory had probably lifted his arms to protest that he was already all grown up and had been hushed down.

Fredrick continued, knowing each child now had a scene before his or her eyes. "Far behind and above him, he could still hear the ogre shouting at him to get moving. 'Get to work!' it screamed with its harsh throat, not meant for human speak, 'If you want to get paid...' The threat was real, for our hero needed that money. The ogre was big and green and strong, and it had evil magicians giving it orders, he could not say no lest they... fire him!" to his left, Jane paused in the middle of painting to roll her eyes as the kids gasped. Grandfather puns, his daughter called them.

"He went deeper and deeper, but still he had no fear. He was going to find a diamond here, so instead of fear his heart sang with hope. The diamond he looked for there was not one like these that you or I know. Our diamonds are clear like glass, but old, old like the sands on the beach. The diamonds HE wanted was a young diamond, black as night with your eyes shut. They're black like ink and leave marks like a pencil. These diamonds can only be found in some caves deep underground, and above all these caves live ogres and wizards, wanting the coals."

"Why don't the ogres and wizards go get the diamonds, then?" this question was blurted out by Gregory before he could be quieted down. In response the puppet turned over to him and splayed its arms wide.

"There was another reason why the hero was not afraid," announced Fredrick to the room, drawing the children's attention even further in. "He, unlike the ogre and the magicians, had a light inside his heart powering the light of his helmet. It was not wide nor strong, but it was always there. It was the light of hope, and it allowed him to traverse the dark caverns without tripping or falling.

"In the caves, you see, you cannot carry a torch or a lantern. In these deep and dark caves lives a dragon, old and angry. Where he sat, you could find black diamonds. He gathered them and made them into a bed for himself." Gregory's eyes were now shining, Fredrick knew. Gregory loved danger and adventure. "This dragon was large and had spikes along his back. Great big talons he had on his feet, and fangs in his mouth, ready to snap at any unwitting bite sized hero.

"However, the most dangerous thing about the dragon was his fiery breath. Unlike other bigger beasts, this dragon could spout enough flames to make the mountain shake and crumble down. Due to how powerful such a weapon was, he only used it when he saw an open flame." He let the question hang in the air for a second. "Dragons kept one eye open while they slept, you see, and they always slept with their mouth clamped shut, storing a fireball deep in their stomach. If he saw a fire, never mind if it was a candle or a campfire, he would think it was another dragon coming to steal his treasure. He would in one swoop plant his feet wide, open his mouth wider, and unleash every single bit of fire he had in his belly!" Children gasped at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. Jane was busy with her painting so Fredrick really had no idea if she knew what subtle hints he was making. Thus in this warmly lit and even more warmly furnished room, Fredrick could only hope that such elegant clues were appreciated by someone. Still, the kids were enjoying his tale, and that was really all that mattered.

"Armed with his knowledge of the dragon's fire, our hero went deeper and deeper into the caves, knowing that his light would not cause retribution. Due to his light, he didn't fall over any sharp rocks nor slip on any of the smooth ones. His hands shook on his weapon yet his steps remained firm and strong. Only once did he look back up, and beyond his light's reach the caves were black and winding. He could see no way home.

"Still, he pushed further and further on, until... the hero heard snoring! It was a deep and powerful noise, coming from around a corner just ahead. Stones all around him stirred with the sound, until the entire cave trembled from the strength of it and the hero felt pain in his ears. He found that he trembled just as much as the cave." At that, Fredrick had to pause because one of the kids needed to go to the bathroom. He stopped the others from rushing her and waited patiently, making small talk with Fred junior about the pros and cons of different juice types.

When the straggler came back, he started again. "The hero trembled, but the light in his heart never faltered, still. When he turned around the corner, he could see him. He was just as frightening and majestic as the young hero had feared, perhaps even more so." Here, the great reveal came: Fredrick produced his pride and joy, a puppet in the shape of a dragon. Compared to what he described what he had in his left hand was puny, perhaps even cute. That worried him not, for as he spoke he knew his audience's imagination worked to fill in the gaps.

"Red and black! Leathery skin gleamed where scales crimson steamed. Talons and spikes up to his tail, all shining like swords! One open eye rolled about, as black as the cave around it! He was the scariest thing our hero had ever seen! In the face of such a beast, he almost turned tail and ran all the way back to the ogre empty handed. But no! There, beneath the fiery dragon's slumbering form, he glimpsed the deep night of black diamonds!"

"He was afraid, surely, but our hero was confidant in his abilities. The dragon hadn't seen him, for it couldn't glimpse his light. Perhaps he could sneak in slowly and reach the diamonds, grab one and flee the sleeping beast without it even knowing. That was what he thought.

"The hero's intentions were so clear in his mind that when he approached the dragon on tiptoes, he forgot to look under his feet. Lights of the heart are very useful, but if you don't look they cannot help you. The hero, only a few feet from the dragon, slipped on a smooth stone and went tumbling down noisily.

"That other big black eye flew open. Both eyes focused on him and all of a sudden the dragon leapt up to its feet and roared as loud as it can, shaking the entire cavern like it was jelly." Fredrick's brow was almost beading with sweat now. He didn't recall gesturing with puppets to be so tiring. However, he didn't let the story go, so clear it was in his mind.

"The hero grabbed his weapon tightly in his gloved hand, crouching still on the floor. The dragon could see him, and although the hero was in no danger of being blasted by fire due to his heart's light, his enemy still had talons and tail. He made his decision quickly. Instead of attacking the dragon, our hero leapt at its feet and struck at the mound! Of that entire heap of black diamond, one as large as his fist came free. He quickly stuffed it in his pocket and ran away as fast as he could, boots thumping against the floor and with an angry dragon so close he could feel the heat from its skin on his back.

"Around and around he was chased with cavern walls on all sides, deeper into the caves than anyone had ever been before. Turning right and left, the hero had nothing on his mind except escape, and so he managed to get away into a narrow cave finally. Here, it was too small for the dragon and he could not follow him!" a wave of applause came, and a few drawn breaths were let out at long last, yet Fredrick was not yet done with his tale. "The hero left that dragon roaring behind him, but he was now up against a different enemy," he announced to his audience, which went silent in confusion. "Our poor hero was lost!

"He knew not how to get back to the dragon's room, and the beast was certainly not going to tell him. He did not know his way back to the surface either. Realizing that he was stranded, the hero sat on a stone in a dark cavern with head in his hands and cried. 'Oh, how am I to ever get home?' he asked loudly. The diamond he had in his pocket felt heavy now that he had no way of taking it outside to the ogre. He sat there for a long time, sad and tired. Even if he eventually got out without being eaten, he would surely reach the ogre lae. How could he avoid being fired? The cavern was very wide and very dark, despite the small entrance, and moss grew here and there where water dripped.

"Suddenly, a voice intruded into his sadness. 'Are you alright?' asked the voice, which sounded very much like a girl. Looking up in surprise, the hero found out that it was a girl. What's more, it was a princess." At this, Fredrick produced yet another puppet, one that hadn't taken nearly as much referencing to make as the dragon's had. "The hero could tell she was a princess because she wore a circlet on her head, despite her clothes being unprincesslike and dirty. She had brown hair and brown eyes and she looked quite unhappy to see him in such a state.

"'No, I'm not!' he explained bitterly, 'I came down here to get a black diamond from the dragon, but now I'm lost and I can't get home. I'm very not alright.'

"The girl looked quite puzzled with his words. 'What's a home?' she asked, apparently quite puzzled at this concept.

"The hero was surprised. 'Don't you know what a home is?' he wondered, 'A home is...' for a minute, it became terribly difficult for the hero to explain what a home was.

"'See? I'm not stupid, it really is hard,' the girl exclaimed triumphantly, perhaps glad that he wasn't crying anymore.

"In the end, the hero explained it thus, 'Usually, a home is where you live, although it doesn't have to be. You can live in a house or an apartment and be far away from home. I think a home can move, because it's the place where you feel happy. It's where the shop owners know you and smile when they see you and the sky sends an extra bit of breeze to blow clouds away. Home is where the heart is.'

"'Oh... if that's what it is... then I don't think I have a home...' the girl whispered the words sadly, and the hero felt bad for making her miss something she didn't have.

"'Don't be so upset,' he said, 'here, have a biscuit.'

"Of those, the hero had but one, but he tore it in half dutifully and gave the larger half to the sad girl. She ate it and laughed at the jelly insides, saying she'd never had one quite like it before. She explained that she had always lived in this dark cavern, as long as she could remember. It had always been too scary for her to leave because she didn't know what was outside the caves. 'But now I will,' those words were uttered with determination, 'I know these caves well. I will take you back outside to your home and then come back here.' As she said so, her lips trembled a bit. "I'm happy because I made my first friend, so I want to help you. I'm not scared anymore.'

And so it was. The princess turned out to know the caves very well, and helped the hero get out of the caves even faster than he had gotten in. With this shortcut he could get black diamonds much faster thanks to her, if he ever decided to go back in. The hero was very happy to see the princess' reactions to everything new she saw, from flowers to sky to sun. It all amazed her and she danced at the sights, as merry as the birds on the trees.

When it came time for them to part, however, the hero's heart clenched hard in his chest. What he had told the princess was true, home truly where the heart was. He asked her to stay with him in the sun and the princess with the brown hair accepted, and they headed towards town together. They were friends at first, but then they married. And they lived happily ever after."

At that end, there was applause to make Fredrick smile wide. With a grunt he propped himself back up and took his props and stage and puppets back where they belonged. By now it was perhaps a bit after eight and a few of the children were already squite drowsy after such an active day. It seemed that as their grandfather, Fredrick had the duty of wrapping things up here. Thus he went back to his seat, sat with a groan, and asked, "Did you like the story, children?"

A plethora of nods and yeses assaulted him and he laughed in response. "Well, does anyone have any questions?" he wondered aloud, to which a few hands shot up. Questions popped up about the dragon, what the hero was wearing other than his boots and gloves and helmet, why he didn't fight the dragon. All these were standard and Fredrick answered them as reasonably as he could. The dragon was smaller than others, the hero had overalls on instead of armour because armour was too shiny for caves, and yes, some fights you need to run away from. Then Gregory inquired of him "What was the hero's name, Grandpa?" Before he could say anything, little Fred answered with a smile, looking confidant.

"That story was about Grandpa Fred!" he announced.

"No it isn't," countered Gregory, "Where's the princess? He said they lived happily ever after in the story!" At that, Fred Jr's smile froze. He began to answer then hesitated, perhaps unwilling. He looked to Fredrick for guidance and the old man sighed, wondering how he should put this. Every single pair of eyes in the room was on him.

"We did," he said finally, "We lived happily ever after."

For a while everyone was quiet. One of Melissa's other children asked, "Where is granny Jessica?" and Fredrick smiled at her, wondering at the simple nature of such a deep question.

"She went on a trip. I don't know exactly where, it's a surprise. I bought a ticket to wherever it is too, and I'll go visit her there soon enough."

"...and then you'll be home?" That question was from Lisa. She had been quiet until then, but the raven haired girl now seemed intently curious, prompting even.

Slowly, Fredrick said, "Yes, that's when I'll be home." He was astonished because the words were true. To his left, he saw Jane still sitting in her chair, painting abandoned or perhaps already completed. Her eyes moistened; a hand covered her mouth. He could see the corner of a smile from between her fingers as she cried quietly. Her husband stood behind her in support. In turn Fredrick smiled, showing them that everything was alright.

An hour later sleeping Tolkein dwarves were carried to their cars by their respective parents. Last to leave was Jane and she hugged him a few seconds longer than she usually did. She had left him a beautiful painting as a gift, of a miner and a princess talking in a faintly illuminated cave.

"I love you, dad." Her whisper was quiet yet the warmth from her words was intense like a bonfire.

"I love you too, sweetie. Take care out there."

# Story 9

At least the first fifteen years of Seth's life were happy.

A great deal of his childhood was spent on his father's shoulders or somewhere behind his mother's skirt, and so he didn't do much crying. One of Seth's fondest reoccurring memories was him attempting to help out in the kitchen. Both of his parents were cooks and the child learned that cooks were extremely kind people in general. You'd be right to say that Seth was spoiled, in the good way.

His mother would usually start their cooking sessions. They'd begin with a glimmer behind her big blue eyes. Martin was less jovial than his wife, which only went to say that he was only a bit happier than others. Whenever Vanessa suggested some outlandish combination of dishes, it was his common sense that trimmed and tweaked them. Then he would go out , taking little Seth, and they would pick out fresh herbs from the garden. They'd walk back into the kitchen's aromas with fistfuls of holy basil and coriander, or perhaps some sweet nameless wildflower. Well, nameless only because Martin never learned its name.

When the cooking started, it looked like the two were playing with one another. At times they barely communicated. Only a few jokes would pass between them at that time and Seth realized early that passion was an important trait to have if you want to master a skill. Despite their silence, each person's movements mirrored the other perfectly, as if they were held together by strings. It was a beautiful scene to behold, for they looked a little like the sun and the moon, orbiting around each other. Or day and night perhaps, one golden and the other raven haired. It was a scene that truly made Seth appreciate what he had, and he would wish for them to never suffer. Looking back, this memory would come to be tinged with bitterness. Back then, however, he hadn't known to what extent he was going to eventually break his parent's hearts, and he'd felt at peace.

Due to his father's heritage, there were charms and dream catchers scattered around the house, subtle hints alongside animal statues and totems. At night Martin would tell his son stories, and unlike other children there would usually be little time for princesses and glass shoes. Martin spoke of tribes long gone and warriors returned to their spirit forms. He'd tell legends and myths of animals and they would take Seth's imagination to a far off place. He was always proud of this part of his family history.

School, when it started, was an interesting experience. His first day was spent with a few tears shed due to the shock of a leaving mother. Still, Miss Laura was patient and she had a nice smile. The kids would come to be his friends in time. He was not a particularly shy child, for his parent's constant support, peppered with common sense and a little bit of coddling, left Seth with a reasonable amount of confidence. There were some good and bad teachers, some good and bad children. Elementary school can replicate society in a very real way.

As he got older, his parents improved their living situation immensely, and Seth never gave them any unwarranted headaches. Sure, he was a child, and children have a way of getting themselves in trouble, but it was nothing more than average. Not then, anyway.

It started the moment he began going to school. Until then, his father and mother needed to manage their jobs so they could stay with him in the mornings. "They're finally going to make me head cook!" Martin had exclaimed one day. Seth was happy, although at that time he didn't understand what the fuss was about. His father was the best cook in the world, after all. Except for Vanessa maybe.

After that, their talent began to shine through, and rapidly each of his parents rose until they became well established in their profession. On the day his mother was featured in a cooking magazine, Seth took a clipping to school with him. He was in third grade and his friends had already known about his parent's work, because they would sometimes get invited to family dinners. Still, they had been duly impressed, and his teachers even asked to know more about the restaurant.

One day in sixth grade, Seth came back home and found his parents waiting for him in the living room. They had cooked an extravagant lunch, yet their expressions were grim. He began to feel apprehensive as he looked from face to face. "What's wrong?" he asked hesitantly. Such an atmosphere wasn't normal here.

"Have a seat, son." Martin bade of him, gesturing to the sofa opposite their own.

Seth did as he was asked to, and to his surprise Vanessa opened the conversation with an extremely gentle tone. "How is school, Sethy? I don't mean your grades," she added quickly, waving her hands as he began to tell her about his progress. "Your class supervisor comes over to the restaurant from time to time. We talk." For a second, her sunny grin appeared as if unbidden, but she went serious again. Seth was starting to get worried. Vanessa was never like this. The tall cook was generally so cheerful that even barely into her thirties, she had begun to accumulate beautiful laughing lines.

"I mean, are you happy honey? Is everything going okay at school? Are you making enough friends? Do you get along with your teachers?"

At that point, Seth began to feel frightened. He struggled to answer, for if anything he was very much like his mother. "I..." he needed to think about it, he felt like everything was alright, but he'd never really thought about his life critically in this way. "Yes, I think so. Jonas' parents divorced last month, so we were trying to make him feel better."

Martin smiled compassionately: He had spent a while talking to his son about how important it was to comfort his friend, almost as long as he spent reassuring him about his own parents. Seth didn't really understand what his father had meant about people being their own people before anything else, but he'd learned enough to comfort Jonas.

"Teachers are fine. I'm leaning a lot into PE and crafts. You know how we need to choose our subjects ourselves in a couple of years, so our supervisor has spent a lot of time telling us we need to try things out and see what we like." He hadn't put much thought into what he wanted to do professionally yet, but Seth could at least figure out what he liked best. His parents had never pushed him towards cooking, and although he knew his way around the basics, it wasn't going to become his job. "Why are you asking, mom? Why are you so... serious?" the word he wanted to say was gloomy.

"We... Well, I got an offer for a new job." She stated, letting the sentence hang in the air for a bit. He waited patiently. "It's a good one, better pay and a lot of opportunities. I might even springboard off it to join a big hotel restaurant." Seth frowned at that, for there were no big hotels in their quiet town.

"The thing is," Vanessa continued, "it's in another city. If I take this job, we are going to have to move. It'll be fine for your father, because he knows a lot of places there that need a helping hand. If we decide to do this...next year you will start in a new school." Seth went very silent. He was going to have to move from this house.

Seth had lived here his whole life. His childhood was based on the scenes in this kitchen, this room, this town, this school. If he moved, he was going to have no friends at all. There was nothing he knew in any other city.

"The thing is, I don't have to do it. It's just that things will be better if I do take this new job. So, we decided to ask you. What do you think we should do, honey?" The boy looked from his father to his mother in surprise. Both had quiet accepting faces. He hadn't expected this. "If this move makes your childhood difficult, or it ruins your school life, then I don't want to do it. We all need to decide this together as a family, and you are a big part of it." Her gaze was firm, yet Seth could hear the guilt corroding his mother's voice. Her big blue eyes were on the verge of tearing up. He could tell how much she wanted to preserve his happiness. He considered for a moment.

"You don't have to decide now." This Martin said with a hand held up in a pacifying manner. He scratched at his shaved chin, the expression one of an intelligent man thinking earnestly. "We have a lot of time to choose, and this is a big choice to make, make no mistake. These things are heavy, and if we rush things we could break our bones." His voice was deep and collected. As usual, his advice was sound. Despite this, Seth knew what he wanted.

"Going someplace new is scary," he began slowly, working through what he wanted to say, "but if it's the best thing for your jobs, then I don't mind. As long as we stay together, I'm sure I can deal with a new school and make new friends. Besides, I can still call Jonas and Faith and the other. We can also come visit sometimes, right?" the last request came out as more of a plea than anything else. His father smiled and stood up slowly. He pointed at both his wife and son in turn. "The two of you are too much alike!" he exclaimed with a laugh as his Vanessa got up to hug her son, "hot-headed and quick to apologize, but good all the same. I'm proud of you, son."

And so it was that the next year, their family moved to a small yet decidedly cosy apartment in the city. They took their tribal decorations and dream catchers with them, which gave everything a familiar touch. The smells of cooking were identical, although not many herbs could be grown on the balcony. School started off awkward, but Seth managed to make a few friends within the first month, and one girl was particularly nice to him. Despite missing his old friends and teachers, Seth learned to deal with things well. All in all, the move was a success, and nothing saddening happened.

At least, not that time.

*

Three years later, Seth had made enough friends to almost forget that he had lived anywhere else. School was going well, the lines on his mother's became more pronounced due to constant and deep happiness. In turn, she brightened up Martin's life, and despite her teasing about how young he looked because of his permanent passive expression, he too began to display time's wear on him. It seemed that his thinner frame gave way to a slight paunch, yet it was not enough to detract from his handsome looks.

As time wore on, Seth began to discover his passion, one that had been all but neglected for the longest of times: He was fascinated with sports. He tried multiple ones, including swimming and football, but in the end settled into a combination of track and field sports added onto muscle workouts. His parents were sceptical at first, but as they saw their son's determination and commitment, the young one received his share of dumbbells and other similar gifts. Martin and Vanessa were not parents who tried to make their children grow up with a job in mind, but during their conversations Seth displayed his interest in mixing sports with nutrition. They approved, of course, providing that he remained a relatively hardworking student. He needed to maintain his mixture of A's and B's.

Then that day came when he was fifteen. He came back home after saying goodbye to Daniel, a friend of his. There they sat, in the middle of the living room, obviously waiting for him. "Hi" He remarked after observing their faces for a few seconds. As usual whenever this happened, Seth ran a list of reasons they could be wanting to have a chat with him.

Seth didn't think it was something too grim, for both his parents looked serious yet calm. The now fifteen year old sat down without being told. "I hope I didn't do anything wrong," he started, hoping to break off the tension. To Seth's relief, both of his parents smiled.

"No," Vanessa said. "It's really nothing much this time, just a whole lot of extra work." She looked visibly exhausted. Seth hadn't noticed the black bags under her eyes before, but now they came to sharp relief against the creamy glow coming from multiple lamps around the room.

"What's going on?"

"We need to move again." The answer was short and swift, uttered in his father's deep practical voice.

Seth was not usually prone to anger, but he felt his fuse almost burst instantly. Heat came unbidden to his face and he almost stood up from the sofa he was upon. He wanted to explain to this pair, who in his memories he often thought of as "sun and moon", that it was unfair of them to make him switch schools again. They were already reasonably successful, and it was really just too much to keep chasing jobs around from town to town. In fact, it was downright greedy.

Patience was a virtue and they should stay in town now, if not for them than for him. There was a limit to how often a growing boy could be forced to uproot himself. This was what Seth wanted to say, but he knew from the way his muscles tensed that he should stay still and quiet. It was possible that if he started what he thought was a calm and collected argument, he would end up shouting. So he stayed still.

"Still here," added Vanessa, making Seth glad to have kept his mouth shut. "We'll stay in the city, we're just moving to a bigger place. We're thinking about getting a house. Settling in here, that sort of thing."

All of a sudden he felt much calmer, and Seth almost smiled. "Why do we need a bigger place?" he asked, entertaining the thought of living in a proper house again after two long years. Their place when he was younger was pretty small, but still bigger than this current apartment. Maybe they'll even need a car.

Seth's parents held each other's hand peacefully, sharing a nod before turning their attention back to their son. "That's the other thing we wanted to tell you," started Martin, then his wife completed the explanation. She had a rosy glow on her cheeks then, despite the obvious signs of overwork.

"We're going to have another baby."

Seth was dumbfounded, but in a good way. Like a film, scenes flashed in his imagination, detailing all that could happen with a new sibling, boy or girl. A thousand films came to mind, all with glad families and happy endings. He couldn't hold it in and the teenager smiled. He was happy for his parents, seeing the look on their faces at that moment, and they all grinned together like idiots. The irony of it all was almost sickening.

*

In short order, Brian was born to a house that had barely become accustomed to three family members. The name came to honour Vanessa's first cooking teacher, back when she was just starting off and needed a mentor desperately. The man was still alive albeit halfway into his eighties by the time the little one joined the world. He had looked extremely happy when he tried to hold the newborn, for Brian had opened his eyes and yawned sleepily at him, blinking his bleary eyes.

The first time Seth saw the child, he was stunned. Such little hands the baby had, you felt an instinctual sense of warmth spread right through your heart, as well as a need to protect. While Seth looked a lot like a mixture between both his parents, Brian favoured his father. He had that same dark look to him, all jet black hair and eyes.

At first, Seth spent most of his waking hours with the baby. The little one wasn't even into his second month when his older brother started playing with him. The house was single storied, but had two large rooms, a smaller one, a living room, and of course a large kitchen boasting enough space to fit two full time chefs and two helpers of various degrees. One helper would cut up vegetables, sauté things occasionally, and measure out salt under a careful yet trusting gaze. The other would giggle helpfully from a baby seat on the smooth kitchen counter, or whine in a demand for attention.

One day, after Brian was bathed, Seth saw their mother move the baby's arms and legs, flexing them. "It helps encourage them to start growing," Brian was still young enough to share Vanessa's and Martin's room with them, his regular changing spot being their big white bed.

"Let me try!" exclaimed Seth excitedly, for this was exactly his sort of thing. He became from then on Brain's personal trainer, gently closing and opening his limbs to help the young one get used to his body. Sometimes he would playfully place tissues on the baby's arms and urge him to lift them, eliciting laughter from his mother.

His parent's room was suitable for a child's afternoon game, for it was sparsely furnished and extremely well let. Floorboards, cabinets, and single dressing drawer were all a deep dark brown, creating an earthly feel and contrasting with the white walls and drapes. The two large square windows at the bed's headboard would let in a constant breeze as well as enough sunlight to make you blink. Only one corner was painted in blues and pinks, for it was Brian's special spot of this house, ruled completely by him. The child spent little time there, however.

Seth spent those first sixth months of Brian's life almost exclusively playing with the baby in the living room, brushing his hair and repeating to him Martin's stories as their father watched over the two patiently from the kitchen. Seth cared about Brain in a way that he found inexplicable, although his parents informed him it was a normal part of having a younger sibling. However, he realized that he had less patience with the baby than his parents did, and often would hand him to Vanessa or Martin if he wasn't able to quiet down his crying within ten minutes of cradles and lullabies. Seth loved Brain despite that. He always had.

As time wore on, Brain's quiet little sniffles and grunts would turn into fully blown bawling or giggling, depending on the situation. Then he began to roll over sometimes, then pull himself along the floor like a little turtle along the brown floor. Finally he started to crawl and walk.

As Brian became firmer, Seth discovered the joy of lying on his back and then placing his little brother upon his chest. This he did mainly as in excuse to hug the baby, as well as a form of play as he bobbed this way and that. Also, it would give him a reason to look into his brothers big dark serious eyes and wonder how he could be so much like Martin. One time he mentioned another reason to his father. "It's hard to explain how much you love him, because it's too big for words and he can't understand you anyway. But if he listens to my heartbeat, I think it'll make sense to him."

At that, Martin hugged his elder son very close. "He's lucky to have you as a brother," the man said quietly yet fiercely, "and I want you to know I love you just as much."

In time, Seth's interactions with the baby grew more complex as he got older, and he began to understand the "annoyed older brother" trope so popular in movies and TV shows. All of a sudden, Brian started to need far more attention than before, and just as suddenly Seth became busy with school and working out. He would of course play with his little brother as often as he could, but that never seemed enough for the little one.

Brian would try to crawl all the way into his brother's room, yell out "eth!" in his little voice whenever he felt lonely, and be unsatisfied with his own cot in their parent's room. Seth tried to be a good sport, but sometimes he just needed to hand over his little brother to Vanessa or Martin after being drained of all patience. His parent's abilities to deal with him were either a superpower, he decided, or part of that kindness you needed to be a chef.

Brain was well into his second year by the time Seth was allowed to join a gym. Until then, his parents had been sceptical, believing weight lifting to be detrimental to a teenager's growth. It was only when he was seventeen that Martin took his pleading seriously. He looked him deeply in the eyes and sighed, all the while bobbing Brian up and down in his lap. "Well, seems about time." He announced with a sense of finality, and Seth whooped. He didn't really know if it was because of his age that Martin agreed or because he had finally gotten his driver's license, but it didn't really matter. That same day he got his membership.

One particular rainy day that month, Seth decided he wanted to change up his usual schedule and head on to the gym early. It probably had something to do with how he'd spent the night studying, but his body ached slightly and he felt a little out of it.

The youth made his way out of his room, carrying a duffel bag and donning a loose T-shirt to hide his now muscular frame. Showing off wasn't his style. Over his T-shirt he had a jacket, but it still didn't keep all the cold out. October water droplets pattered against the house, as they had all morning. The living room already smelled like something extravagant was being made, and sure enough, both of his parents were in that semi trance they went into when they cooked together, that dance of the sun and the moon.

"I'll go to the gym, dad. You need anything?" The question was more a formality than anything, and the expected simple grunt came in response. Little Brain sat in the living room, watching a kid's TV show. Seth went over to his little brother and played with him for less than a minute, pretending he wanted to block his view of the show. The child cooed a few times energetically, pointing at the screen behind Seth. Brian probably thought he was actually talking.

Seth decided it was time to go, and he grabbed the keys to the little sedan his father drove. As he left, Vanessa called out that one of the doors needed fixing, and simultaneously Brain yelled, "Eth!"

The youth didn't answer either. He really needed to get a good workout and clear his head, and was sure he'd be back in a few hours to talk.

Seth went out the front door, not bothering to close it behind him because the mesh screen had a spring mechanism and usually closed by itself within seconds. Standing beneath the awning, he looked up at the grey sky. Icy water dripped down his head as he ran the short distance to the navy blue sedan.

The youth entered the car, already thinking about which sets he wanted to do at the gym. Turning the key, he listened to the satisfying vroom and enjoyed the small compartment's warmth. Martin always advised to wait a bit and let the engine get hot, but Seth didn't believe in that. The youth set up a good enough radio station, put the car in reverse impatiently and started to pull out of the driveway.

Then he felt the bump and everything fell apart.

# Story 10

If she had to be honest, the first time Catherine noticed him was because of his smile.

Dazzling in a real way, his smile would cause his face to shine like a sun just awoken. It would wipe away any dirt, smudges, or even his few pimples. She saw it for the first time while heading back from work.

That day was particularly grey, which made it all the more striking to see that much white in one place. His smile poked out, contrasting with the flood of trench coat wearing office workers rushing home. They each looked identical to one another, and it was only he who lacked that dark colour scheme.

To Catherine, his smile was like a bell. It was cheerful, sincere, and welcoming. Eventually, she managed to tear her eyes off of his face and continue her stride down the street, following that drab crowd. She had finances to take care of, calculations to make. A car to buy.

Catherine kept seeing the beggar, over and over, every time she walked back home from work. He was always ignored, probably due to his mannerisms. In her city there were only three types of homeless people. It was the only way to survive as a homeless person. Such people were pitied, but only to a certain extent.

The first type would try to guilt you into giving money. They would prostrate themselves upon the ground, hoping for sympathy. These people were like an off key deep piano key: Unsettling and dark. The idea was that you try to equate their problems with all those other things wrong with the world, and so giving them a coin would translate to helping the world as a whole.

The second type would come up to you and try to outright ask you for change. They'd catch your eye and cut off your path to sweet escape. Blues music would play in the background as they recount their sad tale. Sometimes one of them would plaster a smile onto his face and try to make you out to be a Good Samaritan for giving him money, even though you haven't reached into your pockets yet. As you look about you nervously, someone in the river of people would look behind and offer you a sympathetic smile, glad it was you who were caught and not him.

One last type of homeless people existed in this city, and it was they who sounded the most horrifying. Theirs was the sound of silence. They would ignore you about as much as you ignored them, for they not only accepted their lot but seemed to thrive in it. Hoarding bottles and cans, gathering coins, stealing quietly when no one was watching, these were their tools. Of all beggars these people were the saddest, as quiet as the bottom of a hole.

Now this particular person, he was different. He sat to the side, smile on his face. He'd wear a multitude of overlarge jackets, claiming a particular piece of wall for his own. The same spot, under a cover. He was particular about that, no water for a few feet in front of him. Often this made him harder to reach, because that constant influx of people rushing by him would always keep to the street side as much as they could. He didn't seem to care.

What was even more curious was that he never spoke to this river of driven city folk. He did not go out to beg for money and he only ever chatted pleasantly with people. In fact, if you crossed eyes with him, he did not come up to you at all, but rather stayed seated. Oftentimes people would go out of the bank he camped outside. Some knew him by name, as he knew them. All this Catherine but glimpsed as she went on her commutes to and from home. Always that smile, always this strange person.

One day she decided to give the man money. It was, as usual, a rainy day. She was going to work after a good cup of coffee and Peter had just had a wonderful third birthday just the night before. Everything was good in her life. Added to that, the man's smile sang that day.

She wasn't sure why the man was happier than usual but his smile was an Ukulele played on the beach. It was simple and catchy and she found herself infected. So, she broke away from the stream. Wet hard emotionless pavement met her footwear with each step. Each step felt like a blow against her.

Catherine let these thoughts out of her mind, and instead eyed the man, who had probably sensed her intent and thus smiled at her pleasantly. He was twenty feet away now, and for the first time she could see his features more clearly.

It would be difficult to call this man handsome, what with his Einstein hair and oversized nose, even if he were clean and well dressed. Or not sitting cross-legged on the floor with a cardboard sign to his side, saying "Poems for sale." Still, his demeanour caused all of that to become insignificant and the man looked... sweet, somehow.

Catherine heard the incessant tap tap of raindrops striking against that building's glass weather guard. Looking up, she noticed the building's towering height. It was an impressive feat of technology, a like most things here. Much of the building's surface was glass, and it was so tall it almost curved around and she had to crane her neck to see the sky behind. She couldn't tell which seemed more depressing.

When Catherine reached him, she noticed a multitude of folded pieces of paper lying next to the beggar, each about the size of a finger or a fortune from Chinese restaurants. They were arranged in a simple pattern. Two vertical lines, side by side, with a half moon on its back beneath them. A smiley face.

Before the man with the shining smile was a cap, holding very few coins, but ones of high value. There were even a few note. Catherine was only slightly surprised. Of course he only got a little bit of money, because he never pushed for things, he didn't use people like the other beggars. Maybe those notes were because people were pitying him, or thinking him a nice guy. Then again, maybe he removed coins periodically, to make himself seem like he'd gotten less than he did. This Catherine had heard of. She'd even heard that when they start for the day, these people would put a few coins in themselves, to set a precedent for the unwitting.

As she neared him, the man nodded at Catherine. "Good morning, Ma'am. Not the best weather today, but at least it's not too cold. I hope you have a good day." She smiled politely and perhaps a little uncomfortably at this homeless man, but elected not to respond. She didn't feel the need to. She was just here to put a coin in his cap. The sign she ignored completely, of course.

She felt the eyes of people watching her. Passersby here and there would allow their gazes to gravitate towards her, and their judgement sounded harsh, a powerful chord heard by an unpractised ear. She was going to be late for work.

Catherine bent down hurriedly, fishing coins out of her purse by touch. She found a few pieces of loose change and laid them inside the man's upturned hat. The deed gave her mixed feelings. On the one hand she felt good about herself, but on the other hand the usually smart office lady hoped that she wasn't being duped. Catherine turned to go, being careful not to meet the beggar's eyes, just in case he asked for more money or started showering her with thanks.

She'd barely gotten a few steps away before the man's soft and heavily accented voice called out. "Ma'am!" he said, and his tone caused something in her to stir. She turned involuntarily, in dread, and she found him frowning. Thunder roared.

Catherine assumed the man was going to either thank her or ask for more, and she was halfway through an excuse, but what he said surprised her.

"You forgot to take a poem with you."

He sounded like he came from the south. His voice was loud and confidant. A couple of figures from the river of people looked their way curiously and Catherine realized she was attracting attention.

"I.." she started, not understanding. Then she saw he was pointing at the piles of papers next to him. "I don't need a piece of paper!" she announced, nose almost already starting to point upwards.

Didn't this man understand that she was doing him a favour? Nobody would pay for cookie fortunes anyways. The nerve he had, wasting people's time. She decided that she was never going to give him anything again, and she reconfirmed her distaste for his kinds. He and his smile could both rot for all she cared. She wondered what he was going to say to her, for she expected an apology from the man.

The beggar's response was completely outside Catherine's expectations, for he simply bent over in his seat, pulled her exact coins out from the hat, and stretched his hand out towards her. "Then I need to give you your money back, Ma'am. With all due respect, I can't take a costumer's money without giving anything back. It's not proper." Silently, Catherine walked over to the man and took a piece of paper. Ignoring his polite "Thank you for understanding." She walked onwards in the direction of her workplace stiffly. The second she was back in the open weather, the brunette threw the folded piece of paper onto the pavement in disgust, willing it destroyed by rain sooner rather than later. She hoped the man saw.

Catherine went to work. She didn't talk to anyone about what had happened between her and the beggar, but her secretary could already tell that there was something wrong with her mood.

"Is it about the birthday?" she asked from her desk, taking advantage of a moment where none could hear. There was no consultancy scheduled for half an hour from now. "I told you Mark should have been there." Mark was Catherine's husband and indeed, he had not been present on Peter's birthday. In fact, that was the only muffler on the whole festivities.

"No," replied the tax consultant kindly, if perhaps a little upset still. "He had work to do, and he was covering for a friend. I know museum work is meant to be stable, but it was a onetime thing. Besides, he was in charge of coordinating the whole event." It was true. Mark was a serious man, if a bit sly if he needed to be. The offer had come on the phone from a close college friend of his, and he had at first declined it outright.

It was only after a lot of pleading and extra prodding from Catherine that the decision to help out had come, and then only in sighing tones. Knowing him, Catherine was sure her dark skinned husband had managed to secure a number of favours by now, all ready to be cashed in at a moment's notice. The thought of such a man coming back to their apartment tomorrow managed to bring her a smile.

Seeing the beggar still on the street was a sight that could wipe a smile right off. There he grinned, exactly where she had left him, and Catherine thought that he looked happy, even when his smile curdled a bit at her sight. She supposed that it didn't matter to him anyway. He'd gotten money out of her, what more did he really want? After all, the man pretended to sell fortune cookies for a living. She wondered where he got them. The paper she'd thrown away had looked and felt clean.

Catherine went back home, making the way through that same busy river of souls. Opening their home's front door, the first thing that crossed her eyesight was Peter, playing with his babysitter. The brunette decided to forget about the beggar, and promptly she did.

Less than a week later, Catherine decided to tell Mark about it. He swung a golf club experimentally to test its weight as she did, but paused when he noticed how indignant his wife sounded about her story.

Mark's silence as he listened carried its own tone, perhaps one of a blowing wind. When she was done, it was already her turn to play, and she had an epiphany. No one should be playing golf in this kind of weather. It was far too grey. Still, this was the best you could get living here, so it had to do.

She took careful aim, trying to align herself with that flag looking thing in the distance, tightened her hip, and swung. With an unsatisfied hand over her eyes, she watched the ball soar less than half the intended distance and off to the side. Neither she nor Mark claimed to be a good player, but the quiet helped was enjoyable. "What did the paper say?" inquired her husband suddenly, scratching at his well groomed beard. He looked good with a beard, she thought. A bit prickly at times, but she felt a mature look fit his nature well.

"What? Oh." She had almost forgotten what they were talking about, and while she scooted over all those thoughts came back to Catherine. How was that piece of paper what Mark got from her entire story? "I don't know, I didn't look."

"Huh." Her husband went silent for a few seconds, and she could tell that he didn't approve.

Catherine herself felt slightly guilty for her response to the man, but a part of her had acted on impulse. It had offended her that the beggar hadn't taken her kindness, and now she felt bad for treating someone beneath her in that manner.

All this she felt, and Mark still kept quiet, focusing on his turn to send the ball into the sky. Surprisingly, his swing sent the thing flying true, straight into the hole. Hole in one. "Then maybe you wasted some change." He remarked calmly. No other words on the matter were exchanged.

The next day, Catherine went over to the man after work. There he was, off to the side of that wide river. Styx, her husband called this main walkway.

The man noticed her coming up to him and, to his credit, he smiled in a second or two. "Good evening, Ma'am." He said, not nearly as enthusiastic as he once was, yet just with as much friendliness. His smile today only chimed once, where it usually tolled long and true. "How was your day? I hope it was good." His clothes, Catherine saw, were similar to what he'd worn a few days ago, but not quite the same.

"I wanted to apologize for throwing your piece of paper in the rain like that," she stated with as much grace as she could muster. "It was inconsiderate of me."

For a second, the man looked slightly hurt, and he looked off to his pile. Still in that pattern. Of course, Catherine thought, he has so many, what difference does one make?

She had not apologized because of the paper, however, but for her intended blow to the beggar through it. In her anger, she had wanted to get him back for daring to try and return her coins, and that was simply not fair. The man diverted his eyes to her again and to her surprise he was jovial again.

"It's all right, ma'am. When someone hurt us, we don't want to hurt them back. What we want is for them to treat us differently than they did, and an apology is perfect, if it's from the heart. It gives us dignity back, and shows us that the other person cared. Sometimes that's more than enough."

Catherine felt horrible. She hadn't meant at all to hurt the man, or to steal any of his dignity from him. Then she noticed how she had always thought of him, the words she had used in her own head. Added to that, his words were truly wise and kind. Now they waited quietly, her struggling with herself and he smiling pleasantly. Only the dripping drops upon glass above them said anything, yet it spoke volumes. At length Catherine asked, "What did it say?"

He laughed for a second at that, and then said, "I'm not sure, I didn't notice which one you took. Each one is different, you see." Little could have stopped the surprise upon Catherine's face from showing, at that. Dumbfounded, she looked from the piles to this man's smiling face.

"Each one?" she asked, incredulous, and he nodded silently. There were so many! The man took another piece from the pile and placed it in her hand firmly, without looking at it. "This one is on the house," he announced, then turned around to deal with an old lady who had been waiting patiently for the two to finish talking. "Ah, Mrs Stevenson! It's been a long time!"

Catherine could hardly hear the woman's response, for she was busy staring at words on a small piece of paper. It was a poem, short and sweet. Catherine read poetry sometimes, for she'd taken a class on it in college and the interest had stuck. As a tax consultant, she was hardly an expert and only read a few each month from a couple of books, but even then she could tell the good stuff. While the man was busy with Mrs Stevenson, the brunette reached into her bag and put a coin into his hat. She then turned around, resolute in her wish to have a talk with Mark. He had a friend.

Mark's friend, a literary agent specialising in poetry, was more than willing to read some of the man's work. It hardly took any time at all for his poems to go from small pieces of paper to magazines to his very own poetry book. In time he grew to become a little well known. More importantly, he moved in the same neighbourhood Catherine's family lived in.

Mark was happy to have him over for dinner more often than not, for he'd grown up in an orphanage, and so in a way each of the two missed an aspect of family. Bertrand's smile would send choruses in the apartment as usual, and he would give Peter writing lesson, becoming something like a wizened old uncle to the child. Peter in time would learn to grin like him, and through Bertrand's writings Catherine learned to appreciate the city a little bit more.

Drab it was, but beautiful in its own way. Almost for the first time, she noticed gardens and water fountains. Skyscrapers, it came to her attention, were remarkable if you looked at them in the right light. Even the daily river of people, grey as it was, held splashes of colour here and there beneath the jackets. It promised unity and hard work. All in all, their little family had gained an extra member and a great deal of happiness.

To think it was all because of a smile!

# Story 11

There are many things that the girl remembers about the boy.

It all comes in fits and spurts. Sometimes she remembers the shirt he had on the first time they'd met. It had been a horrid affair, splattered with ice cream that his girlfriend dropped on him, by accident apparently.

They hadn't talked that day, but she'd noticed him brush his blonde straight hair from his eyes, hand over his own strawberry scoop to the girlfriend and go buy himself another one after an apologetic smile.

Some other days the splatter of pink on pale blue is forgotten, and her only recollection was the scene of the flaming haired girl in her perfect clothes and perfect little makeup smirking at the boy walking away and saying, "Yeah, you'd better."

The Image of that teenager taking abuse with a kind face and a bitter smile had made her feel bad. It was not her business, she'd said to herself as she left the ice cream place. However, the memory of the boy had stayed with her.

She remembers seeing the boy again. It was a year later in a park. He'd sat under a tree, bathing in the sunlight and reading a book, ignoring people playing around him with Frisbees and balls. Their screams and joy couldn't break through the bubble of serenity around him. Every so often a finger would be wet and a page would be turned, in reflex more than anything else.

Still, the boy had no disdain for the noise around him, and would instead look every so often and give the summer a sunny smile. One of those looks brought her to his attention, and this time his eyes locked with hers. Then the reader caught himself and turned his attention back to his book, ignoring her and the boy walking next to her, who was talking about how his football team would win some championship or the other.

Still, the girl had seen the reading boy's smile and committed it to memory, in a filing cabinet reserved for a crush.

A special place in that filing cabinet was reserved for the day that he finally gathered his courage and spoke to her. This time they were in a mall and she was shopping for clothes along with her sister. She'd dropped a dress while talking about which ones to try on. She hadn't noticed the boy, and so had the breath pulled out of her when she turned and saw him looking at her, the dress in his hand.

"um," he'd said, then, "Hey, you're-" Suddenly he cut himself off, perhaps realizing how strange it would seem to remember someone you've only seen in a park a couple of months ago.

She responded with "Yes, I am...You aren't with that ice cream girl anymore." He looked a little surprised at that, but explained readily enough that his ex-girlfriend hadn't needed him to care about her, she was perfectly capable of caring about herself.

"Good for you," She'd answered. The girl forgets the ex's name even on the best of days, because there were so many things to remember that there was little space for anything else. That was the first time she'd felt that the world could revolve around more than one person, if everything went just right.

She remembers that he'd had a white sweater on, which she didn't like generally. Then again, perhaps she could make an exception if it was him wearing the white sweater, she'd thought. He had asked about the boy who was with her that day in the park, and upon finding out that it was her brother a look of relief had crossed his face for a brief moment.

Then his phone had rang, and he said, "Well, that's my mom. See you around then!" and walked away, turning every so often with a perfect smile, as if to check if she was still there. She had been rooted to the spot until he disappeared into the crowd, then gasped for air and tried to keep her heart from galloping into the distance.

All the while her sister had made comforting cooing noises while patting her back, and only remarked once, "Oh, he's a nice one, isn't he?"

The girl remembers their first date vividly. It had been a confusing time, due to the fact that they had been unofficially meeting in certain places to talk about many things: Hobbies, interests, problems that could be solved and those that were far beyond both of their reaches combined.

That day she had told him about how her mother and father were going to get a divorce. He had stayed quiet and listened next to her on the bench with a heartbroken look on his face.

She remembers the expression, and remembers that at the time she hadn't understood why he made it. It was only later that she found out that a part of love was to feel another person's pain. He'd asked her out to a movie.

She remembers how they'd looked out at the river. She remembers forgetting any bitter thoughts towards her father, it had been all replaced by a pull on her heart faster than she could say, "Butterflies". She remembers saying yes, then meeting the boy in the cinema later that day.

They were the only seventeen year olds among so many lovers, and she remembers how self conscious she had been about how she'd looked. But then he'd told her that she looked pretty, and when a woman in a red dress walked ahead of them his eyes didn't leave her face for an instant. The look of wonder in his eyes had been as much of a compliment as she could have wished for.

She can't remember where they'd sat in the gallery, but she remembers not getting any soda for fear of her stomach making noises. The movie was called Phoenix and Griffin, and the showing hall was filled to the brim with couples.

She remembers starting to cry within minutes of the movie's beginning. He had held his hand out to her, despite this being a first date and them not knowing each other. She remembers wondering why he wanted to hold her hands in the movie instead of when she'd told him about the divorce.

Now it's clear, though: He was always trying to comfort her. With the divorce, he'd thought the date would make her feel better. In the movie his comfort was within grasp. She hadn't wanted to hold his hands because she had used her palm to wipe her tears away and she didn't want to hold hands with disgusting teary wet fingers.

She remembers seeing the glistening on his hand, then taking it in hers. They cried together through the rest of the movie, despite smiling the whole time. She remembers thinking that love was a beautiful thing, no matter how it ended.

Their first argument was a thing best forgotten, for it had been a silly affair. Still she remembers how angry she'd been, despite the actual topic of the fight being a mystery. She remembers crying to herself at night, vowing to apologize to him in the morning, before hearing a knock on her second story window. She'd been fearful, but then she'd seen the perfect blond hair and the pointy nose.

She remembers rushing to the window, worried that he was going to fall to his doom. However, the second that the shutter was opened, he gave her an embarrassed smile and whispered, "I'm sorry, it was all my fault. Please don't be sad. I love you. Making you cry is awful."

After that, he'd climbed his way back down sheepishly before she could say anything. She remembers wanting to call out to him, for his house was far away and it was late. The words couldn't make their way past her constricting throat, however. Her vocal cords had been paralyzed.

Perhaps the girl remembers this so well because of the way the boy carefully made his way back without turning to look behind him. Perhaps it was because that was the first time he told her that he loved her.

She remembers a special day. They had been at the beach, spending a hot summer day eating popsicles, cooling themselves off. All of a sudden he'd dropped his glasses in the snow and asked her to help him look for them. As she'd fumbled around, worried because his eyesight was so weak and he'd need the apparel, she'd heard him exclaim "found it!"

Turning around, she'd found him on one knee, holding a red velvet box of a size that could be cupped in a fist. Stunned, she had weakly said, "That's... That's not your glasses, silly." In spite of that, he hadn't broken the sincere smile on his face as he blinked in the sunlight, taking in the sight of her.

She remembers him saying "I don't need them anymore, all I want to see is right here in front of me." She remembers not even glancing at the ring as she gasped yes ten times over, making him laugh.

She remembers her first child, the one that never got a name. She remembers being unable to enter the baby room with its blue paint, blue cot, blue hanging toys waiting for a hand to cradle them. She remembers waking at night to the sound of crying, only to realize the sound came not from a baby, but from a fully grown woman.

She remembers clamping her hands on her mouth to stop the sobs, only to hear, "It's okay sweetheart. You can cry." His hands would go around her, giving her a world of warmth in which to weep in.

She remembers her shame as he removed the decorations in the room, because she was unable to do anything to help except ignore the shaking of his shoulders when he turned his back to her. To her surprise, he hadn't thrown anything away. Instead he'd stored everything in boxes then locked the room. He had hugged her and a single tear fell on her shoulders as he said, voice shaking, "He'll never be replaced, but our happiness is not gone yet. And even if we have no other and these boxes rot, I have you, and it's enough."

The girl remembers the boy's thoughtfulness paying off, the boxes being unpacked a couple of years later to welcome Thomas, then Tifanny. Later their apartment would get too small and they would have to move.

She remembers her parents coming to visit, one by one on separate days. Only her parents; his had never cared.

The girl remembers her children going to school, each of their first days were clear and bright. She remembers him finally saving enough to open his own bookstore, then spending time with that.

The girl remembers happier times and sadder times, all tinged with a taste reminiscent of love. She remembers Thomas getting a job as an architect, Tiffany as a doctor. She remembers ten thousand meals and ten thousand jokes, countless kisses and hugs, smiles and tears and happiness of the type that can only be remembered after it's been lived.

She remembers Thomas's wedding, and Tiffany moving out. She remembers the boy's shoulders getting slumped with age and looking down at books. She remembers...a grave stone with a name on it, seen through a blur... no... it can't be... she's still only a girl...

Her eyes snap awake, and her outstretched hand is unlike how she remembers it: withered, tired, frail. She panics, calling for him, and Thomas and Tiffany come to her bedside. They look older than she herself is, or at least how she remembers herself being.

She weeps like a child when Tiffany introduces a shy little girl to her: Bless her, she has his eyes.

She awakens later at night, and curses her longevity. She whispers his name, and looks to the right. She sees the beeping machine, and wishes it would stop making sounds. Its lines flatten, and she smiles slowly. Her eyes close, and she goes back to remembering.

Forever.

# Story 12

It rained, but Stewart was never one to mind getting dirty or wet.

Big fat drops of (probably) toxin infected water fell upon his shorn scalp and the twenty five year old lifted his face to the sky, enjoying the cold downpour as he walked. There was a part of him that wanted to pretend that was in a gritty fifties mobster setting and pull his trenchoat closer about himself, but instead he just chuckled and put his hands in his pockets, keeping them warm.

Somehow, despite often feeling too warm and wanting something to cool him, Stewart owned permanently cold hands, and was even told so upon occasion. In the fifities world, it would probably because he was dark or something, and had blood on his hands. More likely, it was because he was tall and long limbed.

Stewart Williams could be described as a sneaky man. It wouldn't be wrong, although he thought of himself as simply cautious. It was important to build up your weapons arsenal, just in case someone showed up you needed to blow out of this world. Bad people existed, and being nice to them isn't going to make problems go away.

Interestingly, people also called Stewart cynical, which was just not fair. Then again, only those who knew him best said these things. Being naturally manipulative was useful when you wanted to get along with people, and so most people didn't see these parts of him.

By now, the rain was getting Stewart almost too wet for company, but at that moment he saw his goal just a bit further. He walked into the diner's warm white interior and shook droplets off him, then took off his coat and hung it.

Soft music played in the background, but Stewart could hardly tell who sang. Probably a nice enough young man that he'd never heard of. He sighed at his own lack of musical interest, because he knew he'd have to catch up eventually. Too many people cared, and he had to be able to have a proper conversation, even if it was all good enough for his unsophisticated ears. He chuckled at the thought. If his father could hear him now, he'd probably groan in his grave.

The lighting in Pete's diner was nice, and Stewart liked red, so was pleased at the seating style here: Opposite the counter to the left, there were grey oval tables set into the wall in front of him, encircled by that red armless sofa thing, the type which forced you to argue with your friends about which side of the table you wanted to sit on and got you sliding along the whole thing. Stewart loved it. He thought these and sofa chairs were the only seats worth having.

The place wasn't by any means crowded, but neither was it caught in an empty lull. A pleasant balance had been reached, and there were enough people around to make you feel good about choosing Pete's without it being loud enough that you needed to raise your voice to talk. A constant quiet murmur caming from around fifteen people in this place. He waved at the owner as he went in, and received a nod in return.

Suddenly a palm shot out from the third table in Stewart's view, and he half grinned at the playful manner it swung to and fro, also registering the long scar snaking along that forearm. Then another pair of hands leapt up and lowered that palm, and Stewart was slightly surprised. He'd thought it was just him and Luke today, but was apparently mistaken.

Luke was dressed in a T shirt that was loose enough not to show off his physique, yet Stewart knew that the long haired one (as he often called Luke in his mind, in contrast to himself) always wore T shirts to show off his scar.

When they were young, Luke had caused Stewart to flip over in his bike. Despite having broken his arm, the younger sibling had carried his brother, who was injured far worse, back home where help could be called. Luke then started getting into fitness, just so he could intervene if something happened in front of him again. Now this wonderful individual stood just as tall as his brother in order to embrace him, although he was much more muscular.

Sitting at the table still was the person who'd pulled Luke's arm down, a pretty girl. Her face was all made up, and she had green eyes and almost reddish hair, working well with her tight fitting dress.

Luke introduced her as his girlfriend, and Juliette Wilson raised her eyebrow, as well as a hand up whilst remaining seated. She had the back of her hand raised, yet Stewart took her hand and shook it normally, giving it a casual half flip as he did. "Luke told me a lot about you," she said, "I thought you'd look a little more like him."

Stewart sat down. "Interesting. He must be proud of you, because he kept you as a surprise up until now. So, what's up, little bro?" Both of them sat then. Stewart could tell that under the table she was touching his knee. She was also a second too late in hiding her irritation at Stewart changing the subject.

"Nothing much," answered Luke with barely contained excitement. "Just finally got the loan!"

Luke was a nutritionist, and was actually quite successful despite not being well known. Stewart actually hadn't known much about the scientific side of things until Luke took over a consultation office, called, "Healthy thoughts".

The young man, even so young, had caught a lucky break by being able to start working with a mentor figure even before starting college. Just last year the old man had retired, and had allowed Luke to shift into his position and manage his things.

Stewart laughed in disbelief but said, "I knew you could do it! So now you're going to have to juggle a consultation office and a gym, huh? Doesn't sound too hard!"

Luke's girlfriend interjected then. She clung to Luke's arm and exclaimed, "Yeah, we're both proud of Luke! I and he met a few months back... Why don't you tell him the story, sweetie?"

"Sure thing, honey, just let me go and order us something. What do yo-"

Her beautiful face seemed to scrunch up a little, as if she was pouting. "Why do you have to go? Somebody like a waiter shouldn't push you around." At that Luke's eyes widened slightly, and Stewart sighed inwardly. You shouldn't disrespect people around Luke.

Apparently realizing her mistake, the girl changed track and added, "Besides, I thought you said we were going somewhere special..." Stewart observed the girl as Luke tried to make her feel better. He said nothing as the two went back and forth and she kept up her pouty attitude until Luke promised to take her somewhere fancy in the future.

"-But we're here, so I think we should stay. Pete runs a great place and if it wasn't for his old man I would never have gotten what I have today," Luke concluded, and Stewart could practically see Juliet think about whether it was good enough for her.

In the end she accepted his apologies with only the slightest bit of guilting, and she flashed him a bright smile. For the rest of that evening they talked mostly about her, and how much she and Luke were in love with each other, and how she deserved a better position at the magazine she worked in. At that Stewart perked up, because an acquaintance of his was a magazine photographer, but he kept quiet. Girls like Juliet loved hearing the sound of their own voice, and especially loved scandals.

Stewart listened politely while Luke shot him glances of embarrassment, realizing that his girlfriend wasn't making the best of impressions. Still, once or twice he'd managed to get her talking about politics, and Stewart realized the girl was proficient as an analyst. She knew a lot about many underlying currents in times of inelastic inflation, but apparently preferred to keep her mind blank and thinking about shoes.

The evening was peaceful enough, and the day after Stewart dropped by Luke's office, wanting to help with the gym's relocation. He knew a guy who did good work with empty flats and such, and thought it would be good to offer his brother a good service for a slightly reduced price.

Luke drove Stewart to show him the proposed place. It was big enough for someone's start, thought the older brother, despite the walls that needed to be taken down. Luckily there was little plumbing to be reworked, although Stewart wasn't an expert either way. He was just a corporate spokesperson, after all. "So," asked Luke inevitably if hesitantly, "What did you think of Juliette?"

Stewart looked at him sideways. "You met her," he remarked quietly, "During consultation, where she dragged an overweight friend because she wanted her to be 'better'. She said that, in those words." Luke squirmed a little, and Stewart continued, "She thinks she deserves everything good in the world, and that others should suffer so she could get what's coming to her. I don't think I like Juliette very much, Luke."

"Being healthier is a sign of improvement and hard work," retorted the younger sibling, although even he sounded unconvinced. He didn't mention the rest of it.

"That's not what she meant, and we both know it. Do you really want my opinion?" Luke paused at that, and Stewart gave him time to consider. This question was only asked when Stewart was sure that something unpleasant was going to come out of his mouth.

Finally the more muscular of their duo nodded, holding the door open for Stewart. "I think she's shallow," started Stewart, "and I think you were overeager in accepting the advances of a flirt. Now, I understand," he added when Luke looked as if he was going to object, "that you like people, and feel like you're in love with her. I'm just telling you what I think of the girl. I'll treat her well out of respect for you, and I hope you're happy together." Of course, he didn't mention that he thought Luke was inexperienced with women, nor that his younger sibling was making a terrible mistake by extending his belief in people to a shallow snobby temptress willing to play with his feelings and use him. He didn't tell him that he thought his brother suspended his sense of justice when it came to her.

Luke hadn't made a mistake by juggling work and university, contrary to Stewart's apprehension at the time. Perhaps the ambitious younger sibling would be in the right again. Besides, Sometimes you need to let people do what they feel is right, even if you know better.

Life has a way of teasing people with happiness just before trying its best to crush them. In a span of half a year things went from great to horrible for Luke. Loans on his gym were trying to catch up to him faster than he thought they would, less members of his nutrition consultancy were willing to add proper exercise to their daily prescriptions, and in turn his finances suffered.

Naturally, Juliette disappeared. She made up some excuse or the other for leaving, but Stewart knew better. There was a type of person who valued being pampered above all else, and that kind of person could hear the sound of burning money with the dread of a child being called for a hot bath. Stewart comforted his brother as best as he could. "Relax, stay single for a while," he'd told him, "When you're not looking for self validation, a girl will show up who'll be perfect for you, brother. I'll even set you up with a buddy of mine, but only when you show that you're fine without someone to puff you up. I don't want you hurting anyone in turn in the meantime, you hear?"

"She's... she just left, bro. Said she needed time to focus on work... I want to earn her back." Luke had a mug of coffee cupped in both hands like it was a beer, and had on a white hoodie that had drawings of dumbbells on it, held by a muscular unicorn. It was quite amusing, and had been bought for him by a mutual friend of theirs.

Stewart clapped his brother on the shoulder and told him to focus on work too. If Juliette felt they should stay together, she knew how to find him.

And that she did. It didn't take much more than Luke's first few costumers giving amazing reviews for his gym. "Strongheart" did well, and so not only encouraged people who were already costumers of "Healthy thoughts" to join, but allowed the opposite to happen as well. When you have two interdependent businesses in a branch needing physical proximity, thought Stewart, you could really get them to work well together. Pete's dad got more in profit than he'd ever made before, and that success was passed on to Luke in turn, for he owned most of "Strongheart" and was slowly buying into the original company.

It didn't make Luke happy to be with Juliette again. In fact, it had made him quite miserable. "Maybe she's changed, but I don't know if I can trust her again," he'd told Stewart. Luke wasn't stupid, knew Stewart. However, he understood that his brother would make a stupid choice if it meant believing in the good in people. He didn't really understand it himself, but then again, not everybody could be like him.

That same week, the clean shaven man went to see Juliette at her workplace, for she'd texted him, telling him that she wanted to talk. He went into their large shared office space, and she stood up to greet him as if she owned the whole thing.

"Hello, Stewart! I've missed you so much!" she said in that slightly teasing manner, "You didn't even call. Please, step over here." For all intents and purposes, she ignored everyone else in her workplace, even though a couple of people had nodded to him. Stewart said hi in return. Stewart noticed the gazes the two went to where people had their coffee, a small kitchen like place.

She offered him a mug, and Stewart declined, knowing that he wasn't going to stay long. Juliette explained to him how confused she'd been, how stress drove her to hurt his brother, and how sorry she was. She expressed real warmth in her explanation, and knew Stewart wanted the best for his brother.

"You know what kind of woman I am," she concluded, "I only want to make him happy, and I might need you to help me reach that." In a way, she seemed suggestive, and Stewart's attention was drawn to how nice she looked in her work outfit and her makeup. She stood in a way that drew attention almost flawlessly.

Not for the first time that day, the man ran his palm over his shaved scalp. It was a habit he'd gotten into, and it mostly meant that he was thinking about something conceptual. After delaying for a bit, he was sure that he had an answer.

"How about you stay away from my brother, and you can get to keep your job?" His counter offer was proffered with a gentle smile, for he truly didn't wish to appear threatening. Her jaw fell.

"What are you-" she began, but Stewart really didn't have time to waste with her.

"Half of your so-called secret contacts that you use for anonymous quotes are made up. I know this, and you know it, and you want to know how I know. Well I'm not talking, unless it's with your boss." Her beautiful eyes sparkled, as if she was debating on whether to cry or to call him out on what she thought a lucky bluff. So he told her about how she cheated on her last boyfriend three times and then left him when he ran out of money for jewellery.

"People like you aren't worth being anywhere near people like Luke. You only wanted to talk because you realized he was close to figuring you out, and needed me to convince him otherwise. So, call him –don't even visit- and tell him that you're a cheater and a liar and won't stay with him. Don't pretend that you're going to change."

"But I-"

"Won't. You won't. You don't care enough and never will. It ought to be very sad, but I don't care because I don't have anything to do with Luke's ex. Look," he added, and he tried to be gentle. Maybe this was going to teach her something, at least how to be more careful with who she messed with. "You can lose a boyfriend, or you can lose a boyfriend and a job. Pretty people with no jobs or hearts turn to gold digging full time. Do you want that?"

She shook her head, and he took that as a good sign. "I hope you have a nice life, Juliette Wilson. Maybe you'll even learn to think about more important things once in a while, if you're lucky. Or fix that rotten heart of yours, I don't care. Just make sure I don't see you." She nodded.

As Stewart exited the kitchen, he left her slack jawed and buttoned the trench coat. He hadn't even bothered taking it off. As he left the shared office, he caught the eye of a lazy looking but bright eyed employee and they shared a wink. By the time he was halfway down the building, the tall wiry man couldn't remember what he'd wanted to have for dinner.

When he left the building he was more concerned with the slow falling rain drops than about Juliette. Then again, Stewart didn't mind rain, and thought more about how he was going to comfort Luke for getting dumped by the same girl twice. His brother was going to be angry and sad, but time will heal grief and he would meet a worthy woman at some point. He lifted his face to meet raindrops now pouring in earnest.

For the right reasons, Stewart Wilson didn't mind getting his face wet or his hands dirty.

# Story 13

The first time John drank alcohol, he thought of it as the first of many merry times.

They were young enough that it was illegal, but old enough not to get into serious trouble if they were caught. It was him, Peter Smith, Allen Jackson, and Andy. Good old Andy was the life of their gatherings, and always had been.

That day he had gotten them a few beers, which were slightly warm and tasted bitter as they drank them somewhere far away from civilization along a long dusty road. Still, John drank along with them, and after a few started to feel a buzz. It felt good, and made him free. After a while that sweet, slightly light headed feeling went away, but they'd run out of beer and couldn't get any more that day.

The kids didn't do it often, and when they did they didn't go straight home. This was because most of their parents except for Andy's were straight laced and wouldn't have their kids drinking beer that young. When John went home the fourth time they did it, he even went upstairs first to brush his teeth, then headed outside to watch the stars on his telescope. Brushing helped a little with the smell of cheap beer, but John still avoided hugging his parents. Not that he needed to do it often.

Then Andy's dad got sent back to jail and their party maker turned into someone who cared about studying more than anything else. They went to see him one day, and the blonde boy was hunched over his algebra, trying to work it out seriously for perhaps the first time.

"It's not the same without you," Peter had said, although John caught his smirk. Peter's parents were rich, so he sometimes saw things in a different light. "No need to keep studying man, you can probably pass algebra anyway, Wacky isn't that strict about cheating." For a couple of seconds Andy said nothing, eyeing a complicated equation scribbled in horrible handwriting. Well, complicated for him, anyway.

Peter was about to repeat his statement with a slightly annoyed look on his face when Andy turned to him. The blonde looked more solemn than John had ever seen him.

"What do you live for, Peter?" he asked, taking everyone in the room aback. His eyes were big and serious, and John thought he might have lost a little bit of weight.

Silence stretched like a taut chord until Peter tried to cut it with a laugh. "Doing what we want. Having fun, man,"

"See, that's the difference."

"...What?" Peter looked slightly angry. He hated people saying that they were better than him. Everyone did, but the rich boy especially went far to notice things that people implied.

"I thought the same thing, man," Andy stated, "But now my old man is in prison an-"

"What, you got spooked into the right path? This ain't a TV show." At that, Allen stirred from where he'd lain on Andy's bed with a magazine. Allen was mostly quiet, yet he was big enough that you didn't want him angry. Peter immediately shut up, but Andy waved away his comment, calming their large friend.

"Nah, Pete. It's just, like..." he seemed to contemplate for a bit, "Responsibility is the iron in a man's bones. Or woman's, or whatever." All four of them chuckled at the way he said it. Their friend still had it. "Mom's alone and I've got brothers. I wanna do good by all of them instead of pops, you know?" John looked at Peter, and was surprised to see him deflated.

"Yeah..." he sighed. "So, now what? At least get married first before ditching us." There was a smile in his voice, but it was bitter.

"No, not at all!" Andy exclaimed in haste. "I'll just be really busy, but we'll always be friends! You guys can come by any time, when I'm here. My goals right now are to study as hard as I can while working part time in construction. They say I'm a little flabby but they'll take a good pig over a goose." At that, they all laughed, especially Allen. When they were done, Andy said, "Study and work, get into a university I can graduate fast from, and get to supporting my family." John couldn't imagine the dedication present in the set of Andy's jaw, for he hadn't even thought of what subjects he wanted to take next year, let alone in uni.

Andy also told them not to come over when he was at work, because he hadn't told his mom about the job yet. She wanted him to have a normal life and would think his absence a sign that he was hanging out with them. "I'll need to either tell her soon, or find a way to pay for things without her knowing, but there's no way this boy is lazing his ass while his mom works two jobs. Gotta be a bigger man, you know?" He smacked at his own belly.

At that point, Peter apologized. To John's astonishment as well as a proud smile from Allen, he embraced Andy. "Hey man, sorry about making light of your dad getting locked up.... I... I just didn't know how to react. I could never understand what you're going through." Peter patted his back a couple of times, and John realized that because Andy was the oldest of his siblings, he wouldn't have gotten that kind of hug in a long time.

"I hope you never do." Whispered Andy. If there were any tears shed that day, they went unnoticed.

From then on, Andy never went drinking with them, nor got the beers. Still, things were fun enough at his house, and they went often to hang out with good old Andy.

Almost as if in a blink, John's high school life was over and he found himself in a university studying chemistry. He didn't exactly know how it happened, but there it was, decision made and bags packed. He went to a good enough university, and went to his first proper party. He tried vodka and rum and beer, although he was never given too much of any of these.

In his first party, which was hosted by a guy that a friend of his friend knew, John realized that he wasn't as outgoing as he thought he was. It didn't matter though, for alcohol made things easier, and he became more interesting, funnier, and more charming than ever before. Most of all, holding a cup in your hands made it much easier to talk to someone.

"Out here alone?" he asked a girl with a smile, and it was easy as that. They had a talk about where they were from and what they were doing in Leon. She was pretty and had strawberry blonde hair, but eventually proved too drunk to talk to.

"I'm looking forrrr Jesssssica!" she exclaimed eventually, and John told her that he didn't know who Jessica was, let alone where she was. That made the girl upset and he comforted her while she cried. A muscular looking guy in a buzzcut stood across the room, watching. He gave John a thumbs up sign and nodded at the girl, making the tall newcomer feel disgusted with him. There was no way he was going to take advantage of a drunk girl.

John was tall but thin, and couldn't think of a way to carry the girl or muscle her around as the room buzzed slowly in his head. Instead he took her gently by the shoulder and steered her around the crowd.

Eventually they found a girl called Julie, who was not only upset with her friend, but also happened to be one of the most beautiful people John had ever seen. He pushed that aside, for Julie started yelling at the two of them for a good half minute. He wasn't drunk, but John wasn't sober enough to immediately understand how he'd looked, dragging Sonia around like a "sack of potatoes".

By then John was starting to get a little angry too, and he told Julie that if he'd wanted something with her friend, he would have taken her upstairs rather than walk around the party for half an hour. When things were cleared up the wavy haired angel thanked him and apologized.

"Not accepted," he stated with a nervous grin, "unless I get a date." She eyed him, and told him that Sonia was in no shape to say yes to any prospective dates, no matter what kind of privilege he claimed.

"Not with her."

Her almond shaped eyes widened, and John honestly thought she said yes out of sheer shock. Then she surprised him by stating calmly that a guy who would do what he did was probably safe enough to go on a date with. She gave him a phone number, pulled Sonia along in a no nonsense manner, and went home.

John tried not to memorize what direction they'd gone in, but it was a futile attempt. His next beer were filled with thoughts of her, and he gulped it hungrily. Somehow, despite having finished his cup, the brown haired youth felt strangely thirsty, and his mind pointed him towards alcohol. He wanted to expand his freedom, feel better, get more interesting.

The room began to spin pleasantly, and it was a new feeling for John. Then he ran into Allen and they chatted for a while. Or rather, John talked about Julie and his mountain of a friend listened with a twinkle in his eyes. "Love at first sight, huh..." he reminisced when John was done with his tale, and he seemed even older somehow.

"Well, yeah I guess... I wouldn't say love though."

Allen laughed then, deep and true like he did when Andy did something especially funny. It was just them now, for Peter had gone to a private university and their party's life had earned himself a scholarship in a nearby town. Somehow the raging party around them seemed lonely without those two. John hoped the people here would stop trashing the place. "You always think with your heart. I know that, but we never knew what your heart says. What does it say?"

John was truly stumped for a bit, then eventually said, "It says life is short, I might as well live it. Let things pass by, maybe. It's not like it matters." Allen seemed disappointed with John's answer, but let that matter slide. Instead he told him that if this girl, who he was attracted to for no real reason, turned out to be good, then he shouldn't let her go.

"A girl who wants you as happy as herself, that's all we really want," Andy stated flatly. John asked him if he'd ever been in love, but his friend said no.

Julie proved to be John's match when it came to intellect. That first date they talked for hours about what they studied, and she seemed interested in Chemistry just much as her own major. She told him that she planned to get a law degree eventually, but worried about not having any time to draw if she did that.

"I guess I'll just have to decide whether art or law is more interesting," she concluded, "Well, or learn to juggle. I mean, logically the two won't go together in one job, but maybe..." They exhausted many subjects that evening, and had eventually needed to go to another student party. This time she let a bit of her wild side go, which John enjoyed immensely. He was good looking, he knew, but most of the glances today were because of her.

Eventually, John and Allen and Julie went out together, and even Sonia went along. She was actually a pretty shy girl, and had been horrified at the inconvenience she'd presented John with.

Thus a four man group of friends was born again, if with a different crew. Allen and Sonia fit together well, for it seemed that Allen preferred silence and mostly spoke when he had something to say. This caused Sonia to not fear interruptions, and she slowly opened up to John's friend.

Then came John's twenty first birthday. It began with a relaxed enough evening, his girlfriend and friends getting together to buy him a new Celestron telescope. It was amazing to John, and he had to rush home to get it safe. He'd needed a crane to get him off the thing, but once they got to the bar he forgot all about it.

All his parties thus far had been in dorms and party houses, and so the tall wiry young man was amazed by this strange new atmosphere. They drank shots mostly, causing John felt that same old freedom, like he was in space. "I like space!" shouted he in Julie's ears, and she nodded as they danced. The lights were multicoloured and cast her almost like a blue skinned mermaid due to her dress's style. He approached again, yelling. "I should study astronomy!" Her eyes widened at that, for he was already supposed to be well into his studies (he hadn't told her that he'd failed a couple of semesters.) Still, after a few seconds she hugged him and said that she'd be happy as long as he was happy, and that he should do it.

"But not because of shots," she added, "We talk about it tomorrow!"

That was the first time John got properly drunk. The feeling was sweet, the room's spinning happy, the confusion in his actions unnoticed. He was more confident than ever before, and people laughed at his jokes long and hard. At some point Allen and Sonia left, then he lost Julie. She'll be fine, he thought. She couldn't hold her liquor, so didn't partake as much. This actually made her safer, and gave John more leeway to cut loose. Thus he stayed with a bunch of friends who were more about parties than anything else.

It was a lot of fun, and a girl kept eyeing John the whole time, making him feel even better about himself, but he didn't feel right flirting with a girl while he was in a relationship, and thus mumbled an apology. After hours of partying, he ended up crashing at one of their apartments. The next day he woke up feeling fine and fresh, despite everything he'd put in his body. Then he saw the number of missed calls from Julie and his heart lurched.

She was furious with fear, and told him that getting blasted alone with people you don't know extremely well was a stupid thing to do. You could be taken advantage of, tricked, or you could make choices that you never wanted to make in the first place.

John apologized and told her that he loved her, told her about the girl who tried to flirt with him to no avail. That seemed to calm her down a bit. Then they started talking about him changing his major, and Julie told him that she'd support whatever he chose, if he really wanted it. She reminded him that astronomy could be quite prestigious, and that it was an important science. John felt blessed to have such a girl in his life, and it made him feel all the more guilty about losing her the night before.

John would learn to feel quite guilty throughout his student life. Whilst in parties he would sometimes lose Julie or ignore her advice about drinking too much, and once he told her to go away and let him have his fun. She couldn't hold her liquor after all, and so didn't understand the need to drink more just to be able to reach that same level of tipsiness that earlier would be a beer away.

Furthermore, she didn't understand that usually, even though he'd slur his words or lose a thought in the middle of a sentence, he wouldn't really be drunk.

Then she finished her degree and went back to her hometown. She was only a few hours away then, but it was still a devastating blow to the two of them. It meant that they couldn't stay together all the time, and that his lovely would spend nights worrying about him not having anyone to take care of him when he decided to cut loose. Allen was too busy to do it, and when Peter visited he was the opposite of help.

John went into a polarized state of mind, for he would work rather hard on his new major, in order to reunite with her, but he would also get stressed and need to go wild on weekends.

One night he and Peter and Mark and the others were out in a dorm party, and a girl in a tank top came up to John. "Wanna buy me a beer?" she asked with an expectant look. She had lightly dusted skin and big brown eyes as well as a cute nose. In fact, most of her was cute, and she barely came up to his neck.

"Hello to you too," he'd said with a laugh. He'd had a few drinks already that night, and that pleasant sense of freedom was upon him. He missed Julie, felt like he needed to talk to someone about her. Since he could do anything in the world, he could just talk to this girl about his girlfriend. "Not yet," he added, "but maybe if you play your cards right..." he left the sentence trailing and one of her eyebrows shot up.

They talked for a really long time about myriad of matters, and then they danced. John explained to her how he thought stars were made out of people who were in love and told her that he and Julie were binary stars, bright yet unable to be with each other. She complimented his looks and his height and how he was so romantic and quirky. She smiled at him and tried to comfort him, perhaps in the only way she knew how to.

The next day John drove all the way to Julie's town in order to confess to Julie personally and beg her for forgiveness. She'd cried as he gave her flowers and chocolates and told her that it would never happen again.

"You're a star, baby, and I need to be spinning around you or I'd go insane," he'd whispered, trying to hug her as she wept on a bench. She told him to give her time to think.

Eventually, she took him back because she said it wasn't really his fault. It was the drink. Then it happened again, to his horror, with another girl. He blacked out and couldn't remember a thing, it didn't really count. The third time, she told him that was it and if it happened again she'd leave him. John was so shocked that he didn't drink for three months, the longest he'd ever gone without liquor since he'd started in university. Still, uni was a place for enjoyment, exploration and friends. He got dragged to another party and it happened again, that time with a girl of african descent. He didn't tell Julie that time, for he didn't want her to leave him. He hated himself, but he needed his star no matter what.

At some point, John learned to control himself better. He would get drunk, but stopped blacking out due to sheer intoxication. Days went by and he finished university with a degree in astronomy. By then she was doing great work in many art galleries.

Immediately John moved close to Julie, with his parent's blessings. He and her would go at times to her parents' and they would enjoy themselves. Her dad liked wine, and John would try to pace himelf with the old man, just in case. Once, he and her went out together and she looked at him very seriously. "Honey," she said.

"Yeah?"

She looked at him, sighed, then delved right in. "I'm proud of you for getting work as a researcher. I think you've come a long way professionally. But, well..."

John didn't like where this was going and said, "Well?" with trepidation. She sighed.

"I guess there's no way around this. I want you to slow down with the partying. I know you're doing great, but I think we're heading deeper in our relationship, and we both need to start becoming more responsible people. If we don't then we can't succeed as a couple." From there the conversation went towards what exactly was expected of each of them, and how they could prepare for the future and become more mature.

Work went well, and within a few years John and Julie were married. On the wedding night he got slightly more tipsy than usual at the open bar, and there it was.

"What are you talking about?" asked the waiter.

John chuckled at him. "The sense of freedom, the dizziness, all of it. I'm getting married, so I need this kind of thing." The man looked at him to Julie, who blushed slightly, and then he politely informed John that his drink was going to take a bit of time. It never came. The groom heard the man talking to another waiter later about an alcoholic in the party, and John wondered who it was.

John succeeded at being a responsible husband and father at first. Then came the second child, Stephanie, and the stress got to be a bit much. He would sneak out of work sometimes with a research buddy and they'd have a couple of drinks. They would talk about space and stars and how the universe reflected human relationships.

"We're all just planets and stars and moons hurtling through space," said John once, "at an unbelievable speed. It's scary, and that's why we need to do things like these and hope that the universe is ordered enough to keep us alive." They cheered to the universe, and John drained his glass of whiskey. Whiskey was a man's drink, he thought often. It made him feel more grizzled than he actually was.

Before John went home he would take time to sober up, shower, and then brush his teeth. Occasionally Julie would find out, and even when she didn't, his tardiness would cause her to stay home alone with the kids. Still, John saw no way around it, because she stopped letting him drink at home when Andy turned one. She would beg him to stop, cry, and John would apologize. Then he would stay away from his drinking buddy from work for a week, at best. "I can't raise the kids and you, baby..." she'd whispered once, and John said some harsh words in turn.

The tipping point came when Simon got relocated for another project. John lost not just a drinking buddy, but a regulator. Until then, he had never sat and drank alone, beyond a few beers. Now he would hide a couple of bottles at work. First each month, then every two weeks, and eventually each week. Things didn't interfere with work, because he could function well enough with alcohol. Besides, it helped him calm down, leave the chaos inside his head and sink into that wonderful empty freedom, where thoughts didn't chase one another around so much.

Sometimes when he got too drunk, he would just sleep it off there and keep working in the morning, leaving his wife and kids to their devices. His lovely was reliable, she could handle it.

She did. One day, John came back to find her and the kids gone. There was a letter on the kitchen counter, explaining how much he'd hurt her, and how she needed to be responsible and take care of the kids, with or without him. Only a few drops marred the letter's surface, showing grim resolve. Next to the letter were divorce papers awaiting signature.

John was devastated. He went out all evening and then tried calling her all night. Then he found a girl to bury his sorrows in. After all, he still wasn't too old, still tall and handsome. Girls still liked him, and he liked them back. He just didn't love them like he loved Julie.

John eventually signed the papers, giving Julie full custody.

Work was still going well, but other than his research, John found himself to be alone and empty. His only release lay in the bottom of a bottle. He would often think about the universe as he worked, and how it related to people.

They were all hurtling through space. Right now, he wished to collide with Andy or Allen, or even Peter or Mark. He'd lost contact with all of them by now. The last time Allen had talked to him, he'd tried to "help" with some suggestions for a centre for alcoholics. Same with Andy.

One night, John drank two bottles by sunset then went to a bar. He drank quietly, reminiscing about where he'd let himself turn into a person he hated. He thought about finding a girl drunk enough to just take home without needing to talk much. The room spun as if he were a planet.

Goddamit, he thought, It's still a nice feeling. Just gotta live and let things pass by. He felt like he needed to explain things, and as he ordered another glass of whiskey he gestured to the bartender. It was relatively quiet, so the burly man leaned on the counter to listen.

"I'm an astronomer," he told him.

"A scientist, huh? Rare here!" answered the man in a friendly manner. John thought he'd like him, another day. Instead he kept his eyes glued to his glass, which hung from his fingers. The oily liquid inside beckoned him.

Suddenly John asked, "Do you know what stars are made of?"

"Uh, gases and stuff. Look, man, I'm just a b-"

"They're made of love," the astronomer cut him off. This drunk, everything oscillated like an old computer screen. At the edge of his vision, John saw the bartender raise an eyebrow. "Love, when it's pure and true, burns. It burns so hot because two solitary molecules found one another and fused, making light and heat. True love is what stars are made of." The bartender smiled at that.

"That's beautiful, man. Oughta write it down somewhere."

The man looked sincere, but John wasn't finished. "What are black holes made from, then?" he inquired, and the man said that he didn't know. "Black holes are left when one of them dies. You don't meet your loved ones after death. Instead, you get trapped, crying and alone. People cry and try to pull everything around them in, hoping to get something back. But they never do. Eventually they forget why they're sad, why they burned in the first place, and only the heartbreak remains. Black holes are made up of sad dead people, wishing they'd never loved at all." A moment of silence passed, then two.

"Jesus Christ, guy... Are you okay?" The man looked truly worried, and scratched at his beard.

John didn't answer, and eventually the man shuffled away, leaving him to his glass. Alone, he murmured, "The worst thing is becoming a black hole while you're still alive..."

Maybe he should quit drinking, if he even could. Tomorrow, perhaps. John decided that this drink was going to be his last, so he should enjoy it.

He could think of it as the last of many merry times.

# Story 14

Paul had always worked in the factory.

It was simple as that. Most children grew up to work in the factory. Their little town had other things to offer, but Mr Willem's factory was the largest employer by far. Every morning Paul would come early, about an hour before birds rubbed the sleep off their eyes and stretched their wings. He would meet up with friends and their group of co-workers would have a manly breakfast together. Salina, god bless her, would make him sandwiches just before going to bed each night. He woke up too early to have breakfast with his wife and regretted it deeply. Still, friends were the next best thing.

This day, when Mark and Peter (who happened to be simultaneously the most talkative and slowest eaters of their particular team) were done with their meals, the six men went to their stations and started work promptly. They were supposed to take up iron and shape it using grinders. It was monotone work and allowed the men to get absorbed in their own thoughts for a while.

"Do anything special without me?" asked Nate about fifteen minutes into it, and Paul smiled. Of course, Nate was talking about their after work activities. Thursdays were for guy's nights, and last time Nate, a burly man, had gone straight home due to a sore throat.

"Nothing much," Paul retorted for the sake of politeness, and then proceeded to tell his still hoarse sounding friend about the particulars of their evening. This he did while working enthusiastically, because they all worked in Mr Willem's factory.

Mr Willem was a man who put his employees before optimization. Production schemes were ordered in a wheel which rotated every hour or so, just to keep the job from getting too monotone for his workers. Worksmen would spend an hour, for example, screwing on a particular leg, and then be switched onto another piece entirely for the next hour. Interestingly, production never really fell because interest stayed high for most of the day as workmen, crafts oriented creatures by all accounts, tried to wrap their heads around new and interesting designs. These varied heavily, because Mr Willem's factory was one that produced metal tables, and some pieces got quite ornate whilst others were standard.

This particular design, thought Paul, was quite fascinating. The way the metal legs curved meant that it should be rather rare for the tabletop to be straight, but due to the sheer number of parts a balance was achieved. There would always be more than three pieces of curved circular metal to place things upon. In a way, it was like an ordered mesh. He wondered what Salina would think of it.

At that moment a high pitched horn rang, signalling lunch time. Workers here and there cheered, yet kept working on whatever they had on their hands, just so they don't need to leave anything unfinished, forget where they were, and become confused after the break.

Conveyer belts stuttered to a halt, and the group of six went to what they all affectionately called the killing field. As they went Phil, a natural born comedian, did that trick of his where he made his stomach growl on command. Phil was funny in part due to the contrast between his sad face and between his jovial demeanour.

At the act the group laughed and Phil's constant companion, whom everyone dubbed Noisy, smiled with appreciation. No one really knew if Noisy was capable of speech or not, but he was good enough company despite his lack of words.

The mess hall was as merry as usual, Paul noted when they went in. This place was called the killing field for three reasons, he had been told when he had first come here. "First, the food is to die for," Grant Mathews had said to a twenty years younger Paul, raising a solitary finger to command attention. "Second, we kill the food. Third, we eat so much that we wish we were dead. As long as these three rules apply, you're going to have a good time in the killing field, kid." Grant had occupied Paul's own position once, but was now long and happily retired. Paul still saw him sometimes at monthly fairs and town hall meetings.

With lunch decimated and the last of his mashed potatoes safely pocketed in his belly, Paul felt at once motivated to work and yet willing to have the longest nap of his life. Sadly, there were still a few hours to go and so he got his team rustled and back to their stations just before their calling horn sounded. The rest of the day went largely uneventfully, mostly with co-workers from other teams coming over between short breaks to say hi and have chats. Some had news to share, others had questions about how to get something particularly tricky done. These questions Paul answered as helpfully as he could.

Compared to some others, he was considered an old timer, and it was also well known that Paul Peters was also naturally good with crafts. In fact, he was so good with his hands that he worked in his garage as a hobby, making small time accessories and simple pieces of furniture, among other things.

"Hey Mark," rang a beautiful voice out from behind them, and the two turned over almost simultaneously to greet Grant's son, Seth. The man was almost able to move the gruff blue collar workers to tears whenever he sang on karaoke night at the Pit or employee events. The black haired young man and Mark had developed a closer relationship, for the two were of similar age and had worked their first few months together.

The three chatted for a bit about nothing, before Mark and Paul shared a look at the barely concealed giddiness in the third's face.

"Spit it out," Paul chuckled.

Seth grinned happily, before announcing "Mary's pregnant!"

There were a few whoops and hugs and jokes shared about how in a few months the twenty six year old was never going to sleep again before the man admitted his nervousness and willingness to learn as much as he could in order to help out.

It had gotten easy enough for Paul to hold a proper conversation while working along the years, but not for Mark, for he'd not been in the company anywhere near as long. Paul watched him struggle it in amusement for a while, then urged him to take a short break and speak to Seth properly. Gladly, the Mark and Seth went to the break room, which was slightly odd.

The two talked in what amounted to a smoking room with a glass panel. A long time ago, when smoking here was legal, inspectors would work from that same room, writing in their little clipboards things that could decide a man's future

Paul kept his focus on the piece of art unfolding before his eyes. He was a perfectionist at heart, and in a certain way he felt that every single piece that passed through his hands was owed a debt

"Paul?" he heard, and was surprised to see that he had gotten drawn into his work a bit too much and had missed the return of his friends. "I'd like to talk to you for a bit..." Seth hesitantly said, and the older man followed him to that same room. Seth locked the aluminium door behind them with a click.

Paul was bewildered. It was strange to think that there'd be something Seth felt uncomfortable talking to him about in front of the others. Suddenly, the place felt a little bit like an interrogation room due to the glass panel and a table in the middle of the room with two earnest chairs facing each other. All were made of simple dependable metal, of course, and were probably fashioned here as well. Upon the table sat an ashtray with a solitary cigarette perched dangerously on its rim, belching pitiful fits of smoke. Paul didn't partake himself but didn't mind the smell.

"I, uh. Look here, Paul," started Seth whilst playing with his overall's buttons nervously. The older man thought things must not be good at all, if his co-worker was this nervous. Was something wrong with his marriage already? Paul knew that Salina and Seth's wife were extremely close. In fact, Salina had once went so far as to say that it finally felt like she had a little sister. He hoped everything was okay, especially with a baby coming. "I just want to provide for my wife as best as I can... I, I want to know more about the company's retirement rules."

The words fell like a hammer, and it must have showed on Paul's face, for Seth quickly added. "I know it's sudden, but... You know I like to sing, and I just got an offer. It's the real deal. This is what I've always wanted to do, man. A man's gotta try and climb higher, and this is going to make me happy as well as Mary and the baby." Paul felt stupefied, but he could understand a person wanting to be able to provide for his family better. He was glad at this moment for the fact that they were alone in the room. Paul went to the table and took a seat, trying to order his thought. Nobody had quit the factory in years.

"Is this thing going to be in town?" he asked, then "Why didn't you say anything?" Seth looked chastised.

"It's just that with the baby and the offer coming all at once, I needed to clear my head a bit. And yes, we will still stay here, it's not too far and I don't want to move where neither I nor Mary know anyone." That, too, Paul could understand. Besides, Seth truly had a wondrous voice. He would surely do well in this new career. If it made him happy, who was anyone to complain?

"Ahh, it's all so sudden..." Paul sighed. "Alright, the first thing you need to know is..."

*

Paul worked in his garage, being helped by Salina as was usual. It was a fortunate twist of fate that their passions were so similar, for it allowed a sort of synergy in their workshop that translated well into their marriage. They had been wed for many a year now, and although they had started off slightly jaded, a relationship had been built with time that was firmly welded and tempered. There was little fire to their love, yet it was firm and honest in its own simple way.

Things could be explained thus, thought the middle aged man: each person in this marriage preferred one another's company to anything else. Such a marriage carried with it a great deal of maturity, honesty, and solid competence. Due to this, Paul paused midway through grinding a table leg that very same day and said quietly, "Seth Mathews is going to leave the factory and become a singer."

It took a few minutes to get his wife to calm down enough to put the phone down after that, but somehow he got it done. She looked upset, her big black eyes almost shimmering, but it turned out it was just because she thought Mary would move without telling her. "No, no," he said soothingly over and over while patting her back, "If she was going to move, and I'm sure she's NOT, I'm sure you would have been the first to know. You're sisters after all, aren't you?" Salina's pouting face nodded at that, and Paul knew that in a few minutes his lovely was going to be alright.

And she was, but not for long. Barely a few months after Seth signed off the company, another man by the name of Howard Stern left as well, this time uprooting his family in order to join another factory in another town. He said he was offered a job to do with human resources, and would be a fool to reject it.

Paul knew the man only on a superficial level, but Salina was well acquainted with his wife, and so he had to comfort her once more. That time he made her chicken noodle soup in order to make her feel better.

It didn't stop there, either. That same year saw an unprecedented number of people leaving Mr Willem's factory. Some left for other towns, others wanted to change jobs and earn more money, while a few others did much like Seth and went off to pursue a higher calling. Each of them stopped by to say goodbye to him or take some precious advice from the older man.

It seemed the country was going through a changing phase of sorts. Everywhere Paul looked, there were magazines urging people to follow their dreams and be productive and try their best to become successful. Of course, there were people who made it big, and then there were some of Paul's old co-workers who would either keep their same old lifestyle or fail miserably at whatever it was that they tried to do.

Still the magazine articles persisted, moved on to handsomely clad reporters and talk show hosts telling everyone in the country to be more ambitious and try their best to be successful.

One day at work Paul realized that he didn't know many of his co-workers anymore. Things were slowly changing, becoming more formal and less talkative at the work stations. As newer and younger men replaced those who left, productivity fell. There were simply too many who didn't know what they were doing. One day, Paul heard Mr Willem talking with one of his managers around a corner. "We have to do it, sir, and soon." The man said. Paul pressed himself to the wall, hoping to hear more.

Apparently the factory was going to need to change things a bit. The manager wanted to replace some employees with machinery, but Mr Willem wanted to start with a more localized work belt system. No more switching things you were working on. The old man mumbled he hoped to make this change temporary, until his employees got the hang of things better.

Paul made his way back to his workplace, unsure of what to think anymore. If the factory started using machinery, many people would lose their jobs. He hoped it didn't come to that.

Just then, the horn sounded for lunch, and Paul clapped the shoulder of his latest trainee, a young one called Brian. "Ready for the killing field?" he asked, trying to sound jovial despite the news he had just heard. Brian just gave him a blank look.

"What's the killing field?" he inquired, and Paul's smile dropped as surely as if he'd been slapped. He decided to explain on the way to lunch, and used the same words that had once been used on him. They sounded hollow to his ears. Things were falling apart, he realized, and he clutched at straws.

That same day, Phil took him to the side and told him he had been going to comedy clubs in a nearby town for the past few months.

"I'm finally going to make it, man!" he said excitedly, and Paul was happy for him.

"It's just me and Noisy now, huh?" he asked with almost no bitterness in his smile. Still, Phil was a smart man. You needed to be, if you wanted to be a good comedian. "Hey, don't look so down buddy. If you aren't happy here, you can move out too." Paul just looked at his friend. The proposal seemed almost blasphemous to the old timer.

They were sitting in the smoking room, and Phil pointed towards the window. "Look," he started. His other hand held a cigarette, which the man took a drag. "Is this where you used to work? It's different, we can all tell. It used to be a house, and we used to be a family. Not anymore. Now it's every man for himself."

Paul wanted to protest, but the familiar sight from the glass panel mixed with unfamiliar, blank faces held his tongue. Phil took the opportunity. "Think about it. You're good with your hands. If you work from your garage and sell your own handmade things, you can make a lot more money than you ever could here. You need to think big, Paul, be ambitious. Hey, if you don't do it for yourself, do it for your wife. Think of how much better your lives could be. You owe it to her."

That conversation stuck with Paul for the rest of the day. It coiled about in his mind, and he struggled with it as much as he could. What kept him in the factory? Loyalty? Past friendships? Fear of change? If it was anything like that, then he might as well have the guts to make the leap forward. He could make more money, provide, maybe even find another place where he belonged.

When Paul got home Salina could tell that something was wrong. She had seen him get more dishevelled as time wore on, and now she put her hands on his shoulders as he sat on their softest sofa, head cradled in his hands. She asked what was wrong and of course he told her about his doubts, as well as everything that had been going on these past few months, and what Phil had told him about making money for his family.

Paul asked her what he should do, torn as he was. He explained everything they'd said, and his wife smiled. "Honey, you're much simpler than that," she whispered quietly, and he agreed. Her face was marked with beautiful laughing lines and her hair was cut short for practicality's sake. "What would make you happy? What do you love to do and where do you love to do it?" Her eyes had a knowing smile hidden within them. Once she put the question like that, all Paul's doubts fell away like rust. He returned her smile confidently.

*

It took time, but the new employees learned the ropes. They found out about Guy's Night Out, Salina made new friends and so did her husband. Breakfast went back to being a friend's meal together, and in time even the work system went back to normal. Strangers became friends, then family. It was a slow but sure process.

Mr Willem's smile came back like a greeting, and the killing fields became a place of noise and happiness once more. True, only Paul and Noisy remained from the old teams, but they now commanded more respect than most.

In time Paul was promoted. As such, Noisy took the lead and became a gesturing yet efficient team leader. When work was done, Paul would come back and spend his evenings with his wife in a quiet manner, knocking metal with hammers in their own little workshop to create their own brand of conversation. Everything was as it should be once more.

As times went on, Paul would get offers to leave the factory more often, as he rose in the company ladder. Each time, the middle aged man would move his hand over his now bald head and smile, voicing a polite refusal. He remained well liked for his simplicity, and he liked others just as well. This was his home.

Paul would always work in the factory, he knew.

# Story 15

Things were not going well for Thomas Hardy.

It had started less than three years ago. After a long and probably not too unhappy marriage, things decided to fall apart slowly yet surely. It was like the pressures of parenthood didn't agree with his wife. She had started to pay less and less attention to their two children as they grew older, deciding instead to focus on herself.

At first Thomas had liked the change, for he had long known his wife to be a caring and compassionate person in general, and so liked this new version which gave herself treats, no matter if he didn't understand them. However, as the plastic surgeries and fitness machines kept rolling in, bought at first through phone services found on TV and more recently from these E-shop things, he began to feel doubts creeping in about how his wife's priorities were set up.

And now here he was, sitting in a nice little meeting room in some corporate law firm, staring at a nice looking table with a nice neat looking divorce settlement on it. He had no intention of signing it, despite the best efforts of the two nice lawyers sitting in front of him telling him what a monster he was.

"Mr. Hardy," one of the two sighed, a brunette with her hair tied in a professional looking ponytail. Thomas wondered if there was a way to make ponytails look unprofessional as the lady whose name he had forgotten said, "You really ought to sign the agreement. I don't think you have a chance of keeping your marriage and from what our client has told and shown us... well, I don't think you have much of a chance at court." Her face looked smug, for some reason. It gave Thomas the feeling that she already disliked him, despite them having met only this hour. He wondered what his wife had told and shown them

A small part of his brain, that particular part that was always off on its own in a corner making paper airplanes, hoped that these two people hadn't seen or heard anything too embarrassing. The rest of him analyzed the situation in a calm and controlled manner. At least, it tried to.

"I don't understand," he said again, for perhaps the umpteenth time this afternoon. His marriage had gone lukewarm a while back, that much is certain, but he truly couldn't think of a reason for this. The divorce papers had said neglect multiple times, but his wife had never said anything, let alone argued with him about his work hours. He naturally refused to sign anything without his wife's presence in this room, and after being asked far too many pointed questions to his liking, Thomas headed back home.

His wife was not there, none of her things were except one exhausted looking treadmill. Similarly, he found that some of his own things had gone missing. Thomas ordered takeout that day, and ate the coldish noodles alone in the kitchen over the sink. When it was done, he flicked through the TV until he found a movie to his liking and watched it until emotional exhaustion took over him and sleep took him in its embrace. His dreams were haunted by lawyers, however, and he woke up on the couch well before the sun came up.

Fully clothed and bleary eyed, he called in work and made some arrangements. He took the rest of the month off, for he had his work planned out in advance and it was his business anyway, he could do as he pleased with his time.

At his tone his secretary relented, but before hanging up the old kindly lady asked him if everything was alright. "Thank you, Margaret," Thomas answered with genuine fondness, rubbing a crease on his shirt as he paced through the kitchen, looking for milk, "I think Samantha is a little upset with me." As those words left his mouth, Thomas found a few milk cartons. Upended into a bin. Ah.

Thomas sat by himself in a living room far too large for one middle aged man. It was still a quarter to eight, and he had no more of a plan to get his wife's approval back than he had the night before. It was slightly infuriating in its own way. For now, he settled for breakfast, a nice shower, and notifying his two kids. Jonathan and Luke were both good kids working out of town for the time being, but the businessman thought it only proper that his kids know what was going on in their parents' lives as soon as possible.

Thomas decided to go through this in descending order of ages, and so called Luke second. The twenty four year old had just finished his bachelor's in business administration last year and was working in a small business belonging to a family friend in another town. Thomas spent the time between rings thinking of how he was going to phrase things before a husky and certainly sleep deprived voice answered on the other end of the line. "Hello, da-aaaaaaaahn!"

Thomas masked his smile at the yawn, remembering that Luke had always been the last to get into bed and the last to wake in this family. Other than his mother of course, for Thomas's wife was one prone to oversleeping. She said it helped her with pimples or something similar. This thought flitted in uninvited and put an instant damp on his spirits, causing him to slump just a bit in his seat in the kitchen.

"Good morning to you too, Luke," The businessman answered in what he hoped was a cheerful enough manner. "How has work been?"

"That's the thing. Work's great, and I like Mr Lebeoux well enough, but I think I'm feeling a bit homesick. I was thinking about calling you and asking if I could visit you and mom next Friday. It's not for sure," he added hastily after Thomas remained quiet for a bit, "I mean, if you guys are busy or something, I'm sure I can change the dates around a bit..."

"No, No, we'd love to have you here," answered he after a lengthy pause. Thomas contemplated keeping the real cause of his call a secret until Luke came back, but he decided against doing so. It might be better to just let it all out now and give him time to cool off on the drive home. After all, his younger son was bound to think it his fault that things gone this way. "It's just that, well, your mother and me have some things that we need to work out, I think." At that, Thomas began to scratch his budding chin hairs as he went about trying to put things in order in his house.

Miriem, the cleaning lady, came around lunch time but Thomas didn't like to leave extra work for her if he could help it. The business owner tidied up here and there as he went around the house. "I hope we can work it out soon enough."

A lengthy silence took over the line. Thomas was beginning to wonder what was wrong before Luke asked quietly, "What kind of problems?"

"I- I'm not exactly sure," admitted Thomas to his son, frustrated slightly. It was strange, being in this situation where he had to admit that despite his best efforts, his wife thought there was still something left to be desired in their relationship. Strange and a little bit of a downer.

He felt, in a distinct way, very much like a letdown of a man, perhaps even unwanted. He did not say that, however. Instead, Thomas continued his earlier line of thought. "I don't know what's wrong."

Another pause. "Dad, can I talk to mom?"

Thomas was torn apart by this mixture of fear and accusation in Luke's voice. "She's... not here, Luke. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure where your mother is. She hasn't been answering my calls. Yesterday I was called to a law firm and, well, apparently she's filed for divorce."

"...I'll call you when I'm close to town."

Thomas had no time to say goodbye before Luke hung up. The man sighed, taking a seat in front of the T.V again. He briefly entertained the thought of going out to look for her and apologizing for whatever it is he had done. He would have too, but Thomas had no idea where she could be, and since she had filed that paper, going to the police and saying she was missing probably wouldn't work.

As he waited for Miriem, Thomas tried his wife's phone a few more times. Each time it rang, and each time no one answered.

Thomas went out to buy some extra groceries the next morning. He decided that since he was alone anyway, he might as well buy mostly the things that he liked having. Still, the shortish sandy haired man chose to leave place for his wife's favourite meals, just in case.

Thomas took care of himself regularly, and was today once again clean shaven. In a cardigan green as a leaf and sand smitten pants, he looked smart. In a way, it almost felt like things were moving back into gear, a new rhythm where he was a simple fifty year old bachelor. Still, something was wrong.

Thomas liked to think of his life as a well oiled machine. This machine was missing a gear now, and thus bolts and parts spun in place unresponsively, and he felt the missing piece as surely as if he were missing a leg. Thomas was beginning to keenly feel how he might have been messing things up when it came to treating his wife.

Deep in thought, he almost didn't hear a friend call out to him near the juice isle, but caught himself at the last moment and stopped by for a brief chat before moving on.

With the groceries bought and unloaded, Thomas gave himself time to go for a short jog before taking a bath and going out to a nearby park. He'd been a jock in university, and so the jog had felt slightly familiar. Children played here and there, but this place was not as crowded as the man remembered. He wondered if it was because of electronics or parents being too worried about their kids these days, but today it seemed that it was mostly elderly men and women with their kind faces and slow shuffling feet who gathered around the single pond. Ducks came to him eagerly and Thomas threw bread in their direction, allowing himself to live the moment for a while before heading back to a bench to think. Being busy, He thought to himself.

Perhaps he had been too caught up in his own company to give his wife the love and attention she deserved. He had often heard that simple love was not enough to keep a relationship going. Sometimes you needed to actively love someone and put in effort for them. Especially for your partner.

He remembered seeing multiple movies where a neglected or abused wife left her husband, yet Thomas never thought that this situation could ever apply to him. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like he had managed to let his wife slip from his grasp by being a lousy husband. Now he had to find out what he needed to do to make things better.

Chocolate and roses wouldn't do it, Thomas knew that much. This situation called for real effort in changing the way he appreciated his wife and treated her. She had always preferred material things, and had once been upset because he gave her a hand crafted wooden ring as a Valentine's gift. However, she also had bought herself things, and there was little left he could think of.

Maybe he needed to be present more. They only went out of town once every other week after all, and it was only to visit a nearby place and change out of the 'house' atmosphere for a while. Often they didn't do anything too special, but Thomas had thought it enough to go for a movie or romantic dinner or visit a museum, go back to a fancy hotel and relax with no housework waiting for the two of them.

Perhaps it was something to do with his body. His wife had told him a few years ago that she wanted him to not gain weight, and he had tried to go jogging every day. Sadly that hadn't been possible, given his schedule. Did it manage to disappoint his wife this much, however?

As a husband, he felt the weight of her happiness and it was quite heavy. When she was upset with him or unhappy, it was his failure as a man and as a husband, was it not? It made him less of one. He wished he could just find her and talk to her, at least, so he could find out what he needed to do to make things right again.

When the lonely husband drove into his garage, he found two cars already parked there. Jonathan and Luke waited for Thomas just outside the door, looking more than a little irritated. Thomas sighed, regretting that he had allowed himself to reach this state of self pity. He knew what his sons looked like when they were angry, and it was easy to anticipate extra clouds in that particular horizon. Thus, he took as much time as he could to turn off the car and get out tiredly. Two sons leapt upon their father like an especially upset pack of hyenas.

"Dad, how could you?" exclaimed Luke before either could get a word in. His face showed everything from anger to confusion and he repeated the question again with a few choice swear words, coming in close to Thomas and then backing off again, looking in the other direction as he paced.

Jonathan, for his part, said nothing but looked at his father with cold fury apparent in his eyes. Thomas was flabbergasted. Sure, he was certainly at fault, but was there any need for the kind of language that Luke was using here? Besides, how did they even know exactly what happened? It sounded as if they knew more about the entire situation than he himself did.

"I... I mean, It's not that bad, son..." Thomas mumbled the words but Jonathan heard them anyway. The twenty six year old, a man in his own right about to get married himself, gave him an incredulous look.

"There is no excuse for cheating, dad." His words were calm and measured, betraying only the slightest hint of his ice cold rage, but Thomas felt a chill all the same. Then he took a second to process what his oldest boy had just said.

Huh?

He looked from Jonathan to Luke as understanding hit him, and everything clicked into place. Their inexplicable anger, his wife's disappearance, the divorce papers. It all made sense now.

Jonathan and Luke both reeled back in shock as their father began to giggle slowly, then laugh out loud in a booming tone they had rarely heard before. Their mother had always told them that no one could make their father laugh like she could, but even she had never been able to elicit this type of mirth from her husband.

Finally, doubled over and dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief, Thomas gasped, "I didn't cheat! I haven't cheated on your mother in all the time I knew her, and certainly not since we got married. Come, children, you know me better than that."

Jonathan looked half convinced, uncertain somehow, but the younger of the two lost none of the accusation in his tone. "Dad, mom called me. She told me everything. She's been suspicious for a long time, but there was never enough proof. Then she found the lipstick." His eyes searched Thomas for signs of recognition or repentance. Thomas leaned back on his car. The silver SUV, bought back when the space was still needed for their children and their pets, gave his back a surge of warmth.

"What lipstick, Lukas?"

"Don't pretend, dad! A purple covered lipstick, about two weeks ago when you and your lover or whatever she is were together in the house. Mom was out buying things and you slept with a woman in your own house. When she came back, you were already gone but the thing was still there, lying on the floor. Sound familiar?"

His tone was triumphant, and shockingly what he said did sound familiar to Thomas. He scratched at his chin, wondering how he should explain this. "A purple lipstick? With blue stripes around the top?"

Thomas could tell his tone had taken the two aback, but Jonathan recovered first. "I-uh, I'm not sure, but why?" By his expression, Thomas could tell that his oldest son was calculating things in his head, and something didn't add up to him.

"If it is, then it's something I bought for your mother in the first place," he explained. "I bought it three weeks ago because she saw something similar on TV and said she liked it. I have the receipt with me and I even mentioned it to the woman who helped me pick out the colour. If you want to, we can go check at the store. If you want to," this last part was directed at Jonathan, who worked as a police officer, "you could take it with you and check if anybody else used it. I don't mind."

Both of his children, understandably, looked stunned. Thomas took the opportunity to direct them inside the house, explaining to them that if cheating was the reason his wife wanted a divorce, then everything would be just fine.

The two were reluctant for a while, but then accepted that it was all just a misunderstanding. Their mother must have not noticed the lipstick on her table, and at some point it must have gotten knocked over. When she found it, jealousy flared up and instead of talking to her husband about it, she decided to file for divorce.

It was an innocent mistake, Thomas explained, and he wasn't about to make a big deal out of it. After all, he explained to his children as he served them orange juice (Luke liked his with the pulp), she was still his wife and he loved her much.

Jonathan and Luke were visibly relieved and were willing to call their mother and explain things to her, invite her over, and act as intermediaries between their parents. Thomas felt only the slightest hint of annoyance at how far things had progressed over this issue, as well as how fast his wife answered her phone when it was they who called.

Luke hung up after a short chat, saying "She's going to come here, but she sounded a little worried. She hopes you don't get too angry with her. She really sounded worried." The father promised that he would not.

After an hour or so, Thomas heard the doorbell and upon opening the door found his wife looking up shyly at him, dressed in an elegant long sleeved shirt and jeans and pumps. The hug that passed between them felt uncomfortable, perhaps even forced, but Thomas was sure it was going to get better with time. She went inside and everyone had a nice long chat about the events of the past few days. His wife curtly apologised and said she would take care of the divorce papers. Thomas accepted her apology.

"Sweetheart, I have never cheated on you and I never want to," he promised as Luke, who was proving to be the more emotional of the two sons, pretended not to tear up, "I spent some time thinking, and I realized that I'm not satisfied with how I've been treating you. I want to make you happier, as happy as I can."

At that, his wife's expression changed for a second, looking strange like she was about to sneeze. Then it softened and she smiled brightly. Nestled as she was between her two children on a black leather sofa, no one saw her expression change except her husband. Thus Jonathan was confused when Thomas said, "Bless you," but his father waved it off.

The wife wanted her two children to sleep in their house that night, but both Jonathan and Luke declined, saying that they wanted to leave their house for the lovebirds. Thomas spoke to a hotel manager buddy of his and managed to get them both comfortable rooms for a reasonable price.

The entire family had lunch together that day, a casserole prepared by Thomas's wife. It was a rare treat, for she didn't enjoy cooking usually, but both father and kids spooned the food away without complaining about the taste. Thomas felt blessed, for the absence of his kids had left a hole in his heart, one which he didn't even realize existed.

Both Luke and Jonathan were good kids and visited semi regularly, but it was rare for both of them to be present at the same time.

At about sundown the kids took off, leaving their parents alone for the night and promising to be back first thing in the morning. Slowly, tiredly, he began to tidy up, then realized that the house was actually tidier as usual since he had been alone for a while. The business owner had forgotten how neat he had been as a college student and smiled to himself wryly at the thought. How things change.

It did not come as a surprise to Thomas that his wife didn't wish for him to sleep in their bedroom that night. The embarrassment she must be feeling can't be easy to handle, he thought as he washed the dishes. When he climbed up the staircase he went to the white door on the right, Jonathan's room.

Thomas hoped his wife felt better soon, for he didn't relish the uncomfortable silence existing between them at the moment. Even his best attempts at breaking the ice were met with less than stellar results, and so he decided time had to take care of the rest for him. When he went to sleep, Thomas whispered, "I love you," to the lonely darkness in his son's room. He wondered to himself how much of that phrase was routine and how much was genuine affection.

Even after twenty five years of marriage, he didn't know everything about its ins and outs. He wondered now if he could truly place all the blame of this incident on himself. For some reason, he felt genuine misery mixed in with his happiness at his wife's return. How quick was she to place blame, to overreact, how unwilling she'd been to even talk about issues. Sometimes, it was like he put in more effort into this marriage than she did...

Thomas shrugged off these thoughts suddenly. He couldn't start putting up airs and blaming others. All he needed to do was put in as much love as he could, and appreciate his wife as much as she deserved, as much as he did that first month he tried to get her to agree to go out with him. With that determination lodged squarely in his mind, the miserable man drifted off to sleep.

Thomas woke suddenly. He glanced about, taking in bearings before checking his phone. As he looked, the time changed to midnight exactly and he smiled to himself. Right on time. This was a game that he played with himself every night, when he went to the restroom. Satisfied , the business owner rose up from bed slowly, paying heed to his creaking muscles. The man stepped out of the room and peered into the darkness. A light was usually kept switched on at night for this very purpose, but not tonight. Still, Thomas could see the staircase to the ground floor well enough, it was just beyond him and a bit to the left, directly in front of the master bedroom. He took a step forward, and another, focused on being quiet for his wife's sake, but needing to relieve himself.

So focused on his steps he was, that when something struck the side of Thomas' head with a crash he almost didn't register it until he lurched to his knees. The blow was weak but unexpected, and as the pieces of the now shattered vase fell about him he felt woozy. Then someone grabbed the side of his head by the hair and smacked him against the foot of the stairway's wooden rails. Once, twice, thrice his world was rocked by the blows, but the rail didn't crack.

His eyes blazed with stars and spots of colours, his head rang and his nose bled from the second strike, but Thomas was still able to pull his head away from the hand gripping his hair tightly. Whoever it was kicked him in the side and he groaned, but that moment allowed him to clear his head as his ribs burned with pain.

Thomas rolled right and then went to his feet, heading along that corridor. A burglar, he thought to himself. He must have caught whoever it was by surprise when he went out of Jonathan's room. The blow came from just in front of the master bedroom and Thomas was glad that he became the sole centre of attention before this person found his wife.

He decided to keep his voice down, just in case the burglar had a weapon but was reluctant to use it, and instead the man shuffled along the hallway, passing door after door, feigning broken ribs. He only had one chance.

A dead end came up and Thomas spun around, favouring his right side heavily. His opponent walked forward, cautiously at first but then with confidant steps due to the man's injury. Thomas waited, steadying himself as the burglar got into range. His assailant's feet were silent upon the carpeted floor, but Thomas could now make out his short shape. Thomas had his fists bunched even as he was doubled over, heart beating wildly.

When the burglar got closer still Thomas leapt upwards, lashing out with all his adrenalin fuelled might, taking his assailant with a perfectly executed one two. Then Thomas stopped dead in his tracks as the person shouted out and fell over.

That voice was feminine.

The man flicked the light switch to his right, which was meant to blind his opponent after he fell over.

Lying there on the floor was his wife, cradling her now broken nose. She climbed unsteadily to her feet and Thomas noticed that her arms and legs were covered in bruises. In the distance he could hear a police siren. Everything spun around as he noticed how this would look to anyone watching, especially considering what had happened these past few days.

Thomas was rooted in place by shock, and he felt the thread of his life unravel as everything he worked so hard for all this time came crashing down. He stared at his wife and for the first time he saw her as she truly was. Possessive, manipulative, and greedy. All this time, it was him who was putting in all the effort. It was him who was tricked. The police siren came closer, and a few seconds later a rap came on the door.

Thomas could tell that she saw him break because Tiffany smiled.

# Story 16

Nicholas Kind, or Nikkie as he was often called, was a happy young boy who happened to be prone to crying.

Things happened here and there that caused his delicate nature to expose itself and squeeze out a fresh batch of tears. It happened when a sad movie came on screen and nobody caught him watching, it happened when Miss Kristina told him of hungry people to get him eating his greens, and it happened when he listened to really good music.

Nikkie was a short brown haired doe eyed little boy, not too coordinated nor too smart. Everybody told him that he would find his talent some day, but Nikkie never truly felt as if anything came naturally to him, not even his lessons.

One time, Livia (who was actually called Olivia and was Nikkie's sister) told him that when someone had a talent for something, they would know because even if they did it for many long hours they couldn't get bored.

The evening of Olivia's words was also the first time that Nikkie found his way into the attic. It was a musty place planked in old dark wood. A single circular window tried its best to let in a shaft of glittering sunlight, and despite most of the attic being faded into shadow he could see enough if its centre. As he crawled around, Nikkie saw stone busts and Suits of armour and boxes and paintings, wild things forgotten in dust which could take a child's imagination anywhere. Still, none of them interested Nikkie, and they were not why that particular day was important. No, there was one thing above all else that instantly drew the young brown haired boy's gaze, and it was a magical box basking in sunlight as if yearning for glory.

It was golden, short and wide and long, rimmed and finished in swooping golden leaves with beautiful dancers adorning every corner. Each of its four outlaying sides was of patterned varnished wood, but of course when you get that old things get caked in dust. It happens to even the most magical of artefacts. There was a trumpet like horn coming out the top side of this box, which also housed a pin as well as a black disc, which Nikkie knew could be polished so as to be as glossy as a dream. Then there was the most important bit. The young child called it a spinny thing, for he was not one to know the deeper intricacies of mechanical levers.

It started off as an experiment, him twisting the slightly aged lever and revelling at the sounds that came from the instrument.

Nikkie had listened to the music for as long as he could. A blend of instruments that he knew and ones he didn't all rose and fell like two happy dancers. Then the music turned clear and warm like a child running upon a newly born meadow, and lastly powerful as well as ominous, a swaying pirate ship. Still he listened in wonder. Nikkie had never known that someone could take everything that was beautiful about the world and put it in song. How could such a realization not move him to tears?

"Don't scare me like that again!" Miss Kristina scolded him later after Olivia found him upstairs. She hugged him long and hard. Apparently they had thought he'd hurt himself and she told him so.

"Can I have the music box on my next birthday?" he asked with hope casting a spell of glow upon his big brown eyes. "Please?"

Miss Kristina was kneeling in front of him. Despite them being in her office, she never sat at her desk when talking to the children, for she often preferred to remain within good embracing distance. "Why on your birthday, Nikkie?" she wondered with surprise apparent in her voice. His birthday had been last month and usually children would simply ask for a second gift in this situation.

"If I get two birthday presents, won't that make Sam feel bad?"

Sam was another one of Nicholas' brothers (of which, you may have surmised, there were many) and had only received a single birthday present a few months ago. Miss Kristina smiled warmly at the boy then, then asked Mister Tall, who was standing by the door, to go get Sam.

The silent man had complied and within a few minutes the boy confirmed that he had no problem at all with Nikkie having a second birthday gift. The boy's face lit up like he'd seen snow for the first time and he hugged his brother, promising that they could listen to music together and that he wouldn't have it too loud if he and the others didn't like it.

Sam, who was fifteen already and so didn't spend that much time with the younger siblings, just laughed in surprise and promised he'd have no problem with it.

From then on, Nikkie spent all his money on music. He would earn money by selling lemonade outside or by helping out with Mr Tall's extra chores around the house. Then he would buy music players in all shapes and forms and spend hours listening to many different genres of music.

Mr Tall developed a closer bond with the boy that way, because despite Mr Tall not being one to say anything unless it was important, the child often peppered him with questions and details about his day while they cleaned, fixed things, and went grocery shopping.

The man had little hair and could often be found with his hands crossed before his chest, pondering a problem with a slightly curious smile. "You look like a big boy's teacher, Mister Tall," Nikkie to him once as the man fixed his gramophone for him once: His foremost form of entertainment liked to break suddenly and almost without reason once every few weeks. Perhaps that was the reason that it was originally put up in the attic. Nikkie couldn't figure out another, for the thing was wonderful. The man looked surprised at his outburst, yet didn't reply.

Nikkie Kind considered himself a blessed boy because of his family, for it was quite big and almost didn't fit into their house, which was so small that it tried its best to eat up the porch in an attempt to satisfy their need for space.

In this house lived he along with his nine brothers and sisters, as well as Miss Kristina Deep, Mr Tall, and Mrs Tammsie Wide. These three people together created what could be called a space of happiness and peace for Nikkie and his siblings. They slept in batches four in each room except for Livia Grace and Sandra Sweet, because these two were girls and needed their own space to do makeup and other girly stuff, said James once with a disgusted face.

Nikkie hadn't known much about girls and what they did behind closed doors, but he had told James Brave that Livia and Sandra were great girls and they wouldn't do disgusting things, taking the boy aback. Timothy Smile yelled out "Yeah, dey wun't!" and all three boys laughed. Timmy was the youngest of the four, and often did things that made them giggle. After a bit of laughing the boys settled down, because Sam Big (who was not only the oldest boy in their room, but also the oldest sibling of their house) slept early and light.

Often Nikkie spent time trying to make things easier for his older brothers and sisters by sitting with the youngest members of their family, who were four babies no older than one. These were called Barbara, Benjamin, Amanda, and Adam, respectively Warm, Calm, Honest and Wise.

With all these people in one house Nikkie rarely had a boring moment, nor an unhappy one. Nikkie, Sam and Olivia generally did most of the helping out, although everyone chipped in. Sam was older and said he was responsible for helping out the people who'd raised him all this time (he was Miss katarina's first kid in their house), but Nikkie felt that Olivia helped just because she liked being practical. Doing things like cooking and sowing and fixing cabinets were things that fit the blonde with her short hair, and she probably would have done them just for fun either way.

James and Sandra were, in a certain way, polar opposites of Olivia, and both tried to avoid chores unless they absolutely needed doing.

James spent his time being loud and pretending to be Robin Hood using branches from across the neighbourhood, shouting and jumping, while Sandra was, in her own mind, a perfectly beautiful princess. Of course when she asked, Nicholas confirmed that she was, but Sandra still often went to further efforts to dress up and look good than was absolutely necessary, causing Timmy to giggle.

Somehow a balance was maintained between these many and varied siblings, and Nicholas Kind wouldn't have changed a single thing about any of them.

One day, Nikkie went to the restroom at night alone because he was a big boy now, and determined not to disturb Sam or James just for his needs. As the boy made his way back the corridor, wiping his bleary eyes as he went, he heard voices coming from Mrs Krsitina's office and saw that her door wasn't shut properly, allowing a bit of golden light to trickle out. It sounded as if she was talking in a sad tired voice and as Nikkie crept in closer towards the slightly open door, he heard Miss Kristina say, "Prices go up for everything, but the funding remains the same. I try to balance things out, but you know how it is, Patrick."

"Yes," Answered Mr Tall in that thoughtful voice of his. "People can't keep donating to the same place forever, you know."

Nikkie moved in closer in order to sneak a peek through the crack. There sat Miss Kristina in front of her table, looking worn out with her head nestled in one hand. Behind her simple chair stood the man, looking not her, but rather out the window at something that held his interest.

As Nikkie watched, Miss Katarina smiled and said, "You're right, we can't hog it all. It just makes things a little difficult, especially with the little ones needing so much care. A little money could go a long way." Mr Tall, whose first name Nikkie had never known, turned around and eyed her.

After a moment of silence, he suggested gently, "I could always go back..."

"Out of the question. The university never appreciated you. I remember the mess you turned into, after..." She trailed off for a bit, a tender expression on her kind lined face. "Anyway, you'd make us money, but I want Patrick Tall close, where I can keep an eye on him. The children love you, and I can tell you'd rather stay here."

A moment passed. "Thank you," he stated simply, "You're a good sister in law. We just need to make do with what we have. I'll try to spend less."

"We'll just make do, until the little ones grow older. Then we can relax, having done our part." Her gaze towards Mr Tall was the highest form of respect and gratitude Nikkie had ever seen. Before going back to bed, the boy put on headphones and played some music from a device. In his mind the scene between Mrs Deep and Mr Tall played over and over, and he became determined to help out here as much as he could.

Days came and went with Nikkie growing an inch taller and seven months older. He did well in school, as well as take care of the children so as to allow others to do more productive things. He would sing lullabies to the four babies, who were now almost two, and even Adam would quiet down from a bellow to a sniffle. He never asked for a musical instrument, for they'd be far too expensive, but he made the lack up in song.

Mrs Wide commented once that Nikkie had a wonderful voice and said it might be because he listened to so much music. "It gets in your bones, you know," she added and the boy nodded despite not being so sure about how good he was.

Sam had grown old and smart enough to fix knickknacks and electronics in other people's homes and Livia helped take care of many chores. Things seemed like they were settling down slowly but surely.

Then one day, Nikkie came back from school to find Mr Tall standing in the doorway. "Kristina wants to see you," he said after exchanging greetings. The man looked at Nikkie as if trying to memorize his face.

"Yes Mr Tall. What is it about?" asked the little boy, but his taller counterpart smiled mysteriously and walked away.

Nikkie didn't even put his bag in his room, but rather went straight to Mrs Kristina's office with it still slung upon his back. Maybe she was finally going to let him do singing shows in the neighbourhood for money, so he could contribute to the house.

When he knocked on the door and walked in, there sat two strangers with Mrs Kristina, one a man with glasses and the other a woman who also had darkish hair but more of a heart shaped face. They were both dressed neatly, and their clothes seemed of good quality, if not meant to show off wealth.

"You wanted to see me, Ma'am?" he asked.

"Yes indeed, child. Come on in."

The boy closed the door shyly behind him, wondering who these two people were. They looked at him as if they already knew him, and each smiled encouragingly. "Nicholas, these are Melissa and Robert Van Der Faal." Nikkie shook hand politely with both, asking them how they did. Both had strangely coarse fingertips. "Mr Van Der Faal," added Mrs Deep, "is actually a relative of your mother's. A cousin, did you say?" she inquired of him and he nodded.

"Exactly," answered he, and Nikkie marvelled at how smooth and deep his voice was. The man turned to Nikkie, since it was he the thin man was talking to. "My cousin was a... sad person. When she had you she couldn't take it. She ran away, stashed you next to a hospital, and never told anyone about it. Luckily you were saved, and then raised in this wonderful establishment."

At that Robert gave Mrs Deep a nod of approval, and the old lady seemed extremely pleased. She loved this place more than anything, Nikkie knew. The boy had known that he was abandoned, of course. All the children in this house had been, and that's why Mrs Kristina was allowed to give them last names. Nikkie was glad to meet real relatives for the first time, and both seemed nice. Before he could ask how they found out who his mother was, Robert's wife answered. She had a slight accent, as if she wasn't from this country but still spoke a lot of english. "When she... passed away, we found out about you. She might have been weak-"

"Ah Melissa..." Said Robert tenderly.

"You don't abandon children, honey. Ever." She looked adamant, and after a second Robert sighed in defeat. "She might have been weak," repeated Mrs Van Der Fall quietly, "But she never forgot and never forgave herself. We found a diary, and one page explained exactly where and when she'd left you.

"When you grow older you can have her diary. The thing will tell a lot about her, but you're too young for it as of now." Nikkie could offer little in return. He'd never known his real mother, and so felt little emotional need to know what she was like. Mrs Wide had always said that it's not blood that makes you who you are, but what you do and what you want to be.

Mrs Kristina took charge then, seeing Nikkie's silence. "Through the records, Mr and Mrs Van Der Fall found you, and came to visit here."

"That's very nice," said Nikkie earnestly, "Thank you for coming, Mr and Mrs Van Der Fall." He wasn't sure if he should call them something like uncle and aunt, but just then something else stole his attention, for all three adults in the room looked at one another.

"Nikkie, I don't think you understand," said Robert, "We were talking to Mrs Deep, and... we want to take you to our home." Nikkie looked from one to the other. Take him home? Have two real parents just for himself? Things didn't happen like that. "Mrs Deep is strict about who adopts her children, but we seem to fulfil her requirements.

"We are related, have a nice house and relationship with one another, can afford to send you to a good school. And," he added finally to his wife's peaceful nod, "We would love to have a child, especially one like you. We learned all about what a wonderful boy you are here, and how much you love music."

Robert showed off fingers with hard skin on the edges, as did his wife, "We are both musicians, and can teach you. We could have a great time together, if you so choose." All three looked at him expectantly. The image of him playing many varied instruments with these people, living the dream that he always wanted to wake and see, seemed like almost too much for Nikkie to comprehend. It was all better than he'd ever imagined, because of course every orphaned child imagines being adopted.

Both of his new prospective parents seemed kind and eager to have him, as if he'd just been dropped from heaven on a harp's note. Then Nikkie thought of other things.

"I am sorry, Mr. Robert," he said in a shaky voice finally while staring at his feet, "I can't come live with you. I'm sorry. Thank you for asking, and you too Miss Melissa." All three looked stunned at his answer. Mrs Deep called his name in a shocked voice, but Nikkie kept his eyes stubbornly glued to his only pair of shoes as he excused himself and left the office, closing the door softly despite his fists being clenched into hard little knots.

He fled to his room. Luckily none of the other children were there to see him cry. He'd blown it, destroyed his chance at a life with these wonderful people. Like a horrible child, he'd probably hurt their feelings too. He didn't think they'd ever want to see him again.

Suddenly, a knock came on Nikkie's door, and when he spun there stood Robert and Melissa. "May we come in?" the man asked Nikkie and the boy simply nodded, dumbfounded. Each came and sat at his bed's sides. They hugged him simultaneously upon seeing the tears on his face and pillow.

They chatted for a bit, about school, what he did at home, his gramophone and other music players, how he liked to sing lullabies. They also shared a bit more about their lives, how neither could properly cook but how they always tried, and about Melissa's flower and bird collection at home.

"We understand if you don't want to live with us," concluded Robert, and Nikkie's heart skipped a beat, "But we would still like to see you. Can we, say, come to visit sometimes and teach you how to play the violin or something? It would be a shame to lose connection with a wonderful boy like you, especially since we're related."

They still wanted to see him. It was all much more than Nicholas Kind could handle, and so he started crying again. "It's not that I don't want to live with you," he sniffled. "I can't!"

The two looked perplexed. "But Mrs Deep said-"

"You don't understand," he explained with thrumming vocal chords, "Our home doesn't make enough money because people donate in other places. Mrs Deep and Mr Tall were talking about it once and I heard them. They need me to help with chores and babysitting for Adam and the other babies. I need to help Mr Tall and do well in school and then maybe try and make money to help out. And I grew up with Sam and James and the others so if I leave them alone they're gonna miss me and I'm going to miss them and they will have to work extra hard at home, so I can't leave, even if I want to!"

As Nikkie's floodgates opened and he confessed everything, Robert's face slowly changed. Nicholas would have expected him to perhaps be angry, or look sad, but instead the man gave the child a strange look. "Nicholas kind, you were aptly named... What a wonderful boy." Melissa was crying by then, but she was also laughing and she looked at him in a strange manner that he couldn't place. With a surge, Nicholas realized that this was the look he had seen Mrs Deep give Mr Tall that night in her office: A look of open admiration.

"How about this?" suggested Mr Van der Fall gently. "You come live with us, and all three of us can help this home. Me and Mellisa have money to donate, don't we honey?" She nodded, still laughing with tears in her eyes, and Robert continued. "We can also come visit here once a month so you can see everyone, and we can organize music shows where the money goes towards this house. This way you can always help this place, even as part of our family."

Nikkie couldn't believe what he heard. Despite his face being lined with tears, the boy grinned wide and leapt into his new father's arms. It was like he'd heard music. "Can we really do that?" he asked in disbelief.

Robert and Melissa assured him that they could, and Nikkie knew that from now on, he was going to become a very happy boy indeed.

# Story 17

Erina was not having the best of days.

She rarely did, but it seemed to her that this one may trump even that one time in sixth grade. That particular day she had been on her way back home on her birthday, only to find a run over puppy on the street two blocks away from her home. She had rushed to the poor thing, for she loved animals so very much. Back then, there was only one thing that she'd loved more than puppies in general.

Her own puppy, Oreo.

Yeah, reminisced Erina as she made her way through the school hallway, ignoring pointed stares and far more pointed pointing by fellow high schoolers, that was a really bad day. She tried to keep her eyes planted firmly on her feet, and not on the thing dripping from them to the floor with each squelch of her admittedly well worn shoes.

School tiling went on and on across her vision, and she used the familiarity to forget what was happening. Just as she was getting used to ignoring the whispers welling up from all sides, an older pair of shoes entered her line of sight. They were brown, classic in a certain older man sort of way. The shoes met at the heels, each pointing in a different angle. Erina had a sudden urge to draw a line connecting those points so as to complete what was sure to be a beautiful triangle. A chuckle almost escaped her then, until she remembered that she was currently covered from head to toe in orange goo. Oh no.

"Miss Sultre," gasped Mr Chroe, a vice principal who liked to give more trouble than he got. He reminded Erina a bit of a bald headed eagle just because he had an expanding patch of bald blossoming through his impressively thin black hair. He was due for a comb over. "What do you think you're doing to this hall?" as the sentence progressed, Mr Chroe's pale face remained bloodless and expressionless, despite his voice rising at least an octave in pitch and volume.

She kept her eyes downcast as she mumbled something about really meaning the hallway no ill will before the thin yet pot bellied man marched over and interrupted her apology with a firmly clamped hand upon her wrist. Erina was dragged over to the principal's office in quite the inelegant fashion then, despite the fact that she would have gone with Mr Chroe anyway, had he simply asked.

At the principal's office, Erina then stood at the receiving an of a tirade, reminding her yet again that she was a "special case" of a student, and it was only due to her mother's and principal Lee's acquaintance that she had been admitted to this school. Well, that and her merit scholarship.

Principal Lee's round kind looking face contorted into a mask of rage as she reminded Erina that usually, people of her particular financial situation were not permitted into such a prestigious school such as saint Hert's. She needed to keep her behaviour on par with her grades if she wanted to have any chance in keeping this lucky chance grasped firmly in her hands.

Erina nodded along unhappily, keeping her eyes on a peculiar stretch of patterned carpet sitting halfway between her shoes and Mrs Lee's mahogany desk. Erina assumed it was mahogany at least. She wasn't who was well used to expensive pieces of furniture worth about as much as her entire room and then some. Besides the principal's high pitched wail, the only sound in the room was the careful squelch of the girl's shoes as she shifted her feet.

As she left the principal's office, Erina caught a whiff reminiscent of lavender somewhere off to the side. She took her eyes off the ground , spinning around slowly as she did to face a gaggle of giggling girls a year older than she herself was. Her fears confirmed, Erina looked back at her still sodden shoes.

The leader of the pack, Rebecca Miller, broke off just enough from her companions to put herself in Erina's personal space. She spoke just softly enough that no one around other than her own group and her intended victim could hear. "I knew you wouldn't tell. You don't have it in you and you never will."

Erina kept her eyes off the blonde, her mouth clamped shut. She had learned long ago what comebacks got her. However, this silence seemed only to anger Rebecca, and she snapped, "Look at me!" Erina did, brushing her red mane of hair away from her face as she mumbled an apology. One of Rebecca's entourage, a vest wearing short haired girl of slight African heritage, smirked and egged her queen on.

"Come on, Becca! You gonna let her look at you like that?"

In return, the fair girl raised one of her hands, her blue eyes turning from sky blue to an almost ocean dark shade in her anger. Consider her egged on, Erina sighed internally, wishing for this day to be over already. She closed her eyes in expectation just as a bell rang and high school kids flooded the corridor like a giant infestation of ants fleeing an open flame. A couple of seconds passed. Opening her eyes, Erina saw Rebecca point a finger inches away from her face instead.

The blonde smiled in a way that made her appear almost feral and took half her gene gifted beauty away. "I'd keep you after school for punishment, but you stink. Well, at least your smell matches your personality now at least." With that parting shot Rebecca Miller and her wild gang strutted off smugly, parting the crowd before them as if it were an ocean.

Erina headed the other way faster than she intended, hoping that they didn't change their minds about hurting her today. Of course Rebecca wouldn't strike her face in public: she cared too much about her image for that. Besides, even in their punishment sessions in private places, where they tormented Erina for her own shy personality and reluctance in speaking to others, her fidgety nature, anxiousness, and everything else she already loathed herself over, face strikes were rare.

Erina rubbed her bruised abdomen absentmindedly as she thought back to yesterday's afternoon of getting held up by two girls while another took her for a sandbag. Rebecca watched of course, for she had delicate hands, and when at all partaking she used a pipe or stick or something. "Natural birth control," Erina mouthed with a wry smile. That was what it was referred to as.

The redheaded girl left the school grounds out a back way, passing through a meadow of no real consequence beyond being littered with left over burger wrappings. As she went, however, Erina heard an odd muted thump coming from somewhere off to her right. This sound came from behind some trees and, thinking there was naught that could really go worse for her today anyway, she shuffled her orange gooey self closer inch by inch.

With no sound to chase her off she gained confidence and rounded about one of the trees. A boy sat there with his back to her, in simple blue jeans, black T-shirt and a shirt over it to cover up his lean frame. His hair had a natural scruffiness about it that made Erina want to run her hand through it, and his eyes were downcast as he cut into a small block of wood, shaving into it.

The block of wood didn't look like anything yet, but his nimble fingers moved his pocket knife with both determination and apparent experience. This boy, looking about her age and vaguely familiar, was so transfixed by his work that he didn't notice her standing mere feet off to his side

As she watched him, however, Erina inadvertently shuffled her feet in place, eliciting both a squelch and a startled gasp from this strange figure. He quickly hid his block behind his well shaped frame as the girl tried her best to stammer out an awkward apology.

Before Erina could come up with the "s" in "sorry", however, the boy pushed his hair out of his eyes, looking all about him in an almost nervous fashion. "Did you see that?" he demanded finally, when he was convinced that none but she had seen him.

"I-uh.. umm.... yeah, a little..." Erina replied in an almost nonexistent voice. She thought about backing away slowly, maybe breaking into a run if worst comes to worst. The boy looked wild in the eyes. To Erina those big blacked gems of his looked almost hungry, but something stilled him as he stood up slowly. It was as if he had come to a conclusion of some sort.

All of a sudden Erina felt less nervous than she usually was. To her surprise, the boy pleaded. "Please, don't tell anyone you saw me do that. I have to practice out here because at home my dad wants me to be a football player." The words came out in a hot rush despite the calculated look this boy's face sported. She was surprised at how husky his voice was. It was pleasant in a musky way. Then again, most of him reminded her of a forest in one way or another.

She was just starting to actually register his words when the boy continued, "I can't pick up anything because he wants me to practice all the time. I can't let him find out about this... I just can't." The black haired boy's voice cracked just then for an instant, causing Erina to immediately decide that she'd help him in any way she can.

This decision was solidified when the boy pulled up his shirt to reveal bruises upon well defined abdominal muscles. Those weren't caused by teenage girls, Erina judged based on the colour. For perhaps the first time in her life, she felt needed in a concrete way, and her lips pursed in determination.

"I... I won't!" she promised with real sincerity in her voice. Then she decided on going a step further and added, "Can I keep watching while you work?"

The boy looked horrified. He recoiled as if she had asked him to strip his clothes off, his hands automatically reaching for his pocket where a decidedly block shaped thing protruded from his jeans.

"Uh, you don't have to, if you don't want to. I mean, um, I'm sorry." Erina said this rather softly so as to assure the boy of her good intentions, only stammering a bit at the end.

After a few seconds of thought, the boy replied hesitantly. "Okay... by the way, you're orange. Is that goo?" Suddenly Erina remembered why she had chosen this way home in the first place, and stumbled about a bit in place, flustered in trying to explain while mouthing off words in a barely audible tone. He watched her for a bit with his big black eyes, surprised. However, instead of backing off like most people do when she got too worked up, he laughed. It was a long and deep laugh and it calmed her down in no time at all.

When he had finished, the boy put his hand out in friendliness. "I'm Tom, Tom Parker." Without even thinking Erina took his coarse hand with its long nimble fingers in her own, realizing that she had finally made a friend after six long months of being in this school.

*

A couple of months later, Tom and Erina sat in that same spot where they had first met. Erina had already started thinking of the place as emotionally indispensable while they boy just liked the peace and quiet there, according to his words.

He was working on his sculpture, as he called it. Erina liked watching him work and talk about his days. She had learned well enough that he liked to talk about his day. Sometimes Erina shared some snippets as well, but it was mostly Tom who talked.

She was glad that the way their school was set up prevented him and her from meeting in classes or in the hallway. It was a strange system that the school into three buildings, based on alphabetical order, but it meant that he didn't have to know about how she was treated in school by Rebecca's group or shunned by all others. To him, she was just good old Erina.

Not that Tom was particularly popular. He said that despite being a good player, he was barely tolerated by his teammates and others. Erina couldn't see how that could be true, for to her he was a wonderful person. Sometimes she tried to offer suggestions or encouragement to make Tom feel better about himself, but if she took it too far he would sometimes snap at her.

Erina was a smart girl and had learned to work around Tom Parker's temper rather early. Still, he could be extra irritable at times, and in those days she kept quiet and let him vent as his black eyes shined brightly with fire barely held in check. It happened only when he worked, hacking away at the block, which was now looking a bit like the figure of a woman.

She had never asked the boy what he was actually making, but she noted the improvements silently.

Erina was snapped out of the confines of her mind by Tom calling out her name while he wiped slight perspiration off his brow, smearing in with small particles of wood.

"I'm sorry, what?" she asked, eliciting a momentary change in his expression.

It disappeared in an instance and the boy, now dressed in a vest to accentuate his arms, said, "I... I was wondering if you, like, wanted to go out to the movies or to go hang out sometime." He had a strange look on his face, and avoided looking her in the eyes, electing instead to fidget about. For an instant Erina worried about him accidentally stabbing himself in the thigh with that knife of his, then she thought about pointing out to him that they were hanging out right NOW. Then she stopped dead in her tracks and her cheeks turned quite hot and probably a shade of red fit enough to compete with her hair. Even more naturally, she began to stammer quite incoherently for the next eternity or so. B-but, my hair, my freckles, my body, my clothes! I'm a shy mess! What is he even-

"Is... that a no?" asked Tom, his face set in a pout. He turned a bit to the side, looking off in the distance for a second before Erina could answer.

"No, of course i-i-it's not a no!" she somehow managed to say.

The boy smiled before pulling out his wooden figure and showing it to her. "Well, how about this," he offered, his deep voice soft and calm, "We wait until I finish this. I'm gonna make it look like you. If you think it's good enough, then we go out. Is that alright?"

He stood there with the figurine, shaped humanoid but still missing far too much detail for one to be certain. Right then and there Erina decided that it looked quite a bit like her. She started to say so but caught herself, realizing that she might not be the only one who needed a bit of time to prepare herself.

"Deal!" she said, still in a daze. Then the two sat back down, each a heated mess and trying not to show it. Erina barely remembered the rest of that day, except meditating on how Tom's hair looked like a coursing river when he brushed it from his face and being completely sure that she was the luckiest girl in the world, school and Rebecca be damned. She would take a hundred more bruises on her belly before she disliked this man's figurine.

*

A few months later, the long awaited day came.

Erina had gotten so used to Tom's presence after classes were done that she felt his absence like a sore thumb the rest of the day. Nothing else had changed for her but suddenly the girl felt like she was a few feet off the ground constantly. If anything, she had been let off the hook lately by the doom troopers, as if they sensed her inner happiness and wanted to steer clear from it.

At most, she had been hurled the occasional insult from time to time as she skipped past the orange lockers of her school's long straight hallways. This particular day the entirety of Rebecca Miller's entourage had been absent, and after school Tom had finally told her that he was ready to present her work to her. He asked if he could drop by her home and hang out for a bit and she readily agreed.

She went back home early and got out the clothes she had been saving up: a modest but cute green dress she'd gotten only a few months earlier. At seven, as she paced around the empty house nervously (her mother was out drinking with her friends) the doorbell rang. For an instant she panicked, knowing that the Parkers, with their ability to enrol their son at St Hert's normally, were wealthier than her own family and probably had a nicer house to show for it. Then she calmed down and told herself that she and Tom were far too close for that to come between them now. They had practically been in a relationship all along. Today would just make it formal and start the dating aspect of it.

The doorbell rang again then and Erina skipped through the simply furnished living room to stand just behind the door, breathing deeply. In and out.

The girl opened the door and there stood Tom, dressed smartly yet slightly casual, with a bag of snacks and soda in one hand. He smiled then and she had to resist the urge to fly into his arms right then and there before collecting herself and offering him a seat in the sofa while they "watched TV or whatever".

Tom insisted that he be the one to go into the kitchen and pour out the snacks and drinks while she got the TV ready. He came back with two cups of soda. "The orange one is yours." He said, offering her the cold beverage. She drank a bit, delighting as she did at the fizziness on her lips. They sat and watched some series or the other for a few minutes, talking only occasionally and nervously.

Tom complimented Erina's dress and she took the compliment gladly, happy that he noticed. The whole time she sat there, the girl's mind whirled as she fought the urge to squeal. She was practically desperate with the need for Tom to show her his figurine so she could show how...how much I love him.

The idea struck her like a thunderbolt, but she immediately knew it was true. She loved him. She almost turned around and said it right then and there, but Erina knew she didn't have it in her yet. What if it wasn't mutual? They needed to stay together longer, it was too early. She can't be creepy now, she needed to breathe. In and out.

Tom intruded into the girl's thoughts then. "I...have something to show you," he said, after checking his phone a few times. The television noise became a far off piece of background. She couldn't even focus on the screen, despite looking right at it.

"What is it?" she asked, knowing the answer as she asked but playing along. Was this how girls in movies felt? It was as if all the happiness and tension in the world were compressed into a hot ball and placed directly in her stomach. She felt like the butterflies were going to take her right off the couch they were nestled in and fly her off into a world where only the two of them existed. Before Tom, she had been so miserable, so tired of being afraid of girls just a year older than her. Erina couldn't believe she had let such things get in the way of happiness.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang once more. Erina sat up straighter, surprised. Nobody usually rang at this time. However, as she started up Tom looked over to her and grinned widely.

"It's my surprise for you," he said by way of explanation. The boy stood her up, told her to close her eyes, and walked her slowly and carefully towards the door. She kept her soft hands on his gruff ones, lined by working that knife of his as well as playing football. The feeling almost gave her Goosebumps.

Erina kept her eyes closed as Tom silently opened the door, not saying a word. His hand left hers for a second before he said, "Surprise!" with glee. Erina opened her eyes, wishing as she did that this day could last forever.

Then her hands shot to her mouth with a gasp.

Framed in the doorway were Rebecca Miller and her entire group behind her, smiling. Two of them giggled as tears came unbidden to Erina's eyes, blurring everything. She barely registered the buckets in their hands, filled with vile orange goo.

Tom went smiling next to Rebecca and she scratched at his head. "Good boy, you did exactly like I said, maybe there's hope for you after all... oh, look how surprised the poor thing is. I love it!" Her voice pierced through Erina despite coming in a soft low drawl. Her feral smile came again, almost unbidden.

Erina blinked in order to clear the nightmare away but it only came to crystal clarity as her tears spilled. Tom pulled out a wooden figurine from his jeans. It had hair painted red, a surprisingly good likeness. He let it hang over one of the buckets for a second, and then let it go. It plopped into the stinking orange goo.

The girl became light headed and remembered that he was the one who poured the drinks. As her world went black, she saw the black fire of his eyes as he looked at Rebecca intently, ignoring Erina entirely. He never looked at me like that.

I wish... I wish he didn't mean it. I wish he was tricked. I wish he'd looked at me like that.

# Story 18

Samantha Heap was addicted, and she loved every second of it.

When she was younger than one should remember, her parents read her the shortest of stories. Little ducklings floated around the world, and girls would eat porridge even if it was made for bears.

These readings were often conducted by her father and mother in tandem, for they both worked jobs that had them back early. Days passed, causing Kevin and Ruth to start looking for more complex stories for her. This didn't go well, for neither of them enjoyed reading much. However, things have a way of sorting themselves out, and words decided to make their way into Samantha's mind at an early age.

She started with kid's stories, things that were still simple, yet appropriate for someone perhaps a year or two older than her. There were tales from the brothers Grimm (though not the frightening kind), things of gingerbread men and animals and butterflies that spoke, and it was all more amazing than she could have ever imagined.

Ruth learned to keep the TV off because a story, even one she'd read before, would work as a better distraction for Sammy than anything else. As with words, glasses found their way onto the little girl's face soon enough, and parents often called her cute because of how she looked with pigtails in tandem with her ocular accessory. She didn't mind glasses very much at all.

One day, Samantha burst into her parent's room, absolutely livid. Still, she was well mannered and did not scream as many children would. "Mommy," she informed them, "I need another name."

At that, Ruth had giggled, which made the little girl, who was pacing back and forth, a little mad. "And why is that, sweetheart? What's wrong with Sammie?" she asked in a placating voice.

"Because it's a boy's name."

"A boy's name?" repeated Ruth, starting to understand.

"A boy's name. There's a boy bird called Sammy in this book." She showed Ruth and Kevin, who'd just returned from brushing his teeth in the bathroom. Sure enough, there it stood on the book's cover. The adventures of Sammy Jay. In her opinion, this was a betrayal, and one that had to be straightened out as soon as possible.

As Sammie kept pacing back and forth, she tripped on one of Kevin's things due to how dark the room was, and fell flat on her face upon the thankfully carpeted floor. Her father immediately scooped her up in his arms and tried to coo her, but his little girl's crying would not abate.

In a few seconds, Ruth was able to discover that Sammie was upset about having broken her glasses, and did not suffer from any physical injuries. "I can't read any more!" Samantha cried. Husband and wife gave each other looks, and promised Samantha that from now on, they would read to her at night until new glasses could be arranged for her.

That stopped the little girl's tears from getting Kevin's sleeping shirt any more wet, and she even apologized for it.

"Oh honey," he said, "I'm just glad you're okay, you could draw butterflies on my shirt and it would be okay!" That got her to giggle. Furthermore, Ruth told her, as they lay on the bed, her name was Sammie for Samantha, and the bird was called Sammy for Samuel.

"Samantha is a beautiful name, and has a great meaning," Ruth stated, and that was almost too much for the little girl.

Her eyes widened in disbelief, and she squeaked, "Names have meanings?"

Both parents nodded, and after a few minutes of searching on his phone and grumbling about how complicated of a name it was (although not too loudly) Kevin announced that Samantha meant "The flower which god listens to." Sammy eyed her flower patterned pink pyjamas in amazement. "This is the best day ever!" she exclaimed at last, hugging her parents and giving them plenty of kisses.

That night they read her parts from "Sammy Jay" and although Kevin had researched before buying he was still slightly surprised by the contents. For the next month, Kevin and Ruth read her stories every night, and kept doing so occasionally even afterwards.

Then came school. It was interesting because everyone seemed shy at first. Samantha took the role of a big sister, because she'd never been one before and admired such characters in stories. They always did the right thing and helped people who cried. Due to that, Sammie turned into a sort of rule enforcer in classes, and made sure that everyone played nice.

When someone didn't listen, like a certain big bully whose name won't be mentioned, she would go over and give him or her a piece of her mind. The same happened when one of the girls (whose name also shan't be mentioned, but she had long black hair and knows who she is) called poor Harry Hall dirty and didn't want to accept the pen he offered her when she'd forgotten her own. That had been a confrontation, but Samantha had gotten her that time by telling her that if she wasn't nice to Harry, he would give her a boring black pencil instead of a glittery pink one like she wanted. This started a long animosity between the two girls.

Sadly, despite her abilities with books, Samantha was unable to read the future. Thus she had missed two things, the first of which was that she would stay in the same school until graduation with that girl. Secondly, Lisa Baker would not only grow up to be substantially more attractive than her, but would also eventually become her best friend.

It happened one day in eighth grade, when Lisa and Samantha were word duelling as usual. Now, Samantha was the better when it came to an argument, but good looks had begun to play a certain role in boosting Lisa's self confidence, and she was extremely good at finding out when a nerve is struck. Just before the two escalated things, one of the blackhead's friends interjected and asked, "Are you going to, erm, go watch the Gatsby movie, Lisa?"

Samantha gave the girl a strange look. "They made a movie about that?" she asked.

"Ugh, don't butt in, glasses. I don't think so, Abbie. Doesn't seem like it's –"

"They're gonna blow it," lamented Samantha, who had by now forgotten what they were arguing about. She threw her hands in the air.

"...What?" Lisa looked lost, and Samantha thought about ignoring her and leaving to her musings, but then she told her all about Fitzgerald and the amazing work he did with The Great Gatsby. Without spoiling anything; she wasn't godless, after all. "They're gonna ruin it in the movie, I just know it," she stated, and the other girl blinked twice, then allowed a strong set to go to her delicate jaw.

"I'm going." It was a challenge, pure and simple, and Samantha took it right on by deciding to go too.

Needless to say, the movie was wonderful for both of them. Samantha offered a few weak hearted gripes about music interpretation and that scene where the actor (whatever his name was) had acted out a particular moment of pure rage in the book. Of course, she maintained that imagination is the best movie, and Lisa maintained that movies were wonderful. Samantha was surprised to see her rival read so deeply into the techniques used in the movie, and told her so. She didn't think Lisa had it in her.

"Hey, I'm not the blonde one here." The girl countered, infuriating Samantha. Still, a friendship of sorts blossomed between a movie lover and book lover slowly over time, and by graduation the argued often but in the way only best friends could.

Samantha noticed that Lisa turned less towards using her looks in order to make people like her, and she in turn toned things down with getting in people's faces about things that would sort themselves out eventually.

Then came university, and Samantha had to separate from many friends, including Lisa. The shapely hazelnut of a girl had decided to go away to film school, where she planned to learn how to be a movie director. There were some tears shed, and neither shied away from them. Samantha felt that crying things out helped to make you feel better about them later.

Due to not being entirely sure what she wanted to study, Samantha cast her fate with the die and ended up going for business. It was interesting enough for her, and she worked at the university library on the side

Every moment in the library was glorious. The smells, sights, and sounds that accompanied a book being opened were all amazing. Not being particularly tidy, Samantha didn't mind at all seeing books clustered and cluttered precariously atop one another. In fact, a messy sea of books was a personal fantasy of hers, and even fit her last name: Heap.

During that time, the girl discovered her love for bossing people around and ended up joining a number of research societies and clubs as a manager. People often listened when she said something, and Lisa had once said that her glasses made her eyes look huge and bug like, which scared people into agreeing. Samantha didn't believe her.

Up until then, Samantha entertained little interest in boys. She had many friends who were boys, and of course she thought highly of them, just like she did of her female friends. Nobody was going to call her a sexist.

Still, years of reading had created what the book brandishing girl thought of as unrealistic standards in men, and despite the people who approached her being decent human beings who respected her, Samantha could not be impressed. Nobody was going to cast a patronas identical to hers, no one was going to tell his slave friend that he wears the invisible ring of gold. It was equally unlikely that anyone was going to impress her by saving the world or having a personality akin to a fiercely pacing snow leopard. She would eventually have to settle for a good enough guy, but until her third year in university, Samantha wasn't intrigued by anyone in particular.

This was what she thought of as she sat against a big tree trunk in one of the university's spanning grass fields with a book on her lap one day. She looked out towards the main building, letting sunshine cause a certain sort of drowsiness more pleasant the sleep itself. Between her and that building, many groups lay upon the ground, sunbathing. Three guys were playing with a dog.

Samantha hummed to herself pleasantly, despite being off key. Out of the corner of her eyes, she spotted a tanned girl with long black hair and waved. Lisa waved back, dressed bright as usual in a turquoise top which began startlingly to come closer as the girl came sprinting towards her friend. The two hugged.

"It's been SO-"

"LONG!" said Lisa, before bombarding Samantha with a number of questions. The girl didn't answer, because she noticed that someone else was making his way towards them. A closely trimmed beard framed his face, almost making him look clean shaven, and he walked with an odd sort of confidence, as if he was only marginally sure of himself. The boy was dressed in one of those T shirts that parade about references, and as usual Samantha didn't get it. She could tell that he'd come with Lisa because he was looking right at them, although he seemed slightly sheepish at the attention.

"Come on, Jeremy!" yelled Lisa at him, making matters even worse. At that moment, the way his hair stood up might as well have been in anxiousness, and he covered his mouth with two fingers as if thinking or hiding a smile.

Samantha leaned a bit to the right and discretely said, "I didn't know you'd bring your boyfriend." In fact, Samantha hadn't known that Lisa had broken up with Phillip.

"He's a really good friend of mine, so play nice, okay? Well, you'll like him, so it's fine." retorted Lisa, ignoring her friend's implied question in its entirety. Samantha sighed, hoping that Jeremy Jahns, as Lisa introduced him, would play nice himself.

The girl was impressed in five minutes despite many things going over her head, such as the triforce thing he talked about. Jeremy had a way with self deprecating humour that pointed out, quite blatantly, that he was a nerd. Still, he knew his stuff, and his stuff was movies. He read books too, but he preferred his stories to be aided by visual and audio devices, which struck Samantha as a strange step back. Somehow by the time Samantha Heap noticed it, the sun had already sunk behind the dorms. So they followed into the dorms and had interesting and provocative talks that never got too serious

Somehow, whenever Samantha thought a certain something should be done (such as getting a large number of fizzy drinks) Jeremy would suggest the same. It seemed that he was excited to meet her too, at least a little. He suggested that they do a thing where they try to guess what books written this year would get adapted into movies, and how they would be done. He also got quite passionate when talking about video game movies, which were apparently a big thing in his life. As he spoke of character chemistry, she understood that it was exactly what they were experiencing here.

The next day, Jeremy and Lisa left. The girls had caught up, but Samantha still promised to visit soon. She also got Jeremy's contact details, feeling like a balloon filled with too much air and trying not to show it. It took a few months as well as a few more conversations for her to realize that she had a crush.

Instantly, she put a lid on it, because she still maintained her ideals about romance in real life being unable to compare against what she'd grown up reading about. She was bound to be disappointed if she went down that road.

Jeremy was nice enough, but that was it. Besides, the feeling probably went only one way.

Of course, the feeling hadn't gone one way, but Jeremy didn't end up being the one to start their relationship. It was a book that started it. It had a small quote about how love was about giving, not expecting. You should give and give, without expecting anything back. In order to get a love worthy of attention, the book stated, you needed to become worthy of the love yourself.

It didn't take much longer after that at all, and Jeremy even ended up waving a wand at her one day and trying to conjure a glowing animal. She hadn't even told him about it.

They would spend long hours together, where he would rewatch movies and she would reread books in the living room, letting a lazy afternoon sunlight fill their days of haze. When they missed out on social events, Lisa and other friends would shake their heads and tell the two that they were addicted. Which was true.

They were addicted, and they loved every second of it.

# Story 19

If there was one thing Eve had been cursed with, it had to be kindness to the point of naïveté.

Often the way we remember things is subjective in nature. Due to this simple fact, Eve had always been unaware of her first betrayal. She only began to notice such things far later into her life, but it must have had something to do with her parents.

Yes, she had been promised a treat in return for going to bed early. When she had padded quietly into her parent's room the next day, however, all the little girl got was shouts. She had skulked back into her room, a mess of PJ's and tears and hurt.

Naturally this was a happening of little significance to you or I, and perhaps Eve herself is unaware of its impact on her. Yet that was how this story of hers began and it would be an embellishment to claim it had happened any other way. Like a snowball rolling down a hill, this simple tale of disappointment and sadness would grow as it repeated itself countless times throughout her life.

In kindergarten, she had given a crying child one of her toys to cheer him up. His sight in tears had stirred something deep within her even then, and she'd realized that the sight of crying children was wholly unappealing on a fundamental level. This was a kind of epiphany only possible for one so young, and so she had been pleased to help.

Later, however, that same child kept her toy, went away and showed it to other children, leaving her crying sadly on the orange swing.

Similar scenes had repeated themselves like incessant voices clamouring for attention: In school she had been thought of as a pretender, and her efforts to bring people together when they argued had naturally gone completely unrewarded.

With time came no clarity, and Eve found herself always wondering why her concessions kept getting bigger and bigger. At times, the feelings had been akin to what you would get out of bribing yourself. Disgust with oneself, cheapness, hurt at how low you've come simply because you were willing to cut out neat little pieces of yourself and vend them out in exchange for other's short lived satisfaction. Often, people would make up and become friends, ignoring her hard work entirely.

Perhaps it was easier to make friends when you were loftier, she observed. Perhaps people took your willingness to give not at face value, but as weakness?

"Evie, you need to stop this..." a friend of hers had said once, pushing back her glasses onto her face for the third time that minute. They had been sitting alone in some corner of the playground, eating sandwiches. At that time, she had been ten years old and hardly prepared for realizations of that magnitude. "They're all saying that you'd do anything to make a friend. They're saying you're easy to use and stupid and desperate. I... I don't want my friend to be like that..." What had struck Eve the most was the phrasing. Not I don't want them to say that but I don't want my friend to be like that.

In time, Grace would drift off as well and Eve would become all alone for a while, at least until her parents divorced and made her move.

During the divorce, each of them had urged her to be on their side, tried to use her against each other. Now, we all know that divorces can sometimes be difficult things for all parties involved, foremost for the married couple themselves. Sometimes feelings run hot and words go up in flame, and perhaps even animosity may ensue.

Still, most of us are reasonable enough to agree that dragging your children into such a war is perhaps not the most fitting of plans. Her father and mother both had given her a list of things to say about their partner in court, along with why she thought it best that she not live with that particular parent in a post-divorce future.

Being unable to do so Eve had broken down in court and told the judge that she just wants her parents to get back together. Naturally her plea went unheard.

Later, both parents had expressed their disappointment at her outburst. Her mother had been particularly expressive, perhaps due to her situation. It might have been understandable, but to a twelve year old it couldn't justify the things she'd said.

In the end, her father was chosen to be her supporter and a move was scheduled. The move was certainly difficult emotionally, but to Eve that had been purely due to her having lost one of her two central pillars. By then, she had had precious few friends to lose.

In her mind, it was her own fault that she wasn't well liked. Self blame and guilt plagued over her everything, much like a cloud of toxicity apparent only when she sat alone in her room. Only then could metaphorical mustard gas reach her eyes.

In middle and high school, the same spiel would get repeated. Eve would meet people, they would use her, they would leave. Wherever groups formed she would get ousted. Again and again she heard the word, "stupid" used to describe her.

In order to express herself, Eve took to drawing. Landscapes and nature had been her specialty, and she found in such a hobby an excuse to take to forest parks. There she sat alone, at times for evenings at a time as she went somewhere in the hills and mountains surrounding her city. It created a sort of duality in her life, a mirror image of her own unhappy existence at school and in her own tired home.

She especially loved drawing birds, and in them she saw a special kind of beauty. By then Jack (she had given up on calling him dad a year earlier) had tired of seeking a wife to help him raise his daughter and had moved on to shorter term relationships.

At school , Eve's keen sense of emotion was turning against her. She found that people became unsettled due to how in tune she was with them and how she could tell when they were feeling sad. It seemed that such people became disconcerted with her knowledge, and lashed out at her in anger. At other times, when what ailed them was known, her help and understanding were welcomed then swiftly tossed aside.

This was the case with a boy called Robert in ninth grade. To him she was the sole companion after his grandmother had passed away. His complaints and fond memories fell on her keen ears for hours on end, and she would even draw portraits of scenes he described, much to his pleasure. When the hurt had passed, however, he began to find little excuses to meet with Eve less often, until he began to ignore her altogether.

In a way, people began to treat Eve much like a dumpster. They would use her to unload their burdens or complaints, then turn around and leave. Perhaps it was because she offered no criticism. To her, talking to others who were in such a state was more about healing their emotional wounds than it was about fixing their problems. Only sometimes would she offer advice, choosing far more often to focus on their emotional well being either by flooding them with positive 'pick me ups' or by simply being there for them.

Where people hurt, she went. Girls crying in bathrooms would find a shoulder to lean on and boys sitting alone silently after being unable to sleep would be offered candy and a smile just as sweet.

More than anything, Eve was able to become a pillar of support for others due to her positivism and kindness: she was always able to see the best in people. In her drawings, this was crystal clear: In a drawing where both nature and people existed, everything near these humans would be enhanced. Closer to their feet reds and violets of flowers took on an almost unnatural sheen, due to an inherent beauty in people's souls which could only be described as magical.

In time Ever had started to believe what people said about her. She was weak, dependant, unable to defend herself because in her mind all their accusations were founded. After enough back stabbings it became difficult to draw beautiful fields. The magic began to fade, and seeing how ugly her drawings had become hurt the girl.

Day upon day had passed with Eve being able to make some friends but being generally left out of larger groups. School went by in the blink of an eye, then college a few seconds later. In what felt like a minute, she was working as a consultant in an environmental law firm, making the most out of her ability to sympathize with others and trying to help society as a whole. Two metaphorical birds, one stone. Despite the obvious reference to the destruction of wildlife, Eve enjoyed the metaphor.

Then she had met him. I wish I were able to speak of him clearly, to explain how he looked or what his inner personality had been like, but I cannot due to the red hot glare in Eve's mind. If I were to describe him as she remembers, he would have nine heads and three tails and no heart. He would be as tall as a mountain and with a frail thread of a conscience. He would be a terrible monster that thought nothing of tearing villages asunder as he passed through them, and his name would undoubtedly be Beelzebub.

To spare you the terrible experience of imagining such a beast, I will not describe him. Instead, I shall simply tell you that when Eve met him, he was nice to her. This man had a way with words that had swept her off her feet, you could call it a charm of sorts.

Compliments have a way of getting to people who have problems with their self image, and Eve was no exception. He called her beautiful and kind and smart, and for the first time since she was a child, the woman began to believe that maybe she was.

This faith of hers was a small kernel of hope set within a large globe of gray doubt. It was far more important to her that he believed it to be true. This person was not like other boys, who had simply wanted to use her kindness to steal kisses and had stormed off after her fearful reluctance. This was a person with whom she'd felt her frail exposed heart would be safe. Thus she had allowed her confidence and care to grow, swell even. Within a year she was madly in love and her heart was on her sleeve, a large exposed home warm enough for three set against a sky pink with the light of a setting sun. That was when her faith in people began to grow again. He needed her just as she needed him.

During their relationship he had lost weight, grew more groomed, learned to love himself better. In time he gained promotion after promotion until he was a regional manager. During this time, she stood by him every step of the way, supporting him.

Never had Eve been so happy to feel someone else's emotions. The only next step was for them to move in together, and he had been reluctant. One day he had a meeting out of the country. He needed this opportunity, he'd said in the romantic restaurant he had taken her to. He wouldn't be able to go with her to the scan that day. Despite her sadness, her wish for him to be with her, Eve had gladly agreed. Anything for him.

And so it was that he left. He had sent an email, explaining curtly that he wasn't coming back. He had changed, he'd said. Her lover had thanked her for everything that had lead to his betterment of situation, but he didn't think that who he was now would be right for her. He needed something else. She was free to do as she wished with the baby.

*

"Where are you going?" asked Eve sharply, her head poking out from the kitchen's doorway. A shortish fifteen year old let out a frustrated sigh before turning around and looking at her, eyes already mid roll.

"Movies, mom!" she said in apparent annoyance.

That was close, the girl had actually been close to sneaking out of the house successfully. Her daughter was getting far too rebellious for her own good, Eve understood.

She needed to be put in her place in this safe environment, lest something far worse happen to her down the line. Having been a lawyer for close to sixteen years now, the single mother had learned well enough how to think fast on her feet. She did so now, stirring pasta sauce all the while as she asked, "Who are you going to the movies with? What are you going to see?" A pause, then for good measure, "When is it?"

Kathy sighed, knowing that something unpleasant was going to happen, yet not sure what. The girl skulked off in her brown sweater to a nearby couch, facing away from both the door and her mother.

She rattled off the names and one made Eve frown. Was her little girl still friends with that one, after coming home crying one day because of her? The by now almost forty year old tried to think up a reason why her daughter couldn't go. It took her a second, but then she said, "No, you can't go."

Naturally, Kathy was outraged and wanted to make a fight out of it. Eve could tell how strongly the girl wanted to go out this day. They argued back and forth from different rooms, her in her kitchen smelling mainly of ready bought sauces and beans, Kathy from the living room with its simple furnishing.

Both woman and girl allowed their voices to grow steadily louder until they were a few words away from bellowing at each other. At the end of it, Kathy complained that her mother never let her do anything. She felt more like a bird than a human being, she explained.

In retort, Eve exclaimed suddenly, "No! I said you can't go! I've spoken to your teachers, and ever since you started to befriend these girls your grades have been falling! Don't you want to be successful? And that one called Sarah, isn't she the one whose birthday you went to and came back crying from?"

Kathy went silent, the wind taken out of her sails. She sat back down and in turn Eve went to her from the kitchen, ignoring her now slightly burning sauce. This beautiful tweeting bird, shoulders looking small and frail with pent up anger coiled about glass shards of hurt, was the most precious thing that had ever existed. She could not allow her to be hurt or abused as she herself had been. Thus, she needed to be clear with her, and dinner be damned.

Eve took her daughter's warm cheeks in her hands and kissed her forehead, then hugged her tight. "Sweetheart," she whispered softly. She had rarely known her advice to come this tenderly. "My poor poor girl, you are the sweetest person in the world. You are kind and sure and deserve the best..." for a second the scene before her changed and Kathy disappeared. If only the best existed. Eve's voice went hard. "There are very few people like you in this world, my sweet bird. You will fly free soon enough, once you're ready. You'll go far and wide and you'll see-" that I'm the only one who will care about you.

"These girls, especially Sarah, they're only inviting you this late because they want something from you. She refused your gift at that party because she knew what I do for a living. Aren't you always buying the popcorn and things for them when you go out together? You said it once. One extra big bowl for all of you."

Kathy began to protest weakly. "Yeah, but that was-"

"Inexcusable. They just want your money, sweetheart. If it wasn't for that, they wouldn't have invited you." At that, her daughter looked as if she had been slapped. "You don't believe me? Call and say you can go, but that you don't have any cash. Or you can go to your room. It's your choice."

Meekly, defeated completely, Kathy went to her room. She almost bumped into the corridor wall as she turned left on her way back. These arguments happened quite often and almost always ended with the younger one's defeat.

Eve felt sad for her little one, being so unable to face the truth. She wondered how she could cheer her up. Perhaps a little surprise dessert would do the trick. That needed a trip to the supermarket. Eve wondered if they had any of Kathy's favourite cherry pie today.

Suddenly, her phone rang. It was her boss, informing her she was in charge of choosing somebody out for an important case. She sighed after hanging up. This was the hard part of her job, trying to sift through all those people wanting to get closer to her just for things like these. It was one of the headaches she only learned of after leaving that environmental nonsense and joining a proper law firm.

The next day at work was anything but pleasant. Apparently word had gotten out early that she was the one in charge of choosing someone for the case, and Eve could feel the heavy weight of expectation attached to each person she spoke to. It was a thread of pure steel woven into their words.

Paul thought he deserved the job due to his long years of service. If it were about seniority, he whispered, he earned it. Perhaps he could let go of some particularly good jobs he was currently working on just to leave space on his plate for this.

Jane whispered over coffee, eyes moist, that her relationship with her husband wasn't going so well. Perhaps the move would do both of them good.

One overeager yet promising intern even went so far as to brag that his grandmother came from that particular rural town, and hinted that such things could sometimes make a big difference in earning a client's trust.

It was all a headache to deal with, and Eve was already almost certain of who she was going to choose for the job. It didn't particularly matter that Sam hadn't applied for it, he was the most qualified. So she filed the paperwork from her spacious and well-furnished office late the next week. Here, comfort was key: even her office chair was designed to allow long hours of sitting without causing any back pain at all.

Eve practically called this office her second home, and it was primarily what afforded her the opportunity to give Kathy the best life she could. There was not a thing the girl went without if Eve could help it.

Financially successful women could be recognized from a hundred meters away, apparently. It was ridiculous, the lengths to which beggars went to grovel at her feet. In disgust, Eve pulled her trench coat tighter around her to better repel the rain and made her way around them, ignoring each one.

She hardly even looked at them now. They were probably going to meet up later, each street with its gang of beggars drinking the night away, laughing about how many people they'd fooled out of their hard earned cash. Well, she was no fool.

Eve went home as usual and had another argument with Kathy, this time about a boy who was supposed to come over and study. Eve completely forbade it unless she was present in the house and they studied in the living room. The only reason she'd agreed at all was because this particular paired study system was something one of Kathy's teachers had told her about. To top it all off, her daughter said in quiet tones, "Sarah and the others aren't talking to me anymore."

"Good, best to cut the bad fruit away."

A week after that, Eve received a call at her office. Sam was reluctant to take the job, despite better pay and all the other added benefits. Whoever it was on the other end of the line was halfway through explaining Sam's reasoning when Eve started yelling.

She explained reasonably, if in a heated manner, that Sam was her choice for multiple reasons and that in this company, people needed to be able to take risks if they wanted to make it. Then she hung up after being told that yes, of course Mister Shou was going to take the job and no, she wouldn't need to be bothered again on his behalf. She got off the phone, rubbed her throbbing temple absentmindedly, and for the first time in forever thought about how long it had been since the last time she drew anything.

There were pens and papers everywhere, but Eve doubted she could do it anymore. Besides, there was hardly anything worth drawing. Luckily she had a treadmill in her office, and so could take care of stress in no time. That day the sun shined, although beggars prowled through street after street relentlessly.

Next week, on a Tuesday, Eve came back home far later than usual, takeout in hand. Their large apartment door was locked, of course, but she was surprised to find a dark living room.

"Kathy?" she called softly into the unlit space, searching about for the light switch. After a bit of searching she found it, for she was rarely home and Kathy turned the light on here every evening. Yet she did not reply to her mother's call this time. Maybe she's already asleep.

Eve went to her daughter's room right away and found it empty. The room was neat, the only thing on her desk was a small inconsequential notebook, which turned out to be a diary. I didn't know she kept one, thought Eve absentmindedly. She was more preoccupied with her daughter's whereabouts than anything else. She tried calling her a few times but nobody picked up. The school administration answered, but the secretary said that they really didn't keep tabs on where children went after leaving school.

Not an hour passed before she called the police. A useless man with a fat sounding name picked up. Jim's voice was all nose, and his attempts to calm her down hardly worked at all. In the end, he firmly toll her that you can't say your kid is missing an HOUR after not finding them at home. It was a waste of resources. "Teenagers were like that," he said. He was sure "Catie" would be back in no time.

At first the buffoon had thought she had been talking about a cat, so breathless with fright she was. What kind of person calls the police over a cat anyways?

She had hung up and spent her time worrying, devising punishments for when Kathy came back. Then she worried some more, her mind conjuring the most horrible situations for her innocent little tweety bird to get caught up in.

The city streets were no place for a teenager, especially not at this time. And her daughter had never done anything like this. What if she had been kidnapped, or worse? Eve slept in Kathy's room.

The next day, having slept a total of five minutes and tried her daughter's phone (which by now was dead) at least a dozen times more, Eve called the police again.

This time they thankfully took her crying complaints far more seriously, and had people over within the hour, although they were still there mostly for a statement and to calm her down. Then when the school had confirmed that Kathy hadn't shown up, more police officers came.

A detective looking person took charge and asked her many questions. She told him all she knew, gave him pictures, tried her best to piece together memories. It all seemed in vain somehow.

While she waited (and the police did their job looking) Eve did her own little bit of searching around. The city was too big and too full of people for her to be successful, but the mother still hoped that a glimpse would come to her rescue. A glimpse was all she needed, born of destiny or mother's instinct or anything at all.

When she had looked until she'd become exhausted her two police companions took her home. There she went to her room and found that notebook again. She must have been so flustered she'd taken it with her in there, as she was pacing. There it lay on her bed, pink and with a golden lock, left sprung open. She took to it.

The lines were neat and smartly written. Each entry was titled, "Dear little birdy", and detailed Kathy's days rather well. On some pages cages were drawn. Those pages were the ones where Kathy spoke of her arguments with Eve, and although they were mostly about little nothings every single sentence Eve had said was quoted.

Reading them, the mother could hardly believe that she'd uttered such horrible things. It was shocking. It was always about keeping her safe from everybody else in the world, wasn't it? When had she herself turned into her daughter's enemy? I always thought she would understand in time. It was the best for her. The words were never meant to hurt...

Eve turned to the last page. "Dear little birdy," it stated simply, "Today I'm going to break free. She'll never find me."

There, that was it. The simple and harsh truth of it.

At that instant, her phone rang. It was work. She answered, feeling quite numb. "Hello?"

"Hello, Ma'am." The person checked that he had the right number first. "I'm calling from HQ. You weren't in your office today so... We're with employee satisfaction. It seems a mister... Sam Shou. Yeah that's it."

"Yes?" It really wasn't time for this, but she sensed a certain gravity from the voice.

"He, well. Apparently you pushed him into taking on a job, threatened to fire him if he didn't move for it, despite his family issues. His frail mother apparently fell down the stairs yesterday. Broke her neck, the poor thing. He just quit, says he's going to sue..." The rest of it was left in the air like a cloud of poison. As she felt now, Eve thought it might as well have been.

"That... I didn't know," she said, the words sounding hollow. She hadn't asked. Her breath almost caught. "Well, look, my daughter is missing so this really isn't the best time for this. I need to be with the police right now."

It was a man on the other side of the line, one with a deep southern accent. His calm businesslike manner disappeared for an instant, but he got it back together. "Jesus, I, uh, I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am. Nobody at your department told me, or one of your closer friends at work."

"I don't have any." Even to herself, her voice sounded hurt and alone.

Eve wondered if she was cursed or something.

# Story 20:

Mark Sinek hated animals above all else.

Actually, that might be a bit much. It was much more apt to say that Mark, who was pushing thirty, was a grumpy man in general. This grumpiness reached its upper limits when he saw animals, and he often wished that people would just stop it with the "cute animal" thing. It wasn't fair to treat some creatures better just because of how they looked, and it infuriated him to see activists write something like "Animals are better than people."

He told this to Jessica, as they sat together for lunch. Jessica had skin thick enough to make armour out of, and thus chuckled.

"I'm serious. There's no future for a planet full of idiots preoccupied with things being cute," He exclaimed in disgust. Jessica, who was dressed in clothes ritzy enough to warrant attention but professional in that a second glance was enough, pulled her phone back a bit towards her on the table. Her reddish hair was up in a bun, and Mark wondered if she actually needed glasses or just wore them to appear like less like an object of attention.

Some people craved attention, but not her. It was one of the things that made her his friend. She feigned a confused look, but Mark knew that deep in her heart, her eyes were rolling fit to impress a mud wrestler.

"Is that, um-"

"What?"

"- a no on seeing another picture of Prince Maximilian The Second?"

"Jessica..."

"Yes, my dearest and most true friend in the whole wide world?"

A sigh escaped him, and she looked at him with puppy eyes, which annoyed him even more. "...Show me the damn dog," he relented, and she whooped, knowing full well he hated that as well. Whooping was the female equivalent to wolf whistling, as far as he was concerned.

Instantly Jessica's phone was up again and an image looked him right in the face.

The dog was black, big, and mean looking. It was also dressed in a pink tutu, and looked as if it was itching to get out of it. PMTS was, in Mark's eyes, better served being called something like the undertaker, or Grog. Still, he nodded along as Jessica told him some trivia about the dog, because at the end of the day she was his friend and knew exactly what he thought without needing him to hammer the point in.

In a few minutes, the conversation went to other topics, and they eventually had an extremely interesting discussion about the particulars of equalizing pay between genders. Of course, no real solutions were reached, because neither Jessica nor her slightly pot bellied friend were in a position to change anything at all.

Still, it was a nice lunch, and Mark told Jessica for perhaps the umpteenth time to stop ordering chicken salads every day. She laughed.

"Sure thing, pops," she teased him as they went their separate ways.

Mark lived close to the river, and so he would walk along it to go home. As he went that day, a jogger gave him a smile, which he returned politely. When he noticed her looking more intently, however, the admittedly quite handsome man steeled his gaze and cast it straight ahead. Flirting wasn't really his thing, but to each his own. There have to be people who found someone truly special through flirting.

The thought didn't stay on his mind for long, and his attention returned to the river and trees. It was summer, which admittedly wasn't that warm in his city, but sunshine had a way of making nature seem even more beautiful than usual.

A big breath of pure relaxation escaped him as he took in sights and smells and sounds. If he just let his mind drift for a bit, Mark felt he could just walk out of the city and into the surrounding forest, where he often hiked with friends.

As he neared his apartment, the man turned left, leaving the flowing river behind. Mark Sinek would have liked to sit on a bench and relax, for he was somehow done with work early and the hotel wasn't going to need him today.

Still, there were times to reflect on nature, and then there were times to relax at home and do absolutely nothing. Mark was an accountant and enjoyed his job immensely, but he thought now was one of those times.

As he neared the renovated building, Mark wished for nothing more than a solid few hours of sleep, followed by a few hours of a series. Maybe he would even work out for once, and get rid of that budding belly of his. Then he glimpsed something small and grey by the doorway and stopped dead in his tracks.

It was small and frail, and tried its best to get up that single step to the door. It turned around to look at him, and they eyed each other for a bit.

"Nyan," it stated in expectation. Mark could have sworn its eyes grew bigger.

His face went sour, and his mind ran through the possibilities. Tiny cats, he was told, must not be touched, lest they be abandoned by their parents. He might not like the animal, but there was no reason to doom it.

The idiot would probably brush by his feet as he tried to get in, and that was enough for his scent to stick. He looked down at his work pants, complete with brown shoes. Were they fresh, or had he worn them earlier that week?

"Cats don't nyan, they meow," he told the thing. Would his smell stick if he kicked it across the street? The image made him chuckle.

"Meow," replied the cat. Smartass.

Mark scratched at his neatly trimmed beard. "Gotta do better than that. Try saying woof."

"...Nyan?"

Mark laughed before he could catch himself. "See? I knew you didn't have it in you. Now shoo." He pointed towards a nearby trash bin. The kitten followed his finger with its gaze, but stayed firmly in place, blocking his way to sweet sleep.

The accountant tried his best to get the damned thing to move, first with goading, then using threats, but to no avail. This is why it annoyed him when people said cats were smart, this one could probably try and fight a can of tuna just because of the fish on the label.

That gave him an idea, and Mark pulled his pen out. With a cooing noise, he tossed the pen unto the floor next to the step. The kitten looked at it, then moved. It got up and after a few confused attempts, managed to get down the step. It padded in what Mark was sure it thought was a majestic manner, in order to inspect this strange new inky opponent.

Taking the chance, the accountant scrambled towards the door, got inside, then shut it behind him before his stalker could get at him. There he stood, with his back against the door, panting. Fifteen minutes, it had taken him. He mumbled angrily all the way up the elevator to the eighth floor, where his apartment sat waiting for him like an old friend at the train station.

Mark had a nice place, boasting many comfortable sofas set around a TV (Sofas were the only type of chair he acknowledged), a nice kitchen in the living room with one of those table cupboard things (or were they counters?) built right into the pale brown wooden flooring, as well as a precarious spiral set of stairs in the middle, curling around a pillar and taking him to his bedroom. Why a single man needed all that, Mark didn't know. He did, however, know that he was glad to be living here.

Everything was wood, and it gave him a sense of relaxation at being this close to something natural. He imagined that if one of his ancient ancestors saw this place, he'd be horrified at what was done to the trees. People back then saw nature differently.

Just as expected, Mark didn't sleep. Instead, he watched so many episodes of a series that it made him feel guilty. I should work out, he thought to himself. Somehow, he actually got motivated as he reflected on how much of an imprint he'd made on the white sofa, and did a few sit ups and push ups. When that was done, he decided to go for a jog by the river.

It was getting dark, but that would give him more peace to think. Besides, it would be a full moon. Just a couple of kilometres, he thought as the main character on TV said something cheery. He didn't like her, but the other characters were pretty fun.

Thus Mark dressed in his jogging clothes, which had not seen much use and were slightly tight against his stomach. Strange how you could gain weight in one spot, he reflected. The rest of him was still thin, but that belly had to go.

Mark made his way down in a grey sweater and pants, matching his shoes of course. He often liked to mismatch socks on purpose, mainly for shock value, and today he had on a red sock on the right foot and a blue on the other.

As he went down the stairs instead of the elevator (and almost regretted it by the third floor) he hummed to himself. Completely innocently, he opened the front door, took a breath of crisp night air, strode forward- and tripped on something small and fluffy.

"Oh blagh!" he exclaimed as he rolled on the pavement.

"Nyan!" replied the kitten, and Mark rose slowly to his feet. He cursed at it, and it meowed again. Then he thought about whether it was injured. It didn't look like it was hurt, but it sure looked hungry.

"Why don't you just go home, dumb cat?" he demanded of it, and the small grey thing eyed him. Its head turned sideways, as if in thought. Then it licked its paw. Good enough. "It's your fault, you know," he added. It shouldn't have stood there at the doorway. What if poor Mrs Wallstein from apartment seventeen had tripped on it instead of him? It was a miracle that lady was still alive as is, he thought crossly as he went back upstairs and got a bowl of milk for the cat as an apology. "If you see Mrs Wallstein, stay away, you hear?" he told it. He needed to invite the lady over again sometime for dinner, and a death due to tripping over cats would ruin that.

"Meow," it replied, and Mark left it there and went for his jog. Of course, he couldn't concentrate on anything at all, for it occurred to him that since he'd tripped on the cat, it probably couldn't go to its mother anymore. It was chilly, for summer. What if the thing had to sleep alone in the cold because it smelled like him? Another thought came then. What if it was already all alone?

Had it been older, Mark wouldn't have cared. Wild things need to live wild, it could fend for itself, catch rats or something. But this kitten was obviously a baby. It wouldn't be right...

When he rode the elevator upstairs, Mark had the grey cat in his arms. He placed it in a corner with some milk and water, upon a few old blankets he didn't use anymore. "Look," he told it, "You need to get out tomorrow okay? You can't get me with cuteness, I'm no idiot. This isn't going to be a long term thing. No freeloading or dirtying my house, and stay here, on the blanket." The kitten mewled in agreement, and thin accountant headed off to bed.

Next morning, Mark was awakened by the feeling of something spongy and wet touching his nose and eyes multiple times. Bleary eyes saw a cat licking his face. He glared at it, but it looked unconcerned with his ire.

"That's it, get out," he stated suddenly.

"Meow?" the cat asked in alarm, but Mark Sinek ignored it. The tall man took the cat down the stairs and across his living room, placed it gingerly outside his apartment door, and then shut it behind him. "Meow?" It inquired again, then exclaimed, "Nyan!" in what could have been a pleading tone. The man ignored it, and steeled his will, still leaning against the door. Somebody else was going to pick it up, if he just stayed strong. A cat wasn't going to take advantage of him. Just stay strong.

Mark hardly lasted a minute before putting the cat back inside. After work, he got a few extra things for it, such as a litter box and specialized food. The week after that, he finally caved in and gave it a name. Apollo, because of how much he wanted to launch it into outer space.

The kitten would follow him around at times, then disappear suddenly for a long time. Once he actually thought it had left for good, and after his initial glee he felt as if his apartment was missing something. Then Apollo reappeared, and after hugging it for a bit he told it to stay gone next time.

Mark grumbled a lot, but having a cat was good for grumbling. He could just blame it for things like the milk going bad, or the neighbours being loud, or the spaghetti getting burnt. It would always look indignant when its owner did that, as if it actually understood and was refuting his every word. At times, it would sit on his lap as he watched TV, or come out to greet him when he came back from work, and he would feel at peace.

Then one day, his doorbell rang. It was a Sunday, and he was feeling still lazy in his Pyjamas despite it being eleven already. "Yeah?" he asked, a yawn filling his mouth as he tried to speak into the intercom.

"Open up, it's Jess!" came a cheery voice. Oh no. Oh god no. Mark's heart sank like a boat with five holes in it.

"Just give me a second to tidy up!"

She laughed, "We're too close for that, open up!"

She was right. He buzzed her in. Eight floors. Jessica wouldn't let him hear the end of it if she caught him with a pet, not after all he'd ever said on the topic.

Immediately he sprang into action, He hid all the cat things in his room upstairs, then stuffed Apollo (comfortably) into his sock drawer. "Do not make a sound, you hear? I'll sell you," he said. He'd gotten better at making the cat listen to him, and it nodded. Mark closed the drawer, leaving a crack for his new flatmate to not panic.

In seconds Jessica knocked on his door, and he opened as naturally as he could. She had brought a cake with her. "Steven's out of town for work, and I thought you'd like the company." She said.

"Yeah, thanks," he answered, trying to keep his calm. Was this what his life had devolved into? Hypocrisy?

They talked for a while, shared some cake, and joked around. She told him how much she missed Steven, and Mark assured her that he'd be back in no time at all. He knew how much she cared for her husband. "I know..." she said miserably, "But I just feel useless without-"

"Meow." Stunned silence took over for an instant, and both friends went very still.

"Mark, what was that?" mouthed Jessica slowly. He could see the shock in her face, and tried feigning ignorance.

"What was w-"

"Nyan?"

"That. What was that, Mark." Her expression held such an amazed smile that Mark chuckled nervously. It was like Christmas had come early for her. He waited long enough for a cat to purr again. Nothing.

"I don't kno-"

"Nyan!" insisted Apollo.

"God dammit!" he exclaimed. Jessica went into full investigator mode faster than you could say, "I don't have a cat". She listened quietly, heard, then moved a few steps closer to her quarry as Mark trudged along in horror.

Eventually, she reached the drawer, and opened it. She picked up Apollo and turned, full of glee. "Mark? What's this?"

There was no way around it, because just then the cat mewled again.

Within a month, Mark added another cat to his apartment, because Jessica was worried PMTS would do something to it. That one he called Vacuum, because it sucked. He raised these two cats, and they found a new home with him. More than anything, Mark tolerated them, because he was not one to go all gooey eyed over cute animals. He reminded himself of that every time they licked his face or sat on his lap peacefully as lazy sunlight broke against the window, shattering in a thousand directions. With all the wood and the animals in his apartment, sometimes it felt like he was in a forest.

It was at those times that Mark had to remind himself that he, in fact, hated animals.

###

Thank you for reading my book! It's a great honour that you took the time to do so. I hope that you were entertained, and perhaps even felt something. That would be more than I could have ever dreamed of.

# Connect with Meredith Miller

Thank you for reading my book. I hope you enjoyed it

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