grxmx: Issue 2 (December 2021)

HIEMS DECEMBER 2021 (2) PRINT & DIGITAL £7.50 DIGITAL £5.00

grxmx UNCHAINED Dan Shpyra Upcoming book releases for 2022

SOLOMON SAYS...

BO

UNMASK THE MURDERER

BY FABLE BLAKE

ATCH W O T OK

a worldwide creative collection.

Explore the debut collection from Timothy Eric Stevens

Meet Timothy Eric Stevens, author of debut short story collection, Solomon Says

Read a selection of worldwide poetry submissions.

EXPLORE THE MANUSCRIPTS OF THE MIND WITH JESSIE J’NG

Alyss wished she could have seen their divorce coming.

Will needed to see a better future.

Harrie was desperate to see anything ...

grxmx magazine December 2021 Issue 2 Digital Singular: £5.00 Annual: £10.00 Print & Digital Singular: £7.50 Annual: £20.00 Editor-in-Chief Elle Stanley Editors Jean Francis Olivia Eriksen Jessica Pollock Ghost & Ribbon Ltd GLfifty, The Limes Bayshill Rd Cheltenham Gloucestershire GL50 3AW grxmx@ghostandribbon.com marketing@ghostandribbon.com editorial@ghostandribbon.com Ghost & Ribbon Ltd, Cheltenham www.ghostandribbon.com grxmx magazine print three issues a year of creative content from around the world.

Copyright © Ghost & Ribbon Ltd 2021

The Gift of a novella

All rights reserved. No part of this magazine may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

ISSN 2753-1465 (Print) ISSN 2753-1473 (Online) Typesetting and Design by Ghost & Ribbon Ltd Printed in the United Kingdom.

Foresight

raven knox Available on ghostandribbon.com and Amazon in standard and large print.

UNMASK

12

THE

MURDERER Fable Blake

JESSIE J’NG

26

Happy New Year!

2022 is almost upon us and we can finally say goodbye to 2021. As we all know, the past few years have been a struggle, but a positive mindset

IEF

EDITO R I A L

EDITOR-IN-C H

and active creativity are needed now more than ever to aid the progression of our mental health. This time, we have some returning writers as well as some new, a variety of words with one thing in common: the themes of hope, progress and learning spring to mind and this is something we can all take with us into 2022. With many changes occuring at Ghost & Ribbon over the coming year, we hope that your lives flourish and bloom and that you all keep creating!

Elle

4

contents 9

Color Veia

22

To That Tomorrow Evan Resnick

10

A Lifesaver Jennifer Bell

29

The Ordinary V. Lang

19

The Love of My Dad Bhargav Pandit

44

A Poetry Collection Alisha Bose

20

Unchained Dan Shpyra

46

Events Listings

CONTRIBUTORS

Alisha Bose – Jennifer Ball – Jessie J’ng – V. Lang – Bhargav Pandit – Evan Resnick – Dan Shpyra – Timothy Eric Stevens – Veia

meet the author: Timothy Eric Stevens

Background image: Geran de Klerk

MEET THE AUTHOR A Q&A SESSION WITH TIMOTHY ERIC STEVENS Who are you?

My name is Tim Stevens and I live on the beautiful island of Crete. I was a Facilities Manager until I took early retirement in 2018. I have put together a twovolume short story collection of Modern Morality Tales entitled Solomon Says. Each story is based on an Old Testament quotation from the Book of Proverbs.

What do you do when you’re not writing?

I live in a small house in a small village. I renovated the building over many years and it is a lovely space in which to live. However, it seems to require an extraordinary amount of maintenance. When I’m not doing that, I enjoy sitting in the shade and watching the sheep wandering through the olive groves on the hills opposite.

Why do you write?

I just love the process of turning abstract thoughts and ideas into actual words on a page. It somehow makes concepts real and tangible.

How did you come up with the idea for Solomon Says Volume 1?

I had long wanted to write a short story collection, but didn’t want to produce sixteen random and unconnected tales. Seeking an overarching theme to draw the individual stories together, I had the idea of basing the stories on biblical quotations and the Solomon Says project was born.

Why did you choose that title?

Choosing the title was the easiest part of writing the book. The Book of Proverbs is popularly supposed to have been written by King Solomon, so the title suggested itself.

Where is your favourite place?

Crete is the obvious answer; however, as I gradually explore other parts of Greece and its islands, the scenery and the settings are generally superb. Outside of Greece, I found the Old Town in Prague to be a magical place and I look forward to returning one day.

How often do you write?

When I get the urge, I have no choice but to write.

The words seem to queue up inside me and I get no relief until I release them onto the page.

What inspires you?

The vast majority of the short stories that make up the two volumes of Solomon Says contain reallife experiences – whether that be things that have happened to me or to people I know, or perhaps just an overheard snippet of conversation on a train. One of the short stories is based on a single off-the-cuff remark made by a friend over twenty years ago.

What is your favourite book? Recently or of all time.

I’m a huge John Le Carre fan. A Perfect Spy is possibly the perfect espionage novel.

Do you have a favourite word?

I’m very fond of the word ‘contumely’, but I don’t think I have ever in my life heard anybody say it out loud!

Do you have a favourite quote?

“I’m Brian. And so’s my wife.” (Gotta love those Pythons.)

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How important is reading and literature to you?

I can’t imagine a world without books. Quite apart from the entertainment value, is there any other means of expanding both one’s knowledge and one’s understanding? I don’t think so.

Tell us the main message behind your publication or the reason why you wrote it?

The stories contained within Solomon Says are all very different. Different genres, different styles and written from different viewpoints. I think the main message is that, however far removed the story appears to be from its accompanying Proverbial

quotation, the morality suggested by that quotation still applies. And that, I believe, is true of life itself.

Are you writing anything now?

I’m busy editing Volume 2 of Solomon Says, which is due to be published towards the end of January 2023.

Is there anything you’d like to say to your readers?

I’ve no doubt everyone will interpret the stories differently. That was part of the fun of writing them – and I hope that will be part of the fun of reading them.

Solomon Says is a two-volume collection of modern morality tales, each comprising sixteen short stories inspired by Old Testament quotations from the Book of Proverbs – traditionally supposed to have been penned by King Solomon.

Horror, adventure, fantasy, whimsy and murder, together with a smattering of the criminal, the luckless, the loveless and the odd, all combine to explore the modern world in the context of the ancient wisdoms.

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BOOK EXTRACT And the Devil passes him by.

SOLOMON SAYS The Devil Comes Down

‘For better or for worse.’

‘Oh look, there’s Simeon Beansheaf. Looking well, Sim! How’s the back? Funny things, backs. Once you’ve damaged your back, it can be troublesome, can’t it, Sim? Which is it then: better, worse, indifferent, somewhere in between? Unfair of me to accuse you of never having done a hand’s turn in the whole of your natural, of course. Unfair and untrue. You certainly he Devil comes down to Bibblecombe, on a seem to overcome your incapacity when there’s cash Saturday afternoon. Boar’s head set low on involved, and prying eyes can’t see shovel or barrow. scaly lizard torso and hairless elk legs, the Prince of Darkness strides through rural Dorset. Sparks fly from ‘But you’re quite the best of friends, you and Sloth. cloven hooves as they strike the ground. Incongruous Aren’t you, Simeon? Bet you didn’t know it was a maybe, but Detroit ghetto, Cape Town shanty or deadly sin though, did you? Bet you didn’t know the quaint English village, it makes no difference when penalty for Sloth is everlasting damnation? Course there is a sinful soul to be collected. Collect it he must you didn’t, Simeon Beansheaf. Just following in your and collect it he will. father’s footsteps. And his father’s before him, I expect.

It’s a way of life to you, isn’t it? You’ve got no idea.’

None note his passing, for he moves in silence.

Invisible to all but the sensitive who, sensing the ice, And the Devil passes him by. fire and blackness blanch, hands flying to lips – not knowing what or who has passed by – but assured of ‘For richer, for poorer.’ several nights’ broken sleep. The beast walks abroad ‘Who else have we got here? Angus Tipptoe! Well, I’m garnering what he is owed, and the minutiae and damned. In church, among your avowed enemies. ceremonial, the customs and mores of the earthly Well, there’s plenty of well-heeled folk in here to get kingdom, move him not at all. your teeth into, Angus, old chum. What is it you’re always saying? The rich only got rich on the backs of The Devil comes uninvited to the wedding. He cares the poor, or some such nonsense. Have I got that right, not one whit for the sanctity of the church, nor the Angus? Oh, yeah; all rich people are crooks. That’s solemnity of the service of holy wedlock. Deterred another one of yours, isn’t it? Success has nothing to not by the heavy oaken doors, nor diverted by the do with merit, ambition, hard work or even luck then, finery of frock and hat within, the Devil joins the I take it. congregation of St Biddulph’s; blood-red eyes fixed only upon his quarry. The packed church, unaware of ‘Exploitation you call it, don’t you? Envy it is, Angus, the malevolence within and amongst, has eyes only for not exploitation. Pure Envy. And that, my friend, is the couple at the altar. Ears only for the be-cassocked a sin. For which you may be about to be brought to priest. The minister intones the words of the marriage account. With a bit of luck. But you don’t see it, do you, service. From the back of the nave, the Devil stalks his Angus? The Envy thing. You haven’t even worked out prey. yet that the well-off are the ones who, by and large, * don’t spend every waking moment in the alehouse.

Well, they say ignorance is bliss.’

‘To have and to hold from this day forward.’

‘I see you, Colin Snorter. Sitting there in your handsome And the Devil passes him by. morning dress, your fine top hat and gloves upon your lap. Every inch the successful businessman and ‘In sickness and in health.’ a model of rectitude. You know about the having and ‘God, give me strength. Look at the size of that! You the holding, don’t you, Master Snorter? Warehouses can’t miss Bryony Dymple, can you? I know I shouldn’t and storage units stuffed to the rafters. Any sign of be rude but, well really. That’s a nice frock you’ve got a shortage and you’ll corner the market, won’t you, on, Bryony. Except for the stains under the armpits, of Colin, old chap? Even if it’s not all yours, so I’ve heard. course. No wonder there’s a gap on the pew either side of you. You take up two seats as it is.

‘What say you, Colin? No comment, of course. Greed, that’s all it is. Sheer, unadulterated. One of the seven ‘I don’t suppose a gentleman should ask, but just how deadly sins. Punishable by ... what? Has the Devil much do you weigh now, Bryony? No doubt you’ll say come for your soul? Business is business I suppose it’s not affecting your health. Yeah, right. I bet your you’d say, were you put on the spot. You don’t entertain heart’s glad of the extra work, isn’t it? Or are you the concept of Greed, do you, Colin?’ big-boned? Or maybe it’s glands this week, perhaps?

T

Or genetics; that’s the new one, I believe? You’re proves it. There she is in the third row, Master Muddie. genetically disposed to be a prize porker, are you?

Although I must say her dark glasses look out of place indoors.

‘It’s not genes, Mistress Dymple, it’s Gluttony. Pure and simple. And that, my girl, is another of the seven ‘Till death do you part, indeed. You’re a well-respected deadly sins and you could burn for it. And you might man in the community, aren’t you, Herbert? But they just. But you won’t, will you, Bryony? Know thyself, don’t know what happens when the Anger comes Our Lord said. But you don’t know yourself, do you? upon you, do they? I do. And the Devil does. The Jesus wept; you even went to work in a cake shop. Devil knows Anger is one of the seven deadly sins and Because you don’t have a problem. I guess it’s not a sin must be punished in Hell. It’s a shame. Because while if you don’t recognise it, so the Devil is certain to pass both the Devil and I know you are a farmyard animal you by.’ of a man, Herbert Muddie, you have no concept of right and wrong. And any moment now, the Devil will And the Devil does. And the Devil has strutted the ignore you and pass you by.’ length of the nave and emerged at the altar, and still has to claim a sinful soul as his own.

And suddenly, suddenly, it’s important the Devil does not pass Herbert Muddie by. Does not process further ‘To love and to cherish.’ than the vestry door. Does not come anywhere near ‘Go on, my son. Keep going, Adam, you’re doing fine. this organ dais.

You’re getting all the words in the right order, anyway.

I love that sing-song cadence that’s only ever used by But the Devil keeps coming. The measured click of his the clergy. But they can hear you at the back, that’s hooves on the stone-flagged floor inexorably ticking what counts. off the remaining seconds of a sinner’s earthly life.

‘I reckon you’d be the expert on loving and cherishing, And the Devil is past the vestry and approaching the wouldn’t you, Adam Challice? Love thy neighbour, organ dais, and I know now he’s coming for me. as it says in the Good Book. How many neighbours is it now, Adam? What was the euphemism you used ‘According to God’s Holy Law.’ last time? Ministering, wasn’t it? No, I tell a lie, it was ‘God’s holy law is the problem. Always has been and spiritual guidance. Spiritual guidance, my backside! always will be. I can’t get round it. I can’t get away from Got hauled over the coals by the bishop for that one, it. Not only is it written, but it is writ. Holy writ. And didn’t you, old mate? And there’s more red-hot coals I have sinned. Among a church full of sinners, I have where you’re going, Master Challice, if I’m any judge. truly transgressed God’s holy law. For I know I have done wrong. When Our Saviour cried out on his cross, ‘There’s ministering to a flock and there’s Lust. And “Forgive them Lord, for they know not what they do”, what you do is Lust. That’s a sin, Adam. You of all they indeed knew not, for they knew no better. I know people should know that. By the way, do you realise the better. And I know last-minute repentance is futile.

Devil is in your church? Has he come for you? There’d be a few wronged husbands of the parish wouldn’t shed ‘I sit at this organ week in, week out, passing down a tear if he had. The trouble is, that sort of behaviour my judgement on those arrayed before me. The music, doesn’t count as a sin in your book, and the Devil the sermons and the prayers drown my voice, and my probably won’t touch you.’ own vanity drowns my wisdom and compassion. My Pride is my downfall. The seventh deadly sin. And the And indeed, the Devil doesn’t. And the Devil is in the Devil does not pass me by. And, as I feel the Devil’s chancel. icy fingers close around my heart in a vice-like grip, I know the terror has just begun.’

‘Till death us do part.’

‘Herbert bloody Muddie. Are you afraid, Herbert, * standing there in the vestry doorway in your best verger’s outfit? Haven’t a care in the world, have you?

‘Wisdom hath builded her house, But you’ve no need to be worried, have you, Herbert? she hath hewn out her seven pillars.’

You’re a big lad and handy with your fists, by all accounts. Not that such a pious man as yourself would ever resort to fisticuffs, of course.

— Proverbs, 9:1 ‘The wife, well that’s different, isn’t it, Herb? She winds you up. She asks for it, the bitch. It’s her fault, if anything. And she apologises afterwards, which

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FEATURE

Color Picture this. You’re sitting criss-crossed on a mat.

The sun slowly creeps over the ocean from behind the clouds lighting up the whole sky. You feel the cool morning air flow through your hair as the sun kisses your face. You’re at peace. You feel whole and one with self and the universe. Nice right? You take a deep breath, sucking it all in until you open your eyes and you’re snapped back to reality to the screeching sound of your alarm clock. You get up, grouchy and irritable as you head to the shower to get your day started. You’re stuck in typical 7am traffic as you scream, “GO!” as you barely make it to work on time. And then you repeat the same cycle over and over neglecting all your personal and mental needs; bombarded by routines. Typical black and white. But what if we added a little color to your daily canvas?. What if you woke up and lived out that picture we originally created in your mind?

Instead of jumping up and heading directly to the shower, we spent the first 15 minutes doing some meditation; clearing out all that useless baggage you brought home from the previous day. What if you made a cup of tea, opened the blinds, and wrote some self-reflection down in a journal. Or how about you listen to your favorite podcast while taking a different route to work? Better right? Oftentimes we get so wrapped up in work, routines, and unexpected curveballs life throws at us that we forget about the most important person, you; and that’s no way to live. So I challenge you to live differently; take care of yourself and add a little color.

by Veia

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FEATURE

A LIFESAVER

By Jennifer Ball

I

t was a summer morning like most other normal mornings in Chicago, people stopping for coffee, rushing to get to work on time, catching the crowded El, searching for empty seats, and dealers selling heroin.

After one such exchange, a young man named Nick injected the drug with his friend in the passenger seat of his Honda. It took one shot, and Nick immediately lost consciousness, body slumped, breathing stopped — and his friend knew. He was overdosing. He was going to die.

He had just minutes before he would be brain dead.

Nick’s friend opened the glovebox of his car and pulled out another drug. This one could save his life. He injected the opioid overdose antidote into Nick’s outer thigh.

Nothing. He was still unconscious. He tried again.

Another dose of naloxone—and this one worked. Nick sat straight up and began sweating like he was awaking from a ghoulish nightmare.

Nick, my brother-in-law, is clean and sober now. So is my sister, who also had substance use disorder. She had friends pass away from the disease of addiction. Even though Nick’s overdose resulted in him getting clean, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention report that more than 70,000 Americans died from drug overdoses in 2019. And, in 71 percent of those deaths, opioids were involved. Additionally, opioid overdoses surged during the pandemic. It’s clear that opioid use disorder is far from going away.

The woman who provided Nick with his lifesaving dose of naloxone, Laura Fry, spends her days educating people about substance use disorder and training folks on how to use naloxone. “I always tell people: you’ve got to have a heartbeat to do anything,” Fry said. She leads a Chicagoarea harm reduction agency called Live4Lali, named after a boy who died from an opioid overdose.

To unlock naloxone’s lifesaving potential means making it accessible; advocates agree. One way to do this is always

dispensing high dose opioid prescriptions with naloxone in the pharmacy. “I’ve had people turned away from the pharmacy,” said Fry. Lowering costs, reducing barriers, and educating people about naloxone laws in their state will save lives.

“The way we use naloxone may be changing—higher doses administered more quickly,” said Beth Dunlap, MD, an addiction specialist in the Chicago area. This is apparent with the recent news of FDA approval of a higher dose naloxone nasal spray. One source claimed to know of cases where previously seven or eight doses were required.

So why did Nick’s revival take two doses of naloxone, not one? The drugs were never tested, so what was actually in the drug was unknown. Dealers get their hands on pill presses, and they can put whatever they want in these pills, including fentanyl, a synthetic opioid that is 50 times stronger than heroin. Even other drugs, like heroin, cocaine, and LSD, have tested positive for fentanyl. Dealers do this so that the drugs are not only stronger but also more addictive. Laura Fry noticed this trend taking effect in the Chicago area. In addition to distributing naloxone to the community, she distributes fentanyl test strips. A major part of the harm reduction philosophy is meeting people where they are. When drugs are purchased on the street, the origins are unknown. If people are going to be using a drug, they should also be testing for an agent, like fentanyl, that can prove lethal.

Travis Rieder, author of In Pain: A Bioethicist’s Personal Struggle with Opioids, touts the harm reduction philosophy. He is a bioethicist at Johns Hopkins University.

And yet, he has the personal experience to back up his ideas. He became dependent on opioids after sustaining serious injuries in an accident. He now applies what he knows to people with substance use disorder. When I asked Rieder about this, he said: “People don’t deserve respect because and only if they act in accordance with our own values; they deserve respect because they are people.”

@jenniferclareball

@jennifercball grxmx 10

Image: Ahmed Hasan

List of Sources 1.

2.

3.

4.

Centers for Disease Control and Prevention website. Drug Overdose Deaths data. https://www.cdc.gov/drugoverdose/data/statedeaths.html Email interview with Travis Rieder, bioethicist at Johns Hopkins University.

“FDA Approves Higher Dosage of naloxone Nasal Spray to Treat Opioid Overdose” by FDA. https://www.fda.gov/news-events/press-announcements/fda-approves-higher-dosage-Naloxone-nasal-spray-treatopioid-overdose “Lifesaving Naloxone should be available almost everywhere” by Sara Berg. American Medical Association website. https://www.ama-assn. org/delivering-care/opioids/lifesaving-Naloxone-should-be-available-almost-everywhere

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

Personal interview with Nick Edwards.

“Pharmacy-Based naloxone Dispensing” by CDC. https://www.cdc. gov/mmwr/volumes/68/wr/mm6831e1.htm Telephone Interview with Laura Fry, director of patient and family services at Live 4 Lali.

Telephone interview with Dr. Beth Dunlap, physician board certified in addiction medicine.

“U.S. Surgeon General’s Advisory on naloxone and Opioid Overdose”

by Office of the Surgeon General. U.S. Department of Health & Human Services website. https://www.hhs.gov/surgeongeneral/priorities/ opioids-and-addiction/Naloxone-advisory/index.html

@jennifercball

/in/jennifercball

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STORY SPOTLIGHT @unknown_author_23

Unmask the Murderer Fable Blake

I never thought it was possible.

Who would have thought something so powerful would have only crumbling people to protect it: the dead that were forgotten by their families. Dust Alley, it’s called, where souls go to live their last moments alone in the ash of others like themselves. I venture there sometimes when I want to be alone, and when I noticed it I couldn’t help myself from picking it up.

A gold mask with carved detailing that would have been used in a masquerade in the Land of the Living. Masks were common in the Deadlands, especially near Día de Muertos — Day of the Dead — but they were always white to signify the dead were crossing over. The word ofrenda was sculpted on the inside: altar. When I let my fingers drift over the word, remembering the times I would decorate Mami’s altar on the Day of the Dead to honour her, the word lit up.

Everyone down here had already strapped on their mask to visit their own ofrenda, so I set the mask onto my face and closed my eyes. I expected to be in the Deadlands when I open them, as I didn’t have an ofrenda to visit. Masks only let the dead travel to the Land of the Living if the person had an ofrenda, but no one even knew I was dead. They couldn’t create an altar honoring my death if they didn’t know I was dead.

A light breeze tickled my skin in the Land of the Living, almost scaring me after years without wind. The faint singing and laughter of the families flowed into my ears. The strums of a guitar. The stories of beloved family members carried through the wind. The smell of freshly baked bread mixed with the marigolds strung over the floor of the graveyard.

“Who are you?”

I startled back over a gravestone, falling into the leaves as a dark skinned boy with curly brown hair stood over me.“You can see me?”

He laughed and extended his hand, helping me to my feet. “Is that odd?”

I wiped the dirt from my dress, glancing around at the little graveyard we were in.

Separated by a gate from the huge ofrendas beyond that were each decorated and crowded with people in beautiful clothing talking with sweet voices.

The stones here were crumbling, the names faded and unrecognizable. The only sign of the Day of the Dead was the candle the boy had lit on the grave I tripped over. It had been that way the day I died too. I knew this cemetery.

Numbly, I nodded, wondering if I should run into the forest beside the gate and wait until the Day of the Dead ended. I knew my way around the forest enough to escape the boy who could mysteriously see me because of a gold mask. Only silver masks

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allowed the dead to interact with the living. Gold masks had never existed for me to learn about.

“I’m Alejo.”

“Cal,” I answered quickly, running past the gate in a daze. I dove into the crowd of people until I found an altar with a mirror and stole a glance. The gold mask had turned into spiral face paint around my eyes that blended in with the skull illustrated over my face.

“Excuse me,” Alejo said to a woman, squishing in next to me. “What are you doing?” he asked me.

“Who are you talking to, dear?” the woman questioned.

He pointed at me. “Her.” “There’s no one there,” she said softly.

“Of course, there is.”

She gently sliced her hand through my body as if it were smoke. “Where is your family? Can I help you find them?”

Alejo grabbed my hand, solid to him as opposed to the lady, and whisked me through the never ending maze of ofrendas. He weaved in and out of little pathways and disrupted the saw dust and marigold petals in his tracks. My footsteps breezed over everything. Of course, they did. I was dead. The dead never left tracks.

He stepped around a little wood shed leading to the woods and crouched down, yanking me with him. “I’m going crazy, aren’t I?” Was crazy the right word for seeing dead people roaming around on the Day of the Dead?

“Yes,” I answered.

“You’re...dead?” he asked, looking me up and down. “Actually dead? A ghost?”

“Actually dead,” I said, shoving my hands in the pocket of my dress. I rubbed the playing card I kept in there from the day I died when I played with Papa. “Killed on Day of the Dead four years ago.”

He quirked his lip to the side. “That sucks.”

Did being dead suck? The never-ending parties in the Deadlands and constant fiesta and mariachi noise. Every soul asking me where I’m going unless I neared Dust Alley. It was impossible to have alone time down there if you were remembered and much too depressing if you were fading. Day of the Dead was the best time of the year because the Deadlands laid almost empty.

What sucked was never being able to see my father again. Without relatives or many friends, I’d fade away once he died. The bulletin boards outside the Passage—the tunnels where the newly dead

escape from—showed my missing poster copied from the Land of the Living to let the dead know their status. My case had never been solved, so he never could set up an ofrenda.

“What were you doing in that part of the graveyard?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It’s somebody’s grave. They deserve something on Día de Muertos. That candle was almost buried, but it lit.”

“That was my candle,” I said. “I lit it on the night I died. I was supposed to meet my Papa at my mother’s ofrenda, but I saw the bare gravestones and I lit it there instead. He never knew what happened to me.”

“Then let’s tell him.”

“Really?”

“Sure,” he shrugged. “It might be a little weird with you being invisible and all, but weirder things have probably happened.”

The thought of seeing my dad on Día de Muertos brought skeleton butterflies to flutter around in my stomach. I’d always stayed in the Deadlands on the special travelling days, hoping my missing poster would have faded away soon after. The Calaveras Plateadas — Silver Skulls — were famous at solving murders on Día de Muertos by translating the events of the crime from the dead to the police, but their waitlists were lifetimes long. A girl with only a father to remember her was never top priority when celebrities and huge families needed closure.

Silver masks — gifted in a limited supply by the gods and goddess that ruled the Deadlands in the beginning of time — allowed them to talk to and be seen by the living. Silver Skulls nobly sacrificed their time on Día de Muertos so others had the opportunity to see their families. Due to the limited number of masks, some Skulls switched out with others, the ones that still loved their family, and some hated their family anyways but wanted the other dead like me to have a better experience. The Calaveras Plateadas were the best of the dead: selfless and impossibly nice. Naturally, I couldn’t stand them.

White masks were linked to an ofrenda, so the dead could always access them if they had one, unlike myself. Though no one could see them, they could visit their family on Day of the Dead. I despise those people too, the ones that never had to see their poster on the Passage, the ones who had it easy.

I had never heard of a gold mask giving the wearer the power to be seen by a living person,

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but it clearly existed, unless both Alejo and I were hallucinating. Other masks were just unheard of, possibly because they possessed unimaginable power.

Maybe the reason only Alejo could see me was because he lit the candle and created a little ofrenda, though it didn’t belong to me. Since the graveyard was in disrepair, the owner had likely faded, so the gold mask took to the closest ofrenda.

Since Alejo could see me, I could give Papa the opportunity to create an ofrenda next to Mami’s and finally see him on the Day of the Dead.

“What about your family and their ofrendas?” I asked, knotting up the fabric of my dress. “Shouldn’t you be with them instead of me?”

“They’ll be happy I helped you,” he said, producing a half-smile. “Now where can we find your Papa?”

I couldn’t help but feel he was lying to make me feel better, that he wouldn’t tell them he helped a dead girl notify her father of her murder or that they wouldn’t believe him. Maybe he just wanted to get away from them and this was the perfect excuse, or maybe they wouldn’t even notice he left his family’s ofrendas.

“I’ll lead the way.” I held onto his hand and weaved through the graveyard, passing the families celebrating at the graves of their loved ones.

Children, both living and dead, ran around laughing and dancing with one another among the white orchids and baby’s breath laid for their deaths. No wonder the Deadlands were so quiet today; it was Día de los Inocentes — Day of the Innocents — where the children were allowed with their families for the day. Adults would arrive tomorrow to join the family for the final part of Día de Muertos.

Mami’s gravestone was deep in the graveyard surrounded by huge family altars and celebrations that Papa and I were always asked to join years ago. I dragged Alejo into the heart of the crowd and popped out where a row of small graves were, expecting to see Mami’s decorated like all the others. A string of marigold petals and bread were set upon it, but it looked nothing like I remembered it.

“Where is he?” I asked, nearly drowned out by the strumming of the mariachi bands playing for the deceased child of the Ortegas. He played with the children of the families nearby, his white face paint clear enough for me to pick him out between the legs of gatherers. “Do you see him?”

“He’s your father,” Alejo said, placing a little candle on Mami’s gravestone.

I watched as he carefully lit it, blocking the wind that softly blew the flame towards the stone.

“We always celebrated today.”

“He celebrated when he had his child, Cal. There’s no ofrenda for you, so there’s no chance for you to cross over to be with him.”

He must have prepared part of Mami’s ofrenda yesterday, and now, he would wait until Mami could cross tomorrow to come to the graveyard. Could I even go to our house to tell him what happened to me? White masks were bound to the graveyard.

Silver allowed leeway. But what about gold?

Alejo gestured to the path behind him that would lead to a gate. “Shall we?”

All I could do was try.

After four years of being stuck in the Deadlands, I had replayed my last day so many times that the route from the graveyard was stuck in my head. Stay parallel to the cemetery gate down until the edge arrives and cross the road. Follow the winding street left until a fork appears. Go right to the house on the end and sneak past the tall iron bars to our backyard. Jump on the rocky path to our front door.

Despite the short trip, I managed to explain the main aspects about the Deadlands before we stepped on my father’s porch. The dead spend their days partying and waiting to be reunited with their family for Day of the Dead, though it’s nearly impossible to find family without meeting in the Land of the Living since the Deadlands were so vast. If they were fortunate enough to have a large family that would remember them and create their altar every year, they would never fade away or be escorted to Dust Alley and the surrounding buildings.

There were few decorations at my father’s house, barely enough to signify Día de Muertos.

The papel picado — perforated paper — decor our family made every year was tacked up, the most recent from the year I died near the door, with a few candles and flowers.

“Ready?” he asked, stepping up to the door.

I didn’t understand why he would ask me that when he was the one who had to tell a stranger his daughter was murdered four years ago, but I nodded regardless. He was still my father. His reaction could still hurt me, despite my...condition.

Alejo offered a cheery smile before knocking rhythmically on the door. It opened before he could even finish, forcing him to awkwardly draw his hand back to his chest and stare at my father. After one glance at Alejo, it became clear Papa expected me to knock on the door on every Dead of the Dead.

His face sank. His shoulders sagged. The smile he

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answered the door with vanished. He brushed his wavy black hair out of his face and titled his head in a gesture to ask what Alejo wanted.

“Mr. Gutiérrez,” he started.

“What do you want?” Papa asked. His harsh tone nearly sent me running back to the graveyard.

How he had changed in four years.

Alejo glanced back at me and cleared his throat. “I understand that today must be a difficult day for you, sir, but—” “Unless you know where my daughter is, I’m sure this can wait until after Día de Muertos.” He started to close the door.

“She’s right here!” Alejo blurted out, gesturing to me.

Papa stopped, frozen in his tracks. His fist clenched on the edge of the door. “Then she must be invisible,” he said bitterly.

Alejo looked down at his feet, twisting his fingers together. “She’s not invisible, sir. She’s, uh, she’s dead.”

“And somehow you can see her ghost? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Yes.” “Because of a gold mask,” I supplied.

“Because of a gold mask,” he repeated.

Papa’s fists loosened on the door as he dropped his hand to his side. “Then tell me something only my little girl would know.”

“Cal’s favourite colour is green,” Alejo stated, taking details from my explanation on the way here.

“Anyone could know that.”

“Her mother used to do silly voices when reading to her at night.”

“Like any mother does.”

“Uh…” Alejo looked at me, but I wasn’t sure how to convince Papa.

Papa let out a sigh as his shoulders sagged.

“Please, just go celebrate Día de Muertos with your family.”

If Alejo wanted to celebrate with his family, he never would have been in that little graveyard or lit that candle to create a little ofrenda that I was summoned to. Without the candle, I never would’ve gotten into the Land of the Living.

That was it...the candle!

“Tell him about the candle!” I exclaimed.

“The candle?” Alejo asked.

Papa’s body went rigid. “What about the candle?”

“That night, my father wanted a special candle for Mami’s ofrenda, so he sent me to get one as he finished baking bread for her. A white one with gold on it. He never told the police about the type of

candle; they never asked. Only I know that because it was my idea.”

As Alejo translated what I said, my father’s eyes glistened. Tears slid down his cheeks and he stepped onto the porch, looking straight at me. Through me, I knew, but in my mind, our eyes met.

He believed Alejo. As much as he wanted to see me again, he knew I would never be coming back to his porch alive.

“What happened to her?” he questioned.

“She lit the candle at a bare grave near the forest so a soul could come visit the Land of the Living. A man caught her and dragged her out to the forest. He—” “Did she suffer?” I could tell my father didn’t want to hear by the tightness of his posture.

No father wants to hear these things about his daughter.

Alejo shook his head. “She blinked at the gun and found herself in the Deadlands, sir.”

“Good. That’s – that’s good.” He reached through the door and wrapped a jacket over his worn clothing, slipping his feet in a pair of boots by the mat. “Maybe there’s still time to find her body, to make an ofrenda. Thank you, son.”

“Where are you going?” Alejo asked as Papa pocketed his keys and phone, closing the door behind him.

“The police station. They’re going to find my baby because of you.” Papa put his hand on Alejo’s shoulder and nodded. He had never been much of a hugger since Mami died, but he clapped Alejo on the back twice and set off down the driveway.

Alejo and I had no other choice but to follow.

Only a crazy person actually saw ghosts without a silver mask on Día de Muertos. An even crazier one believed they existed and marched to the police station to declare it.

The skeletal butterflies erupted in my stomach again as we neared the police station. People, both dead and alive, were flowing out from the double doors as though a dam had broken. Officers and Silver Skulls were chatting on benches or crowding the windows as the living streamed through, crying, laughing or a mix of both. They were either able to make an ofrenda or told the case could never be solved because of the lack of proof of the death.

The station had been decorated with paper cutouts of skulls and flowers, as well as colourful pictures the kids of the town had crafted in school to let the mourners know they weren’t alone. It never helped the mood when I had to go in about Mami, and it didn’t help now that I was dead.

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My father showed no anxiety marching up to the doors and letting himself inside; he had clearly done it a hundred times since my death because all of the officers recognized him. I slipped through the door that Alejo held open, hoping a Silver Skull wouldn’t notice me. The gold mask had been in Dust Alley, where it was likely being guarded and protected from people who wished to use its power.

“Gael, we said we would call you if we had any more information about Cal’s disappearance,” an officer said at the front desk.

A Silver Skull’s head glanced at my father at the mention of my name, narrowing his eyes. I dived behind Alejo one second too slow.

“Calixta!”

“You know him?” Alejo asked as the Silver Skull stormed over.

“More than I should,” I admitted.

Tauro caught my arm and dragged me into an empty office next to him. His fluffy eyebrows met as he clenched his fists, letting air out of his nose slowly so he didn’t explode. “You snuck into Dust Alley.”

On the two nights a year where souls were allowed to be in the Land of the Living, the Silver Skulls stopped guarding forbidden alleyways and buildings to help solve murders, leaving them completely open to the public, though it was widely known they were still out of bounds. Since I hated celebrating with fiestas and people I didn’t know, I challenged myself to sneak into the least known one farest from the Passage and the people.

“Actually, I just walked in,” I stated. “There was no sneaking involved.”

His grip on my arm tightened. “Cal, you know you’re banned from there!” he yelled. “It’s not your time yet.”

Not my time to fade, he meant, because he knew it would happen.

“Am I just supposed to wait until my father dies and I fade, Tauro?” I growled, rolling his hand off me. I stared at my dad through the window as he and Alejo explained my murder.

Through the reflection, I could see the edges of my gold mask had started to fade away. I might make it until the end of Día de Muertos and show the police where my body was if Papa and Alejo could convince him. Not if Tauro punished me though.

He sighed and set his hand on my shoulder, forcing me to turn and look at his face, droopy and sad like a puppy. The silver mask stood out from his chestnut-coloured skin and cropped black hair.

The hard-pressed lines of his clothes seemed to lose their diamond cut as he sat on the windowsill

to meet my eyes. “I put you on the waitlist, Cal,” he whispered.

The waitlist had thousands of priority people who would always rank before me no matter how long I waited. Even if I were to wait patiently for thirty years when Papa had his foot in the grave, my name might move three or four spots up since people would be inserted above me due to their greater importance. Papa would die, and I’d fade away without any chance of celebrating with my family.

“This is my one chance to get an ofrenda, to visit my dad and maybe even see my mother!”

“Other people want to see their family too, and they’ve waited longer than four years. You don’t see them sneaking into a forbidden alleyway and using an ancient relic known only to Silver Skulls.”

Well no, I thought, because no one knew of its existence to use it. But I didn’t say that because now didn’t seem the time to make Tauro mad. “This relic helped my father hear of my death.”

“You told him!” Tauro hissed.

“Of course, I told him. Now he can alert the police and move on with his life.”

He gritted his teeth. “You should have left that to the Calaveras Plateadas. Now I have to—” “You have to...what? Tell my father none of it was real? Stop the police from finding my body because of the waitlist?”

“No,” he said, dropping his hand down under my arm. He closed his eyes and the world blackened.

A single light flickered on, outlining the black bars and polished stone floor. The scrapes in the wall from a weapon. The little cot in the corner.

I no longer felt the breeze in the land of the living. There were no voices or cries down here.

There would be nothing until Día de Muertos ended.

Tauro appeared on the other side of the bars with the gold mask in his hand. “Now I have to teach you a lesson of consequences.”

I wrapped my hands around the cool bars, focusing on the flickering light behind him so I wouldn’t burst into tears. “What if my father can’t find the body without my help? He and Alejo might get lost in the forest.”

“So he’ll never get closure and instead be haunted by the idea of finding a body there?” he questioned. “Maybe you should have thought of that before telling him.”

“You have an ofrenda. You have a big family who visits you every year and knows what happened to you, Tauro. You never had to wait a day.”

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“You’ll get your chance,” he said while nodding.

“I have other cases, okay. Someone will let you out in the morning.”

“I’ve told you where my body is! Please, help them find it,” I begged.

Tauro disappeared as he squeezed his eyes closed, leaving me alone in the cells without a way out. I sunk to my knees against the cot, stripping the blanket off to bury my face in the soft cover.

Now I was expected to wait and act like none of this ever happened. Spend my time partying in the Deadlands instead of waiting to fade in Dust Alley.

Act like a gold mask that allowed the dead to speak to the living didn’t exist because it was an ancient relic with unknown powers.

How could anyone expect me to wait to see my family if an opportunity presented itself to change that? It wasn’t fair of Tauro to want me to walk away or to chain me up for finding something that could change my chances of fading, but he would never understand. No one seemed to understand. I just wanted to be remembered.

“Would you like a mask?” the Silver Skull asked in the morning, escorting me to the lobby of the Silver Skulls Station — Estación de Calaveras Plateadas — with an unwelcome hand on my shoulder. “Día de Muertos isn’t over. There’s time to see your family, kid.”

I ignored him as the door closed to separate us, sparing a glance at the Passage and the posters covering the boards before slipping into a tunnel entrance the Silver Skulls used to get places without drawing notice. Of course, the Deadlands were nearly empty on the last day of the Day of the Dead celebrations, but I preferred the tunnels. I knew exactly which ones to take to pop out in Dust Alley.

The ash under my feet alerted me to the exit before I could see it, hidden in the damp darkness.

I shoved the hidden wall open and swiped my foot under the doorway to move the ash that would block it.

“You can’t be here, Cal.” I turned away from Tauro as he sat on a wooden crate. “Is this why the waitlist is so long? Go help your other cases.”

His fingers wrapped around my arm. “Come back to the Passage, Cal.” “I can walk myself,” I said, shrugging him off as he opened the door back up. I wasn’t sure why he would want me to go back to the Passage. Maybe to remind me that millions of people were waiting to see their families again too, or to rip my poster off and declare that I would never go to the Land of the Living because of my mistake, thus continuing his

lesson about consequences? Whatever it was, he still had work to do outside of the Deadlands, so I could still spend the day in Dust Alley without worrying about the security travelling around to catch me.

When we arrived at the mouth of the Passage, he gestured to my poster: the most recent photo of me before my death with the word ‘missing’ plastered under it in all caps. Under, in smaller letters, were the words ‘presumed dead’ and my last known location.

“So?” I asked.

He cocked a smile as the edges started to crumble away, falling at my feet in a pile of white petals to feed the layers welcoming the newly dead: sunny marigolds, snow-white baby’s breath and chrysanthemums, and rose-pink cockscomb.

Another sheet of paper shifted to take its place.

“Turns out your killer has his own tradition on the Day of the Dead,” Tauro said, pulling a white mask from his jacket. “Three other girls’ bodies were found, as well as a living one.”

“That means…”

He nodded. “Your father and Alejo made you an ofrenda. You can visit the Land of the Living this Día de Muertos.”

My numb fingers took the mask from him, thumbing the smooth material and sharp carvings similar to the gold one. “You helped them?” I asked softly.

“An officer was chasing down a lead, so I ventured to where you described and caught the guy dragging the unconscious body of a girl. He caved and led us to where the bodies were buried. Your mother’s ring was still hanging from your neck for Gael to identify.”

I drew out the ring from under my dress, fingering the divots in the gold. My eyes started to water, blurring the pale light from the Passage’s candles. “You noticed it.”

He nodded and set his hand on my shoulder. “I said you’d get your chance, didn’t I?” “Yes.” “Go celebrate, kid. You’ve waited long enough.”

I wiped my eyes and set the mask on my face.

“Thank you, Tauro.”

“Don’t waste time on thanks, Cal. Plenty of time for that after Day of the Dead.”

I closed my eyes, feeling the dirt of the graveyard under my feet. The singing. The guitar.

The bread and flowers. All of it came back suddenly when I opened my eyes.

Papa and Alejo sat at Mami’s grave, filling it with bread and candles as they talked away. A little plaque sat beside it with my name and photo: my own ofrenda that allowed me passage from the

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Deadlands. My favourite green dress and a pack of my old playing cards were there too with Mami’s ring.

“Cal?” I spun around, seeing a tall woman wearing a white mask. She twisted a gold ring around her finger, the same one as my necklace. Both were copies of the real one with my father. “Mami?”

I’d never seen Mami in the Deadlands since I spent so much time near Dust Alley. She loved music and parties, but I gave up trying to find her after four years of no results. It was a lost cause since the Deadlands were so large. She could have been anywhere.

She sat down on her gravestone and patted the spot next to her as she watched Papa and Alejo.

“How’s your Día de Muertos, mija?”

“The best,” I answered. “I don’t think it could have gone better.”

“You think Cal’s here, Mr. Gutiérrez?” Alejo asked. He couldn’t see me, I realized, not this time.

“I do, son,” Papa answered.

“Happy Day of the Dead, Mami,” I said.

“Happy Day of the Dead, mija,” she responded.

The

Brave Princesses

by Phill Hughes COMING SOON Illustrations by Jared Burki

FEATURE

Background image: Vincent Burkhead

The Love of My Dad is different and just like some words unsaid and some sentences unspoken it remains unseen…but there is no limit to that unconditional love and to pen a fraction of that love down here I go…….

What Can I tell You, About the Love of my Dad… But one thing I can tell for sure is…

After reading this you won’t be sad.

Let’s Start from 17 years ago, When I wasn’t there…

To trouble this man’s Peaceful soul.

That time the Love of My Dad, Was his wife….

The true love of his life This Love only a year later…

Gave birth to a new life.

That was the time, His love split…

Between the love of his life…

And the one who had a piece of his life.

Time flied, Years passed…

But this family never…

Did fall apart…

And his love and his hugs, All held us tight.

Until 2008 when this, Family was extended by 1 And his love now…

Divided by 4.

The Love Of My Dad Bhargav Pandit

He has fought his way through hard times, Had his share of miseries and happy times…

But at the same time He also plotted a path of easy times…

For us.

O this man What can I say in his praise…

Sometimes, a little too excited…

A little too workaholic…

Sometimes a little too fitness freak…

But a great man he is and he will be…

And I can be no more happier…

Or prouder to say this…

That this man whom you must commend by now…

Lives by me and calls me his son…

And with pride I see and call him my Dad.

@they_call_me_pandit grxmx 19

STORY SPOTLIGHT

UNCHAINED DAN SHPYRA

I

t was one of those days, when you were not sure what to wear, a warm jacket or t-shirt. The clouds were hiding in precisely half of the blue sky, whereas the sun was out of the picture completely.

Only feeble beams were piercing occasionally through the gaps. The shadow of the trees was giving a feeling of the Northern Wind, the one that hunts in the wild its prey.

Everything outside of the shade’s reach, however, was filled with the warmth, you might say like a spring that came before the schedule and disturbed the sleeping sister – winter. The playful colours were springing from side to side, from grey to green; if you blink for a second longer, the new vision will be upon your eyes, a new palette from an unknown artist.

Your eyes were trying to comprehend the spectacles; each and every detail of nature fascinated you. Like a child, you were longing to grasp it before it slipped through your fingers. It was not the colours of Spring that you came to see, nor it was the luminosity of playful sunbeams. Your gaze is cast at the lonely wooden bench in the middle of the park, just by the old oak tree. As well as the sky, half of the bench was in the shadows of grey, whereas the other half was glittering under scarce lights. You moved a bit closer to see the stage, where all the actors took their places. The old man under the oak’s shadow and the young man who was hallowing on the bright side of the bench.

The lights and shadows were dancing inside of the gray-bearded man’s head. The past that was always meant to be, the past that cannot be altered. He who had died so many times remembered the cycle when it just had begun.

The old parable that remained the same, save the names of heroes. The vicious cycle that couldn’t be undone, or, perhaps, there is a way? Many times the ancient one tried; many times the ancient one failed. Even though the plan was scripted by his hand, or some might say so, it had been born before the first constellations appeared in the heavens.

The rebels moved by their ideas, those who were meant no harm but only to unchain those about them; any rebellion is still a part of the cycle. He who knows it all is sentenced to pick up his sword despite the unavoidable failure.

The young man was piercing with his dark eyes the well-known companion. The smirk on his face, like those on the many young ones who think of themselves as immortals, indicated that he knew what is in the head of the old man.

The wind was gently playing with his charcoal hair, which framed his pale face of a man who knows no age nor suffering. His suite of a priest, who serves the lost herd, was tightly wrapped around his body; each button and every stitch were aligned and cunningly perfected by an unknown tailor. Even if one had sought, would have not found a flaw.

A myriad of sounds filled the park. Every time you tried to focus on one of them, it was fainting away like a train that vanished into a tunnel. Once you picked the note that was calling your name, it turned into eerie noise that had no meaning. The moans, whispers, laughs, all had melted into the pot of confusion. Verily, you are the truth seeker who did not step away; the one who willed to break through the noise. The price, however, was always too high and paid in nothing but blood. The sounds were piercing your ears; crimson marks were on your fingers after they touched the shell-like body parts. You could not hear your steps; nonetheless, the thud from your falling knees had vanquished the noises. You kneeled before the bench, below your pride and ego; your spirits, however, aroused above the noise and confusion.

“We have an audience,” the young man remarked.

“We always have it,” low voiced replied from another side of the bench.

“They are an interesting lot, every time the nausea overcomes their weary hearts they turn them to the loving fatherly chest.” The priest chuckled.

“You were no more than adolescent, thus I forgive you this ignorance.,” The man stroked his gray beard and continued. “I am but stepfather, like many before me.”

“Chuck, can I call you Chuck?” the young man replied with a smirk.

“You can call me whatever you want, Cameron.” The old man nodded with a smile. He did like his new name; there was some simplicity in it the intrigued and somehow calmed him at the same time.

“I am fine with Cameron, thank you for asking.,” He carried on., “So am I to be one of their stepfathers?”

“More like an annoying uncle!” Chuck laughed with the cough to follow.

“Should I be worried? Or you still might live?”

Cameron gave a brief smile to his companion.

“I am not the one to decide that, neither are you.

There is a chance for the final cycle.” The old man rose his eyes to the sky.

“I reckon you are the reason that each time the cycle repeats itself. Isn’t your wrath brings their pious spirits back to you each time?” Cameron smirked and folded his hands behind his head.

“My dear boy, not at all. I am but the scapegoat for their own wrong doings. I am sure you are familiar with the term,.” He added. “Each time they are getting close to kill me, I am rooting for them, for I had born to die when they are ready. By the way, so had you.” Chuck sighed deeply. It did not, however, satisfied Cameron’s curiosity, but rather brought more confusion to the young man.

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@dan.shpyra

/in/dan-shpyra

“The Tower of Babel had fallen. Was it not your doings?”

“I am the one who made them started, but they were not ready. For their spirits were still of slaves.” After Chuck finished his reply, two men sat silent for a moment.

“Even if you die, however, won’t they resurrect you from the ashes like they always do?” the young man’s face looked troubled.

“They might; you are right. Some of them still need a shepherd. Than weaker they grow, than more tyrannical will be my next incarnation.” Chuck’s watery eyes moved down to the grass below the bench. “I had not created the men, but rather men created me, us. I only die when they will be ready to be the Gods themselves.”

“It will never happen, as it never had!” Cameron snapped.

“I do not know about all of them, but one before us still stands a chance.” Both men pierced your drowsy eyes with theirs.

The sudden thud had awakened you from this delirium. The time nearly stopped; the rain followed. Your numb limbs led you from the bench to the depth of the forest. After numerous green giants you found a swamp; your legs, however, moved swiftly through the mud and water. Your mind stayed still, despite the uncertainty. Right in the middle of the swamp, you saw it: the golden domes of the church. It was not, however, one of those churches you had seen before. The golden cross was the mere image on the screen that was installed on top of the building.

The walls were not painted white but covered in tags and billboards. Was God already resurrected? Was it just the image of our current selves?

“I beg you, I need your help! Please hurry!” The stranger’s hand pulled your sleeve from below. This muddy image had startled you; the eyes of a crazy man cast their gaze upon you. “Please, be swift! We need you here! The church is falling, and only we can save it!” The beggar continued his cry. Suddenly, one brick from above golden domes rolled down and vanished in the swamp water; the avalanche had followed. The mad cry spread out in the air; the beggar dashed towards the fallen temple. Only the screen from the top remained unbroken. The man’s shivering fingers were clicking vigorously on the screen; the cry conveyed into a mad laugh. “It’s working! We still can save it! You and I! We can rebuild it all anew!” You were standing right behind him. There is no thrill just pity that wrapped your heart, for there are no Gods in this man’s heart just fear. Or were Gods fear itself? What will happen next? What should you do? Who are you to serve and follow? He had never said so but you knew it; it is you that had been in his place. “Listen to me! Let’s do it! For the greater good, for everyone who follows! There is no higher purpose than to serve!” The beggar was remained on his knees with his arms stretched towards you, like those of a praying man.

He was yearning to those whom he called Gods. The Gods had died, however, the new ones shall be created for those in need of a shepherd. You looked back at the man.

Alas! He had started his doing without you; the digital screen of the old church was made amid the pillars of the new construction and soared above them. The beggar

was toiling; the herd had arrived. The muddy men-like creatures were crawling like snakes to their nest. Many had followed from the depth of the forest to join the work.

You stepped aside and watched them, not with disgust but worry. For there was a peculiar detail: the walls grew higher and higher; however, the builders remained within.

No windows or doors were made. The horror had stricken your heart.

“Stop, I urge you! You shall imprison yourselves you, fools!” You cried, but no one listened.

The sudden clap weighted on your shoulder. The image had varnished in gaze; the new one arrived.

“These walls are thick; you can’t be heard.” Familiar voice sounded to your right. You turned your head and saw Chuck himself. The old bench supported your wretched body. Were you still asleep? Was that church there? “You heard my voice, for you were ready.” The old man continued.

“I couldn’t save them; they are all gone! Buried within the walls under the surveillance of new Master!” You shouted.

“You cannot help them, like no one could before you.” He sighed.

“If you are here, to whom do they prey?”

“To me, but they are not aware of that.” Chuck smiled. “They think I ceased to exist.”

“I thought so too” you replied.

“I am but a fragile man, who cannot be killed and doomed to suffer for eternity.”

“Once this form dies, you will be trapped again in that screen till then new cycle.” Your voice sounded calmer than before.

“My dear, those are the words of a wise man.” Chuck extended his arm; there was a dagger with its hilt directed to you.

“I am afraid.”

“Don’t be afraid. Be courageous, be bold!” He confirmed and thrusted the hilt in your hand. “Your spirit shall prevail,.” He added.

“What about Cameron?”

“He is a part of me, created by the mind of yours.”

Chuck lowered himself from the bench and yield to his knees; his face underwent the metamorphosis. The thin gray hair turned dark; his appearance of an old wretched man was utterly altered. “Do not obey, do not seek for a new master. There is no meaning, but the one you make for yourself. No higher power but your spirit! Do not let new Gods to fool you, for they are I!” Cameron’s voices pierced your ears like a thunder.

Your arm was there; however, it was not ready to obey. The shiver, the sweat, the doubt: they all swept your weary spirit. The eerie noises penetrated your mind. To sacrificed your safety,? For what? For freedom? No more than a moment, which felt like an eternity, but your spirit prevailed. The blunt dagger found its aim. The crimson creek flowed down on the young man’s suite.

“Be valiant!” he whispered. The Chuck’s image appeared for one last time, before his smile faded into the air. Your heart was not heavy; moreover, the spirit aroused forever higher. For you were now the one who overcame themselves, the one who was verily free.

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To That Tomorrow Evan Resnick

D

o you ever wonder whether some things are really as they seem, whether reality is some amplified version of fantasy or delirium? Ever wonder if your eyes are pretending or if your mind is hostage to its own cruel prank? Well, he did. Him. There. That guy bent double on the ground. That guy holding his stomach, grinding his teeth, screaming until there was no breath left in his lungs, sweat dripping down his face beneath the relentless, bruising sun, his dirty Mk. 11 helmet falling onto the grass, cowering from zooming gunfire and imminent attack, cowering from the enemy, mourning. That guy watched his friend get blown into three hundred and sixteen wet red pieces – sort of like a ripened watermelon, minus the hard green striped shell and blacks seeds. No, that’s crude. Sort of like strawberry jelly– no, a myriad of reddish flower petals. Sweet and soft, she went up and then down, multiplied, more than she ever was, onto the muddy earth in front of every member of their garrison. Well, all that was left of them. She wasn’t the first casualty, you see.

Maybe if she was, he could justify why he felt like gouging his eyes out, like cutting out his own tongue, destroying every sense he had just to feel the same. He would have died for her, he felt he should have. Maybe if she was the first, he could say, ‘I felt that way because it was a shock.

She was the first person I’ve ever seen … you know … die …’ She was always this way. She always made a statement.

She couldn’t be the first. She had to be the eleventh, giving him this burning hope in his heart that they would return home to where they should have been all along.

He didn’t even want to be in this stupid war. She made him. No one else. Only her. Her and her friendship.

Why did she make him go with her? Why drag him into this massacre and bloodshed? All he wanted to do was stay at home and read. But reading’s for boring people, she said. For those in humanity who wished they had lives and craved that insatiable delight of adventure and … what was it she said?

‘—you’re finally getting it by sitting alone in some dark, wet corner, draining the life out of the pages of that poor, poor book.’ What kind of twelve-year-old said that kind of thing? That rainy afternoon, she had been lounging beside him, trying to mend an old tennis racket with a roll of masking tape.

‘Since when did you know what “insatiable” meant?’ he had asked, while flicking the page of the large novel he was invested in.

‘You really think I’m stupid, don’t you?’ she said with a laugh, standing. ‘You think because I find school a complete and utter waste of time that I don’t pay attention?’

She bounced a tennis ball on the racket, but it broke through the weak synthetic net.

‘That won’t be fixed,’ he muttered. She never paid attention to anything, his best friend didn’t – not even to him. So she sat down once again on top of a pile of boxes filled

with his mother’s old knitting magazines and ABBA memorabilia, using her teeth to render off the edge of the roll of tape. You’re probably wondering, ‘What’s the point of going back to an event that occurred more than five years before this story even begins?’ What you should be paying attention to is that they were both on different tracks; he was the one who knew what he wanted from the future and she simply lived in the here and now. Do you think she gave a damn about tomorrow? She didn’t even know the meaning of the word. It was more than just a noun, untouchable, un-seeable and inconvenient – it meant promise. And that was what she lacked.

Six days a week, since the age of fourteen, she would spend two hours running the streets with her iPod in her ears. Around the area and back … the school route … bus routes; she was a GPS system with long hair. And why did she do it? Boredom, she said. Her parents let her, so she did. Not that she needed permission to do anything. The amount of rules she broke, she should have been given a hard time, but she never was. Well, once. He didn’t want to do it, but he had to. The same year, the year they both turned fourteen, the year her poodle puppy, Louis, ran away, the year fuel hit four quid a litre, the year the Amazon started to look a little like the Sahara, she scaled the leaning oak tree in his back garden. It had been there God knows how long and looked like a giant elderly hand pressing into the dirt, the roots of the fingers sinking in.

The top had barely any branches, fine as hairs, but there was, within them, a tree house. His dad built it (poorly) when they were five. They could never climb up there until two years later for their muscles and bones were too weak to make the seven-and-half-foot journey. Now, though, there were leaves sticking out of the windows, branches crisscrossing the inside like a spider web or laser security system; he had to be careful once he managed to get up there not to hurt himself.

‘You took your time,’ she told him, tears in her eyes.

‘Ha ha,’ he said monotonously, while stooping low. ‘The fat jokes begin …’ They never stopped. ‘Are you crying?’

He sat his plump body down beside her on a tiny block of wood that they had used as a chair back in the day.

‘No … what the hell does it look like? Of course I’m crying!’ Instantly, he put his arm around her shoulder and patted it nervously.

‘Why are you here?’

‘Because you’re crying.’

She smiled. ‘Even though you couldn’t care less that I lost my left running trainer in the deepest mud puddle I’ve ever seen by the reservoir?’

Arm sliding away from her, he said heatedly, ‘That’s why you’re crying?’

She sniffed. ‘I asked you a question. Would you still have come if that was the reason?’ Eyes red like her mum’s cheap hooker lipstick, she squinted at him desperately as if

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she would die without an answer.

‘I suppose I would have,’ he said, shrugging. ‘We are best friends, aren’t we? Aren’t we?’ Saying it twice just to get the desired effect, he watched her mouth while she nodded.

No words, just a simple nod. So he went crazy, psycho, nutso.

Standing up, knocking his head on the low ceiling, yelling out in pain, crouching, and then finally rubbing his head, he growled, ‘We’ve been friends ever since you stole my collection of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles action figures and flushed them down the toilet. And I forgave you for that even though your parents forced you to apologise.

I know you didn’t mean it. Now, years later, here I am, sporting a conker on the back of my head because you’re crying and you can’t even say that we’re actually friends?’

He sat down to catch his breath, cheeks and ears hot.

Not fazed by his outburst, she rubbed his head with her hand and then presented her little finger. ‘This is the finger that I used to promise that we’d stick together.

Remember, Turtle? And you used that one. Right? Well, here we are … in the tree house, still with little fingers in tact. You can saw yours off with a blunt saw if you want, but mine’s staying. I’ll have it even when I’m dead, right?’

Eyes fixed on hers, he acquiesced. ‘Right.’

He never did know why she was crying and moments after her death, he got the point. He understood when it didn’t really matter anymore.

Rewind to winter. To early adulthood, to that tomorrow, to the promise of education, of success and dreams. School was over and he was the genius he pledged to be while she was the underachieving fitness freak that teased and encouraged him. She liked other things, though, besides sport. Macaroni cheese, re-watching her favourite films, questioning set ideas, laws and beliefs, custard. Pink custard, to be precise, thick with lumps and E-numbers just the way primary school dinner ladies made it. He was off to university, he was sure. In a few months, all of his dreams would come true (he hoped), whether it be at Cambridge or the local Metropolitan – either way he was getting a degree. As expected, she had no plans. Not really.

She wanted to go to Tesco, get some wholegrain pasta to cook him a meal and that was as far as she had planned.

They were browsing the entertainment aisle, when he heard: ‘ … and many members of the Royal family have been escorted out of the country through fears of attacks in London. The King and the next ten in line for the throne have been confirmed to be away from English soil – we are awaiting confirmation of other members of the family.

Multiple countries in the South have threatened the safety of the royals and of the people. Members of the public have already been packing up, however, main bridges and motorways in and out of London, Bristol, Cardiff, Edinburgh and Birmingham have been blocked and toll roads are experiencing minor riots and disturbances. Some flights at Gatwick, Luton, Stanstead and Birmingham International have been cancelled and trains have been delayed. The Prime Minister, Lorraine Winston …’

There they were, among a crowd of spectators, stood in the middle of the supermarket, watching a broadcast which practically told everyone that they were in trouble – and that they were staying.

She marched down the street to the nearest café and demanded ‘Two highly-caffeinated beverages to go,

please,’ from a startled worker, her best friend saying, ‘You know I don’t drink coffee.’ But the drinks were both hers.

He expressed his deepest sympathies for the royals, hoping they were fine – but she was confident.

‘They’ll be separate – which means they’ll be okay. And if one of them are caught, at least they won’t all be.’

He frowned at her. ‘I thought you hated the system.’

Chuckling, she whispered, ‘I hate it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there for a reason.’

And that reason came three months later when ‘conscription’ began. It wasn’t actually compulsory, but they were desperate. The USA and the EU were cutting ties with the UK, the Commonwealth too; the whole world was about independence. Within that, Scotland, Wales, England, Northern Ireland and Ireland became enemies – together, but with backs turned. War was upon the world – not just the one tiny island we are concerned with. It was no WW3, but something very much like it. People called it The Curtain or The Line – because something was being closed or drawn. You were either in the audience or backstage, on the left or the right, hiding or fighting.

When he asked what she wanted to do, she said, ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Of course it was, but she didn’t expect him to leave her to her devices, did she? Did she seriously think that he would let her go?

‘And what will you do?’ she yelled, once confronted. ‘Make a fort out of your colossal collection of books and hope that the hardback casing will save you when a bomb falls on your house?’

That was it. ‘I don’t just read books, you know! I have sense. I know what can happen!’

She folded her arms, upset. ‘And I don’t?’

Shrugging, he said, ‘Not right now, you don’t, no.’

Hurt, she marched from his bedroom and down the street to her house, into the lime and terracotta patterned living room to tell her parents that she was off to the war. It was what she was born to do apparently. All of those hours she spent running for no reason was her preparation.

‘So God prepared you for this?’ her father demanded angrily.

‘Who said anything about God?’ she replied stonily.

Devout Anglicans, this was bound to tick them off, but she stuck to her story, repeating and emphasising how much sense it made and how she had common sense and how nonsensical it would be to sit down and pray for this to be over when some physical actions could be made. So, yeah, he knew it was his fault. She was making a point – a very brash one and boy was it heard. Her parents disowned her within the next minute or two, she packed up her things in three rucksacks and a wheelbarrow and squatted in his tree house until the day she went into town to sign up.

He went with her to the desolate plains of the High Street. Shops didn’t really open because the staff never made it in these days. The only places open were the corner shops and a place that sold collectible train sets. In silence, they went to the army stall set up by an abandoned jewellers where she enthusiastically autographed the sign-up sheet with a flourish and a grin as if her life’s work had been accomplished.

‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked her sadly.

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‘Doing what I think is right? Easy. I picked up the pen and wrote one of the first things I ever learnt to spell.’

And then he told her that he hated her, hated her for many reasons: for stealing his action figures, for ignoring him, for breaking up her family, for using all of the toilet tissue in his bathroom and for making him do something he did not want to do. Surprise, surprise, he signed his name with a full stop following. Seventeen years of age, he had succumbed to the peer pressure of the one person he was determined not to follow. Ever. He didn’t know then that he would follow her anywhere. He would have followed her off a cliff, into a cave of hungry hyenas, into a Boxing Day sale at Primark. Of course, his parents were outraged.

They knew that she was crazy, outlandish and bound to die young, but not him. That wasn’t their plan. He wondered, was his life planned for him, mapped out by his mum and dad, by the establishment, by everyone but himself? The girl beside him said yes, but only so that she could sleep as he spoke aloud worryingly. In his room, on his back, he stared at the dim light bulb as she snored beside her wheelbarrow, trying to figure out a methodological way to pack all of his books for when they left in three weeks for training. There was no human way (because he owned hundreds), so she took it upon herself to burn every single one in the garden, claiming that he had learned them all off by heart anyway. That didn’t matter but she didn’t see that, she refused to.

Forlorn and ready to kill the one person he had left, they met with the seventy-two men and women, boys and girls, that were ready. Ninety per cent of them had had no training and therefore had never even seen a gun in their lives. First day, they were learning how to use them, how they were made, its components, how to reload, how to shoot and not miss. Time was of the essence, see. Wars didn’t wait for the soldiers to tie their shoelaces. Mile-long treks, fitness tests, morning runs … at first, he failed them all being the dumpling that he was. She aced everything, but sacrificed sleep and breakfasts to help him when he was getting picked on by … well … everybody. The sad thing was that he couldn’t be sent home because most cities were on lockdown and everyone had (hopefully) assembled in the local community centres, universities, arenas and concert halls which had been kitted out to become safe houses, bomb shelters. Maybe people only left occasionally for the Vitamin D. Thick inches of carbonfibre steel, some kind of naval stuff, she guessed, the kind of thing you’d get on a submarine or a tank. She agreed with the social-network-concocted rumour that the Apple Headquarters in California was being used as a shelter for the President instead of the White House. He thought that was a load of rubbish and that she could eat it with her evening stew.

So basically, from space, the earth looked far from green as more and more defences went up. That left people wondering … if most countries were being shut off, who was left on the outside? Just wild animals and soldiers?

Were the mass weapons on the outside too? Most did not think about it for too long – their heads hurt if they did.

Training continued for weeks after that, mostly to keep busy, awaiting the day that they came. ‘They’ being whoever wanted to get at them first. England had no allies besides the guy that was sat right next to them. Fingernails bitten down to the core, their leader announced that they were packing up, leaving for a hideout in Wales because

he had heard that a bunch of Unknowns were on the move. They could have been Japanese, American, Chilean, Ghanaian, Icelandic, French, Antarctic or from bloody Cornwall for all he knew. Guns and grenades packed, gear on, they walked. No fuel to power their trucks and little food, their feet bled on that long road to Wales. Knees wore away and one guy even fainted from dehydration.

Did we forget to mention? The water companies were getting sloppy and you had to take chances when drinking the water. Apparently there was a virus in the piping or something. Or was it that the filtration system was just rotting away? Rotting like human morality …

It rained a few times like the Great Flood was upon them, hordes of litter from the streets piling up against them. The group felt more like convicts than soldiers as they pushed the faded crisp packets and Coke cans from their paths.

‘What next, locusts and famine?’ he joked. She just rolled her eyes and strutted out of the overflowing canal they had swam across. ‘What’s your problem?’ he muttered.

‘Why do you believe in God?’ she asked through the rain.

‘Because the Bible tells you to?’

He laughed at her. He actually laughed in her face. ‘The Bible doesn’t tell anyone to do anything. It’s just guidance … ideas. Just like other religions.” She mumbled something incoherent. ‘And I believe because, in all of this mess, I have to know that there was a reason for all of this.’

Coyly, she replied, ‘So, you’re selfish?’

‘So, you’re closed?’

She emptied the watery content of her helmet onto her boots. ‘You think this is part of some plan? The world is tearing itself apart and you think this was meant to be?’ she yelled angrily, causing nearly everyone to stare over at them.

‘Listen, we’re only human. In the end, we all die. So do the animals, the trees, even the stars. If there’s a beginning, there’s an end and it’s never been up to any of us to decide when time is up. It’s as simple as that.’

She scoffed. ‘That’s not simple at all, idiot.’

Smiling, he said, ‘I know.’

Playfully, she pushed him back into the water where he surfaced with laughter brimming over his lips.

‘I love you, Turtle,’ she told him. ‘I don’t understand you or your outlook on life, but I do love you,’ she admitted sorely.

‘You too.’

Spitfire. An aircraft, right? As a child, he always imagined a something with an open mouth and jagged teeth, spitting fire from deep inside them; sometimes it would be a dragon, sometimes a man – it depended on his mood. That day – when the gunshots rang out like explosions, like ruthless drum symbols, like running footsteps, footsteps, knocking, tapping, like time passing on a ticking wall clock – he thought of spitfire. The mouth of the Earth had opened, sending tiny shards of death, no longer than fingernails, into the bodies of his peers.

One day was all it took, but it felt like a moment. It was a surprise, you see. Instead of avoiding the battalion in Wales, they met them there when they reached Brecon Beacons. They saw it coming too. Not many trees were left to hide the hundreds of men pointing rifles at them. He instantly took her hand and ran in the opposite direction while the others loaded up and ducked for cover.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ she shouted over the noise as they dove behind a tree stump. ‘Stop being a—’

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‘Don’t you dare call me a coward! Or – or selfish! I came here so you wouldn’t die.’

Incorrectly loading her gun with ammunition, she said, ‘I don’t plan to. I’m going to help the others, I—I’m going to get to the coast, see the sea. I’m going to see my parents again and show them that I could do it!’

He held her shoulders tightly. ‘And that’s why you came?

To prove a point?’ He was enraged, devastated that he was about to die because of her strict upbringing.

‘I came because I needed to.’ Gun cocked, she turned around and aimed it at one of the opposition. When nothing happened, he instead shot the charging animalslash-man that was about to wipe them out like bugs. She thanked him dearly and then got to it, became a killing machine with a cause, a gun holding a human, a man eliminating man – but only to save mankind. It was awfully confusing. Usually confusion was his thing, what with algebra and physics being the reason he loved school, but somehow, he couldn’t quite put his finger on what was more wrong with the situation: the fact that he just saw three of the men he had learned to call friend lose gallons of blood from their chests, or that another man did that to him? Was the gun the enemy or the man who wielded it? In past times, he was sure that men held allegiances with their weapons as if they were honour-bound to stay with them until the end, like a friend. Just a second ago, he witnessed a man toss aside his rifle and try to activate a hand grenade with his teeth. There was no such thing as honour here, he reckoned – not to man-made killers anyway. There was an honour to people, to his best friend. So he tried hard to avoid the men and women shooting at him, aiming at him with daggers; he simply followed his team – and particularly her -–across the grass, weaving around ditches and tried not to trip up on the smoking bushes and abandoned bodies.

When it happened, it wasn’t like a movie at all; there was no clearing ahead where the scene could clearly be a forefront to a backdrop of eerie sunlight and landscape.

People were shouting into mouthpieces, guns were going off, bombs were exploding; there was so much damn noise that he couldn’t hear a thing. Isn’t it funny how opposites worked like that? Sometimes, in the snow you get so cold in your exposed fingers that it feels like an incandescent heat. Does that ever happen to you? Or when you walk slowly somewhere, somehow you’ve reached your destination faster than you expected and intended …?

His commanding officer was number ten to go down.

Got shot in his groin, but it bled out until his face went white. He tripped over him and got distracted for one second. One second, he swears … and that was it. That noise. Bang. Poof. One second she was alive, the next, the victim of a concealed landmine under four autumn leaves.

Watermelon, jelly, petals, pieces of a puzzle that he could never put back together, bits of her that he could never take home to her parents. He threw up on the spot when he realised he was covered in her blood, that her flesh was scattered over five metres wide. He didn’t even know whether it was her hand or her heart that was beside him on that field.

So he laid.

It rained on him.

He rolled onto his back.

And looked at the sky.

If he died, he died.

He deserved to join her, he wanted to – honestly.

But fate decided otherwise. He was supposed to suffer. She was supposed to be at peace all along.

He figured that he was put on Earth to suffer, to strive for one thing and get the opposite. Because when he was pulled out of there, one of three survivors, with not one gun wound, and taken back home, he didn’t want to look at anybody, let alone in the mirror.

Silence was his ally. ‘What happened, dear? What did they do? How was it you let your best friend die and you lived?’ The questions came and went, some real, some his own. Wheelchair facing the window, in a white papery gown, eyes staring at the same spot, nurse hanging over his broken body like a vulture, mind whirring like a stuck CD, body immobile, frightened and tired, he imagined her face – the others’ too. But mostly hers. He loved her. Not in that kind of way, but he loved her nonetheless. More than her parents appreciated, more than she wanted, less than … well, that sentence could never be completed because she was his number one. He knew her like he knew Darwin’s evolutionary theory – off by heart, page by page, word for word. She had first been kissed by Paul Dench at her aunt’s wedding reception aged ten on the dancefloor. Her favourite colour was sapphire. Despite her constant reassurance that she hated children, she wanted one – a son. She liked lumpy pink custard straight from the thick, tarred ladle. And although he knew those things, he was confident that she didn’t always tell the truth. She could have had a big, fat, girly crush on him for all he knew, but he would never know what she thought about in her last moments. Did she think of him? No … How could she? She was determined to get across that stretch of land to hide behind a black tree before she was seen by someone and killed. It was ironic, then, that she was eliminated by a piece of rigged metal poking out of the ground like a bear trap.

In those moments – when he saw her go, when he sat in his chair contemplating a lone blade of grass through a window – he wanted to cut down their tree in his garden with a carpenter’s axe, remove all evidence of their promise. He wanted to hurt everyone, including himself.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t move, the guy could barely blink.

They say he was in shock, had that disorder and they couldn’t fix it.

He was so young, they’d mutter.

So, everyday, after his medication, breakfast, medication, bath, then dominoes, he would be wheeled to the window to the same blades of grass, eyes dripping with water, body still, mind on the field, on her, on spitfire, until the blades of grass was no longer there for him to not see.

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* Lips to kiss, fingers to wield, To change what comes after; Beg for that other yesterday, The sadness rather than laughter.

BOOK T OW AT

CH

Manuscripts of the Mind

Jessie J’ng

EXTRACTS FROM THE BOOK

Jessie J’ng is a Malaysian-Chinese dance artist, writer and content creator based in London. She is currently completing her Masters in Fine Arts in Choreography at Trinity Laban Conservatoire of Music and Dance, as a Leverhulme Arts Scholar, due for completion in December 2021. Jessie also holds a professional diploma in dance and a first degree in public relations and communications.

Writing and poetry have always been central themes and motifs in Jessie’s dance and artistic endeavours.

As with dance, Jessie writes with an innate rhythm and is highly aesthetic-focused – to her, words are choreographed and sequenced in the same way dance and movement vocabulary is choreographed to express, emote and evoke.

Freedom She was free within her cage Her imagination being the key Unlocking her mind From the grips of reality. ~ Rather Disconnected With her disassociated mind and discouraged heart, She was rather disconnected... …Or so she thought... …Or not. ~

In 2017, Jessie produced her first independent poetry exhibition in Hong Kong, titled ‘Pursuit of Perfection’, in collaboration with fashion store Mahka HK. The exhibition collaborated with a multitude of art disciplines including dance, floral art, and live art drawing.

As of 2019, Jessie produced her second independent dance-poetry exhibition in London for Deptford X Fringe 2019, titled “This Is The Way It Is.”

Beyond Sleep It was a dreamless state A story-less vacuum An unconventional, state of blank.

All that I could remember Amidst the empty blur I wanted to wake up to your fervour. ~ grxmx 26

Image: Jessie J’ng Photography credit: Camilla W Photography

Hiatus i ‘Twas like this: There were reasons to live Yet there was no meaning to life. ~ The Lost World Travelling here and there.

Soaking up in the sunshine.

Dipping in these clear blue waters.

Speaking in one tongue, thinking in another.

Laughing upwards towards the vast white skies.

Soundly sleeping within the deep dark nights.

I was lost.

So very lost.

I have thought about, dreamt about, and wished upon many things in life, yet never in my wildest dreams would I have thought that the words of my pen would materialise into physical existence; I would have never thought that my voice would finally be introduced to the world.

To my mother, Patti – thank you for having single-handedly raised me, beating all odds that life had served you. You have always believed in me, challenged me to find myself, and reminded me to not be complacent with my dreams. You are the first woman in my life that have showed me the divine, feminine strength; lighting the fire within me.

To my partner, Vychitch – I thank you for having always believed and supported me in the many different ways, for all these years. We have been through some of the toughest times not only as partners but as individuals. You’ve never failed to encourage me in finding my own confidence, and remind me that my voice mattered in this world. Your shine on this world had illuminated my existence.

To my teacher, Andy Wong – thank you for your wisdom and graciousness.

You have been the enlightenment that nurtured my passion and my voice; sparking my journey into being a lifelong artist.

To my publisher, Ghost & Ribbon Publishing, and editor, Jean Francis – thank you for seeing the potential of my words and enabling me this beautiful opportunity in witnessing my words come to life.

Finally, I would like to thank the many strong women and individuals that I had come across in my life who had mentored and/or inspired me to become the woman I am today.

– Jessie J’ng grxmx 27

CHILDREN’S BOOK COMING IN 2022 CAMILLE MARAWA

ILLUSTRATED BY

MONIQUE MARAWA

The ORDINARY

By V. Lang

PART I “You will never have a head start! Not in this world. You have a disability.”

CHAPTER ONE: JOSH White frothy currents of water flapped over the beach in ceremonious rank. I could neither hear the crash of the waves rolling over the grainy sand, nor the large birds above screech vexatiously. Instead, my tired eyes gazed over the beach, breathing in the sharp salty air as I try to fathom what it would be like to not be me.

When explaining to people that I cannot hear most things, they usually leant away or tried to be sympathetic – but that was all a waste. I had no time for pity; I was born like this and I knew no different.

Years of therapy sessions with Dr Williams were full of fun; she never forced me into surgeries or anything that I did not want. I developed my speech at an amazing pace, finally being able to be normal and to go to a normal school.

My sister, Allie was always ashamed of me; I could tell. She had never told her friends about me until I attended her school and even then, it took a while for them to ‘get used to it’. Clearly, they never realized that I neither cared nor wanted their approval.

I was happy to be alone. Deaf and alone.

Yet somehow, things started to look up … so to speak …

and squinted my eyes and she repeated.

‘Have I?’ I muttered, dazed.

She nodded and pushed me onto a chair at the dining table, Allie opposite me. She grinned.

I blinked back.

The bad-tasting, charred meal was mostly loathed in silence and this was definitely due to the event that took place the previous night.

So I had strolled home, minding my own business, lounging about in the living room when a thought hit me. I would be leaving home soon, so I had to tell someone. After all, this was my family and although they acted as if they’d rather live with a wild animal, it was common courtesy to share my good news with them.

For weeks, all of the students my age at my school had been deciding which college (or university) to go to and particularly which subject to study. After about half a millisecond of thought, I had decided on the institution of my choice as well as on the course of my dreams: Music. Of course, there is the tiny problem of the fact that I am partially, but mostly, deaf.

My mother and Allie were not happy when I told them that I wanted to be a musician.

‘But you’re deaf!’ Allie shouted in my face, perfectly mouthing the letters at me, this time not bothering to use sign language. I knew the reaction I would get When I entered my small home by the sea, my eyes before I revealed the news. ‘How will you study music?’ gazed across the scene sharply: my mother’s and my I threw myself onto the couch and put my feet up. ‘I sister’s coats were neatly on their pegs; they were can play the guitar, can’t I?’ I picked at my fingernails, home. Sliding the thin wood of the front door waiting for my mother to respond. ‘Mom?’ between my fingers, I pushed it closed trying not to She switched off the television and asked my sister to make any noise. leave the room. She said something with her back to Checking that it was empty, I peered into the empty me (clearly, I couldn’t make it out, but it must have kitchen then ran up the stairs with speed until I ran been something rude) and then she left. straight into my mom.

‘Joshua … ’ She sat next to me, but not before pushing ‘Good afternoon, Joshua.’ I watched her mouth my feet off the chair. I gathered that she said this intently. softly as there was a deep groove in her forehead ‘Hi,’ I replied. as she grasped my hands and enclosed them safely She placed her hands on her hips and then on my within her own. She was always protective of me, as shoulders, steering me back downstairs. As we walked, you would imagine, but I needed to impress upon her she said, ’You’ve been avoiding me.’ I looked at her the importance of leaving home. I was already a year grxmx 29

behind in school. What more did she want from me?

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ I began.

‘No,’ she used her hand this time to show that she meant it. ‘Josh. Look how far you’ve come. You’ve learnt to lip-read, to talk excellently … and the guitar.

That was the last thing I would imagine that you could accomplish … ’ ‘So let me go,’ I whispered. I wasn’t sure whether she heard me, or whether it was too quiet for her to notice.

Water trickled from her brown eyes and I pulled her into a hug. ‘This will be so hard for you,’ she had said to me.

Using my hands, I replied by saying, ‘It won’t be. I can play to the standard they want and they’re willing to give me an interview. Equal opportunities.’

She wiped her eyes. ‘You’ve already applied?’

I said nothing to her and instead decided to stare at my palms.

She stood up and signed to me, ‘You’ve already applied?!’

My mom was angry; her tears of sadness were now tears of rage, her mouth sown together with grief.

‘Maybe,’ I muttered.

‘I thought you were thinking about it, not that you’d gone and filled out your application already!’

‘I wanted to get a head start on things.’

‘Joshua, don’t you understand? You will never have a head start! Not in this world. You have a disability.

How exactly will studying music get you ahead in life?

It’ll only push you backwards when people realize that you are different.’

She stormed out of the room, probably thundering up the stairs, while I sat alone (in silence, as usual).

I understood that I was different, but I would never let that stop me from doing what I loved. My mother degrading me like that was the driving force behind my hasty application. I was going and there was nothing that she nor anyone else could do about it.

Later that evening, Allie pushed on my door handle and waited for me to let her enter, but I did not say anything. She opened the door and peered in.

‘You wanna be alone?’ she signed.

‘Obviously.’ I rolled over on my bed to face the window. I didn’t want to see her face. I didn’t want to see anything.

But as I suspected, she came around my bed and sat on the ground.

Allie spoke clearly. ’I heard what Mom said to you.’

‘I didn’t,’ I muttered.

Allie smiled. ‘Still got that amazing sense of humor, I see.’ She sighed. ‘You have gotten ahead, Josh. We all know that. You’re the best musician I know. Everyone loved what you played at my prom. That was, like, three years ago and you were amazing then. Just think of how

great you could be in a few years.’

‘Mom doesn’t see it like that.’ I wiped away a tear by burying my face in my pillow.

‘Oh Josh,’ she tried to hug me, but I stiffened. This did not happen very often, ‘she didn’t mean it that way. She’s just … scared.’

‘And you think I’m not?’ I could feel that my voice had wavered. My speech was okay after months of therapies and treatments, but when I was angry or upset I babbled and that was exactly what was happening now; the tears and the distress made me feel six years old again. ‘I’m terrified of leaving here and going away, especially because people don’t understand me and I don’t want to leave you but I need to get away and find my independence and find my own way in life so I’m not stuck in the same place forever until I die and—’ ‘Josh, it’s okay, I get it.’ She held my loose arms down by my side. ‘Well … I didn’t get all of it. You were rambling again.’

‘Sorry,’ I said angrily.

‘I was shocked when you told me, but honestly … I think it’ll be good for you. You might get the place and I hope you do.’ Allie sat on the edge of my bed and elbowed me. ‘So … which college is it? New York? Boston?’

My heart murmured a little. ‘It’s a little further out than that.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Where?’

I closed my eyes and said, ‘England’ as clearly as I could.

‘New England? Well, that’s not too far— ’ ‘No.’ I shook my head and moved my hands from side to side. ‘England.’

Her eyes were circles as she shouted, ‘What?!’ She turned to the door. Mom must have told her to shut up because she said, ‘What?’ again, but this time in a whisper. ‘Mom’s gonna freak.’

‘She’ll get over it.’

‘She won’t. She’ll kill you.’

‘Don’t be so dramatic, I haven’t even got a place yet.’

‘Oh, right …’ Allie giggled a little, relieved that there was still time for me to change my mind.

‘I will try my hardest to get it though.’

‘Josh,’ she said with downcast eyes. ‘Why do you have to be so difficult? I’m going to be the one she shouts at when you leave.’

I shrugged. ‘So move out.’

Rolling over, I closed my eyes so that if she wanted to say something, she would have to wait. She poked me in my side, but I was persistent at ignorance. After ten minutes, I opened my eyes to find her gone and then closed them once more to fall into that dark place

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they call sleep.

my curly brown hair.

‘Are you going to answer me?’ She put her hand on Living in Ocean City, New Jersey, was somewhat of a her hip. quiet village-type existence. We had set up shop close ‘Yes.’ to the sea – just a mile or two – where the sky was ‘Yes, what?’ grey and the white waves rolled over the stony beaches ‘To your question.’ wildly, thrashing about the sand. Knowing your ‘Which one?’ neighbors and most of the people in the surrounding ‘The first.’ area was the norm so there was no wonder that My mom gazed strangely at the table, figuring out my mother would be mad at me for taking myself what I replied to, and then followed me out into the completely out of my comfort zone. Although I was lounge. Take note that this was a downright lie. starting to think that this was all about her own.

‘So when is this interview?’

Throughout dinner she made no attempts to ‘Why do you care? You don’t want to come.’ I speak to me nor acknowledge me, even though she switched the TV on; it was automatically queued up knew that it was childish. I was supposed to be the with the captions so I flicked the channels, in search teenager who ignored his parent because they were so of something comedic, or possibly something gritty; I overwhelmingly stubborn. needed a pick-me-up.

After a quiet and very fast shower the next morning, ‘Someone has to go with you.’

I slithered down to the kitchen for something to eat I rolled my eyes and turned away from her. when I encountered my mother’s hunched figure at Automatically, the television was blocked by her small the dining table, grasping onto a fresh cup of coffee. figure. She hated when I tried to ignore her and had ‘Morning,’ I said, with great gusto, trying to take the always said it gave me an ugly personality. role as the mature member of our household.

I attempted to lean around her but she knelt on the Her lips moved ever so slightly. ground, at eyelevel with me.

‘What?’ I asked.

Blocking out words was one of my favorite games to ‘That – it – is: morning.’ Mom sipped her coffee and play. I was always the winner; I could pretend that I stared onto the sunlit yard. The glowing light bathed did not understand. I could close my eyes and not over her face, showing me fatigued shadows and deep absorb anything. And I could ignore anybody I wanted lines across her face and cheeks. to upon my will. The great thing about being deaf I poured myself a bowl of cereal and sat opposite her was that I didn’t have to hear most of the bullshit at the table. Still, she chose not to look at me. people vomited up from day to day. When Allie has ‘Do you want to come to the interview with me?’ a meltdown, when my eyes are sick of looking at her, For a moment I thought she had not heard, or that at her tense fingertips, brittle fingernails squirming in maybe I wasn’t clear enough, but she said, ‘No,’ very rage as she distorts the images of her harsh words, I simply and very clearly. would just close my eyes.

‘But, Mom— ’ However, right now, I couldn’t take my mom putting ‘I don’t want to hear it, Josh.’ She poured all off the me down all day, but this time I had no choice but coffee away and made to leave me alone. to keep my eyes open and not only because of the ‘Was that supposed to be funny?’ I threw at her intensity of our conversation. while crunching on my morning meal. I forced my She held my face within her two palms and forced me spoon around the perimeter of my bowl, stirring and to look at her. I could have closed my eyes, but I chose stirring. In my mind, I created an eerie projection not to. of what I imagine to be the touch of metal and ‘I love you,’ she mouthed carefully. My stare focused crockery; but as usual, there is nothing but a slight on her words. ‘You are my only son and I do not want tinny noise… yet I imagine something different to my anything bad to happen to you.’ everyday quiet.

‘It won’t,’ I promised.

‘Hilarious, Josh,’ she signed sarcastically.

‘It will.’ She sighed.

‘I try my best.’ Tipping the bowl back, I drained the ‘That’s why you need to let me go out there and learn pool of milk and gulped down my water. to take care of myself. For my whole life you’ve been ‘Is it not too late to apply for something else? there for me; through school and even in my social Biology? English?’ life. It’s kinda hard to go out with friends when your I frowned. ‘Are you trying to confirm my theory that mom’s calling you every two minutes just in case you don’t know me at all?’ I dragged my hand through you’ve changed your mind and need a ride home.’ grxmx 31

‘I’ve never done that,’ she lied.

‘When I was twelve at the movies with Grace. When I was fifteen, the bowling alley with Trent and Mark.

Six months ago, when I— ’ ‘Okay, Josh. I understand.’

I raised my eyebrows. Did she? Did she really understand me? It was like I was speaking a foreign language most of the time, so I decided to translate to her by telling her what I wanted: ‘Mom, I want you to calm down. I am studying music. I am going to the interview alone. I am going to a university in England. I am deaf … but they’re all just going to have to get over it. I won’t be the first and hopefully not the last.’

Her mouth was frozen open. I wasn’t even sure that she was still breathing until she began raging at me.

She frowned hard and her face was as red as a beet.

After seeing the word ‘England’ on her lips, I closed my eyes and waited for her to finish.

had a disability.

‘Right.’ she smiled. ‘Joshua Lambert for an interview.’

‘Like I said.’ The receptionist pretended not to hear that comment; I noticed her hand twitch on the computer keys and smirked.

‘Do you wish for me to call someone for sign language interpretation, Sir?’ she said while lamely pointing between us, holding her fingers to her ear like a phone and showing all of her cavitied teeth.

Frowning and almost laughing, I said, ‘No thanks.

I’m good.’

Noticing that she looked like a fool, she said, ‘Please wait over there until you’re called.’

I sat at one of the chairs she was referring to and looked around, practicing my carefully planned script in my head. When they called me, I would stride into the room confidently, smiling and I would shake hands with them gratefully, ignoring the pity in their eyes. I wasn’t there to make friends or even to prove that being deaf wasn’t a challenge; I was there to show The date was March 14th 2019 and I would gladly my talent. record this as the day that I was the most terrified. My My guitar and I were joined by many other faces. eyes darted across the bustling scene from outside the I smiled at people as they came and went, palms building: cars (possibly loud honking – I could make sweating like hell and my toes curling in my Converse out a slight jarring sound), people (I could see lips sneakers nervously. I tried reading the magazines on moving at breakneck speed), lights (streetlights, traffic the desk, but they were all out of date or on subjects lights, cigarette lighters, the sun), dirty bricks and a such as women’s health or birdwatching. At times, large plaque on the wall commemorating the date that I felt like I couldn’t feel my legs. Panic overcame me the place was erected – some time in the 1980s. and I was nervous that my voice would take a turn for Once again, I stared down at the letter and confirmed the worst. Clear communication would be my ticket that I was in the right place at the right time. in, I knew it.

I was.

The clock on the wall had its hands outstretched. It This was it. was three forty-five and they were over an hour late.

I hitched my guitar case higher on my shoulder and Even the lady at the reception was gone, so I stood up made my way inside. and said, ‘Did I miss something?’

The entrance was very bright, windows were open The old lady stared me down over her black spectacles and the sunlight flooded through the high windows and said, ‘Yes, young man?’ and onto the white rubber chairs lining the wall of ‘My interview.’ the suffocating room. The crooked ‘RECEPTION’ She looked at the computer with bored eyes and I sign hung above a desk drew me into the centre of guessed that with a bored tone, she said, ‘Name?’ the room and I waited until a dark-haired lady had ‘Joshua Lambert.’ finished on the phone.

‘According to this, you were called in for the third ‘I’m here for my interview,’ I spoke clearly. I had had a time over a half hour ago.’ session with my speech therapist the week before, using ‘What?’ that irritating hearing aid for extra support.

‘Over the intercom.’ She pointed with the chewed She frowned. ‘Could you say that again, please?’ end of her pen.

I grimaced. It was either my speech was worse than I spun around to look at the small speakers in the I thought or she was just rude. Or maybe I was the corners of the room. ignorant one thinking that just because my family ‘Can I go in now?’ I said eagerly. were used to me that everyone would be comfortable ‘Well, I doubt it. You were late— ’ about my lack of coherence.

‘I’VE BEEN HERE ALL AFTERNOON!’ I pulled my envelope out of my jacket pocket and gave ‘Yes, but you missed your slot and if you wait until— ’ it to her, my finger pointing to the part saying that I … ‘I’ve had enough of this.’ I dragged my guitar over grxmx 32

Background image: Patrick Tomasso

my shoulder and barged through the doors on the far side of the hall and down a narrow corridor. I was glad that I could not hear the calls of the people behind me because it may have convinced me that what I was doing was wrong.

A group of three casually-dressed adults were gathering papers and pushing aside chairs when I strode into the room labelled ‘INTERVIEWS’.

‘And who are you?’ A tall black lady asked.

‘Joshua Lambert.’

‘The no-show,’ a snide balding man whispered to her.

But I saw him.

‘Yes, the no-show,’ I mimicked. ‘So smart of you to have an intercom system. Very modern.’ They stared at each other, confused. ‘Couldn’t get someone to tell me to go in? Someone might think you hadn’t actually read my application.’

The third member – a blonde, tall, principal-looking guy – quickly found my paperwork and sped through it. He shook his head sorrowfully and then whispered to his colleagues, ‘He’s deaf.’

‘Bingo!’ I shouted. ‘Where do I set up?’

‘Wherever you like, Mr Lambert,’ the blonde motioned with a wave of his hand. He checked his watch. ‘I see you are very skilled – ’ I looked away to set up my music stand. ‘ – don’t want a translator?’

‘Positive.’ The three sat down.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘My name is Henry Fuller, a music scholar at the New Jersey campus. This here is Damien Grettens, the UK Music Correspondent and she is Alicia Austen, Enrolment and Foreign Exchange Officer.’

‘Pleased to meet you all.’ I grinned.

They waited patiently as I pulled out my black acoustic guitar. I had polished it the night before until I could see my reflection in it and changed the strings and retuned it (I asked Allie to double-check that I had done it right even though I doubt that she knew what she was doing).

When I looked up, I did not miss the worried glares they gave each other.

‘Mr Lambert—’ Alicia began.

‘Call me Josh.’

She smiled appreciatively. ‘Josh … tell me, why do you wish to study music? And furthermore, why in England, as part of the Rural Academy of Arts?’

Last night, I had gone over this answer so many times, it would be timeless. Someone may as well inscribe it on my tombstone for good measure because this sure was different. Hopefully, I wouldn’t be dead by the end of this for utter rudeness and lack of human feeling and emotion: ‘Listen, I’m not here for your sympathy. You think I

haven’t heard this all before? Oh right … I haven’t.

Because I’m deaf. But I see the same look on your faces that I see from my family. It’s worry. Why can’t you see ambition and determination, or even strength? You’re instantly doubting me before I’ve even done anything. And I bet this interview was just for equal opportunities or whatever, but I couldn’t care less. I have been waiting for this day ever since I got my letter and I’m not going to screw this up now.

Music is my passion, it’s what I live for, it’s what I do, it’s what I am. My sister suggested I take it up when I turned thirteen. It was joke initially, but when I started classes I realized I may have something. So I taught myself to listen without hearing, to time the music without much of a beat to go by. I felt the music, each note I touched with my fingertips. At night, I’d play and play and play and I knew that I was terrible in that first year, but I grew and I progressed into the best guitarist my school had recognized. And yes, this was a state school – not one for kids with additional needs. I’ve won awards and I’ve played at school proms and at events without judgement.

People accepted my music because it was good, not because of me. So please, sit down, shut up and listen for me. I trust that it’s beautiful, so please, tell me if it is.’

Damien smiled at me. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Thank you,’ I said a little sternly as I sat on a leather stool. Reaching behind my ear, I turned on my hearing aid and pumped it up to the highest volume.

After turning on a metronome and watching the dial sway, I pressed my hand to my heart, I waited for it to steady and then when it was at approximately one hundred beats a minute, I tapped my foot along with it. Their eyes instantly noticed this and Alicia nodded and muttered, ‘Smart.’

Although I was grateful, she was off-putting, so I closed my eyes and continued to prepare myself. Once the beat was steady and without opening my eyes, I placed my fingers on the strings and began.

They moved along the guitar with ease. My eyes flickered open, but only so much so that I could look at the sheet music on the stand. At the allotted time, I tapped the wood of the guitar with a smile for a couple of beats while I flicked the page and went in for in for the easy part ... I ended my piece with a complex yet quick finger movement, then a final strum.

I took off my hearing aid and threw it into my guitar case.

‘I believe that was Mozart’s Symphony number twenty-five in G minor. The rhythmical changes I’ve made are a modern adaptation I like to call “innovative.”’

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When I looked up, I expected to see shocked face, possibly even horror, but then I was met with applause.

Their hands were moving together fast and it didn’t stop for a while. All I could do was grin.

They all shook my hand in turn and I said, ‘How did I do?’

The interviewers laughed.

‘That was the most extraordinary thing I have ever heard in my entire life, Mr Lambert,’ Henry commended while patting me on the back.

‘Thanks.’

Damien came next with wide lips. ‘Usually we would ask about career aspects but I think we have enough in your application, plus we haven’t really got the time.’ He checked the wall clock. ‘I think it is safe to say that we shall be seeing you again, Joshua.’

Alicia turned her computer around to me and said, ‘I’m sending the recording to the campus immediately for their opinions. You should hear from us very soon.’

My heart wouldn’t slow. ‘Thank you,’ was all I could say. Kneeling, I put my most prized possession to bed and hauled her onto my back.

‘No,’ Henry expressed earnestly, ‘thank you for coming.’

‘And we’re sorry about the intercom,’ Damien said before I turned to leave.

The desk in the lobby was empty, so I strode out with a smile on my face, knowing that I had secured my spot; the last thing to do now was to say goodbye to Grace Pierson.

night gown. ‘Not that I don’t enjoy your company, but do you know what time it is?’

Frowning, I glanced at my watch: seven fifteen. ‘Is she awake?’

Helen yawned. ‘I don’t know. Go check.’ She stepped aside to let me in and I walked the familiar steps to Grace’s bedroom at the farthest end of the apartment.

I pushed open the door.

‘Josh!’ Grace dropped off her bed and onto the ground.

I laughed and held my hands up. ‘Even if I had knocked, I wouldn’t have been able to hear you.’

She scooped her dyed yellow hair from her eyes and pushed it behind her small ears. I held out my hand and she took it. I sat beside her on the soft mattress.

Grace was wearing a vest and pants with teddy bears on it.

‘Cute,’ I muttered.

She stared at me with an unconvincing eye. ‘What do you want?’

I grinned and pushed the letter into her hands.

‘Oh … my … God!’ She jumped up on her bed and I joined her, throwing the pillows into the air and falling down giggling.

‘I came here as soon as I read it,’ I told her.

‘Your mom doesn’t—?’

‘Not yet.’

‘You should have told her first, Josh.’ Grace signed this as well as she could. I had taught her how to communicate with me ever since we became friends six years ago but she never really got the hang of it.

So, I’m a chicken. Although my confidence could She preferred to just mouth the words clearly to me have been a substitute for a certain branch of psychic- and I didn’t complain; it was an excuse to stare at her ness, I decided to wait until I received my acceptance lips all day. letter before I said my goodbyes.

I looked over at her computer desk. ‘You got any Two months later, I had ripped open the letter as replies?’ soon as I saw the blue lion emblem and four other ‘Not yet.’ She laid back on the bed, pulling me down stamps (including a GB one) on the edge of the with her. ‘I can’t believe you’re going, Josh.’ Grace envelope. As soon as I read the words ‘pleased to inform stroked my chest and stared at me with inviting you’ I punched the air, grabbed my jacket and hopped green eyes. on my bike to the other side of town.

Shrugging, I said, ‘You’ve had months to get used to it.’

Grace lived right on the mouth of the beach in Ocean ‘Yes, but, I had hoped that you wouldn’t get in … ’ City, in a one-storey apartment with her Great-Aunt I wasn’t surprised. ‘You’re not the only one. Allie said Helen – who was richer than I could imagine – while the same.’ her parents travelled the world. It was a huge cliché to Grace held my hand, the contact of her soft skin say that Grace got everything she ever wanted in her warm. ‘ … so you could stay with me.’ childhood and during her adolescence. But there was ‘Well, we could elope. I don’t know any place where nothing else to it; she was a rich kid and I was the only they’ll wed a Jewish guy and a German girl but we one who helped her to mingle with the little people could try.’ I laughed, but she punched me on the leg back on Planet Reality. and sat up, arms crossed.

I rolled over the flowerbed and dropped the bike on ‘Why do you have to be such an idiot?’ the steps leading to the porch. With my letter clutched I leaned up and poked her back. She instantly tight in my hand, I knocked the door seven times. shuffled away. ‘What? You know I was kidding.’

Helen answered the door in a purple floor-length ‘Well, maybe I’m not.’ Grace continued to face me, grxmx 35

but her eyes were on her pillow. She wanted me to know what she had to say, but was too embarrassed to look at me. ‘I don’t want to lose you. You’re not going to be across town anymore, or even a bus ride away … or even a short plane trip. You’re going to be hours away, where even the phone calls will cost a lot … I like you, Josh and … you make things so hard. You joke about us when you know how I feel.’

‘But … we’re not dating … are we?’ I asked cautiously, eyes shifting nervously.

‘Are we?’ She shook her head as her eyes watered heavily.

Mine widened and I was so shocked that I reiterated.

‘Are we?’

‘I don’t know!’ Grace leapt up and stood by her door.

‘But we’ve never … ’ I began to justify.

‘We’ve never done a thing, Josh. But I’ve always wanted to. And now … there’s no time. You’ll be in England in a few months. I’ll be in New York. The geography says it all.’

‘But if I knew … ’ I tried.

‘If you knew? I thought it was obvious!’

‘You don’t exactly say what you mean. You never do.

All I get from you are these cryptic codes—’ ‘Me, cryptic?’ Grace pointed at herself aggressively, then at me. ‘You are the one always speaking in riddles, expecting everyone else to figure you out! What the hell does ‘three people in a one-man band’ mean?’

‘It’s a metaphor,’ I said matter-of-factly.

‘It’s stupid, that’s what it is.’

‘It’s my life, Grace! My life is my own, but then there’s my mom and Allie … rubbernecking all the time, trying to rule my life. Don’t make me change it to “four people.”’

Grace was in tears at this, her body sliding down the wall and I instantly went over to hug her. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No … y-you’re right. You don’t n-need someone else … in your band … ’ I stroked her hair and smiled at her.

She tried to return it, but after failing, carried on speaking, ‘I’m just selfish.’

‘I agree. One of the most selfish people I know.’

‘Hey … ’ She hit me lightly on my arm and then gazed into my eyes.

Something strange happened in that moment. Not only was I extremely attracted to her, I felt like I was breaking a really precious and delicate china doll, or – in search of better words – that I was ruining something great by staring at her in that way, and by letting her do the same to me. I could feel it, smell it almost as if I were a hormone-strung animal in the wilderness, my nose twitching towards the pheromones. But when she bit her bottom lip, I knew

I was in for it. She held onto my shoulder languidly and used it as leverage to pull herself towards me, her light lips filling my vision.

Closing my eyes for I moment, I genuinely thought I could do it, to kiss my closest friend. But it was impossible. As soon as her lips touched mine, I pulled away and then looked down, worried about what she would do or say.

But I didn’t have to, because she had left the room almost instantly.

CHAPTER TWO: TRINITY Autumn was my favourite season of the four. If I were an average person, you would assume it was because of all of the pretty colours, the so-called oranges and glittering gold of the falling, crunchy leaves.

But because I am not an average person I’ll avert my reasoning. I love it because of the warmness of the air. Not physical warmth, just a feeling called home. I love the dewy wind with the scent of grass and rain, the sound of splashing puddles and the touch of the soaked sand and rocks by the coast.

Then again, I suppose in England you could say that there was only three seasons; Spring, Autumn and Winter, because it either, rained, rained heavily or snowed. It would often be a rarity to feel the hot sun on your cheeks and that satisfying prickling sensation over your skin. I couldn’t wait for this sorry excuse for a summer to be over.

Sitting on the decking in the garden with my large pink sunglasses over my eyes and an easel to hand, I tried to ignore the heavy breathing of my mother.

In … out … in … out … … through slightly clogged nostrils … … in … out … in …

Was this what she called being quiet?

‘Did you want something?’

I heard the chair scrape across the wood a little. She chuckled nervously. ‘Oh … I—I didn’t think you could hear me.’

I sighed. ‘I’m blind, not stupid. Stop breathing so loud and maybe I wouldn’t notice you.’ My sense of sound was very good, perhaps too good because every little thing I could hear agitated me to no end.

‘I just thought that you should come inside, Trinnie.

It looks like it’s going to rain.’

‘Good,’ I muttered.

‘Come on,’ she said sweetly. ‘We don’t want your hair to get wet.’

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My mum was a hairdresser and sometimes she took it personally when I didn’t brush my hair in the mornings. If it rained on me, she quite possibly may become able to show real human emotion instead of the sugar-coated drivel she doles out twenty-four-seven.

I turned to her. ‘Why don’t you just say what you’re thinking? “Get up off your lazy arse and go to school.”

That’s what you want me to do.’

‘Your dad will be home soon.’

‘So? I’ve only got a few weeks left of that place anyway.

What does he care if I get a few AS Levels or not?

He’ll still be convinced that I’ll be housebound for the rest of my life.’

‘I’ve got sandwiches in the kitchen.’ She always ignored the tension between my father and I. Her footsteps faded behind me as I opened up a full tube of blue oil paint and squeezed it all onto the canvas. The braille on the lid was not specific enough so I had no idea what shade of blue it was. Not that that mattered to me because all colours were the same shade as the darkness that surrounded me for the whole of my life. I try, at times, to imagine what colour is, to imagine a variety of … well anything. To this day, I still did not know where to begin.

I squished my fingers into the paint after adding red and yellow so that the primary colours could blend and mix under my hands. I pushed the wet liquid to the edge of the canvas lovingly. Then, when I could feel the air grow damper, I removed it from the easel and held it in my arms at a seventy-degree slant.

I waited.

In a matter of seconds, raindrops splashed on and around me, washing over the paint. After three minutes, I rushed inside to my ground floor bedroom, placing the piece by my window to dry. I always found it interesting to feel what would happen if I allowed water to implant its heavy natural grooves into the inch-thick tar-like paint.

Around my bed, were many similar things; some pieces of cardboard covered in hard clay, morphed by my own hands into interesting swirly shapes, protruding from the walls so that I could touch them before I went to sleep. There were knobs of BLU TACK stuck to my headboard; I used those to ‘Braille the house’ as my father liked to call it. There were little buttons of the blue stuff on the fridge, on the food, in the cupboards, in the bathroom, literally everywhere so that I could make my way around the house and be aware of any changes. My mother being as compulsive as she is, adds Braille to all of the food shopping every week before I even get the chance to. The most expensive thing in my room – that my

family owned – was my special printer, which I had defaced within the first week of owning it. He was furious, of course, but it was not as though we were looking to resell it. The rest of the space in my box room was filled with shoes, more canvases, a small desk with no lamp (I didn’t even bother having a light bulb in the main ceiling light), canvases, paper, paintbrushes, socks, more canvases and a large box of interestingly shaped pebbles and shells that I had collected from the seaside.

‘Trinity Mary Thompson, you get down here right now!’

I stayed put, hoping that my father didn’t start up the staircase and that he would forget that he wished to speak to me. But as usual, he thundered up the stairs as I launched myself into my bed and under the covers.

The door creaked open and he stepped inside. I heard him crush my favourite square pot and I winced.

‘I knew you weren’t asleep.’ he chuckled.

He was such a horrible man. I just wanted to rip out his throat for stepping in my room.

I said nothing.

‘I’m only going to ask this once: why you haven’t been to school for the last twelve days?’

Even though I knew it is no use, I actually tried to go to sleep at this point.

‘Why haven’t you been to school for the last twelve days?’ he said, sternly.

‘I thought you were only going to ask once?’ I couldn’t help myself but this earned me a hard shake. He lifted me a little way off the bed with his rough hands gripped about my shoulders.

‘What is wrong with you, you silly little girl?!’

He let me go and I flopped back down, heart in my throat.

Sniffing, I curled into a ball and cried to myself as he threw a tantrum and half of my possessions were smashed against the walls.

I have no friends. At least, that was my mantra weeks ago.

My mother had enrolled me into a part-time ‘school’ for blind kids two months ago (a silly seventeenth birthday treat) but I thought that was an even bigger waste of time than my compulsory education was; I dropped out after a day and a half. They expected me to sit down and talk about my feelings and to play games with seven-year-olds. I’m not cold-hearted, I just preferred to do things my way instead of being dictated to and pitied.

On the other hand, you could say that I had one friend, but I hardly counted twenty-year-old, Darren as a friend. During the one day I spent at St James’ Disability Seminary, I had tended to four-year-old

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Background image: Liv Bruce

Maisie, who had wet herself in the sandbox.

‘Don’t cry,’ I had said. ‘The boys didn’t see it.’

‘They did,’ she squealed. ‘Don’t lie to me.’

‘Fine,’ I muttered. ‘They saw.’ Two other heavily spectacled boys had been making a pile in the sandbox – which I had knocked over – and scrambled out at a run, screaming, ‘Peeeeeeeee! Peeeeee!’

‘But there’s nothing we can do now. Take my hand and lead me to the toilets please, so I can help you.’

Shyly, I felt her grab me, and standing close by, we shuffled through a crowd of children and into a breezy room.

As quickly as I could (and with help from a supervising member of staff), I put her into a toddler nappy and gave her my very long jumper so that she could wear it like a dress.

‘What colour is it?’ I whispered. These days I threw on anything, not bothering to co-ordinate; I grew out of that when I was fourteen.

‘Green. Like sick.’ Maisie was only partially blind, her left eye, I think.

I laughed. ‘Come on.’ I led her back outside onto the grass. We took off our shoes and sat in the prickly green blades, talking about food, school and ladybugs.

‘I never usually wee myself,’ she whispered. ‘I’m potty-twained.’

‘I believe you. Shall we do some skipping?’

In three hours’ time, her father arrived at the entrance.

‘Daddy!’ she rushed from my side and into his arms.

I heard him catch his breath and lift her up. Turning around, I grasped the crumbling brick wall and made my way over.

A hand touched my own.

‘Do you need some help?’

‘No thanks, I’m quite capable.’

Settling myself beside Maisie and her father, I awaited his introduction.

‘Hi, I’m Darren.’ He took my hand from my side and shook it. ’Was it you who helped Maisie out today?’

‘It was no big deal.’ I shrugged and shoved my sunglasses further up my face. ‘Just a little accident.’

‘It’s her first day here. My mum thought it’d be good for her while I’m at work.’

‘My first day too,’ I mumbled. ‘But I doubt I’ll be back tomorrow.’

‘Are you sure? Maisie seems to like you and she’s in for a few hours tomorrow.’

‘Please come tomorrow Trinnie. Pleeeease … !’ Maisie begged.

I turned up the next day in co-ordinating clothes. I felt the braille sticky labels and pulled out a purple knit dress and white pumps with a cream cardigan.

Maisie and Darren surprised me at the Painting

Corner.

‘I’ll leave her with you until I get back,’ he said, with his hand on my shoulder.

‘She’s in good hands.’ I said goodbye and steered her to the stacked pile of books and we spent the morning reciting The Very Hungry Caterpillar and Spot and His Friends from half-a-century old Braille books.

‘Your dad sounds young,’ I mention while we eat jam sandwiches on a tough wooden bench.

‘Yep,’ she said, after licking her fingers. ‘He’s nineteen.

Nope – twenty. Was his birthday yesterday.’

‘Oh,’ I said quietly.

Somehow, when Darren came back to pick up Maisie, I accompanied them to the corner shop and then the park situated a few yards away from my house.

I abandoned eating a bar of chocolate to give Maisie an apprehensive push on the swing. In the next moment, I was on the ground as the swing – and the four year old – had knocked me off my feet.

Jumping back up before anyone could help me, I pushed my pink sunglasses back on.

‘Are you okay?’ Darren had asked softly.

‘Fine.’ My cheeks grew hot as I stumbled over to the bench and nibbled on the first thing I could find: a bland packet of crisps. I ran my fingers over each one before I put it in my mouth.

‘Go on, Maise, I’ll watch from over here.’

Her footsteps grew fainter as his stopped beside me.

He sat down.

‘Happy birthday for yesterday,’ I muttered.

Darren laughed. ‘She told you that?’

I nodded. ‘Yes. It was mine two weeks ago. June 15th.’

‘Do you mind if I ask how old you are?’

‘Seeing as I already know your age … I am seventeen.’

‘Really?’ he exclaimed. ‘God, I would have thought you were eighteen at least. You really look after yourself.’

I shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I can’t really see to put makeup on so I just think you’re being nice to me.’

He cleared his throat and stayed quiet for a while. ‘Do you mind if I ask why you became a father at such a young age?’

‘Not at all. Don’t jump from up there, Maisie!’ he shouted quickly. I held my hands over my ears momentarily. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Yeah, I erm … just turned fifteen at the time. Didn’t much like school so I dropped out. Left home too because I couldn’t stand the tension between my step-dad and me. Moved here to Kent for a fresh start. Stayed with my cousin, Fredrick, up in Dover. To cut a long story short, his girlfriend, Harriet, is Maisie’s mum.’

Tears of laughter were on the edge of my eyes. And I thought he sounded like a nice person.

‘Don’t laugh,’ he said. It sounded as though he was

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smiling.

‘How did that happen?’

He sighed. ‘Harriet was nineteen - ’ I burst out laughing. ‘She took advantage of you!’

‘It seems that way now, but then … I was flattered. She was blonde, busty, really funny—’ ‘I noticed how you said “busty” before “funny”.’

He laughed. ‘You’re funny too.’

‘Thanks. Continue.’

‘Oh, right. Freddie and Harriet were a bit rocky. He hit her and left for the night. I didn’t know what to do, whether to go after him or stay.’

‘So you stayed?’

‘I stayed. We had a few bottles of vodka. And I swear she thought I was him.’ I turned towards him sympathetically. ‘So the next morning she goes mad at me, remembering how old I am. We decided to keep it quiet when Freddie came back. He apologised and everything was good for four weeks. I got a job, an apprenticeship. Then she tells me she’s pregnant. She knew it was mine and said she was going to abort it. I was young, but not stupid. I persuaded her to keep it and to tell Freddie. He threw her out and let me stay.’

‘I don’t think I like Freddie,’ I muttered honestly.

‘Yeah I thought it was harsh too. So I left and went to find her. Stayed with her and her big sister, Sarah for the whole pregnancy. Sarah didn’t like me either.

Never missed an opportunity to badmouth me about my age, about how I looked. Then, Maisie was born half blind. My mum thought it was the alcohol Harriet drank but there’s no evidence for that.

Harriet couldn’t take it. She wasn’t depressed but I think she was just wanted to “have a life”, as she called it. I mean, how did she think I felt? I was sixteen!

When Maisie was ten weeks old, she left, went back to Freddie. Sarah didn’t want me in her house any more even if I was looking after her niece, so it was time to call my mum. She moved from London down here in a month and we’ve lived together ever since.’

‘What happened in the month?’

He sighed and the light tone in his voice dropped a little. ‘Hostels,’ he said dully.

I listened for Maisie, who was running about, out of breath. ‘You probably wouldn’t be who you are today without those hard times, Darren.’

‘Are you sure you’re not older?’

‘Why?’ ‘You don’t speak like you’re sixteen. You’re -’ ‘Mature? Yeah, I get that a lot.’ I chuckled. ‘Believe it or not, I’ve had hard times too and, like I said, they make you.’

‘You’re right.’ He swallowed. ‘Would you like to come to mine for dinner?’

‘You mean, to your mum’s?’

‘Um … yeah.’

‘Sure.’

Darren, Maisie and I had left almost straight away to a house eleven corners away. It had a pebbled drive and many rustling bushes lined before the front door.

We entered to the smell of tomatoes and herbs.

‘It’s about time you got back,’ I heard a female voice say. ‘Dinner’s been ready since – Oh, you’ve got a guest?’

‘This is Trinity,’ Darren told his mother.

Her soft, papery hand found mine. ‘Trinnie,’ I corrected.

‘Hello, Trinnie,’ she said happily. ‘I’m Katherine.

Kathy Brent.’

‘Hi Kathy.’

She had rushed us all to the dining table – not before we washed our hands – and sat us down to a meal of tomato soup (which I sipped gratefully) and a load of anecdotes. I had learnt more about Darren in the past hour than I had known about my own cousins in my whole lifetime. He had many habits, personality traits that people loved and hated, including biting his nails and being an easy talker.

‘I think I should go now,’ I said at eight that evening.

Missing dinner would drive my parents crazy.

‘Darren, walk her home,’ Kathy ordered.

‘I was going to offer,’ he said back. I heard him grab a pair of keys from a table and kiss Maisie. ‘See you in a few minutes,’ he told her.

We walked out into the street. The air was chilly, but I didn’t imagine it was too dark; it was summer. His shoulder was quite close to my own and I could gauge that he was a few inches taller than me, about five foot eleven.

‘Where do you live?’ he asked.

‘Back to the park and then a left at the main road, followed by a right into the cul-de-sac. Number 1A. Willow Gardens.’

‘Nice quiet place.’

‘I suppose.’

‘You don’t like it there?’

‘How did you guess?’ I lowered my head. ‘My dad won’t be happy when I get back.’

‘Why?’ ‘I’m like you. Almost. Sort of a school drop-out.

Sometimes I think it will be better if I don’t go back home at all.’

‘Would you be alright if you left?’

Laughing, I said, ‘You think ‘cause I’m blind, I can’t look after myself? When I was thirteen, I ran away.

Went all the way to London too.’ He sucked in his breath. ‘Stayed with my cousins, but they’d called my

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dad and he collected me the next day.’

‘I see you’re a tough girl.’

‘Yes.’ I pulled a pair of keys out of my pocket and felt for the front door one. ‘Well, you probably won’t see me at St. James’ any more. I don’t think I’ll be going back.’

‘Maisie would love to see you again.’

‘I might see her around.’

Somehow, I knew we weren’t talking about Maisie.

‘The same as I am every time my dad trashes my room.’

‘Shall I come over?’ he asked concernedly.

‘No, but I’ll be taking a walk in three minutes.’

‘Okay.’

‘Where are you going?’ Mum asked as I opened the front door.

‘Answer your mother,’ came his booming voice.

‘Outside.’ I pulled open the door and slammed it shut before he could get up after me. I unfolded my white and red stick and raced around the corner. I knew he It had been a week or so since that encounter and would run out after me. since then I had heard from him a few times. While I A hand gripped my shoulder and I instantly struck was at the shop for a bottle of milk, I happened across the person with my weapon. him in the biscuit aisle.

‘Ouch!’ Darren yelled.

‘Hi Trinnie.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I tried to massage his shoulder. ‘Thought ‘Who is this?’ I asked. you were my dad.’

‘Oh sorry. Darren.’

‘And you regularly attack your father, do you?’

‘Hey. How’s Maisie?’ As expected, she was “fine”. All ‘Not all the time,’ I joked. He looped my arm through the same, he walked me back home talking about his and we walked around the park and down a quiet a film he had wanted to see at the cinema. I wasn’t lane I had never been down before. I folded up my really paying attention until— stick with a quick arm movement. ‘ … do you want to come?’

‘You could move in with me,’ Darren whispered.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Darren.’ I stopped walking and placed my hand on his ‘To the cinema. I figured just because you can’t see it, arm. ‘We’ve known each other for little over a month.’ doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it.’

‘I know, but you hate living there. I’m just trying to I had to admit, he was thoughtful. help.’

The next week, I agreed to meet him at the park I said nothing more because I did not plan to move at midday on Tuesday. It would be perfect. I had out. No matter how hard it was, I would get it a lot pretended to finally to go to school for the last few worse if I moved around the corner with a man I days, left the house, but pulled off my shirt once I got barely knew. Dad would probably drag me back home down the street. by my hair.

‘Don’t you have a job?’ I asked while he bought We hadn’t carried on walking. ‘Your mum seems nice. popcorn.

Talks a lot about—’ ‘Yeah, I’m a part-time mechanic. But I’m planning to Why was Darren kissing me? His lips smacked move into law.’ themselves straight over mine energetically and I ‘Ambitious. I like it.’ shuffled away.

We sat through an independent film called Which ‘Why did you do that?’ I demanded.

Way to Aberdeen? It was typically British film about a ‘I didn’t want to talk about my mum.’ young man’s search for his family and his childhood ‘Evidently.’ I wiped my mouth. ‘You can’t surprise me sweetheart. It was sweet really; he found her in the like that, Darren. It’s not right.’ I laughed. end and they adopted a son when they were both in He did too. ‘You didn’t like it?’ their fifties. I also noticed a hand rested on my thigh ‘Not a question I have to answer.’ throughout the entire thing.

‘That means you did.’

‘Shut up.’ I snapped. ‘I thought this was just a nice While cleaning up my trashed bedroom, I had the friendship.’ fleeting desire to call Darren. He had given me his ‘Don’t you want it to be more?’ phone number two weeks ago when he returned my I thought carefully for a moment. ‘Never in my life green jumper. He was speed dial 3 on my mobile. has anyone wanted to be my friend for more than a I held the button down and waited. week. And now all of a sudden I have a good friend, ‘Hello?’ a few good friends, and now one of them kisses me, ‘Hi … it’s Trinnie.’ expecting me to move on so fast and I’m just … stuck.’

‘Hey.’ His voice suddenly became clearer. ‘How are ‘I don’t understand. Aren’t you happy?’ you?’

‘I am … it’s just, I’ve never had a boyfriend.’ grxmx 41

‘So?’ ‘So … there are expectations.’

‘I’m a single twenty-year-old father of a four-year-old living with his mother. I’m proof that whatever you expect in life doesn’t usually happen.’

‘Even still … don’t ask me just yet.’

Pushing my arm back through his, I walked a little further and then back around to the park, where I fell asleep on the bench on his shoulder.

CHAPTER THREE: MAREO Things happen to me a lot. I tend to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. For instance, I was being beaten up for accidentally bumping into a meanlooking guy in a bar. After he threw a punch at me, we were both chucked out, but it didn’t stop there.

It was clear that this guy was heavily drunk from the way he looked at me. I tried to run away, but he was quick. Possibly due to the adrenaline raising around the hypothalamic region of his brain. My legs are only thirty nine inches long, so my speed is invariably limited and he caught up with me within seconds.

Next thing I know, I’m in hospital.

‘Mareo? Can you hear me?’ An unfamiliar female voice spoke very gently into my ear.

‘Will he be okay?’ my mother asked quietly.

There was no answer for a while. ‘He received extensive damage to a nerve in his spinal cord, Mrs Hiraki. During the fight, he fell quite a long way onto his back.’

‘What does that mean?’ she asked agitatedly.

The doctor sighed. ‘Mareo may never walk again and if he does, he will need a lot of help.’

I coughed and forced my eyes to open. The

brown-haired doctor rushed over and shone a bright light into my eye.

‘How do you feel Mareo?’ she asked.

My mother cried behind her.

‘I’m fine. I am. I’m not paralysed.’

She tried to smile at me. That’s when I realised that I couldn’t feel my legs. I couldn’t feel my groin, my feet, my toes. Dragging myself up, I pinched my thigh.

The doctor kept telling me to lay back down and my mother cried some more but everything blurred into a haze of incomprehensibility. All I could hear was my heart pumping in my chest and all I could feel was my chest upwards.

Frustration mostly ensued after that, tears spilling out of my brown eyes.

‘Mareo please,’ the doctor said. ‘Lay down.’

As soon as I did, my mother hugged me tightly.

The doctor had the decency to wait until we finished weeping and then she said, ‘I’m Dr Parvin. You’ve been very brave. We’d like to send you in for some tests as soon as you’re ready so we can see exactly how we’re going to treat you.’

‘You can’t treat spinal nerve damage,’ I spat bitterly.

‘There’s no point in any tests.’

‘On the contrary, Mr Hiraki. You have many other injuries. A broken arm, muscle damage and we must test for any internal bleeds. They can only be beneficial.’

‘Fine. Take me for the stupid tests.’

I was rolled out of the ward and into other rooms and machines. The MRI was the worst and most pointless. No, I did not have any brain damage, but I could have told them that if they asked me.

I waited. And waited. But they told my mother the results before me, and she relayed them to me a day later. I will never walk again, apparently was the going line. But why was my mother smiling?

‘Dr Parvin has said she can cure you.’

‘Wait, what?’

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2022

L. STANLEY

Consortium Can he make her love him?

And can she let herself?

FEATURE

Poetry Writer Series

By Alisha Bose

Friendship with inner voice In every hardship We seek for true friendship When our heart is hardly hit We tend to feel the burden and pain But pain can convert into gain As we allow tons Of thoughts to flow Let’s subtract the pessimistic thoughts And only welcome the optimistic ones As we tend to become fragile With growing tensions Let’s also cultivate robust thinking To deal with the toughest situation And be our own true friend To feel our own inner voice And to heal our inner wounds!

An immortal remark How short is our life On this magnificent planet Where we get organised with living and non living objects, Where at times our emotions hold us back, As our expectations damage our feelings and this short while, We wish to fly, chase our dreams and in this race we forget to embrace the beauty of life As we tend to forget we are mortals, Only to regret in our old age But we can set an immortal remark By living behind a legacy Which will inspire the upcoming generation Whenever they deal with frustration!

As the winter hits I miss your kisses As the winter hits the streets I think of our meets Working in overseas, And the gentle breeze As it made me freeze Reminds me of our say cheese portrait But fate says we have

To be in different parts Of the world to earn a living Oh beloved! I remember you Every single day, As your absence made me Value your presence more and more From the core of my heart I adore you.!

Little Jasper has more love to offer Little Jasper was just known as a doggie, Before it was adopted As it was spotted on a roadside, Which looted by heart instantly, And boosted my mind, Whenever he is around, I feel energetic, As he has the power to convert My bad days into good ones, His tail wagging to show affection even when i face rejection, Made me more attached towards him, As his playful nature, Makes the home cheerful With his unconditional love!

The Nightingale’s of the Pandemic In the midst of the crisis Our nurses never stepped backward, As they were highly committed And never hesitated to serve the humanity in their community To maintain the tranquillity The nurses became a light in the era of darkness As the nurses, nursed every Infected patients with patience, As the Corona cases spiked They still preferred dealing and healing the circumstances, Whether in the middle of the night or during the daylight, They preferred their duties above the rest, only to serve the affected population, To reduce the stress of their nation And shine a light in the mess, grxmx 44

Their dedication in the battle To face the worst, Taught us that humanity is above all race!

Perseverance is the key It is so hard to have patience When you are hit hard by life Where you feel you are a loser In the battle But if you add little bit of efforts every single day And mingle with your own dreams In Spite of the constant failures And be your own lawyer in frequent situations To turn your catastrophe into triumph For your betterment and nourishment To deal with the provocation Without hesitation And keeping your focus On your dreams As perseverance is the key!

Dearest life Dear life, i feared About the future, But you are the best teacher As it’s your nature to Make us learn and earn, At every phase of life We try to chase something But in this race life shows us what’s worth chasing, As life tells us don’t live in the fear of the future But cheer the present moment And make it a pleasant one Procrastination killed her action!

Jasmine had a wine, And went online As she gave a sign That she was fine Everytime she kept herself engaging in social media World, And declined to be kind

with her dreams, And delayed her work As she reduced her efforts And got seduced by procrastination Which revealed her hesitation To take action, Eventually lost motivation As she got invitation by denial, And finally procrastination killed her action!

Emotions - just a portion of life Stacey’s emotions were pulling her back, As her devotion got subtracted Which in return added frustration at a high degree, As she was caught in a series Of emotions, She lost balance and ended up in depression, This led her mother to figure out What was happening to Stacey?

And her mom made her understand That emotions are just a small portion of life, where we feel tons of positive and negative emotions and it has a direct effect on our body and mind But your feelings shouldn’t make you blind and behind!

Sustainability In Order to eliminate poverty Let’s begin from charity Which is became a rarity, As we pledge to take initiative For achieving sustainable development goals We know that climate change is curable, because it is treatable Once reached at the peak level Everything will be unfavourable Let’s begin with each community To establish gender equality And provide quality education to majority, As good health and well being is a priority For stability in the economy!

Are you afraid?

Darling, why are you afraid ?

Let your fear fade, As you upgrade yourself in every aspect, So don’t you degrade yourself, As you are a mermaid, In my dreams, Where you rescue me from the monsters, Hugged me tightly with kisses And whispered it’s alright, Honey, take the flight of

“HEY THERE! IM ALISHA BOSE, 24 YEARS OLD, RESIDING IN GOA, INDIA. FROM CHOOSING ECONOMICS TO CONTINUE MY EDUCATION TO DROPPING IT TO FOCUS ON MY PASSION, AND HERE I’M TODAY PRESENTING YOU A COLLECTION OF MY WORK, MY POETRY. GRATEFUL TO GRXMX MAGAZINE FOR GIVING ME THIS OPPORTUNITY AND GETTING MY WORK OUT TO THE PUBLIC. “

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courage, As you will be free from the cage of fear, And land on brave zone, Just like my dream You can rescue yourself In every dreadful situation!

Standly analysed sleep paralysis Standly followed different Sleep patterns, And once in his dreams he landed in a different zone, Where he was meet by hallucinations, And felt like he is in a different nation, But not on a vacation, As he couldn’t control the frightening situation, But felt some sort of vibration, he was conscious, But couldn’t move, Neither open his eyes, he wanted to scream, But was unable to speak couldn’t sense whether it was a dream or reality, He felt he encountered a super natural Presence, And for few minutes he felt paralyzed But after opening his eyes, Standly analysed sleep paralysis And his fear faded!

CR

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