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When Simon blew out the candle it still wasn’t dark enough the stars splashed I could see through the window the black on black untidy shrubbery and the grey lake I couldn’t close my eyes against. He fell asleep and all the tricks I used to play on him cascaded dim through my mind, small things like feathers beneath his nose or how I used to whisper-shout as scared as I could muster did you hear that? We were in the front room at the cottage, our bedroom and our parents’ bedroom were stuffed with whatever had been in the boathouse which had decayed slowly, my father said I’ll have to get on that before long which is some pretty vague timeline, isn’t it? Anyway the thing had toppled in a storm, the roof came off he said it first opened like a mouth, he called my mother in from the kitchen and the two of them stood at the window and watched it chatter a bit (I told you so?) before it went Kansas and flew off, landing upside-down in the lake they lost sight of it eventually. The boys from next door came over the next day he said and hauled the stuff out of the boathouse where he declared what was and was not ruined, borderline objects were left in the sun to reassess when dry, the good stuff was dried and piled into the bedrooms, sorry for such a long story to explain why we were on the couches, which really requires no explanation at all – we were on the couches – you’d call them retro now, they were simple low wooden framed beauties with pilled cushions from back when everything was shades of golden brown, and just in case you need any further useless information, the carpet was orange shag. We thought they’d sold the cottage. No. We were told they sold the cottage and I mean why on earth would we think otherwise? Our mother considered it all along just another house to clean, another set of everything to wash, a place for her second-rate dishes, the chipped figurines, frayed towels, faded linens. Even the preferred version of herself she left in the city for every Friday night we dragged a haggard complaining stranger who right away got out the broom and swept up mouse shit, a couple of dead ones which she screamed about, the three of us heard her and shared goofy faces we stood stunned and sleepy on the dock under the stars and talked about the next morning, how we’d get up at dawn and quiet quiet quiet go fishing. They told us together, ceremoniously, that we’d have to give up our second-rate life our father said I had no choice, boys, it’s what your mother wanted they sold it furnished, the only thing that made it back to the house was a single gone fishin’ plaque my father grabbed in a tragic way and it hung on the wall at the bottom of the stairs in the house in the city where it stayed until they sold that, too, before they moved into the retirement home where two weeks later my father died and two weeks after that my mother, like in a ballad, died too. They’d reversed the mortgage we learned and had been living off the house for years, since my father retired from the department store where he sold fur coats, jackets, stoles – my mother the beneficiary of a few second-rate ones which had been found flawed and returned. There was nothing much left for me and Si after the funerals, just a bunch of stuff to decide what was and what was not. But two weeks later, let’s keep this ballad going, we got a call from the lawyer who had discovered the deed for the cottage which our father never sold at all but kept, the lawyer said, for his boys, and right away I got in the car, on the drive I wondered if I’d remembered to shut my front door, and I picked up Simon from the university, he was standing there all Captain My Captain at the bottom of the steps, books under his arms, he was wearing a cape which I immediately teased him about you’re Batman I said and he smiled, said fuck off, and we got right away on the highway and for two and a half hours we resurrected the cottage in our minds, a lot of remember thisses and remember thats, and by the time we turned into the driveway which was not a driveway at all but forest, it was like any given Friday of our youth, the place stood just as it always had, we went first to the dock and stood back-to-back Simon said we should go fishing in the morning. Quiet quiet quiet we unlocked the door it was clean as if our mother had just swept, darkening, I switched the light but of course it didn’t turn on, Simon walked beside me we twirled around the small place, opened the bedroom doors and shut them again, we stood at the window looking out, darkness was coming fast like gravity, Simon reached to the shelf beneath the coffee table and pulled out a candle, lit it, placed it on the table, flicked a few mouse turds carefully in my direction. He’s asleep on the couch he always preferred although it’s identical to the one I am stretched out on, we are beneath matching afghans we pulled unscathed from the hall closet, and it’s not that I can’t sleep but I don’t want to. Sherry is from the wilds of Ontario. She writes the kind of stories she longs for and can rarely find. feelingfunny.ca litbit.ca

Spires & Skyscrapers are Shrouded in November fog Rolling in with Techno from traffic from down river Obscuring the Boulevard & Taillights & Detroit City's historical Objet d'art of Mosaics & Marble & Frescoes & Chandeliers A golden & glowing Beacon giving Gotham vibes... James Schwartz is a poet & author of various poetry collections including The Literary Party: Growing Up Gay and Amish in America (Kindle, 2011), Punatic (Writing Knights Press, 2019) & most recently Motor City Mix, Sunset in Rome (Alien Buddha Press, 2022), Long Lost Friend (Alien Buddha Press, 2023). literaryparty.blogspot.com @queeraspoetry

Beau Hogan: We have an extra special guest with us today, Jesus of Nazareth. In the flesh. We’ll get to that in a moment. Welcome. Jesus: Bless you. Beau Hogan: From you, that means something. I’m sure listeners are wondering if you’re really Jesus. I know our program director checked you out. Jesus: His name could be Thomas. Like with the first doubter, I flashed him a bit of aura, which stopped him from wanting to put his fingers into the nail holes. Beau Hogan: Glad for that. Nonetheless, our audience are a bunch of skeptics. Could you do something to prove it’s you? Jesus: I was accused of being a magician. You can convince all of the people some of the time and some of the people all of the time, but you can’t convince all of the people all of the time. Beau Hogan: That sounds like a paraphrase of Abe Lincoln. Jesus: Who do you think gave him that line? The point is, I raised people from the dead, yet I suffered plenty of non-believers. For some, no proof is sufficient. Beau Hogan: Like the Sanhedrin and the Romans. Jesus: They were interested in worldly power. and any threat to their authority had to be extinguished. In the twenty-first century, they’re gone and I’m here. Beau Hogan: Let’s talk about that. You’re not appearing as a spirit but in your corporal form. I thought you ascended into Heaven. Jesus: I knew the apostles would face some tough trials, including martyrdom, and I had to rely on them proselytizing, often in hostile communities. I staged a big exit to steel their enthusiasm for the future, floating up until I was out of sight. Beau Hogan: That’s a fascinating revelation. Where has your body been? Jesus: On Earth. Where would I store a body in Heaven? Doesn’t happen. Plus, I wanted to witness events as they unfolded. I flew over to Rome and made a bet with myself on how long the empire would take to convert to Christianity. Beau Hogan: How did you keep from being recognized? Jesus: People noticed the stigmata, but I blamed them on a weird carpentry accident. Beau Hogan: Did you take up your trade? Jesus: I faked it. It’s not like I needed money to keep body and soul together. I didn’t age. One of the positive aspects of resurrection. Beau Hogan: So, what happened? Jesus: Admittedly, I got bored watching all the crazy cults take hold in Rome, like the Magna Mater and castration for priests. Beau Hogan: Whoa. Jesus: Barbaric, until you think about the appropriate worldly punishment for pedophile Catholic priests. After a few hundred years I flashed Constantine the chi rho Christ sign at the Milivan Bridge and ensured his victory. A smart guy, he got the message and converted the empire to Christianity. Beau Hogan: But he was on his deathbed before he himself was baptized. Jesus: He hedged his bets. Emperors get their hands dirty. A last-minute conversion targeted to achieve the Kingdom of Heaven. Beau Hogan: So, there is a Heaven? And a Hell? [Jesus shifts in his chair but stays quiet.] Beau Hogan: Heaven features angels singing to the music of harps? Jesus: More like that wonderful day you wished could be bottled. Feelings of joy and well-being. Beau Hogan: What do souls do? Jesus: Self-development and self-expression don’t end just because you’re dead. Think of it as being on a permanent sabbatical. Shakespeare has written some great plays. Euripides continued to get weirder. Chaucer is composing verses you don’t need a gloss every three words to understand. We listen to great music. Like the Righteous Brothers’ verse, we have a hell of a band. Beau Hogan: You keep up with current music trends? Jesus: Well, I have that omniscient thing going. Beau Hogan: Of course. What about Hell? Burning for eternity – really? Jesus: I liked Dante’s conception, if not his specifics, of a gradient of consequence. Sinners feel the fear and pain they inflicted on others. Infinity is a long time. When egregious predators have paid their dues, I send them into a black hole and don’t bother with them anymore. Beau Hogan: Wow. Not good to piss you off. Jesus: I’d use different words. Beau Hogan: I want to point out to our listening audience that Jesus looks like modern depictions with long hair and beard. Jesus: [chuckling] Actually, both the beard and hair are false. People have an expectation, and I didn’t want to disappoint. I travel incognito, which is another reason for me to disguise myself for this broadcast. Beau Hogan: Why have you revealed yourself now? Jesus: My first inkling that I needed to step forward came after I saw the musical Jesus Christ Superstar. By the way, Ben Vereen’s performance as Judas was incredible, asking why I came in such a backward time with no mass communication. I began to preach outside a Greenwich Village Café and a guy offered me a joint. Told me people weren’t ready. Beau Hogan: Interesting. But obviously, you changed your mind. Jesus: When the Kardashians became a hit reality show I realized how empty people’s lives had become and decided I had to come forward. Humans need to believe in something bigger than themselves. Beau Hogan: Will we be hearing a lot more from you? Jesus: I decided to appear on your show because of the reach of your podcast. But this will be my only public appearance, perhaps for quite a while. Beau Hogan: I’m honored. C.S. Lewis famously said that the only possible conclusions about you were that you were either liar, lunatic or Lord. What do you say to doubters? Jesus: Free will permits everyone to draw their own conclusions. My message is simple. Regardless of your belief system, strive to live a virtuous life. Joe’s stories have appeared in more than one hundred magazines including The Saturday Evening Post, and Shenandoah, and his short story collection, Stories and Places I Remember. His novels include, Birds of Passage, An Italian Immigrant Coming of Age Story, and the Anthony Provati thriller series: Appointment with ISIL, Drone Strike, and The Art of Revenge. Visit Joe’s website at https://joe-giordano.com/

He’d pushed his cart to the 6:00 a.m. bar, just down the dirty boulevard, to escape the cold, and the dark clouds building out east and north in his head. He’d drown the fucking rat that ran across his stank army blanket when sleep was a cunt-hair away, his head resting on a chunk of concrete broken free from the underpass, a joke gift from God. He’d find her sitting on the far stool, cutting darkness, a slight glimmer of shine still left from when she fucked frat boys for good money and blew new dads in the backseat of their Volvos after their wives stopped fucking them. Well before the pipe took her, and her teeth joined the bottle shards in the dead dirt where the bridge pilings met the culvert. They’d drink his last rumpled bills, earned hardscrabble, with sunburned palms and a tattered Sharpie cardboard sign after Heavy Hand Jim poured out two double vodka and cranberry sippers from the bilge. In the glow of neon, chocking on stale beer and piss air, four feet stuck to the floor, they’d toast to warmth and silently curse the tease of a better day. JD Clapp writes short form stories and poems. He's based in San Diego, CA. His most recent works appeared in PovertyHouse, Revolution John, and Literally Stories.

Excerpt from letter dated January 13, 1957: … I’ve been haunted from the moment I arrived in this place.  It’s different here, away from the movement in the city. There’s a quiet that I can’t quite grasp but somehow it has taken hold of my heart. I find that I’m searching for something that is just beyond my reach, a message embodied in everything. In the rocks, the trees, the sharp air. In the dead weight of the snow that covers everything. In your absence… When I first read those words, I was aware that something extraordinary was unfolding. In what way? How could I possibly have known? Nor could I perceive how it would remain with me all these years later, lasting my entire life, until these final moments. I’m not here to explain or to even say that I somehow understand the occurrences that followed. I simply hope that what I have to share may provide some blessing for those who may read it. We only have a brief moment in time to share, to hold, to cherish. What we give to this life is all that remains after we’re gone. I have offered so much of myself over the years and, when necessary, taken what I needed but this is something I’ve yet to give. It’s my story, the one that I’ve kept closest to my heart for so long and even though I’ve made a living putting stories down on paper, other people’s stories, I’ve always known that eventually this day would come. I’ve waited, hesitant for what now seems like an eternity, because once a story is told, once it is given to the world, then it no longer belongs to you. It is taken by the forces of nature and cast out until it becomes something else entirely. I think I’m ready for that now. ●●●●●● I was barely eighteen the day I received that first letter. It was only a year earlier, in the spring, that we were married. My husband Donovan was ten years my senior and though that type of relationship may seem improper today, we were very much in love. He grew up down the street from my mother in our hometown of Middleton, Connecticut. He was an only child and our two families were close, with my mother like an older sister, or more like an aunt, to him. It's strange because from the moment I met him, I never thought of them as belonging to the same generation. My mother was very young when I was born and by the time he went off to college, I was already a little girl. When he returned ten years later, having fought his way through the journalistic ranks that culminated in a position at the New York Times, I was unaware of the rushing tide that would sweep me away. I was enchanted and surely made a fool of myself with my eager attention. He was a gentleman, of course, and it soon became apparent that he was enamored as well. It didn’t take long before it was impossible for us to look away.  Our courtship was sudden and unexpected, but eventually embraced by all, even my parents. For six months, he traveled back and forth from New York to Connecticut practically every week. Soon it was clear that our hearts were entwined. With a ring on my finger, Donovan took my hand and we made our way to the big city. He was cavalier and earnest almost to a fault, but I thought it was so attractive. He spoke his mind so freely in an age when most people simply accepted their stolid existence. I felt a strong desire to sing along with that resolute spirit and our relationship grew into an intimate and expressive friendship. I never questioned my decision to become his wife, the difference in our age notwithstanding. Donovan treated me, not only as his physical companion, but as an intellectual equal. He listened to my ideas, rejoicing at my buoyant spirit and earnest desire to set the world anew, but he was also so kind when some of those thoughts needed further clarification. His entire ethos was that the discovery of knowledge was the greatest virtue of human development. The search for truth was the only real purpose of life, regardless of the path. Scientific, spiritual, creative, political, personal, communal; all worthy endeavors that simply required a bit of research and dialogue, along with dedicated minds to focus on the cause. Donovan liked nothing more than a heartfelt conversation and I was more than willing to engage with him. Growing up during the war, he was too young to enlist and, by the time the fighting was over, he had discovered his calling in life. He regaled me with tales of his youth, where he spent endless nights parked in front of the family radio listening to the exploits of those courageous men. For him, the stories in the paper enhanced every skirmish, every engagement that lay between the words, amidst the avenues of imagination. In his mind, those reporters were out there with the soldiers, in the action, revealing the vivid details to the public. They were vitally important in shaping the perspective of the war at home, which created just as crucial an impact as the bullet being expelled from the gun. Donovan became so obsessed that he began to tell stories of his own and those around the dining room table were his primary audience. By the time I met him, his passion for storytelling was so vibrant and alive, I felt that I had finally discovered a kindred spirit. In the summer, we moved into a home that we could afford on Staten Island, a small two bedroom with a view of Manhattan out the picture window in our living room. It was idealistic, though there were days when he was at work that the distance felt enormous. I found myself staring out across the water wondering what he was doing. Who was he talking to? Was I ever in his thoughts? At night he would return to assuage my concerns and feed me all the gossip, my open arms eager to pull him back to me, devouring his words, his mind, his spirit. That’s the way it was for us, days spent apart, yet our hearts still mingling, while our nights were held ensconced, every breath focused on each other. I know that I may sound like a hopeless romantic regarding our life back then but that’s exactly how I remember it to this day. Every moment, every thought and memory brings about such bliss, that it's a struggle to hold back the tears. When he was across the water, he wrote for the paper but when he was at home, in the evenings and during the weekend, he wrote for himself and for me. I read everything that poured from his precious mind; every sentence, every essay, every poem, every burst of emotion. He gave it all to me and I relished every word. He became a loving mentor and provided a valuable education with regards to the rules of writing. Back then, hardly anyone earned a living writing books. Most of those who tried would often struggle through long barren nights, barely surviving the empty dreams that could chase even hope away. Some of those who managed to find success in some fashion either went crazy or ended up in Hollywood. Or both! Donovan’s career at the paper and our nights writing together provided fulfillment and kept us grounded. The time we shared together was full of sweetness in so many ways. We cherished each other, body and mind, and well… I'm sorry, but I’d rather not go into detail about how delightful it could be at times. That’s not to say that our marriage was perfect. We had our fair share of disquieting moments. Every couple must learn to live with one another and that means navigating some turbulent waters. I am quite aware of who I am, especially my tendency toward stubbornness. Donovan loved to say that I was the most willful person he ever met but that was simply his way of appeasing me. I’m not a fool. I know that I can rub some people the wrong way, but that determination has served me well over the years, let me tell you. It almost saved us, if I had only listened to the voice in my heart from the very beginning. One of the most difficult facets of our marriage, perhaps the most challenging of all, was when Donovan was sent away on assignment. Usually it was just a day or two, to interview someone crucial for an article or to follow up on some research. It happened once or twice a month and the first time almost destroyed me, though he was only in Pennsylvania overnight. I survived, of course, and each new assignment provided another opportunity to understand our relationship in a new way. I'm sure that it may sound quaint, or maybe even ridiculous now that I'm saying it, but I was still so young at the time. I was still growing, still coming into my own. Donovan was a crucial foundation for me, especially with my ignorance of solitude, that I mistook for loneliness. His presence was a force of protection for me, indeed, and that made what occurred so harrowing. When he was given the story in New Mexico, we had only been married for eight months. He was to be gone for more than a week, and I became very anxious as the date for his departure grew near. At the time I couldn’t explain the reason for these feelings but despite his assurances, they remained in my heart. I'm even ashamed to admit that when he said that he would give up the article due to my concerns, I immediately wanted to beg him to stay, to keep him close. But how could I ask that of him? This was the real deal, the type of story that every writer yearns for, the kind of story that he loved. It was a tale of the human spirit, where he could really connect with the hearts of the readers. And it would be a front page feature in the Sunday edition! The eyes of the nation would be focused on his words. In the mountains of northern New Mexico there is a waterfall. It’s not as spectacular as those found in the Yosemite valley or as massive as those in the Pyrenees, but it is grand in its own way. It also carries a different kind of mystique than any other waterfall on the planet. You see, there are some winters when it manages to freeze completely for a couple of months but even though it appears to be solid on the surface, it's a trick, a sleight of hand, for it isn't really holding its form. For some strange reason the ice becomes a tricky substance that shifts and sways as the water trickles through it, as if the heart of the river continues to breathe life into this fantastical entity. Nowhere else in the world has this phenomenon been observed, so as a challenge of human endurance and determination, every time this phenomenon occurs, a few brave souls attempt to climb it. Some don’t make it to the top. During those few weeks, the world of mountaineering sets up base camp at the small town of Aurora near the falls. By the time it drew the attention of the New York Times and my husband, there was a legendary quality surrounding the place. The impetus for the narrative was already unfolding, and I could see the magic working within Donovan even before he left. The very idea that these people would risk their lives to chase a ghost, to dance with a mirage on that delicate floe, made it seem like they wished to challenge the devil to a duel. There aren’t many souls who can so brazenly follow through with such a confrontation and expect to survive the ordeal. Perhaps that’s the reason the locals referred to the waterfall as the Devil’s Breath. It was the perfect setting for Donovan, plus he had a unique twist to unravel. For the first time ever, a woman was going to make an attempt on the falls. Samantha Cross, a Brit and one of the most skilled climbers in the world was heading to New Mexico. It was turning into a buzz-worthy moment in some circles, though in reality most of the planet had little idea that the place and what was occurring there even existed. I had certainly never heard of anything like it before it crossed Donovan's desk, but he was hoping that would all change by the time he completed this new chapter. You must remember, it was an oppressive era at the time. The Cold War had consumed the minds of all, and there were many of us out there who earnestly wished to find a way to lessen the bite. It's true that Donovan had grown up worshiping the heroes from the Battle of the Bulge, but the devolution of our military aspirations toward inhumane ideals was hard to stomach. The surge of development toward nuclear weapons cast a massive shadow across our hearts, and the only antidote to that pervasive ill was to denounce them with as much vehemence as we could muster. We spent a cold winter morning or two among crowds gathered outside the United Nations, our voices growing hoarse as fiery chants jumped from our lips. Donovan and I had even worked on a few anonymous tracts pleading to connect with the conscience of humanity, the greatest weapon of all against the atrocities of modern warfare. All of this, unbeknownst to Donovan's employers, of course. Even though the Times was considered a liberal perspective on the news, there were limits, lines that you simply did not cross. It was a divisive and turbulent time back then, the political climate filtering all the way down into the local communities. Neighbors closed their doors on relationships that were supposed to last a lifetime. Families that had always shared everything turned their backs on one another. It was an ugly chapter in our nation's history. Fortunately, Donovan had the ability to straddle both worlds, keeping those that he loved close to heart and those who made him wary at a respectable distance. I often joked that it wouldn't be long before he would go into politics but that sort of teasing always upset him. He was clever and careful, but it was all for the cause of the scoop. The idea of standing before the nation to guide the masses was a noble cause for those who were true servants, but it just wasn't for him. He would never play that game for personal ambition. Donovan always felt that he could do so much more staying above the fray, using the power of words, especially when those sentiments came from the heart. I had complete faith in him, of course, and never imagined that a situation would arise to cause him to teeter and fall from his life's purpose, which made what occurred in New Mexico all the more disturbing. ●●●●●● Excerpt from letter dated January 15, 1957: ...Not one climber has attempted the falls since I arrived. One man, an East German of all people, was going to try it a couple of days ago but he backed off once all the media arrived. How an East German mountaineer ended up in New Mexico in this day and age? I couldn't tell you. Everyone is waiting for Samantha to take the plunge now. Oh God, what a horrible cliché! So inappropriate! But you should see this place, Bea. The woman must feel like royalty with all the attention. Although, she hasn't come out of hiding very often. And who could blame her? I'm going to have an exclusive sit down with her this evening, so it looks like someone is doing their job back home. I met her briefly at the informal press conference the day we arrived. Apparently she was on the same plane heading west, since her team came into New York the day before. Did I mention that Samantha is English? I was completely oblivious, of course, even with the bit of research I've done. She's so unassuming, Bea, almost like a librarian. I actually thought that she was someone's assistant when she entered the room. I know, I know, how chauvinistic of me! But it feels like she is the last person on Earth who would seek out the spotlight. She must have a real passion for the mission. I'm looking forward to discovering what truly motivates her. God, listen to me! But, I have to admit that I almost feel like a kid again! Oh, you don't know how much I wish you were here with me. I miss you dearly! I wish to hear your thoughts and throw some of my ridiculous ideas around, knowing that you would grab them and mold them into something beautiful. But mostly, I wish you could see this strange and mystical place. Also, I can't help but wonder what you would say about Samantha? I must say that when I saw her a couple of days ago, I had this strange feeling that the two of you would become fast friends. But you have a knack for that sort of thing, regardless of the company... This letter was so much like the Donovan I knew. Where the somber tone of the first letter caused me some concern, the curious and mirthful cadence here revealed his true spirit again. He surely had gotten caught up in the story and the heightened atmosphere that was building all around him as the day of her grueling ordeal drew closer. I could sense the child in him bubbling to the surface. His eagerness for the story and his bright eyes clearly came into my mind as I read the letter. I savored the precious union of the moment. To say that I wasn't jealous of this woman who had captured my husband's attention would not be honest. The fact that he was already on a first name basis with her was a bit disconcerting, as well, since he usually was so formal in society. I reminded myself that a personal letter home to a fresh-faced wife was far from the typical social situation requiring such civil modicum but once again, something wouldn't allow the nagging disquiet I felt to go away. I desperately wished to go with him, of course, having never passed beyond the Appalachian mountains before. It was exciting to imagine the incredible vistas of the west, but I was restricted from traveling. You see, only a couple of weeks before Donovan received the assignment in New Mexico, I discovered that I was pregnant. I was about ten weeks along when he left, and my condition was the determining factor that forced me to remain behind. Like I said, there was a different mentality back then, and our doctor was adamant that the first trimester was the most crucial. I was told not to exercise, definitely no stress, and there was no way I would be allowed on a plane. It felt like even the most insignificant incident would trigger a miscarriage. There were days when I could hardly get out of bed from the concern. Yet, I was completely ecstatic at the idea of starting a family! I had only turned eighteen the month before and it seemed like the perfect age for motherhood. I was very ambitious at the time and all of my dreams felt infinitely possible. Yes, I may have been a bit naïve, but it was like all those girlhood fantasies were coming true. I'd found love, marriage and now children! Little did I know how soon it would all change and in just a few short months I would have no time at all beyond my motherly responsibilities. The jubilation I felt for the pregnancy counteracted the misery that afflicted me with Donovan's departure. So, I threw myself into preparation. I bought all the books I could find on the subject. I began my plan to convert the study into a nursery. I read up on nutrition for my health, if only to get out of bed in the morning without fear. I even found a group of young mothers in the park near our home who were eager to impart their knowledge upon a young student. Also, I began to write about my experience, musings regarding my journey toward motherhood, along with stories that enticed my imagination. I often stayed up late scattering pages across the kitchen table, filled with all my frivolous thoughts. Donovan's absence in my bed was having a deleterious effect on my sleep, the cold emptiness creeping into my heart. There were many late nights spent huddled under a mountain of covers with only a book in my hand for companionship. I never imagined that I would ever feel so alone as I did during those ten days without him. This is what I meant when I spoke earlier about not truly understanding the nature of solitude during my youth. Until I came to know him, how could I possibly relate to this heavy feeling of reliance? But when you lose your best friend, even if only for a few days, it feels like you're missing an important part of yourself. I found that I would speak out aloud as I prepared meals, as if he were sitting at the table watching me. When I went for a walk, I would surprise myself as I reached for his hand only to discover the empty space beside me. But it was our quiet evenings together that I missed the most of all. We would talk about any subject as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. We would write together and share our work aloud, because you learn so much about writing when you hear it coming from your own mouth. It was a warm environment we created, critical at times when needed, but also where any experience was valuable, regardless of where you were from or how much of the world you had seen. A great poet has the power to turn a life of squalor into a beautiful dream, as we all know. Oh, to think how I've kept those nights, these thoughts and sentiments, deep within my heart after all these years! I realize now how it informed so many of my decisions and eventually helped me to discover a life of peace. I find that now, it fills me with appreciation. There's so much joy in discovering such elation in the shared time, in the presence that remains, still. I look back and there’s such comfort in the memories but… yes, I do still miss him so! Towards the end of those days alone, I began to feel disconnected from everything. It was like I was stuck in a strange waiting space, a purgatory that swept away any sense of order. I began to feel scattered, exhausted. I would jump at the slightest sound. I would drift off into absent reveries and leave the sink running or come back into the kitchen after a time to find the stove-top burner still aflame. I would curl up on the sofa and simply allow the tears to pour out of me. At first, I told myself that I was being ridiculous, acting like a little girl who couldn't handle being alone. I scolded myself and tried to pull my chin up, face the situation with strength. Then it came to me, a crucial message. I understood that what I was feeling went beyond my immediate circumstances, beyond these puerile feelings of the heart. I became acutely aware that the anxiety that was growing around my heart seemed to have another purpose. It began to feel like something preternatural was happening with Donovan, over there. I don't know how to explain it but there was a moment where I knew, as if struck, like lightning straight to my brain! That my husband was in danger! I simply wish that I had listened. I doubted myself and thus didn't respond immediately. It's one of the greatest mistakes of my life. If I had left then, with that premonition coming on so strong, I may have been able to reach him in time. But, when his next letter arrived, It was already too late. ●●●●●● Excerpt from letter dated January 18th, 1957: Devastating News, Bea! I almost don't have the strength to write about it. I know it's hard to imagine that I would ever feel that way but that is how far I've fallen! Yesterday was the day. Samantha made her attempt on the falls and, though it was only a day ago, it feels as if weeks or months or even years have sifted through the cracks. Like water, the flow of time vanishes along the natural veins of our lives until we hardly recognize the days that have gone by. Good lord, listen to how I sound! Such melodrama! If you haven't yet determined by my tone how the climb ended, I'll just say that it was not successful. It was a terrible tragedy! And I watched the whole thing! She was so close, Bea! But then, in an instant, she was gone. I was one of the few who actually saw her fall. She was on the ascent for the better part of four hours before it happened and by then most of the reporters and spectators had taken a break or gone home to start their work. She was on the final third, which is considered the easiest part of the climb this year. It had nearly been an hour since she overcame the most harrowing place on the falls, the one spot that many regarded as the ultimate peril. No one expected her to fall once she survived that! To say that the congregation is shocked by the events that took place here yesterday is putting it rather mildly, indeed. I couldn't look away for even a moment. I was mesmerized by it all. I must have appeared rather naive to all the old fellows in the crowd but after the exclusive meeting I shared with Samantha two nights ago, I was completely enamored with the story. You know how I am, Bea, and Samantha charmed me to no end with her confidence and determination. I believe I mentioned her humble nature before but that's her public face. Behind closed doors, she's almost as magnetic and personable as you, my love. I was convinced that you and her were long lost sisters from a previous life. But, now that she's passed on to the next life, I don't know what to make of it all. I know that this all must sound rather maudlin of me but I truly felt that this was a story for the ages. I'm completely at a loss with this new outcome. I hope that I don’t sound demented or am causing you any concern, but I haven't had a moment's rest in the past two days. Everything seems to be unraveling around me. Please, be assured that I'm telling you this because I don't want you to be frightened or give you the wrong impression, I know how it all sounds. I only hope to alleviate any worries you may have. You must understand that the mystery here, the wild tone of despair that seems to shadow every word I put down, has nothing to do with the life we have built together. I have stumbled upon a different world here in the mountains and it's almost as if my soul is splitting in two. I know how strange that sounds but you, of all people, must see that I have to find out where this story goes. I know that it's out there in the cold terrain that has captured my imagination. I must find it, Bea! So I am going to have to stay on a bit longer than I planned... I was terrified. I was jealous and angry. I wanted to tear the letter up into a million pieces. I wanted to cry out with such anguish that it would somehow destroy this nefarious force that had taken control of my husband. Despite his best efforts to ease my concern, these are the thoughts that consumed me after reading those words. My mind was all over the place, my thoughts racing. How could I possibly reach him stuck in our drab home in Staten Island? How could I have imagined that these ten days apart would have no effect on us? In an instant the luster was gone. The magical sheen of our partnership suddenly seemed like a hollow grotesque apparition. What else could I do? The next day I bought the first plane ticket out of New York. I flew out of LaGuardia bound for Albuquerque Municipal. I told no one of my plans and paid for it with the money we were saving for the nursery. Nothing regarding our old life seemed to matter, as my only thought was toward bringing Donovan home. I felt no concern for the baby and the thought that I might harm him by traveling did not affect my decision in the slightest. All he was at that point was a dream anyway, a pleasurable idea about the future. But what kind of future would we have without his father by our side? I was only two months along at the time and felt no different than before. The only true indication for me was a break in my cycle and the promise of a doctor's analysis. I didn't even have morning sickness for goodness sake! Who knew if I was even pregnant at all? As you can see, trying to rationalize when you’re in the grips of such desperation quickly turns an eye blind. I knew in my heart that I was with child but I also felt that I was a healthy, vibrant young woman. How could I possibly harm the fetus by simply sitting in the seat of a plane for a few hours? Especially considering what I was facing. Now we know that the stress I was dealing with could be far more damaging than boarding an airplane but at the time, I didn't think about it. I followed my intuition and left as quickly as I could. I arrived in Albuquerque late that afternoon, eager for the next step, but outside the sky was already growing dark, even though the sun was not scheduled to set for a couple more hours. A heavy storm was headed our way and the urgency that I felt expanded into an inexplicable force. I was on edge, to say the least. From Albuquerque it was almost three hours to reach Aurora, the old town at the base of the falls, and I wanted to get there immediately. I hired a driver to take me the rest of the way, but by the time we reached Santa Fe, the storm had descended. All of the roads going into the mountains were closed. That night was the worst night of my life. It had been four days since he wrote that last letter and I'd had no news of my husband since. God alone knew what had happened to him. As I sat at the window of my hotel room watching the snow swirl through the dark, a sense of foreboding overwhelmed me. The wind and the cold that swarmed in the night was a menace that I had never known. It was clear how deadly the heavens can be and the angels that rode those blustery waves did not carry mercy under their wings. I couldn't move from my seat. I simply stared out at the darkness and an immense sadness fell over me. I wept until my body was dry and still I watched. It may sound foolish, and I knew in my heart that it was nothing more than wishful thinking, but I was waiting for a sign. Then, I slowly began to realize that something was being conveyed to me. I could perceive it in the way the snow danced, a magical display. What was the message I was supposed to see in that picture frame? Was there some precious language playing out against the black-drop for my benefit alone? Ancient hieroglyphs from the Gods? I couldn't say for sure but I remained in that seat far longer than any sane person ever would. Eventually I lost consciousness to it all, though my eyes never wavered from the movement of the night. When I woke in the light of dawn, slumped over in my chair and barely able to move from the stiffness, I felt ridiculous. The ominous tone of the night before seemed to have been washed away by the sun. Yet, as I rubbed my eyes and welcomed the crispness of the new day, a reckoning overcame me with intense certainty. Something did come to me in the night, like a dream. It was a presence that communicated with me, an essence that was no longer of this life. Though I can't explain it clearly, I'm sure that it was human, or at least it wanted me to have that feeling and it brought me comfort. Was it Samantha? An unburdened soul that wished to connect with the living again? Could it have been Donovan in some form? Not dead, god forbid! Anything but that! A soul traveler, perhaps, come to set my mind at ease? Was this really a ghost story that I had stumbled upon? I tried to shake away these thoughts, rubbing at the goosebumps that had settled upon my arms. I needed to prepare, because surely the roads into the mountains would be cleared soon and before long I would be reunited with my love. That’s what I needed to focus on, not some childish fear about supernatural forces communicating in the air and snow. Surely he would be waiting for me up there and all my concerns would dissipate the moment he took me into his arms. Oh, you don't know how badly I wish those words were true. ●●●●●● Excerpt from piece found on January 23rd, 1957: ...What is destiny? An Idea? The fulfillment of a dream? Is it a path that is predetermined? Or one that is forged from a desire in our hearts? How can we comprehend the massive forces that guide us along the roads that unravel before us? One simple choice, one slight turn, one false step and the course is altered forever. Could it be that we were meant to turn aside? Were we meant to push through the dark undergrowth where the shadowy path is hardly visible instead of continuing along the broad open highway? These are the questions that are driving me mad. I know the reasonable, the responsible answer to all of them, of course, but somehow that response has become the most reprehensible, as well. I have fought my entire life to discover the truth. It is the only reason I do what I do. It is the sole purpose of a writer of integrity, the true honor of the fourth estate, after all. I cannot turn my face away from that responsibility. The future of humanity is relying on it. So how can I not take the road less traveled? Isn't it the only path forward for me? I know how wretched I may seem. I haven't showered in days. Every hour my clothes become more disheveled, more damp and dirty. I can't sleep at night, can't stay awake during the day. I shiver uncontrollably before the hearth and cast off my clothes in the elements. Reality has grown unfocused and I feel that I may be at my wit's end. Yet, it all makes perfect sense somehow. How do you forget the life you've known in order to follow an apparition? Oh, but I haven't, don't you see? It all leads back to the truth and there's nothing more true than the love in my heart for Beatrice, the hope I feel when I think about the child she carries with her. I could go home tomorrow as easy as the next day. Just two days ago, I stood in line at the airport to return to New York. But how could I go back to her with this distortion in my soul? Oh, how would I ever be able to look her in the eye again, unless I finish this? There's magic in this place. It's not difficult to see. You don't have to send out a search party to discover it. It's out there, drifting in the dark, just a quick shake and it comes loose. So much comes from my nightly jaunts, my trips above the treeline. How I float above the stars. Have I seen her, felt her presence out there in the night? I don't know for sure but when I wake the next evening, as the sun drops behind the western mountains, I imagine a presence beside me. Only for a moment, then the brief essence is gone. Do I feel unfaithful? No, and I must avow this point. No, this goes beyond such superficial thoughts. It's simply a different idea, a tone that reaches toward a faith that goes so much deeper than anything bound by this life. I know that if I simply traverse the hint of reason then I will find something truly profound. It has nothing to do with the faith I have toward my wife, my occupation, my purpose. It's unswayed by those ideals. Somehow, it touches nothing but the spirit, the soul, in a way. I haven't quite gotten there yet, or seen or heard or felt what that truly means. Maybe it's not something that is known in such a way. But it's close. Oh, it's so close that I can almost feel it! It's like the caress of a shadow. Tonight I've been given a sign. All the power has been knocked out by the storm. There's a massive fire in the hearth and I have lit every candle that I can find. The room is dancing with light. An ancient saga shall come for a visit and share its vital message. There is only one way for me to hear it. I must grow unseen. I have to be blind to this world. So the longer I stare into the flame, the more these beautiful beings come out of the woodwork. Come and dance with us, they breathe. They wish to take my hand, to take me out into the night... We left for Aurora as soon as the mountain could yield our way forward, with the cool morning light flashing bright above the eastern hills. I had never seen such a glorious morning before and my heart expanded with awareness. By the time we reached our destination, the sun was above the jagged horizon, glistening off the bright snow. As I stepped out of the taxicab, I was blinded by the brilliance of it and, for a moment, I was transported into a fantastical realm where shimmering shapes sparkled all around me while sweetness filled the air. I held up my hand and a precious being fluttered before me, settling upon my finger. It appeared to me as a fairy creature bringing forth a message of joy meant for me alone. I blinked and saw that it was a golden butterfly, perched delicately upon my wedding ring. It flexed its wings and lifted off, drifting up toward the trees that seemed to be everywhere. I felt that I must have imagined it. How could a butterfly live up in this extreme land? But a pleasant contentment washed through me following the incident. I felt like I had finally reached a place without concern. By the time I discovered Donovan's room, the pleasantness had passed and I knew that I was too late. I was struck with despair the moment I stepped through the doorway. I looked around at the mess. Clothes, paperwork and used food containers were scattered about everywhere without a sense of place. Candles, dozens of them, were burned to the end, stained black in the bottom from the strain of their heavy wick. Old ash floated out of the fireplace, where a thick aroma of neglect filled the stuffy room. I swiped at one of the curling black tails as it swam across my vision and my stomach rolled with a queasy shudder, forcing me to clutch at the desk chair in order to stop the sudden swoon that wanted to take me down. I felt one of his shirts lying across the back of the chair and I pulled it to my face. I was hungry for him and the musty smell that clung to my nostrils was so familiar, yet so strange, as well. Who knew when he had worn it? When had he been here last? Yesterday? The day before? What remained of him in this room was so far from the memory that was still alive within me. I wanted to feel the vibrant, wonderful man that I married but that was not what I had found. I traced the room slowly, taking in each item with the patient purpose of an investigator and my escorts soon left me alone with the remnants. So many emotions swept through me during that solitary time. Everything I saw or touched brought forth a different memory. His well worn overcoat that went everywhere with him, the softness of use so familiar beneath my fingers. His cigarette case brought a hint of smoke, floating about his head as he contemplated another verse. The ratty edges of his notebooks that caused me to recall how he always clutched at one in his pocket, ready to record any vital discovery that might come about during the everyday fascinations of life. I admit that I was afraid to open one and find what lay between the pages. His undershirts were piled on the floor, which stoked the fire of domestic patterns that once brought me comfort. Instead, I felt the urge to crumple down with them, collapsing into his essence. I was damaged by every little taste that I was given that morning, yet it also reminded me of the life we had built together and that gave me more comfort than I ever could have imagined. All of the concerns and questions regarding the stability of our love that I had felt over the last two days disappeared. I knew that even though he was lost, God only knew where, his heart was still with me. I went to the typewriter that was firmly planted on the desk. The room may have been chaotic but his desk was as proper as ever. He always kept his workbench clean. I found the last pages that he had been working on and I read them many times. It was then that I knew he was never bound to return, to New York or to me. He had found something more profound than the mundane and it had taken him. He sought it out. Of course he did. No matter where it led, he had to look and even our love, the last belief he held onto, wasn't enough to keep him from it. In the end, he let go of the railing. I wept. I fell into a heavy sadness that set me down upon the bed. The ruffled sheets brought his aroma to me once again and it overwhelmed my senses. I buried my face in the dark fabric, my tears mingling with his essence and I lost myself in sobbing. My mind went into a shadowy corner to ride out the storm, the thick walls shaking against the strain of emotional thunder. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I recalled was the porter rousing me from the senselessness that had overtaken me. They had retrieved a police constable to hear my tale and set about processing the missing persons report. I must have purged quite a bit because speaking about the ordeal with the officer wasn't as difficult as I thought it was going to be. In fact, it actually felt good to talk to someone else about what I had been dealing with, especially someone who was so willing to help. Things were being set in motion. Action was being taken on my behalf and that alone brought me some relief. I was always a person who needed the machinery to work effectively, to finish what was begun, even if the inevitable outcome appeared to be hopeless. Fulfilling what he set out to accomplish was one of my husband's most endearing traits, as well. Just listening to him speak of his goals, his ideals, was one of the reasons my heart opened so freely toward him when we first met. It was also the reason the last two weeks were such a nightmare. I didn't recognize the person in the pages of these letters, where scattered words became so easily lost in the wind. It wasn't the Donovan who, the night before he left, touched my belly in order to feel the vibrant life of tomorrow's tale. If I could only go back to that moment, his eyes open and wet with such hope. This place, this cold and treacherous place had ensnared his heart somehow. I needed to understand what he saw, to feel what he went through, and over the next two days I came precariously close to catching his image in the mirror. What I saw was terrifying, yet full of wonder. If it wasn't for the child in my womb, I may have easily fallen into the abyss along with him. But it felt like I was wearing an amulet that kept the real horror at bay. That and what Donovan left behind for me are the only reason I am still here continuing on with this tale. The rest of that day was filled with activity, busy work. I must have told my story to ten different people and by the time a search party was organized it was long past noon. In winter the sun sets early when you're in the mountains and it quickly became apparent that nothing was going to be accomplished that day. Yet, as we plodded back to town with snowshoes on our feet and prodding stakes in our hands, a strange luminescence came out of the canopy of the forest and settled all around me. I stopped for a moment, out of breath from the exertion. My guide, a young deputy my own age named Brian, continued on unaware. The sun was at the horizon and a mystical golden light was cast across the valley. I was leaning on my stake, for a faintness had come over me, causing dark swirls to dance before my eyes. I thought that I might pass out but that's when the music came. It was a faint melody, barely audible, but so much more beautiful than anything that ever graced my ears before.  At first I thought that it was coming from the town, which I could glimpse through the trees but then I was aware that it was coming from something else. It was of the earth. It was the sky. The clouds. Beyond. It drew from everything all around. The rocks, the snow, the wind. It was the very heart of my surroundings and it vibrated with a symphonic pulse. It was the orchestra of existence. I've come to know that there is an essence in all things, an attractive force that is constantly communicating, a universal connection to all manifestation. When I was lost in that moment, among the trees and thin air, feeling the burst of expression from every leaf, seeing the crystallization in every drop of water, I became intimately connected to the source of it all. It was transcendent, a state of being that lay far beyond the terrestrial domain of our consuming thoughts. Voices rose through the music and they felt familiar, almost as if I were embracing the universe with the long tendrils of my heart. I have never felt more loved in all my life. More so than when my mother held me deep in my arms during a feverish child illness. More so than the ecstatic moments when Donovan and I were as close as any human can ever be. More so than those moments when knowledge settles inside like a blessing. More so than becoming intimately aware of the delicate way that the world works. It was more than any human awareness could possibly convey, and I'm ashamed to try now. It was inexplicable. The essence of the song that drifted all around me became so clear that I could see every face of every story ever told. In it all, I perceived my Donovan. Here, he was lost but not gone. Here, he no longer lived, but was also not dead. Here, his spirit was more alive than I had ever known during our short time together. Yet, none of what I felt about him in that moment diminished what I already knew. He was everything I ever dreamed of, from the moment I first looked into his eyes to the ache in the letters that brought me to this miraculous place. I don't know exactly how I was able to see or communicate with him in such a way, but I can say that it was more enticing than ever. A desire rose within me that was excruciating, and so terrifying. I shuddered and collapsed into the snow. Brian revived me. I was in his arms and he spoke with a softness that brought me out of my feverish haze. I didn't know why he was so scared, but I could see it clearly on his face. Perhaps the tears in my eyes amplified what I was experiencing, but he seemed to be using all of his power to bring me back from the edge. For a long time I hated his face. I felt like he'd stolen something valuable from me but later, when my son was born especially, I was more grateful than ever that he was there for me that day. When Brian finally got me back to my room, a gentle feeling came over me. I sat quietly by the window and watched night descend on the town. I felt no urge to eat or sleep as all ordinary human necessities no longer were important to me. I simply hoped to catch a glimpse of what I had experienced out in the wilderness. The constable came to fill me in on the details of the search for my husband but I already knew what he was going to tell me. Nothing. And he clearly became concerned about my inattentive state, even pointing out to me that I had yet to remove my muddy shoes. I was keenly aware of everything he said and noticed the disarray throughout the room, but it was like I was perceiving it through the eyes of someone who was sleepwalking. He soon left, as I sat on the bed to remove my shoes, letting me know that we would speak in the morning since it appeared that I was tired from the long day. I stared at him, uncomprehending. I wasn't tired. I simply needed to see. Something useful needed to be done, and the only way I was going to find out what that meant was to prepare myself, to watch and wait. There would be a signal. I was never more sure of anything in my life. Donovan would come and we would be together again. But in the end, the man was right. I must have been exhausted because the next thing I knew, it was morning and I was lying on the bed still wearing one of those shoes. ●●●●●● Excerpt from piece found on January 24th, 1957: ...We travel across the planet to discover the harshest of environments, to scale beyond any imaginable plateau. The ingenuity of human endeavor is a dynamic accomplishment. But what does it mean when we climb into bed at night to dream? There is something more awesome than any height we can climb, any depth we can descend, any limit we can control. It's not something that exists out beyond the clouds. It's not shimmering within the light of the moon. It's not hidden in the shadow of the sun. It is infinite, a tiny speck of life that can be found if you search deep enough, climb down within the essence of all matter. It is the heart of every cell that makes up all that is known. It is the ultimate frontier and we carry it with us every moment of every day... I sat at the window all the next day as the search continued. Others must have been informed of my collapse the day before, because I was strongly encouraged to remain behind, to rest, of course. I was assured that they would keep me informed of all the proceedings and, for the most part, they kept their word. I could sense the lack of hope that lay hidden behind each report but it didn't upset me. I was resigned to wait until they deemed it safe enough to remove the guard outside my door. I had a plan and I was looking for an opportunity to enact it. I sat at the window, hoping for another clue out there among the trees and shadows that might set me upon the proper path. In my heart, I thought that I knew where it led. I'd caught a glimpse of it, some mystical trail in the fading light of the day before, and the thought of what lay waiting out beyond the shine filled me with a strange euphoria. Eventually, though, I became aware of life's demands, noticing how hungry I was, having not eaten for almost two days. No matter how badly I may have wished to give up all earthly desires, the physical needs of my body had something else to say about it, especially with a child developing inside. As I ate, my focus turned inward and I sensed the conflicting emotions of motherhood bursting through my resolve. Another future became clear to me as I placed my hands upon my belly. A new light opened up inside me and when I looked up, the room appeared different to me. Donovan was present. I was surrounded by all of his things and they spoke to me with his voice. The rest of the day I went through everything. I folded his clothes. I organized his belongings, taking the time to appreciate all of it. Many of the items brought a surprising delight, some a new bout of sadness. Yet, the despair I had felt the day before seemed to have vanished. My spirit was elevated, somehow. Eventually, I was at his desk, the last deluge. I discovered his notes for the story and read them. Slowly at first, taking in every aspect of the tale. Then I began to devour it. I was ravenous. I learned every detail, every angle that he examined and digested it all. I studied until the day waned and I had to turn on the desk lamp. By then I knew what I had to do. I couldn't leave my husband's name in tatters, swirling in the icy gusts. I had to save him. I wrote deep into the night. I added to his musings, completed his false starts and fleshed out the scars of emotion that he had dumped out on the page. I carried the man I knew, hoisted him upon my shoulders so that his voice could reach across the mountaintops. I made notes of my own, using all that he taught me, along with my intuition, and the more that I wrote, the more confident I became. Even though it was his story that I was telling, I could feel a new beginning spreading out so effortlessly from my flowing hand. It was like a sprout rising up out of the earth. By the time I paused, the pile of papers at the desk had doubled in size, Donovan and me, held side by side. We were together again, mingling among the words. It was about three in the morning when I went to the window to get some fresh air. The night was cold and still, even without the wind, a quick chill washed over me. Only twenty hours before I had made plans to open that window for a different purpose. So much had changed since then and the reach I felt from the darkness beyond did not beckon me now. Instead, it was grateful, thankful for my efforts. I stood and listened to the quiet. It was completely absorbing. There is nothing as silent as the wilderness in slumber. I felt a calm that I had never known and a kind of hypnosis overtook me. In this altered state I came to understand that there are two sides to every story. The fork in the road either leads to despair, horror, hopelessness or it moves toward growth, beauty and appreciation. When I finally closed the window, there was a glimmer of enchantment that flowed through me. Something in the night approved of my decision, a chorus of delight that gently laid me down to sleep. In my dream, Donovan came to my bed and climbed beneath the covers to snuggle beside me. He held me with warm arms and when the morning came, we woke together and left that remote town. He held my hand as our son was born, joy framing his face. We were side by side as we watched him grow, sharing the parental responsibilities, so thrilled with each step of our child's development. Before I knew it, wrinkles began to dominate our features and no matter how turbulent the times, Donovan and I were always together. Our son left home to discover his own path and came back a proud man, bearing the gift of grandchildren and our hearts opened again. It was all a blessing, these visions and as I sat by the fire in our old den, my delicate bones tired with age, I noticed Donovan standing in the doorway with a book in his hand. The look on his face was one of admiration. It was a life that I so longed to have, full of happiness, but the smile on my face in that final moment came not from all the hopeful yearnings conceived throughout this ethereal tale. It came instead, as I looked at the book Donovan held in his hand and realized that the name on the cover was my own. ●●●●●● Excerpt from piece discovered found on January 24th, 1957: ...I am so lost that I don't even know which direction I am facing... I slept until noon the next day and those who were in charge of my case were so concerned about my behavior that they wished for me to leave. I agreed with them. Once I awoke, I knew that I needed to get home. My path was decided the day before and I had work to do. I gathered all of our things, most importantly Donovan's papers along with what I also had put together, and departed while the sun was still high in the sky. Brian offered to drive me down the mountain and even though we hardly spoke during that long trip, I felt a kinship developing with the man. When we parted I perceived a deep kindness in his eyes, then something more. As our eyes met, I sensed that he knew more than he was willing to share. One thing seemed certain about his gaze, he was searching for some assurance that I was going to be okay. I don't know what I conveyed to him that day, whether he was comforted after we departed, but we each held on to our secrets. At the time, it was enough for us to simply allow the shadows to remain hidden underneath. I went back to Staten Island and I wrote the feature for the New York Times. It was the last article under Donovan's byline and it came to great acclaim, a tragedy of the modern age, in more ways than one. I never told anyone about my role in the story and no one bothered to question the yarn that I had spun. I was simply a supporting character in the larger drama that had unfolded, the long suffering witness who managed all the pain. Donovan's body wasn't discovered until the beginning of May. It was a bitter winter that year and a few more storms buried him beneath a mountain of snow. My first reaction to the news was avoidance. I didn't want to see him, the image that came into my mind was enough to cause a wave of depression to overwhelm me, ensconcing me under a mountain of blankets for days. God knows what would have happened if I had witnessed his final turgid state. So, when his body was shipped to me, after being identified through dental records, I knew exactly what I should do. I put the crate back on the train and took him home to his family in Connecticut. It was a somber affair even though most everyone was already well aware of the outcome. I was clearly showing by then and the idea of Donovan living again through an heir lightened the mood somewhat. I didn't realize how much I had missed my childhood home until my mother held me in her arms. It was numbing to think that I was still a teenager after everything that had happened. My parents convinced me to move back in with them and returning to their care was one of the best decisions of my life. It was an Eden of comfort where I was allowed time for my nurturing body to develop. Then, when my son Donald was born three months later, my life changed overnight. I can't even fathom how it would have been if I had tried to raise him on my own during those first few years. My life was full of fortune but there were also times when my heart wandered into the abyss. To yearn for love when it is gone forever is debilitating, but also miraculous somehow. I would go from wishing the sun would vanish from the sky to being filled with an effervescent energy that encouraged me forward, urged me to blaze a path of my own. Often, this feeling would come when I would look into our child's eyes. Donovan continued to bless me, his presence remaining in my heart seeking growth, knowledge and betterment. I signed up for journalism courses at the local college, and my time was spent between books and diapers, nothing else mattered. Before I could appreciate it, years had vanished and the events that occurred in New Mexico seemed like a fading mirage. I knew that I would eventually return to the Big Apple. For me, New York will always be home. In a way, your life becomes woven within its intricate design. I made my way back to the house I shared with Donovan in Staten Island. I had rented it out to a newlywed couple when I left, and the small amount of income it provided helped to pay for my studies back in Connecticut. Tom and Angie were the perfect tenants and had just given birth to a child of their own when I returned. We decided to live together, so Donald had the chance to be an older brother for a while. It worked out well and we all became good friends. It even felt like a family somewhat. But I never pictured myself as the spinster aunt, awash in the memories of a life that could have been. I had maintained contact with some of our literary friends and I immediately caught up with them. I needed work and was hoping that these connections, along with a fresh journalism degree would open a door for me. One of those doors turned out to be Cecille Lyon, the wife of the editor of the New Yorker. She took a quick liking for me, eventually becoming a true mentor and good friend. When a spot became available at the magazine, she made sure that I was hired on, and my dreams of becoming a professional writer were fulfilled! It was amazing, hardly a day going by without running into great intellectuals of the time. The city was so magnetic, pulling dynamic figures from all over the world to its core and there I was, thrust into the middle of it all, barely in my twenties. Don't get me wrong. It was difficult, but working hard was never a problem for me, which served me quite well in my new environment. There is no greater headache for an editor than worrying about whether or not a writer will meet the deadline. I soon became a favorite at the magazine and before long I was writing more than I ever could have imagined. Reviews, interviews, gossip about town, even a feature article at times, my words spread across the pages almost every week. It was a tireless and wonderful time in my life that shaped the person I would become. In the midst of it all, I came to meet my second husband. Harry was a lawyer who worked for the firm that represented the New Yorker and in 1962 the magazine was in dire need of their services. The scandal surrounding Hannah Arendt and her article on the Eichmann trial caused quite a stir. Yet, it was truly empowering for me to watch a great philosopher defend herself against the wolves that came out of the dark. She faced some of the harshest criticism from some of her oldest friends, yet she stood forth with such conviction against the storm. I remembered Donovan talking about how the act of exposing the truth can bring out the most vicious attacks. I saw that first hand with Hannah’s experience. Harry came around the office almost every day during that time. I began to notice that he was stopping by my desk more and more, and before long, he was taking me out to dinner or drinks or dancing, whatever my wish. It was fun and I adored the attention. I hadn't thought about another person in that way since Donovan and it all happened in a natural way this time, almost frivolous in a sense. I barely thought about what I was doing, a little jaunt of distraction, a pleasant desire in the touch of another. It was unexpected but needed, as I came to realize that I'd forgotten to embrace the joyous and pleasurable aspects of life. I had been working so hard for years, as a mother and then, a writer. Harry was a pleasant change from all that and it wasn't long before I was shocked to discover that I was pregnant. Well, not that shocked, obviously, and I was far from disappointed by the development, though it brought hushed whispers from behind cupped hands. I liked Harry and enjoyed his company, but being pregnant again? My heart expanded with such delight! The endorphins ran through me with enthusiasm and I couldn't wait to become a nurturing parent again. I hardly thought about what was going to happen with this development, though Harry insisted that we get married. I had no interest in fighting with him, so before I knew it, everything was unfolding and I became a wife preparing to give birth. Contemplating my new role, I simply decided to embrace it. It wasn't until much later that I realized how unnecessary all of it was, that I could be in complete control of my life with or without a man by my side. That may sound abruptly dismissive, I know, but at the time I was genuinely excited. I was twenty-three and my life felt more full than I ever imagined, especially after all that had occurred just a few years before. Little Donnie was six years old and Harry seemed to embrace him like he was a child of his own. I sold the house in Staten Island to Tom and Angie, who were sad to see us leave, but we moved in with Harry to begin our new life together. Sadly, it wasn't meant to be. After Bethany was born, the euphoria wore off and it wasn't long before our idyllic existence began to deteriorate. I struggled to manage my time with Harry at the office, my days focused on the two children. I barely found time to write, often working into the night, which kept Harry and me apart more often than not. I must say that what I missed most those evenings was having a person to discuss ideas with, passing the cue back and forth, noodling each detail until they were soft at the edge. Donovan's absence began to seep into my life again and I'm sure that there were days where I could care less whether Harry knew it or not. But it wasn't all terrible and for a few years I could see that Harry really did try to make an effort to work on our family at times. Unfortunately, he began to focus only on what his version of family was supposed to be. He'd received a promotion at work and that seemed to allow the domineering side of him to come out, which caused him to become more insistent on what he wanted from us. Well, mostly what he wanted from me. As I've said before, I'm quite capable of handling myself and, for a while, I succeeded in balancing many plates in the air. But I wasn't about to have someone tell me what I could do with my own time. It all came out in rather dramatic fashion when Bethany finally went off to school. There were times, before this, that I tried to discuss my plans with Harry about returning to the magazine full time, but I never managed to bring it up properly. Perhaps I knew in my heart what would become of such a discussion. I continued to write for The New Yorker without actually going into the office everyday. They respected that I was busy with the children and newlywed life, but I was itching to expand the sound of my typewriter. I spoke with William Shawn, lead editor at the time, and they were eager for my return. I could tell that Harry was not pleased by this turn of events, but what could he say. I was always there for him, the dutiful wife, doing the best I could to provide what he may need from me. We rarely fought and though he hinted, he'd never truly attempted to put his proverbial foot down. It was only when I broached the subject of steady work again that he expressed how he really felt. I was furious, of course, and would never accept such behavior from him. From anyone, for that matter. And we had a row or two about it, believe me. As I've mentioned, my stubborn nature is not for the weak of heart, and he soon realized that my will could not be turned. Don't get me wrong, I'm a reasonable person when it comes to most things, but regarding my children and my writing, nothing can make me sway from the true path. It should have ended then but for a couple months we tried to pretend that nothing had changed. Then, we connected again following the holiday party at the magazine. We both had a bit to drink and I was feeling so comfortable after spending a pleasant evening with my colleagues. Harry was such a doll that evening, attending to my every need. I did love him, after all, so we embraced again once we returned home that evening. It felt like years since we had touched each other in such a way but the next morning, as I lay in bed staring at him, I knew that it wouldn't last. I enjoyed the peaceful moment but my heart was already lost. A deep sadness lurched through me, touching something that I hadn't felt in many years. The children and I left that day and now it was Harry’s turn to not put up a fight. Once we were settled, it was like a veil was lifted. The constricted feeling in my chest that had been coiled there for the past couple of years eased suddenly and, though I was very successful in life to that point, I soon realized that I had not been true to myself. When I wrote the article under Donovan's name, I recalled a reverent sensation that overcame me, filling me with the knowledge that no matter what I may face, there is a place I can find within myself that allows peace to flow through my heart. When we moved into our new apartment, I began to feel that way again. I went through my days as if I were soaring and nothing could harm my place in the world. It was a true blessing that came out of a difficult time. With a sense of contentment guiding me, the next few years passed like a summer wind and before I knew it, Donald was going off to college. He was accepted to UCLA with a full scholarship to study mathematics. I know that may sound ridiculous, the furthest thing possible from his heritage, but each of us have our own path, after all. Bethany and I drove him out to the west coast in August of 1975 shortly after his eighteenth birthday. It truly felt like a page was turning in my life. He was as old as I was when our story had begun and I was stunned by the thought of it. As I stood by his side looking up into his bright face, I was surprised to feel an old flame springing back to life. Here was the image of the man I fell in love with so long ago, but now it was shining forth from the eyes of my child. For a moment, it hardly felt as if two decades had passed and a nebulous melody weaved through my soul causing tears to spring forth in my eyes. Donovan had remained by my side all these years in the most wonderful way imaginable. It hurt to embrace my boy that day, to turn away and look upon another empty page. This time it felt so different, so beyond anything I had yet to imagine. It wasn't until Bethany and I were on the road back east that I realized how I was going to fill that blank page. ●●●●●● Excerpt from the novel “The Melody” by Beatrice Reilley, published in 1980: ...When she returned to that place from her youth, a blessing came to her, a distant memory welling up from within, a melody of repose. Into her mind she fled, a walk down a dusty path holding hands with a boy her own age, neither one of them old enough to understand the foundation that was being placed beneath their feet. He was precious, she recalled, even at nine years old. He was a blue star in the sky, a light that filled her heart and his voice came like a song... Before I knew what was happening to me, we were driving through New Mexico. I still don't know if it was a conscious choice on my part or if some other force was guiding me, but I soon became acutely aware of the proximity of our journey. I could no longer keep it in my heart, so I began to tell Bethany everything about what occurred in the mountains that loomed outside our windshield. She was fascinated. She was discovering an entirely different person from the one who had always been there by her side and encouraged me to turn aside on the detour that I needed to take. I must admit that part of me was terrified by what I might find after all the years, but the beauty of our summer surroundings were so welcoming that all of the apprehension soon left me. We climbed the steep grade through the trees and as the air grew thinner, our hearts were lifted. The town of Aurora had not changed much from when I'd been there years before, but it had a completely different hue in the summer. Where the snow brought a heavy damp atmosphere during the winter, an uplifting display of radiance spread across the valley during the summer. The natural beauty resonated so profoundly that I found it hard to look away. I knew that places like this existed around the planet but to immerse yourself within the glory is an entirely different affair. I remember going to Southford Falls when I was a child, thinking it was the most majestic display in the world. Then, when I traveled to New York with Donovan on my arm and walked among the buildings! You can't help but stop until the shock subsides, until your heart and breath return to you. Or you leisurely waltz through Central Park without ever coming close to knowing the map of the place and new avenues form in your mind. That's what happened when Bethany and I spent that afternoon exploring this tragic spot that echoed with pain, the years vanishing with every glance, every beat of my heart. As we walked, I kept catching a glimpse of movement behind the trees but when I turned to look, there were only empty shadows shifting in the dappled light. We came to the waterfall and I was taken aback. What a glorious sight and the heavy wind from the crush of water on the rocks drove right through me, hurting my bones. There was a feral presence within the churning noise but I never felt threatened. It was simply a place where you could go to lose your mind, to give in to the cacophony that surrounds us all. When we finally retreated from that conflicted zone, my head was so full of sound. Every time I closed my eyes, I could differentiate something within the midst of it, a faint whisper of haunting music that twisted around inside me, curling up like an old tree root clutching at the veins in a pile of rocks. By the time we returned to our car, night was beginning to descend. We were both exhausted physically and emotionally, and I didn't realize that I had been crying until I felt the tears cooling on my cheeks. Bethany never said a word, allowing me to cherish the time with my memories, simply aware that a subtle caress upon my shoulder, or a gentle hug, her head leaning against mine, was what I needed the most. There was no possibility of driving down the mountain after that, and we were famished. We found a pleasant place to eat and to my surprise, a familiar face approached our table shortly after we sat down. It was Brian, the deputy who escorted me out of town when I was eighteen. I recognized him immediately and I can't tell you how happy I was to see him again. He invited us over to share the table with Mary, his wife of sixteen years and their two daughters, Amanda and Grace, the oldest almost the exact same age as Bethany. For the rest of the evening we visited together as if we were old companions. Brian was the Sheriff now and they invited us to stay over in their guest room. Bethany was so happy, for Amanda had already become a fast friend. I was pleased, as well. It would be good to spend the night inside the warmth of a friend's home, and that's what Brian and Mary became, true friends. He had always been concerned for me, all those years ago, as well as the years since. I saw it in his eyes, just like the day we parted at the airport, a protective force looking out for my well being. I learned so much more later that night when I had trouble sleeping and went to the kitchen for a glass of water, only to discover a restless Brian sitting at the table. He told me that he had just awoken from a nightmare about that first night when he stood guard over my room so long ago. I didn't know until that moment that he had been the one outside my door, waiting and listening to every furtive movement inside. He had been terrified of what I might do then, though we all know now how it turned out. But in his dream, all his fears came to life. He saw me climb out the window and disappear into the cold snowy blackness never to be seen again. He grew frantic with search, despair quickly rising in his heart. He woke suddenly with the strange idea that it had all been true and that our visit that night was the real dream. He was only reassured when he peeked into his daughter's room to see Bethany curled up against Amanda in a sweet embrace. I confided in him about how close I came to following through with everything that happened in his dream. Then I told him the entire story of my life with Donovan, up until the morning that Brian drove me down the mountain. I didn't realize how long I spoke until the cold light of the dawn began to creep into the room. Again, my eyes were swollen from tears, but I felt a gentle sigh escaping from within me. I needed someone like Brian, a witness who truly understood what it all meant. Then he spoke, told me about the magic of this part of the world and every word resonated with me. People come here and can never leave. They fall in love with this place. His grandparents were like that, building a home here after his grandfather passed through scouting for the railroad. Brian also stayed, fulfilling a need after staying for the summer following his high school graduation. Mary, too, before she was his wife. Her family vacationed nearby one summer and when they came to see the waterfall, she instantly knew that she belonged here. It was a common story with many of the residents. There came a moment of wonder that changed their lives forever. But there were other tales, different reasons for people coming to this place and never escaping. This was the story that I knew so well, Donovan's story. There’s an esurient nature deep within the heart of the mountain and it yearns to consume. A person lost in a sudden blizzard, swallowed by an avalanche, stumbling over a ledge, slipping into the rapids, or attacked by an animal in the wild. A volatile wilderness sits alongside all of the peaceful beauty that is found here. By the time Brian and I finished commiserating, Mary had come down to start the coffee. Her presence pulled us back and the world had somehow changed for me. I shed the years like a thick skin and could perceive life through a fresh filter. I was in a delicate state, though, and Mary paid special care to me that day. There was no resentment in her for the past I shared with her husband and what that had drawn from us the night before. She was keenly aware of where she lived, loving and fearing the place in a healthy manner. We had come a long way to get to this point. We shared it together, and now there were others that we had to look after, to nurture and protect. The children soon came down for breakfast and they, too, could feel that something had changed. Bethany noticed that I needed some comfort because she immediately hugged me and stayed by my side longer than I would have expected. Grace, their youngest, jumped in her Dad's lap. We were truly blessed to have such beautiful creatures to come alive every morning and remind us of who we had become. Otherwise we might find ourselves drifting effortlessly into a dream from which it would be difficult to awake. When she finally left to go off with Amanda, my daughter's eyes found mine with an imploring concern. What's going on, she seemed to be asking. When I told her about her brother's father the day before, I tried to avoid most of the terror that I felt the last time I visited Aurora. The starkness of how it affected me must have been splashed across my face that morning. I was exhausted but I let her know that I was going to be okay, so that she could spend time with her new friend. Despite the trauma, I was tranquil, comforted by the resolve of compassion that flowed from my daughter's heart. I had never enjoyed all the years of motherhood more so than in that moment. I also felt blessed by the presence of a new companion, for I realized that Brian was bound to me in a profound way. Our paths had converged, and I now had a confidante with whom to share all the wonder and apprehension about this place. Something had awoken in me that night, a resilient determination to understand what these mountains meant to me. I sensed that my life belonged here, which, to my surprise, was completely exhilarating. ●●●●●● The snow continues to fall outside my window as I write. It hasn't stopped for days and the weather reports have grown more inconclusive with each new dawn. Whispers have started to be heard throughout the town. Strange tidings seem to have befallen us, almost as if a powerful spirit has spread its wings over the mountain. What does it want? Who does it seek? Once I felt the barometer drop, It didn't take me long to come to my own conclusion. I had much work to do. So I've spent every moment in front of this computer. If I was a younger woman, I may have already finished my story and spared the other residents some of this wrath. But I'm seventy-nine now. I have grandchildren that have grown to have children of their own. Only a few weeks ago, I held a baby boy, who my granddaughter Janeen named Donovan, after a man she's only heard about in stories, only seen in grainy photos. When I looked into that tiny face, I could feel how alive his great-grandfather was, after all these years, his spirit touching my heart in a grave new way. Now I'm here in Aurora, contemplating the next phase of my evolution. I've lived here for the past three decades. After both of my children left home, life suddenly became less complex for me. I was still working at the New Yorker but I had been tinkering with the idea for a novel, so I decided to take some time off to make the attempt. It turned out that I had a voracious appetite for the format and I finished that first book very quickly. The novel was only a moderate success, but I had discovered my new voice. Over the next few years I completed at least one novel every winter with each new offering bringing more people into the stores. Before I knew it, I was on the bestseller list, and my life was forever changed. I officially left the magazine, though I was rarely seen inside those halls by then anyway, and I traveled the world promoting my books. It was a whirlwind of excitement, every day engaging, but after a few years, that locomotive lost steam. I needed a break, to find a place where I could slow down and get some rest. I was exhausted from all the activity, and the first place I thought of was the mountains of New Mexico. At first, it was simply going to be a long vacation, but I soon found that I felt very comfortable, as it was a natural place for me to write. With the wealth I had been afforded due to the success of my novels, I bought a home in the town and settled into a satisfying existence. I always thought that I would return again one day, but I never imagined that it would be with such a sense of serenity. All of the fears that lingered in my heart washed away when I took a walk a couple of days after I bought the house. Though I was alone, I felt someone take my hand, but instead of becoming startled by the abrupt sensation, my heart flooded with such a warmth that it was almost as if I had never known happiness before. I felt like I could walk forever through the day and never look back. Yet, before I became lost to such fancies, the impression vanished and I returned to the world around me. There was still so much time to share and give. This type of occurrence began to happen on a regular basis as I settled into my new home. A mysterious touch from nature would come to me as I walked the hillsides and valleys. A caress across my cheek, a lightness upon my shoulder, even a sigh next to my ear was a signal that I was no longer alone. There was no consistency to the interactions or some greater purpose to them that I can attest. It was simply a feeling that overwhelmed all others, and I knew that it carried a profound truth. Believe me, I'm quite aware of how this all must sound. How fantastical or ridiculous some of you may think I was behaving. I'm not trying to convince anyone of some supernatural order or spectral beings that may live and walk among us. I never actually saw anything that would suggest something of that nature. All I can say is that there was some type of essence that came to me during those moments. Whether that was from something or someone that was truly there or whether it was from some new emotion that sprang out of my heart, no one will ever know. What I do know is that I came to expect these connections whenever I went out on my isolated excursions. I traveled all over the county by foot and these little detours became a blessed respite from my writing. Otherwise, I did little else during those years. I would dine with Brian and Mary on occasion, which would inevitably lead to long conversations with him at the kitchen table after his family would retire for the evening. Like the night he heard my confession, Brian became a good listener. We developed a heart to heart connection, a symbiosis focused on the joy of dialogue between two friends. It was as simple as that, nothing more. The door to the sensual side of my heart had been closed decades ago and though I could feel a small light squeezing through the crack everyday, with each walk, I knew that there was no one in this life who would ever open it again. I went down the mountain a few times a year to visit with Donald, Bethany and their respective families as they developed over the years. They would also come up the mountain now and then to disrupt the monotony, usually during the summer when they could stay for weeks at a time. The winter visits to frolic in the snow were much shorter, only a couple of days long. It was a fierce season up in our small community, especially hard on outsiders, the weather abrasive and overbearing. Yes, the misty mornings and crispness in the air could be refreshing but there were times when a heavy canopy spread wide across Aurora, from peak to peak shrouding our valley in darkness. This oppressive force seemed to rise up from the earth and, at times, could not be explained by natural atmospheric conditions. It was as if the sky and the earth went to war and everyone was stuck in the midst of the battlefield. Many people fled the area like refugees. My first winter in that town was just as torturous. All the pent up anguish rose from my heart with a vengeance. I felt guilty about turning my back on my husband, taking his notes and going down the mountain. I felt deep sadness for my loss and a chasm broke open within me so wide that the voice of reason disappeared like a whimper in the bitter wind. I felt shame at giving up on such true love, then having the audacity to believe that it could be replaced by another. I felt a despair that had been decades in making. It clouded all hope for the future, for the next day, the next minute. It was so overwhelming that I began to struggle with the lower realms of my soul. It was a terrible conflict, one that was forever simmering beneath the surface, yet which I had never acknowledged before, in any real sense. I didn't know the name of true cowardice before that winter and once I was buried in the weight of it in this mountain terrain, I could do nothing else but face it. Nature is so polarizing. Summer turns to Winter, then before all is settled, it grows so dark again. Then, there’s the tiniest hint of a blossom that will soon warm your heart like nothing ever could. Day follows the lull of night and then, after a long day filled with activity, we descend into slumber. These are such simple examples of that fundamental balance, ones that we all know, but if we go deeper, we can perceive this equilibrium in all things. For every smile there is a frown. For every moment of heartache there is a love that is so profound the universe vibrates with it. This duality plays out in all of our lives in unique ways responding to who we are and where we are, with all that we bring to the equation. For every incident there will be those who come out stronger and there will be those who may be destroyed by it. That first winter on the mountain almost destroyed me. There were many nights I found myself staring at the bleak world swirling outside my door, tears streaming down my face. I even begged for Donovan to come and take me, to comfort me, but I never felt his presence. Instead I was visited by nightmares and icy compositions that left me shivering even as I lay huddled before the fire beneath a mound of blankets. It wasn't until we had a break in the weather that I finally managed to settle down. By then I was coming apart at the seams and may have abandoned all hope if it wasn't for her. I was contemplating how to escape, or maybe how to simply disappear, if I must be honest. Then, she came to me. The clouds allowed a bit of room for the sun and it seemed like a miraculous event, for it had been weeks since we had seen the blessed brilliant light. I went outside to see if it was even possible to leave this place once and for all, and that's when the beauty of the world caught my eye. It was like crisp white linen. You know the feeling. The anticipation of laying down in that blessed freshness. I paused to allow the warmth from above to kiss my cheeks. I listened to the sigh of the snow beneath my feet and little bubbles began to burst in my heart. At first I could make no sense of the euphoria that overcame me, then I looked through the light. A presence was all around me, a soft sheen I could perceive when I no longer observed. Then, it came to me, a dawning that I knew this from somewhere, recognized it, had experienced it before. I recognized the signature, like deja-vu, this was a spiritual connection that was all too familiar. My heart and mind went back to that dreadful night many years before when, in Santa Fe, I sat before the hotel window all night calling in desperation for my love to return. As we know, my prayers were never answered, but something did come to me out of the night to communicate with my soul. It was very clear to me now that it was Samantha Cross, or some essence associated with her, that had visited me then. And again, like that night long ago, she began to comfort me. I heard thoughts so distinctly that it felt like they were coming from another place in my mind, a room that I had never accessed. Images appeared to me in a fluid way that could never happen with a camera or film projector but they gave me a beautiful new awareness of life. There is nothing so amazing as the terrestrial workings of the world. Just look within the blossom of a flower or through the act of the bumblebee that harvests its pollen. Beauty is conveyed within the intricate connection of one life transferring through another. That day, I was able to perceive this profound energetic experience through the filter provided by Samantha's gift to me. I know what you may be thinking. Why can't she just call them ghosts? It simply didn't feel like that for me. Ghosts were always something that connoted fear, a story told to scare little children, but that wasn't what happened. Everything I felt that morning was the opposite of fear. It was comforting and elevated me above any of those base feelings. That was the moment that everything about this story truly changed. All of the terrible aspects wrapped up in this place that I'd harbored deep in the tendrils of my heart left without a trace. That morning I followed the echo of her voice as it brought new meaning to my life. I saw the landscape all around me, almost as if I had never really perceived it before, even though I had walked among it for months. Eventually, I came to the base of the falls again and stood in awe of the frozen monolith. I couldn't look away and recalled Donovan's letter describing the moment Samantha made her attempt. I listened close, half expecting to hear her scream as she fell, but only the voice of the natural world filled my ears. Then, like a distant dream, a soft reverberation began to come to me, like jewels dangling in the trees, touching each other when they swayed and between the chimes, a creaking groan of struggle. My life transformed, moving into an intimate connection with this strange song. And I could see it. How the waterfall was alive, even though it appeared frozen. It forever moved, shifting, creaking, just as Donovan had explained, and it communed with the forces all around, only allowing an unseen footing for the favored. Then, for a brief moment, there at the top, I could see a figure moving in a slow delicate dance with the music that flowed out from beneath the surface. The person was climbing the last precious feet to the summit, then with the gentle gust of the breeze, she was gone. I was so grateful that I was allowed to see such a blessing and from that day forward, I embraced this place.  All of my interactions with the environment, spiritual and natural, became loving and honest. To truly connect with an aspect of yourself that allows meaning to all phenomena is one of the great human mysteries, and here I was doing that every day! A tree had the power to provide a gift, a soft whisper of its leaves falling into my ears. The wind could lift me up beyond the reach of despair until I was truly flying above the clouds. Standing at the foot of the falls, exposed to the explosion of water, I could feel the devil's breath cut though my body and fill me with its creative force. Then, I would sit for hours at my keyboard, writing until dawn. And to hear the birds in the morning greeting the new light. There is beauty all around us, within every aspect of life and appreciation is the seed. The sprouts that give form to everything we see and touch, all that we know and believe, comes from that benevolence. No matter where I look, I can perceive it, like an embrace that stays with you long after you have disengaged. There is a residue within the yearning desire to survive, a miraculous voice spread wide across the universe. It's even in the howl of the wind that I can hear outside my window. The most powerful storm gives as much as it takes away. I must admit that I find it hard to end this tale. My heart is light and free, but my mind still clings to this world. Every story must end and I know that mine has finally reached that moment. It's okay. I've left nothing behind, taken care of those I've loved. They'll remember me in their own ways. I have this page, this word and my only hope is that it has provided some meaning. After all the years, I still long for the piece of myself that disappeared the day Donovan went away. I suppose that I shall reacquaint myself somehow. In the end, Brian's dream shall come true, after all. I will turn out the light, open the window and fall in love all over again. ●●●●●● Excerpt from article in the New York Times, Sunday edition, dated January 27th, 1957: Into The Wilderness By Donovan Reilley “...and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.” -- Robert Frost Famous words that have inspired a nation, given voice to a generation. Also a profound truth that lives within the heart of each person, for we cannot live a meaningful life unless we find our own path. There are moments in a person's life when the attraction is too powerful to look away. An opening in the world that wasn't there before but now calls out to us. It could be a word, the play of language that somehow communicates meaning in a forest of confusing symbols. It might come in a song, the way fingers grasp the melody upon the strings, or in the urge of a voice as it sprouts wings. It may be found in the struggle of battle, a protective force springing forth to save a comrade in arms. It could be in the truth of a sermon, a powerful light that reaches out with a guiding hand to bring peace to the soul of humanity. It may also come in the reflection of another, two people locking eyes, their hearts ablaze with connection. It can also be found in a place, a holy ground or sacred monument, architecture built from the hands of the earth. For Samantha Cross, that place was this small town in the wilderness called Aurora and the need to climb the ice falls they call “The Devil's Breath”. It brought me here, as well, and I know not whether it was a demon or a saint that caused the key in my heart to turn, but I shall be forever changed by this haunting landscape… THE END

The panda Pàng yòu chǒu (Pang for short) had eaten his way through most of the three-square miles of his territory. Now, food supply nearly exhausted, he sat upright on the forest floor, struggling over his massive beer gut. His powerful jaws and strong teeth crushed a bamboo stem into bits. He relished the food ingestion, the strength of his jaw, the anticipation of a full stomach. Soon there was no bamboo left, however, and he was still hungry. The urge to chew, to swallow, to feed, haunted him. The impulse to eat was a constant itch that Pang was unable to scratch away. He thought of virtually nothing but food. He survived almost entirely on bamboo, which he had to eat in prodigious quantities, twenty to thirty pounds a day. But bamboo provided very little nourishment, so he had to keep eating to get enough energy for him to lumber from morning to dusk, from bamboo stand to bamboo stand, always solitary, shunning social interactions to limit energy expenditures, eating being his sole preoccupation. As he surveyed again his depleted territory with an eye out for non-existing food, Pang considered his options. He could migrate in one direction or another and try to find another corner of the mountain where bamboo still grew in abundance. But migration was chancy and required the expenditure of a lot of energy. He did not know in which direction the food abundance would lie. Plus, he was by nature slothful and resented having to do anything more than was necessary to make it through life. At his age, he thought, he should not have to find a path in the world, the world should come to him. He deserved it. Pang concluded that the solution that would be best and would require him to do the least would be to get others to bring him bamboo in sufficient quantities to keep him going in a style that was to his liking. That was the preferable solution, though he was sure he had much thinking to do to make it happen. But that was not a major problem, for he had a good brain. Maybe the best brain, with the most brilliant ideas, and those would come to him because he was so smart. The answer to his predicament came to him as he bent over a limpid pool to get a sip of water. His image, somewhat blurred, was reflected in the waters. “Am I handsome, or what?” he thought, for he was quite vain. “I bet nobody is as good looking as I.”  He admired his round face, the luxuriant white fur with contrasting black ears, black eye patches, and dark muzzle. He moved himself about to admire his legs, arms and shoulders cast in black, contrasting again with the pure white of the rest of his corpulent body, and a thought occurred to him: “I bet that if there was a beauty contest, I would be the winner.”  And another thought rushed in at once: “Why don’t I organize a beauty pageant, and get the other contestants to ante up food as the stake for the winner to get. I, of course, will win, and then I will have my fill of food!” The more he thought about it, the more he liked this idea. There were a host of problems, though. If he was going to be a contestant, he could not be the judge. Also, he needed help organizing and promoting the event, and needed to make sure the contestants would bring food to be given to the winner. Finally, he had to make sure that the judges would rule in his favor; if experience taught Pang anything, it was that one should never leave anything to chance, and there is no better election than one rigged in one’s favor. His thoughts were interrupted by a strange hissing sound. Raising his head, Pang saw, curled around a branch of a tree not far from the pool, a large iridescent black snake staring at him. He had a small head and a neck that broadened into a hood and narrowed again into the chest and a slightly flattened body covered with smooth glossy hexagonal scales. The eyes had irises of a dark yellow dappled with blue-black and the pupils were round and jet black. His stare was fixed and had a predatory look. The snake appeared to be sizing Pang up as a potential dinner. Pang stared back at the snake. He knew the type; he had seen many of them in his years of roaming the highlands of Sichuan. “Hello, snake. What brings you to this corner of the mountain?” “I came looking for toads in that pool and found you instead. You’re like a very big, very, very fat toad.” As the snake answered, he darted out a blue-black tongue and showed a row of fangs that protruded from the upper jaw. He slowly uncoiled himself and raised his head, showing spectacle-like markings on the back of the upper face of the hood. It was an imposing sight. Pang could see how the appearance of the snake would have frightened smaller animals, but of course not him, although Pang did not like the looks of those teeth. He decided that he could use the snake’s looks to his advantage, as ideas blossomed in his brain. “You are actually very nice looking, with the markings on your hood and those yellow stripes all along your body. What’s your name?” “My name is Naja. And you are not too bad looking, if one cares for that sort of thing. You are also very fat; you could keep me fed for a long time.” “Well, I am very handsome. In fact, I was just thinking that if there was a beauty contest for all the animals on this mountain, I would surely be the winner. As for feeding off me, you would get far more to eat among the losers if we held such a contest.” Naja said nothing for a while, and kept swinging his head right and left as if deep in thought. "I’m not sure you would win,” he finally said. “I’m slim. That’s far more beautiful, don’t you think? I can slide around and in and under rocks, and you are a very large clod who can only go around by tripping over everything. You are not as beautiful as you think.” “So you say, snake, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder, don’t you think most animals would find me more beautiful than you?” “Well, so you say, but there is only one way to find out,” retorted the snake. “Let’s have that contest you mentioned. But I get to eat any losers I choose, except yourself.” “I would like that,” said Pang, “but we need a judge and someone who can organize and give publicity to the event so contestants will come.” “All right,” answered Naja. “For a take in the proceeds of the contest, I will be the judge, though I would have loved to participate and prove you wrong. And I can get you a great public relations expert.” “Who would that be?” Naja did not answer, but slithered away. Turning its head, it just said: “Stay here. I’ll be back soon.” Pang felt like he had been waiting for a very long time, and kept pacing back and forth the entire perimeter of the pond. As he was rounding off yet another circle, he simultaneously heard a hiss and a loud squawk. Entering the other end of the pond was Naja. Above the tree tops, following Naja’s trail, flew a large dark bird. As the squawker got closer, Pang noticed that he had a black head, with a short, curved bill and coal black eyes. The rest of the plumage on the bird’s body was a sooty grey color. “Who is this?” asked Pang, who had never seen such a bird before. Naja responded: “This is Perisoreous, but we call him Peri for short. He is a grey jay. Sorry it took me so long to get here, but Peri dwells along the evergreens on top of the other side of the mountain and I had to climb up and look for him.” “That explains why I have never seen him before. I don’t go to high places. How’s life in the heights?” Peri gave out an unpleasant caw. “Well, things are not as good as they used to be. Men have started to come and have cleared my woods, and logged the trees where I used to perch. There is hardly a place to live or build a nest and it gets harder each day to find bugs to eat or even fruits or berries. I often go hungry or must fly long distances to even get a morsel.” Pang thought: a hungry fellow like this is someone I can turn to his advantage. “It seems that we all have the same problem, friend jay. What I want is to get us in a situation where animals like you and I can get the food that we deserve.” “We three could be the rulers of this mountain. We are smarter than the other animals, and could make others do as we please. All creatures would be our subjects, and bring us food to eat.” The jay questioned where the panda was going with this: “And how do we get ourselves in that situation?” Pang had been thinking a lot as he walked circles around the pond, so he had a reply ready: “If we play our cards right, you can have all the insects and fruits you want, Peri. And you, Naja, can have all the toads and rodents and other beasts. The mountain will feed us all to our stomachs’ content. Everyone will bow before our greatness. We will win bamboo, we will win insects and grubs and berries, and we will win toads and rodents. All the winning, it will be the best winning you have ever seen. We will make this mountain great again, and none of us will ever have to worry about having to forage.” Peri cawed in approval. “So, when do we start?” II Naja had not exaggerated Peri’s skills at propaganda. Loud cries announcing the beauty contest were soon resounding across the mountain, as Peri and another half-dozen grey jays crisscrossed in flight over every corner of the land singing: “Listen you all!  This is the opportunity of a lifetime!  Become the most famous creature on the mountain!  Enter the one and only beauty contest!  Open to all residents of Mount Qingcheng! No matter your size, no matter your age, no matter your species, you know you are beautiful!  Show it to everybody! Make everyone appreciate your beauty!  Come at full moon to the registration meeting at the shore of the lake!  Fame awaits you!” And the jays cross-crossed the mountain carrying that message, over and over again. As the full moon approached, curiosity grew among all creatures that dwelt on the mountain. Most were excited. Only a few -- like the torpid two-toed sloth -- remained indifferent to the upcoming event: when the jays insisted on asking prospective contestants whether they did not think that they were exceedingly handsome, very few demurred. When the moon rose over Mount Qingcheng, a motley crowd had assembled by the edge of the lake. There were animals of all kinds, sizes, and denominations. Only the fish were unable to participate. Peri sat on a tall evergreen and surveyed the surging crowd below. He cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention and began to speak in a loud, penetrant voice: “Welcome!  My heart soars to see so many gorgeous animals gathered here. I feel that this mountain has the best-looking creatures on this earth!  This beauty pageant is designed for you to shine and show the world how wonderful you are. Soon, the pageant will open for contestant registration. To have your chance to show the world your splendor, we only need to get a few things out of the way that will ensure that the competition is fair. There are five rules to the contest: “Rule Number 1: All contestants must live, or have their nest or main area of habitation, within the boundaries of Mount Qingcheng in order to compete. “Rule Number 2: All contestants must pay an entry fee. Such fee will consist of bamboo stalks, fruits, edible plants or the roots thereof, or other comestibles in an amount equal to half the contestant’s body weight. The entry fee must be paid in full before a contestant can compete in the Beauty Pageant. “Rule Number 3: All contestants must compete in the three main areas of competition to be selected as the Beauty Pageant winner; these areas include the Platform walk, the Glamor Display, and the Interview. “Rule Number 4: No contestant shall challenge the judges' decisions and scoring. These are final and will not be changed or subject to challenge. The identities of the Beauty Pageant judges will NOT be released. “Rule Number 5: If a contestant becomes the pageant winner, he or she will receive all the food submitted as entry fees for the contest, and all other animals taking part will pay homage to the winner and obey his or her commands fully for the space of one full year.” At this point, Peri stopped to catch his breath and gauge the reaction of the crowd. For the most part, the animals were impressed by the formality of the rules, which should assure the competition was fair. But many of the beasts did not understand the rules very well, if at all, and were disquieted by what appeared to be a lot of talking about things that had nothing to do with their beauty. Others were daunted by the steep entry fee, which they felt they may be unable to deliver. There was a steady murmur, as the beasts broke into small groups and held energetic discussions. Peri let the conversations go on for a while to let the animals feel that their opinions were valued and appreciated and, at large, uttered a shrill summation: “We will set up this clearing as the office where applications must be submitted together with the entry fees. We will meet here at the next phase of the moon to recognize the contestants and initiate the selection process. Good night to all.” III Most animals ended up declining to enter the beauty contest. The strict rules and, particularly, the need to supply a large quantity of food as a registration fee, served to discourage all but the vainest from applying. In the week that followed, less than two dozen hopefuls registered. They included five large birds: a golden eagle, a black-necked crane, a pheasant, a vulture, and an owl; three monkeys: a snub-nosed monkey, a gibbon, and a macaque; a wolf, a wolverine, and a snow leopard; a deer, a takin (also called a mountain goat), and a bristling boar; and Pang. On the night that the moon started to wane, Peri addressed the contestants that had signed up for the pageant and declared the event officially underway. The first step in the contest was the walking of the platform: the clearing had been further expanded and covered with logs set close together to form a rustic stage. At one edge of the platform was a high boulder, behind him sat the judges, unseen (there was only one judge, Naja). Each contestant was to parade slowly, making a circuit of the stage, walking in the manner that showed his or her attributes to the best effect. The black-necked crane and the golden pheasant were ground walkers, and thus managed the parade without difficulty. The other birds, though, were unaccustomed to walking on the ground, so the eagle, the vulture and the owl kept tripping themselves and leaving an impression of awkwardness; likewise, the boar, the wolf and (surprisingly) the deer showed themselves too clumsy to make the cut. All six were immediately disqualified by Naja, who hid behind the boulder and announced the “judges’” decisions from there. The macaque seemed not to take the test too seriously, for she kept jumping back and forth and then sideways, showing off her dexterity. When she was disqualified, she showed her displeasure by standing on all fours with the tail sticking straight out behind the body while issuing an impressive series of screeches, screams, squeaks, growls, and barks. To no avail, of course. Peri ordered the unruly simian off the platform. The last contestant, Pang, lumbered on gracelessly around the platform and at one point tottered and seemed about to fall off the edge, but managed to stay on. Naja, again speaking offstage, declared that the Panda had made the cut and would join the remaining contestants. The second walk of the first phase of the pageant required each contestant to walk the platform again, this time turning and twirling around to better display their natural beauty from all angles. The crane and the pheasant had no trouble with this, for they were vain and loved to display their plumage; the snub-nosed monkey managed to look cute despite the short stump of a nose on its round face and the fact that his nostrils were arranged forward. It was his lush, multicolored fur, which seemed to hang from the shoulders and drop back like a cape, what attracted attention. The other monkey, the gibbon, was perhaps too plain: his fur was a dull black, with some white markings on the hands, feet, and face. When Naja sibilantly dismissed him as not graceful enough, the gibbon inflated its throat sac and let out a stentorian shout of protest that resonated throughout the mountain. Nonetheless, the gibbon was eliminated and soon was gone. The takin was coming right behind the gibbon and had made its way along most of the stage when the monkey was dismissed. The takin stopped, shook its head in disbelief, looked right and left, and then ponderously turned its back, urinated on the stage, emptying his bladder in disdain, and then retreated. He coughed loudly, gave a lugubrious bawl of discontent, emptied his bowels, urinated again and ambled away without looking back. The last three contestants to make it to the platform were the wolverine, the snow leopard, and Pang. The wolverine resembled a small, long, and low bear. He was a stocky and muscular animal with short legs, broad and thick head, small eyes and short rounded ears and a muzzle full of sharp teeth. He had a silvery facial mask and a pale buff stripe, which ran from his shoulders along his side, crossing his rump just above his bushy tail. As he swaggered in, his fur stood on edge, making him seem nearly twice as large, and he uttered a menacing growl, displaying powerful jaws and scratching the platform with his sharp claws. Naja immediately declared him qualified. The female leopard was a magnificent beast, as large as Pang. She had long, thick smoky gray fur, with contrasting black open rosettes on her body, small spots of the same color on her head, and larger spots on her legs and tail; her eyes were pale green with a piercing stare. As she glided effortlessly on the ramp, she announced that she had come all the way down from the snowy heights of the mountain and was expecting to win, as all could see her superior beauty and grace. Again, without hesitation, Naja pronounced she had made the cut. Pang came next and, even though he felt he was as handsome as a panda can be, he became concerned that he would be overshadowed by the snow leopard. What assured him Naja would judge him best? He needed not have worried. Halfway through his parade, Naja hissed in approval, and said: “You make it too. Everyone, we are down to the final six!” IV There was a short break before the final event, the climactic Interview section of the contest. Pang’s accomplices set out to discuss how to plausibly eliminate the remaining contestants so that Pang could win. The birds, of course, were no problem, and eliminating them and the monkey would be straightforward, for what could they do if they did not like the outcome?  But Naja and Peri worried that the snow leopard and the wolverine would not take defeat well and could turn the pageant organizers into bloody ribbons. Pang listened to their discussion with growing concern. Could he be forced to yield the title to one of these ferocious beasts? “I have an idea” he said at last. “Get them to fight each other. That way one or both will be killed and we should be able to dispose of whoever remains standing, for he or she will be weakened after the fight, plus how beautiful could a bloody survivor be?”  As he said that, Pang marveled at his own cunning, as he often did. The snake and the bird, after consulting briefly, returned to their respective places: Peri, to the top of the tree; Naja, back behind the high boulder at the edge of the stage. The bird then sang: “Now comes the final, and maybe the most important, phase of this wondrous pageant. The winner of the contest must not only be beautiful, as all these finalists are, but also needs to be charming and wise, for he or she will represent Mount Qingcheng and will show to one and all that, of the animals in this sacred mountain, he or she is the most beautiful and excellent of all.”  Peri stopped two heartbeats for dramatic effect, and then continued: “Each contestant will be asked a question by our judges out of the hearing of the other finalists. In answering the question, the contestant must display wisdom, tact, and character. The contestant giving the best answer, combined with his or her score from the previous phases, will win.”  Then, Peri announced: “The crane is our first finalist. Will you please come forward?  The others please remain outside the stage.” The black-necked crane waddled onto the stage. She was indeed a beautiful bird – large, whitish-gray, with a black head, red crown patch, black upper neck and legs, and white patch to the rear of the eye. Naja summoned her to come closer: “Madame crane, please approach the boulder so I can whisper to you the question.”  The crane did so, and waited for Naja to speak again, pecking nervously at the ground in search of non-existent grubs. Naja said: “What would you do, hypothetically, if you saw that a raven was trying to steal one of your eggs off the nest?”  At the very idea, the crane first uttered a short, subdued nasal "kurrr" as if beckoning her fledglings to her side, and then exploded in a barrage of trumpeting calls: “Who would dare steal one of my precious eggs?  Who would do that?  Well, I would chase him to the end of the earth, if necessary; I would clip his wings and then I would peck him to death; I…”  She stopped, befuddled and seething with indignation. “Thank you, madam. You made your feelings quite clear. Please go back offstage and await the judges’ decision.” “The next finalist is the golden pheasant. Pheasant, please come forward.”  The pheasant, a medium sized bird with blue, dark red, and black feathers spotted with cinnamon, resolutely marched to the center of the stage, basking in the glory of his own self-importance. He had a golden-yellow crest with a hint of red at the tip; his face, throat, chin, and the sides of his neck were rusty tan. The wattles and orbital skin were yellow, and the ruff was light orange; the upper back was green and the rest of the back and rump were golden-yellow. His tail feathers curved downwards and accounted for half his length. He was spectacular, or at least he thought so. Before Naja could ask a question, the pheasant hopped to the edge of the platform and screeched: “I don’t know why we are bothering with this charade. I am famous and admired all over the world. There is no prettier bird, nay, no prettier animal than I. Please declare me the winner right now and waste no more time.” “Not so fast, sir” hissed Naja. “You are very, very handsome, but our question now has to do with brains, not beauty.”  The pheasant went quiet. “Here is the question: “A monkey, a squirrel, and a bird are racing to the top of a coconut tree. Who will get the banana first, the monkey, the squirrel, or the bird?” The pheasant puffed up his head and answered proudly: “If I am the bird, the bird.” Naja gave out what could have been a laugh, if snakes could laugh: “That question was to test your intelligence. The correct answer is none of them will, because you can't get a banana from a coconut tree. Please go back offstage and wait for the final results.”  The pheasant, crestfallen, drifted away. The wolverine was called up next. He came in with the same menacing strut as before and planted itself squarely before the judges’ boulder. “Your courage has been put into question” suggested Naja. “How and by whom?” growled the wolverine, his fur bristling. “Another of the contestants has said you are a scavenger, a carrion eater, a thief, and a coward that eats the dead or steals food and only faces easy prey, like animals caught in traps, newborn animals, and those that are weakened. That you do not dare face a strong animal capable of defending himself.” The wolverine responded with a louder growl. “Who says these things about me?” “Communications with pageant officials and judges are private. All we want from you is confirmation that if you win you will not dishonor the mountain through craven behavior.” “You all can rest assured that I am not craven and that I can take good care of myself.” “Fine. Now go backstage and wait for the judges’ decision.”  The wolverine headed back grumpily. The snow leopard’s approach, when summoned, was all elegance and grace. Standing in front of the boulder, she asked in a polite manner: “Is this the end of the show?  Are you ready to crown me the winner?” “The contest is not yet over,” responded Naja. “Just a final question or two. But before the questions, we have to ask, for your own good: are your cubs safe?” “What do you mean?” asked the leopard, an edge of menace in her voice. “I left them playing in the den. Why do you ask?” “Well, we have learned that another of the contestants is a scavenger that preys upon young left unattended.” “Who is that?  Tell me and I will kill him right now.” “Communications between participants and contest officials are private, not to be disclosed to third parties” stated Naja firmly. The ruff rose on the leopard’s neck. “Screw the rules. Will you tell me who is the miserable beast that must die?” “You are not a dumb cat” hissed Naja. “You can figure this one by yourself. Neither pandas, nor birds, nor monkeys threaten the offspring of big cats. Who is left?” The moment these words left Naja’s mouth, the leopard bolted offstage to an expectant silence, which was soon shattered by the sounds of fighting, accompanied by growls, barks, and yelps, and finally whimpers that subsided into silence. Peri, who had flown out to see what the commotion was, reported: “The wolverine is dead. The leopard was bleeding from numerous gashes and withdrew to check on her cubs.” “All worked fine, as I was hoping” said Pang, creeping behind the boulder. “Are we finished here?” “No,” replied Naja. “We still have the monkey, and you also have to give a pro-forma interview.” “Fine. Go ahead with it, but make it short. I am very, very hungry.” V As she stood before the judges’ boulder, the monkey did not look like much, though she was presentable enough to have made the cut so far. Naja, hidden behind the boulder, glanced at her through a crevice in the stone and decided to go for the jugular: “Madame, considering your age, do you have the energy to be the leader of this mountain for an entire year?” Her response was courteous but firm: “Granted, I am no longer in the bloom of youth. But I am wise, and still quite comely. I know what the inhabitants need and how to get it for them.”  She then spoke for what seemed like an eternity, ending with “there, do you think I have enough energy?” Naja replied: “Yes, ma’am. You certainly would make a fine queen of Mount Qingcheng. But this is only a beauty contest. Please go back offstage while we consider the final candidate.” She did and, as she retreated offstage on all fours, she gave the boulder a hostile look and muttered: “I am onto you. I don’t know why, but you are bending the rules. I think this contest is rigged.”  They ignored her. Standing on his hind legs before the boulder, Pang was the image of self-confidence. When Naja asked him the previously agreed question of why should he be declared the winner, he proceeded to tick off some of his numerous virtues: “I am clearly the most handsome animal, and the greatest.” “Nobody is as clever as I.” “I have a gentle and genial disposition, and everyone who meets me loves me right away…” He was still in his self-promotion litany when Naja suggested: “That is sufficient, sir. Let us now retire to our deliberations.” After a short interval, Peri summoned all the animals that had remained to watch the end of the proceedings. Naja, still behind the boulder, gave the tribunal’s verdict. “The wolverine and the leopard had been disqualified. The remaining finalists were ranked as follows: Third runner up, the black-necked crane; second runner up, the golden pheasant; first runner up, the snub-nosed monkey; and the winner and king of the mountain: the panda.” “Great,” shouted Pang jubilantly. “Despite those who have conspired to deny my magnificence, truth has won out.”  And, almost in the same breath: “Let’s eat.” VI And eat they did, Pang and Naja and all the jays, princely and in great quantities, at least for the first few days. The supply of bamboo stalks was only moderate, but there were surpassing quantities of fruits, nuts, roots, small crawly things, dead birds, and mice. When the offerings made to as registration fees were exhausted, Peri and his band of grey jays flew all over the mountain announcing that Pang had decreed that there should be tax levies to support the new administration: each citizen of Mount Qingcheng was to provide, on the first night of each full moon, a food contribution equal to half each citizen’s body weight. To assure compliance with this decree, a force of black bears was being established to visit with recalcitrant animals and enforce their cooperation. The news was alarming to the peaceful denizens of the mountain – not only would they be required to spend much of their time gathering food for Pang and his minions, but they also would be subject to being manhandled by crude, not too smart bears. Spontaneous protests were held in front of Pang’s den, and several delegations sought to meet with him to ask for relief. Pang gave the same speech to all: the taxes were necessary to keep Pang and his forces healthy and able to defend the mountain from the foreign enemies that, even as they spoke, were drawing close. The required contributions were but a small sacrifice to the cause of making Mount Qingcheng great again. He assured them all that he was not only the most handsome, but also the smartest of all animals and only had their welfare in mind, and all they had to do was wait some time and they would see how prosperity returned to the mountain. Things remained in an uneasy balance for one full cycle of the moon, but then the “takin incident” occurred. The takin, who by nature was a stubborn beast, had vociferously refused to ante up any more food to “fatten that Panda.”  He was paid a visit by a pair of black bears that attempted to coerce him into cutting down some bamboo stalks to bring in as taxes. The takin resisted and, when the bears charged him, he gored one and threatened to run over the other. Soon the takin was dead and the bears had suffered significant wounds. Following this bloody event, the mountain descended into chaos. Those animals that could escape, such as the birds, the bats, the deer, and the other ungulates began fleeing in droves. Soon, the food contributions to Pang decreased to a trickle and finally stopped altogether. Pang was upset and frustrated by this turn of events. His plan for a lifetime supply of food had come to an abrupt end. With no more free food to be had, even his closest supporters started deserting him. One day he noticed how the skies were silent and empty: Peri and his grey jay squad had flown away, in search of better places to feed. Since no more small animals came to pay tribute, Naja reverted to finding his prey the old way, by haunting ponds and bird nests and rodent holes. He paid occasional visits to Pang’s den just to check on whether there were any more donors or donations but stopped coming, for he left with no loot. And Pang?  The aging panda Pang – now over twenty-five years old – had become weaker by the day; as food ran out, he did not have the energy to go searching for it. He spent the hours lying on his back, sleeping fitfully, dreaming of the time where everyone recognized that he was the most handsome, smartest, and greatest of all beasts in the mountain. And, as weakness drove him to delirium, he came at last to realize that in pursuing his insatiable hunger he had neglected to build ties of affection to others, and by doing so had forsaken the love that might have been helpful in his hour of need. True greatness might have been his, but ambition and gluttony got in the way. He finally perished and Naja proceeded to consume his remains. Born in Cuba, Matias Travieso-Diaz migrated to the United States as a young man. He became an engineer and lawyer and practiced for nearly fifty years. After retirement, he took up creative writing. Over ninety of his short stories have been published or accepted for publication in anthologies and paying magazines, blogs, audio books and podcasts. Some of his unpublished works have also received "honorable mentions" from a number of paying publications. A first collection of his stories, “The Satchel and Other Terrors” was released in February 2023.

1. I hand my father the toothbrush, watch as he struggles to apply the toothpaste. I tell myself not to intervene, just as I did when my daughter was trying to learn new skills. I hold the basin for him to spit into, clean his mouth with a towel. A stalactite of mucus hangs from his nose like it did when we were out on the hills. He never wiped it then either. When we still had the farm, my father kept a diary recording key events. Mild with light rain. Moved the lambed ewes to the Bank Park. Never anything personal. 2. A cold afternoon. Slate clouds hung low over the hills. My father stalked the ewe, crook held like a bayonet. He lunged, hooked a leg. Reined in the sheep, hand over hand along the metal shaft. Flipped the ewe onto her back. It kicked its legs, helpless as a new-born. Later, we mounted the tractor to return home for supper. “Home James, and don’t spare the horses,” he always said. At lambing time, he slept in the armchair. No time to shave, so a beard sprouted. Now he sits day and night in the bed my brother set up in the living room. The beard is back, because shaving is such a chore. Like shearing a sheep, the carer jokes. 3. He revived the orphan lambs in the bottom of the Aga. They’d go in limp as a soft toy, emerge hyper as toddlers, romping around the kitchen. We’d come down in the morning to find the linoleum puddled with pee. I take him to the bathroom in the wheelchair the council lent us. His legs are so weak he can barely stand long enough for me to pull down his boxers. Memories of toilet training my daughter. There was a time when I’d have been embarrassed by the sight of his exposed penis, but that time is long past. I leave him in peace. Fifteen minutes later, I manhandle him back into the chair. “Home James, and don’t spare the horses,” I say. He just looks at me blankly. 4. One morning, I find a fat courgette of excrement, the colour of rich soil, on the kitchen’s fake wood floor. I dispose of it subtly, trying not to cry. Neither of us mentions it, but I record the incident in my journal. The whole visit, I’ve been hoping for a shared memory, an anecdote, laughter. All he does is watch TV. But when I leave, he thanks me for coming. I’ll take that. Daniel Addercouth grew up on a remote farm in the north of Scotland but now lives in Berlin, Germany. His stories have appeared in Free Flash Fiction, New Flash Fiction Review, and Ink Sweat & Tears, among other places. He was recently shortlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction Award. You can find him on Twitter/X and Bluesky at @RuralUnease.

I was the only one who noticed Jenny’s poorly concealed black eye as she bent down to hide another Easter egg. She used to be a beauty guru with an impressive YouTube following, but Derek had long beaten the peace, joy, and love of glamour out of her. I wasn’t going to say anything to the other ladies. Jenny and I learned a long time ago, it was best to keep our failures to ourselves. Failed grades, relationships, careers—there was no need to give the others more “I told you so” ammunition. I regretted braiding my hair into cornrows and not wearing a hat as the sun scorched my scalp, reminding me that I still choose style over functionality. Our group marched on strategically hiding eggs out of sight of eagerly waiting children that didn’t belong to any of us. It had become an unofficial tradition highly encouraged by church elders that all single women should be sent out to hide eggs and reflect on their problematic childlessness. The married women and mothers all stayed inside the air-conditioned building minding the children while occasionally peering at us outcasts. Brenda, always the rule breaker, came outside to help us. She just happened to have an extra hat that matched my outfit. She knew how much I love yellow. I handed her a spotted orange egg, her favorite color, to hide at the foot of a tree. Brenda feverishly talked about the woes of having to keep a five-bedroom house clean as a single housewife with a toddler and all the fun she had with her in-laws during an annual ski trip. She didn’t notice Jenny reapplying powder under her eye or that neither one of us was listening. She doesn’t care. Brenda just needs an audience besides an exhausted overworked husband and a drooly two-toothed baby. I wondered if her jaw hurt from all the talking and what kind of person enjoys being around their in-laws that much? When she lifted her Chanel sunglasses to wipe away sweat, she revealed big black bags under her eyes. I hadn’t seen Brenda look that drained since our college days when the three of us would stay up ungodly hours to study together. She reached into my basket for two purple and pink eggs. The all-consuming thoughts in my head deafened the chatter, making it easier to hyper-fixate on hiding. Thoughts of a new condo. Living in the luxury I deserve. Could I afford it? I’m always the odd duck. Would I fit in at my new job? I wanted to talk about a local murder case. How the young victim looked just like me when I was her age. The killer was never found. Brenda finds true crime to be ghastly. Jenny never responds in the group chat whenever I mention anything in the news. I hid two green eggs in a bed of pink flowers. We’ve done 5k charity runs in the past. I was going to tell them about the upcoming mental health awareness 5k my therapist recommended but Jenny burst into tears. All the talking about how great Brenda’s husband was must have made her realize how awful Derek is. Brenda and I stood there looking at Jenny, our sunglasses hid expressions of pity and frustration. We both waited for the other to console her. It was Brenda’s turn. I hid three blue eggs near an old log. I recommended therapy when Jenny told me about the domestic violence. She flippantly told me she doesn’t believe in therapy and a more well-balanced diet of fresh organic fruits and vegetables plus a consistent exercise routine is all that is needed to be mentally fit. Then she pointed out how much tighter my clothes had been fitting. Derek didn’t like thick women. A rock pile was the perfect spot for two speckled eggs. Jenny wept. Brenda shielded her from the other women behind us. Jenny said what she always says. We said what we always say. Now was not the time to mention the change in my medication due to having an emotional breakdown at work or that I wasn’t experiencing the side-effect of weight loss like I hoped I would. I was following my dreams of moving to Austin, but the stress was making my chest tight. Now wasn’t a good time to bring any of my personal problems up. I still had two dozen eggs and I would need to keep hiding.

He was somewhere on the Oregon coast, heading north on his bicycle with the wind and rain in his face. 17 years in the desert and now here he was in all this rain, his bicycle loaded and clownish with front and rear pannier bags. “GOD FUCKIN’ DAMN YOU!” he yelled. It was a tiny coastal town, a 1-taxi town. He rode in around noon. Exhausted. It was so dark it seemed like 7 o’clock at night. He found shelter next to an abandoned building with a roof over the sidewalk. He was soaked and miserable. He locked his bike to a gas pipe and walked toward the only sign of life anywhere: the neon light in the little tavern across the street. The handle was made from a tree branch nailed to the door. Wind and rain came in as the heavy door closed behind him. There were three old men and one middle-aged woman at the bar. They all turned and looked at him. He sat down on the end stool. The bartender was maybe 60 years old with a wart on her forehead. She walked over and leaned on the bar and smiled at him. “You look like a wet chicken.” “Yes, ma’am.” She looked at the way he was dressed. Shorts over a blue pair of athletic tights and a blue sweatshirt. His short salt and pepper hair was matted to his skull. “What can I get you?” “Pitcher of whatever’s cheap, please.” She poured the beer and set it down in front of him. It was warm in there. The smell of hot dogs and onion rings. “What’s the name of this town?” he asked, taking a drink. “This is Port Orford, honey.” “Port AWFUL!” one of the old geezers down the bar called out. “It ain’t all that bad,” the old lady said. “But it’s close.” She winked at him. His wife used to wink at him like that. He and Melissa had been together for 12 years, since they were 15. They were best pals. She was always a little tormented, but so was he. “Have you heard anything about the weather for tomorrow?” “Just more of the same,” she said. “I figured.” “You need anything, you let me know.” She walked back to her friends. He wanted a hamburger and onion rings but was afraid to spend the money. Old photographs of loggers covered the wall, tiny men standing next to trees as big as skyscrapers. You didn’t see trees that big anymore. A pool table in one corner. An old piano against a wall with a chalkboard on the wall above it: LIVE MUSIC EVERY SAT. NIGHT. Another sign on the wall behind the bar said PITCH’S TAVERN. When the phone rang the bartender picked it up and said, “Pitch’s!” But it sounded like “Bitch’s!” He stood up and headed to the bathrooms, which were designated QUAILS and WOODPECKERS. He took a piss and walked to the tiny sink. As he washed his hands he looked at himself in the mirror. He was only 27, but looked 40, already had quite a few gray hairs, circles under his eyes. He’d been riding 75 miles a day in terrible weather, eating cans of Chef Boyardee and gas station bread. He came out and sat back down. One morning a couple of years ago his wife had awakened him and told him she was a man now. He was not to call her Melissa anymore, but instead, Eric. He knew why she had chosen that name. “Eric” had been the name of her little brother who had died when he was two months old, when Melissa was five. Her parents began to fight a lot and sent Melissa to stay with her grandparents until she graduated high school. She rarely talked about it but sometimes when they were drunk on Boones Farm wine down by the Peoria River at night she would open up. He never knew what to say when she told him about those horrible memories, her old creep grandpa and the things he did to her. He just hugged her and listened. And tried to understand. His mother had always told him that good people win. That was her motto. Never get upset, she told him, because it isn’t worth it. You can’t change people and you will only do more damage to yourself. She was married four times and at age 45 she looked 80. She never liked Melissa. It wasn’t easy learning to call Melissa, Eric. It seemed like a joke. She said she had been living a lie all her life. She was not a woman and had never been a woman. She was a man. She hoped he would support her and stay by her side. And he did. She was his whole life. He’d been with a couple other girls in high school but it had been awkward and fruitless. There was always a great gap between him and them and when the sex was over there was nothing but the gap. He immediately wanted to get away from them. With Melissa it was different. The sex was lukewarm but the kinship was real. She was a friend, a sister. A brother. The middle-aged woman began telling the bartender and the three old men a story.    “You know the Johnsons who live way out off the highway?” They all nodded. “I was up there the other day,” she said. “You know, to read the meter, and they’ve got this big Rottweiler. I mean, they warned me about this Rottweiler. It’s just the sweetest thing, really, just a big pussy cat, only thing is he hates trucks. I guess he got hit by a truck when he was a pup and he just hates trucks. Cars are ok, but trucks, no. I was up there the other day, trying to read the meter, and this damn dog’s just barking and growling his fool head off. I wasn’t worried, I brought my binoculars to read the meter through. I didn’t even have to get out of the truck. Sally down at the shop told me to take those binoculars. But after I wrote down the numbers, I felt the truck start to shake and then there’s this loud WHOOSH and one side of the truck goes down. He bit right through my tire!” They all laughed. “I had to sit there until the kids got home from school and called the dog off.” A man in a cheap suit came into the tavern and sat down near him. He looked wild eyed and a little crazy and sad and he was wet from the rain. He ordered a coffee and a bunch of change for the pay phone, but he never got up to use it. He just sat there smoking and sipping his coffee. “Rotten fucking weather,” he said. “My name’s Ed.” “Robert, nice to meet you.” “You live here?” “Just passing through.” “Where to?” “Washington, maybe.” “You got work there?” “No, just a vacation.” “Some vacation.” “What about you?” “I’m on vacation too,” the man said. “I’m with my wife.” “Where is she?” “She went on ahead, she had some things to do.” “How long’s she been gone?” “Just a few days. But she’s coming back.” “She took your car?” “It’s her car. But she’s coming back any time now, and not a moment too soon, because I’m getting tired of this town.” “Staying in the motel?” He nodded and sipped his coffee. Robert looked at the pile of quarters on the bar.     “She’s a beautiful person,” the man said. “She’s not much to look at, you know, really, on the outside, but she’s got this inner beauty. She’s really a beautiful person.” “I’m sure she is.” Melissa—Eric—began hormone treatments to raise her—his—testosterone levels. Robert was continually calling her “Melissa” which pissed her off. He supported her on social media, always calling her “they.” But it was confusing. They stopped having sex completely. She had never dressed in a truly feminine manner but now started buying all her clothes from the men’s department. She didn’t seem happier but Robert figured he would give it time. He was always the one to do the dishes and cooking and laundry anyway so not much really changed in their daily routine. He went to work at his job at the insurance company as a phone rep and came home and tried to tread as lightly as possible. The bar door opened and fresh wind and rain came in. Boots clumped across the floor. An old man took a barstool between the regulars and Robert. The bartender clanged the cow bell that was hanging over the bar. Then she came and sat a beer down in front of Robert. “J.R. just bought a round for the house,” she said. Robert lifted the beer in thanks toward the old guy and the old guy smiled and returned the gesture. Then he got up and walked over and sat down next to Robert. He slapped Robert’s back. “Hiya,” he said in a loud voice. “I’m J.R.” “Robert.” They shook hands. “You riding that bicycle?” “Yep.” “Goin’ a long way?” “Pretty long.” “I like people,” the old man said. “I like people and I saw you ride into town on that bike in the rain and I thought I’ve got to talk to that guy. And now here you are.” “Here I am.” “Say,” he said, “you going to the wedding later?” “Wedding?” “Didn’t Mollie tell you? We’re having a wedding later on today. You should come. It’s gonna be up on Nate’s Hill, a little west of town.” “Outdoors?” J.R. looked out the only window at the rain. “Hope the weather breaks. Anyway, Mollie will tell you how to get there. Maybe you could catch a ride with somebody.” “We’ll see how things go.” “Well,” J.R. said, draining his beer and slamming it down on the bar, “I’ve got to skeedaddle.” He slapped Robert for the last time. “I just saw you and I wanted to say hello. I wanted to make sure you remember this place, you remember old J.R. Remember me young man, remember J.R. from Port Orford!” “I promise.” Then J.R. was gone and it was quiet again. Robert and Melissa had been married at the court house in Peoria. Just the two of them. No honeymoon. They had gone out to eat at the Crab Shack and then went home and watched movies. That’s when they decided to move to Tucson and make a fresh start. “Fresh start” was the phrase Melissa used the day before she got her breasts cut off. She was groggy in the hospital room and Robert sat by her bed. She opened her eyes and looked at him like he was a stranger. He asked her if she needed anything and she said, “More painkillers.” With a flat chest the men’s shirts fit her better and she even began to walk differently. She sprouted a little mustache like a 13-year-old boy. Her teaching job had given her a sabbatical and she sat around the house, spending most of her time in front of the mirror looking at her scars and her jaw line. Or she was on social media. Robert couldn’t do anything right. She went to therapy once a week and always came home angry. An hour later another man came into the bar and sat down on the other side of Robert. The man was around 60 years old and had thick, completely white hair. He also had a white mustache and a smoothly tanned face. The bartender came down. “Jim,” she said. “How are you this afternoon?” “Hangin’ in there, Mollie.” Robert looked up and Jim was staring at him. “How ya doin?” he said. “Good,” Robert said. “You ain’t from around here.” “Tucson, in Arizona.” “Mmmm, hmm.” “You going to the wedding?” Robert asked. “Who told you about that?” “J.R. He bought me a beer.” “I don’t think I can attend,” Jim said. “What brings you down this way?” “Bicycle trip.” “Bicycle?” He looked at Robert’s clothes for the first time. “You must be crazy.”    “Yeah.” “I’ve never even been out of Oregon,” Jim said, his mustache twitching. “I’ve lived here all my life. I was a logger here for 40 years.” “Long time.” “Naw, it all just flew by, I loved every minute of it, except when my friends got killed. That happened sometimes. But mostly it was fun, I loved it all, life is something to enjoy, don’t forget that. What’s your name?” “Robert.” “Nice to meet you, I guess you know I’m Jim.” “I heard.” “You married?” “Yes.” “Back in Arizona?” “Yep.” “Miss her?” “Yes.” “I miss my wife,” Jim said. “She died a few years ago.” “Sorry to hear that.” “Oh, don’t be, it wasn’t your fault. She was a good woman, a real good woman, stayed married to me for thirty-seven years.” “Sounds like a Saint.” “Any kids?” “No,” Robert said. Robert had never wanted kids. In fact, he had been thinking about getting a vasectomy for a few years but when Melissa got her tubes cut out it seemed unnecessary. “You’ll change your mind.” “I don’t think so.” “Oh, mark my words, you’ll change your mind.” “It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t want kids either.” Jim almost fell off his chair laughing. “Son, you got a lot to learn about women.” “Can’t argue with that.” “I know you may think you don’t want kids, maybe even she thinks that, but just wait—How old are you?” “Twenty-seven.” “Damn, I thought you were older than that. You’re just a pup.” Without exactly knowing why, Robert said: “I got a vasectomy last year, so I don’t think I’ll be having any kids.” Jim just about choked on his beer, and looked at Robert like he was suddenly some kind of monster. “You what?” “Vasectomy. It’s when you—” “I know what it is! Why’n hell would you do something stupid as that?” “Because I don’t want kids.” “Son, I sure wish I could talk to you again in 15 years. I just wish I could be there to see the look on your face when you realize how much you’ve missed out on.” “Sorry.” Jim’s face was red. “I logged these mountains for 40 years. Look at these hands.” They were huge and wrinkly and gnarled and scarred. Robert’s hands were tiny in comparison. Soft. “I retired 10 years ago because I could afford it and I wanted to enjoy my remaining years. I love life and I love this town and now you tell me that you’ve let a doctor—” Robert was sorry he had lied. Jim got up, disgusted, and went to the bathroom. He called her “Melissa” instead of “Eric” one night and she went ballistic. She started throwing plates and utensils around and knocked a hole in the plaster wall with her hand. He started going on longer and longer bicycle rides, to all parts of the city he’d never been and beyond the city to the desert. One day when he got back from a bicycle ride the car was gone. He didn’t hear from Melissa for a couple of days. Then he got a phone call. She’d been in an accident and died on the way to the hospital. They said she was drunk and also killed a woman with a small child on the interstate. They asked him some questions, like what sex category to put on the death certificate. He didn’t know what to tell them. Jim returned from the bathroom. “So, what are you going to do later, if you’re not going to the big wedding?” Robert asked. “Just go on home and cook some supper I guess.” “I hope you’re not having Chef Boyardee,” Robert said, thinking of the cans of Ravioli that he had been eating for 2 weeks straight. Jim stood up so fast his stool fell backwards on the floor. “Listen to me, young man! I don’t know who you think you are, but if you think you can come into a town and insult the locals, then you’re looking for trouble.” “But, I—” “That’s a darn good way to get hurt! Good day, sir!” He stomped out. The bartender came over. “What’s going on? Where’d Jim go?” she asked. “Home, I guess,” Robert said. “He’s got quite a temper on him.” His hand was shaking a little as he lifted his cigarette. “Old Jim?” the bartender lady said, laughing. “Old Jim’s gentle as a lamb. I’ve ever seen him mad at anybody, and I’ve known him forty years.” She wiped up the bar where Jim had been sitting although there was nothing to wipe up. Then she walked away. Robert stood up and bent over and grabbed Jim’s stool and stood it on its legs. A couple hours later Robert sat huddled next to his bicycle under the awning trying to keep out of the rain. He dug a can of ravioli out of his bag. The little Chef Boyardee guy on the can looked at him and Jim looked back. The picture on the label looked just like Jim from the bar with his big white mustache. Robert shook his head, laughing a little. He hadn’t realized the similarity at the time. Sorry, Jim. Robert thought about all the things he’d left back at the house, which was only half paid for, never to see again. The morning after the funeral he’d put some clothes in his pannier bags and rode away. His money was nearly gone and he didn’t have any idea what he was going to do. In his living room across town Old Jim sat forward on his chair and took a bite of porterhouse steak. He chewed the steak and thought about the smart-ass kid from the bar and wondered what was going on with today’s youth. He shook his head and dismissed the ugly episode, the whole idea of it. He turned up the volume on the tv. The weather was on. They called it “El Nino,” the system that was bringing all the rain and wind to Oregon and causing hurricanes in Mexico. There was a cute little name for everything these days, he thought.

I’m Aware that when I do all the dog walks at night, I should carry my car keys. That my job is laced with sloppy kisses, but just under that, the potentiality for nighttime To carve its name inside of me. I should carry metal, the kind that smells like blood,  in between my thumb and ring finger– Just in case the past comes back in the ways we do not name. I spend Thanksgivings alone but I think of ones I’ve been to in the past: laden with pie and cards and games won for a quarter, near farms and rosy cheeks. A former teacher’s kids telling me – a virtual stranger– what they’re grateful for  the year ahead, as I memorized her linens. She put the fork tines in, towards the gut, like the sharp pieces should be close, to keep them safe. If you see me alone with a carving knife, and I’m smiling It’s because I’m not fully alone, I’m thinking of the dinners past, the glimmer of the ones you loved me then, But did not linger. I grab the husky’s leash – one of three– from the apartment, which was painted black with spires. To be transparent, they said. To remind us where we stand. The way my work told me therapy was okay once in a while, the notes they didn’t say (about my brain) were quite plain. Half smiles & they still hand me coffee, out of politeness, but I notice their downturned mouths.  & the way my braid is too frizzy for corporate life, but I wish I could change, for them, or if I outta. Now, brisk pace and shallowed haunting breath; I walk the dogs one at a time because a pack Is too strong To contend with, The owner said. One at a time, and they’ll love you. In a pack, they’ll overtake you. They’ll sense you don’t belong. I recognized that song, that refrain from smudged glass and vodka shots that I didn’t ask for And the college boys pressed too neatly When they kicked you out at midnight, with swirling flakes Because you didn’t say their names Correctly. My Mom kicked me out in winter solstice once– The light from space holy The snowflakes landing in the hottub Where I stood for a minute, before I left, crumbling. Feeling the steam sink into me Slowly. Snowflakes (so pulsing, so delicate, so unique) disappear under Arguments too hot, temperatures rising too boldly. Still, I lingered: one more time. Taking her words in for another minute, if only I could hold the heat Inside, like a glove that wasn’t really mine. As she told me with fang– To go away. The dog I walk now: she had a puppy. &  the owner kept one from the litter. Couldn’t separate all the baby heartbeats From the ones that loved them diligently, hovering. When I say her daughter’s name, even though she’s banal fang, The husky looks at me with a look that is unexplainable; the dictionary couldn’t give me a word. It tried (lunar, part, kisses, dark). The look the mother gave me:  part delicacy, part despair & a little bit of haughty integrity. The way she still takes time to mark the rock in front of her before Going back to her young, as if to remind her daughter of her place & where she came from. & yet I cry, counting spires that once used to be dressed in candlelight color, Thinking that this part-wolf mix That I walk for twenty bucks Loves her puppy more than my own mother Ever Loved me. If only I could be so lucky to have a mother recognize the way another Says my name in vowel sounds, the hesitancy– If only I could get her to envelop me with paths that lead me back From midnight hours, clutched car keys, too much therapy All the way To safety. If only she would bellow out for me To come back. Leslie Cairns is from Denver, CO. She has a chapbook out with Bottlecap Press ('The Food is the Fodder'). She is a Pushcart Prize nominee (2023).

When the self-driving vehicle was in a bad accident but still in drivable condition, it selfishly bypassed the local hospital on its way to the dealership’s repair shop. The car was fixed up while the passenger inside suffered their injuries. The company that sold the vehicles received a slap on the wrist and they used the incident as a case study during their annual summit. Some employee suggested they reach out to a large hospital conglomerate. Soon thereafter, the two entities made an agreement. Now there were trauma bays staffed by board-certified surgeons attached to the dealership repair shops, where the battered self-driving vehicles and their unlucky inhabitants could be taken in the event of an accident. A one-stop shop. It could be said that the blood and oil stains on the ground complimented one another beautifully. It wasn’t long before car wash businesses began offering elective surgeries. A win-win for all, but especially for industry. The employee whose idea led to this remarkable symbiosis received a small honorary plaque for her innovative spirit. Regrettably, due to rising costs of inflation, she could not be offered a paid promotion at this time. Eliot S. Ku is a physician who lives in New Mexico with his wife and two young children. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Raven Review, Maudlin House, Meow Meow Pow Pow Lit, and Whiskey Tit.

I thought I was fine right after my car accident. I'd slid off a rain-slick highway in Michigan onto a grassy median and knocked myself out. I woke with the top of my head feeling slightly sore, wondering why there were so many trees and shrubs in front of me. And where were all the cars? Before I could reach for my phone to call home, I saw a deep-blue Michigan State Police car pull up behind me and two blue-uniformed officers came out to check on me. I exited my SUV with no problem and was apparently too coherent to be drunk because they only asked if I felt all right and if I needed help getting home. I didn't. They cut the deployed airbags and then got in their car to lead me back onto the road. Driving home under the speed limit, I noted at some level that I'd had a very lucky break: while I'd gone into and out of a ditch, at least there was a median. Five or ten minutes further north there was no median and I would have merged with southbound traffic and ended up dead or close to it. The fact registered, but didn't take root since I was calling home to tell my husband what happened and that I'd be there soon. I was still shaken when I pulled into our driveway, but the whole thing felt a bit dreamlike. Had I really gone off the road? Three days later, my husband took me to the ER with what was quickly diagnosed as a concussion: I was nauseous, dizzy, couldn't stand or see straight. Several hours of tests didn't find any other damage and I was advised to take things easy for a few weeks, though my avuncular GP gave me permission to teach my classes at Michigan State University if I was driven there and back, and otherwise rested at home. Easy-peasy, right? And then the panic attacks started. As a mystery author, I watch a lot of crime movies and series, but suddenly I couldn't tolerate them. Watching a movie or TV show with a car chase of accident of any kind left me shivering and afraid, my heart beating so hard that my head hurt. I was reliving the moments of waking up confused, and experiencing something worse: the knowledge that I had escaped possible death or at the very least terrible injury by minutes. I stopped feeling safe in the world and gradually became afraid of even driving to the local supermarkets. I had to steel myself for the short trips, reminding myself that there was no highway driving involved, no heavy traffic, and there sure as hell weren't going to be any dangerously slick roads because I stayed in if it was raining or if there was even a forecast of rain. Worse than the way my world was starting to shrink were the vague dark nightmares that thrust me from sleep and left me almost breathless and terrified—as if the nightmare still had its claws in me and was determined to draw blood and drag me down. My GP prescribed Xanax for the panic attacks and it worked when I was awake, though the nightmares continued. But in the middle of all the mental and physical turmoil, my writer's brain was minutely noting each and every symptom, each and every shock, each and every moment of terror.  One thing was very clear: I could use this someday. Journalist and author Janet Malcolm once wrote that "Art is theft, art is armed robbery." And I wonder now, can you steal from yourself? Lev Raphael is a 1st-generation American who has authored 27 books in genres from memoir to mystery. He escaped academia many years ago to write and review full time.