They had met at a weekend conference exploring new policies to increase levels of diversity in physical activities among schoolchildren. As Head of P.E. at a large comprehensive, Bob was there to learn about strategies to involve pupils with physical impairments in mainstream sports. Helen, two years into her first teaching job at a primary school in the same city, had volunteered to attend in order to gain credit points with the Head. Within a few weeks, they had quit their rented flats and moved into one of several properties owned by Bob’s father – a four-bedroomed detached house, which he gave to them six months later on the morning of their wedding.
            It soon became apparent that Bob’s after-school coaching duties and Helen’s lesson planning and marking left little time for each other during the week. Married life was not the whirl of parties, meals in expensive restaurants, theatre trips, and romantic weekend breaks abroad she had imagined. Gradually, her dissatisfaction turned to frustration, boredom, and anger. She was not unduly surprised to realise that she no longer loved her husband. Perhaps she never had. Perhaps she had allowed herself to fall in love too quickly. But despite her discontent, she had no intention of leaving him. She enjoyed the large comfortable house they shared, and the thought of returning to a cramped flat or bedsit depressed her. There seemed no solution to her problem. And then she remembered Arnold. And she began to make her plans.
            Arnold Colclough was fifteen years old, more than six feet tall, and weighed around fourteen stones. He had been an awkward, reticent boy when Helen had taught him in her first, and his final, year at the primary school, and much of her time was spent in protecting him from the taunts of others. Since then, however, he had increased significantly in bulk and muscle, and had grown into a formidable figure. Helen had met him again shortly after she and Bob had moved into their new home. Because of his moderate learning disability – caused, it was believed, by a lack of oxygen during birth – he had been allowed to leave school a year earlier than usual, and now helped his father on his milk round. He reminded her of some of the characters in the fairy tales she had read as a child: unfortunate boys and girls whose apparent foolishness and simplicity made them easy targets for others to deride and ridicule, and whose obvious lack of beauty led to fear and distrust. Those tales invariably had a happy ending and the story she had in mind would be no exception. But, if her plans came to fruition, Arnold was not to be the one who would succeed, who would prosper, who would find happiness. In this story, his future was unimportant. It was hers that mattered.
Once a fortnight, on Friday evenings, Arnold and his father called on their customers for the milk payments.
            ‘No Arnold tonight?’ she asked, seeing his father standing alone on the doorstep.
            ‘No. He’s been in a spot of trouble...’
            ‘Oh?’
            ‘To tell you the truth, he got into a fight.’
            ‘He’s not hurt, is he?’
            ‘He’s not. But the other lad is...had to go to hospital. That’s the trouble. Arnold’s so big, so powerful...he doesn’t know his own strength. A man in a child’s body. And when other boys start to pick on him, well...’
            ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ she said.
            ‘I know you are. Our Arnold thinks the world of you,’ his father continued. ‘You were very good to him at school, and he hasn’t forgotten that. None of us have.’
            ‘He’s such a nice boy. And he always seems so cheerful.’
            ‘He is. Well, when he’s on the round with me, he is. But he doesn’t have a lot of friends. It’s difficult for him, you know. He’s a clumsy lad – dyspraxia, the doctors call it – and he falls over easily. He gets confused. And then he gets teased. Called names. And sometimes...sometimes he reacts.’
The next time Helen saw Arnold turn into their drive with the morning delivery, she opened the front door just as he was putting the bottles down.
            ‘Hello, Miss!’ he said.
            ‘Hello, Arnold. Lovely morning, isn’t it?’
            ‘Yes, Miss.’
            ‘Look at you...your collar’s all crumpled. We can’t have you making your deliveries like that! Let me straighten it for you.’
            She leaned forward and adjusted his shirt collar.
            ‘There! That’s much better. You look very smart, Arnold!’
            ‘Thanks, Miss,’ he shouted as he walked back to the milk float.
            From then on, Helen made sure to speak to Arnold once or twice a week – a brief ‘Hello’, or a comment about the weather, or a couple of questions about his work, and always ended by saying something positive.
Arnold’s father was delighted.
            ‘He can’t stop talking about you,’ he told her. ‘You’ve become a real friend to him.’
            ‘Oh...I don’t do much. I just talk to him.’
            ‘That’s a lot more than most people do,’ said his father. ‘Listen...if you don’t mind, would it be alright with you if I let Arnold collect your money by himself?’
            ‘Of course it would!’
            ‘I want to try it just with a few customers at first – ones he knows and trusts. It’ll be good for him...build up his confidence. He might make a few mistakes to begin with, but it’s time for him to learn some responsibility. He’ll be sixteen next week, you know.’
            Arnold was wearing his best jacket and what looked like a new tie when he called on the Friday evening.
‘Hello, Miss,’ he said, consulting his notebook. ‘I’ve called for your money, please. Five pounds and twenty pence, please.’
            ‘Here you are, Arnold,’ she said. ‘I’ve got the money ready for you. And I’ve got something else for you.’
She handed him a small pink-and-white cardboard box, tied with a bright red ribbon.
‘Someone told me it’s your birthday. So, here’s a little present for you.’
            Earlier in the day, she had bought a bag of cupcakes, and traced the word ‘Arnold’ on the top of one of them with icing-sugar. He untied the ribbon and opened the box.
            ‘Oh, Miss! Thank you!’
            ‘Happy Birthday, Arnold,’ she said. ‘You’re a young man now. Quite grown up. And very handsome! All the girls are going to fall for you!’
            ‘Oh, no, Miss,’ he said, overcome with embarrassment.
            ‘I mean it! If I were ten years younger, I’d marry you myself!’
            ‘Oh, Miss...’
 
She began to touch Arnold. Not in an overt or sexual way, but casually and playfully, as one would do with a young child. She ruffled his hair or patted him on the shoulder, and when she saw that he enjoyed such moments, she grew bolder. She pretended to slip on the step and stumbled into him; she dropped her purse and in retrieving it, brushed her hand against his leg; she stood very close to him and exclaimed, ‘Arnold! You’re getting bigger every time I see you! You must be a foot taller than I am!’
            When she came to the door with tears in her eyes, Arnold was alarmed.
            ‘What’s wrong, Miss?’ he asked.
            ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ she said. She looked over her shoulder into the empty house, and stepped back inside, closing the door quickly. ‘I’d better go back in. He doesn’t like...’
            She hoped Arnold would say something about the incident on his next visit, but he appeared to have forgotten it, and she raised the subject herself.
            ‘I’m sorry about the other week, Arnold,’ she began.
            ‘What week, Miss?’
            ‘You know...when I was upset. Do you remember?’
            He shifted his feet uncertainly.
            ‘You’re a good friend, Arnold,’ she went on. ‘I trust you. It’s my husband...sometimes he shouts at me and calls me names. That’s why I was so upset. It’s not nice to be called names, is it?’
            ‘No, Miss.’
            ‘But you mustn’t tell anyone, Arnold. I don’t want to get him into trouble.’
            ‘Alright, Miss.’
Little by little, Helen increased the number of complaints she made to Arnold about her husband: Bob had threatened her; Bob had told her she was stupid; Bob had said she was ugly.
            ‘I’m not ugly, am I, Arnold? Do you think I’m ugly?’
            ‘No, Miss. I think you’re...no, Miss.’
‘He says nobody likes me. That’s not true, is it? You like me, don’t you, Arnold?’
            ‘Yes, Miss.’
            ‘Oh, I am glad. And I like you, Arnold. I like you very much.’
She reached out for his hand and squeezed it gently.
‘I’m worried he might hurt me. You wouldn’t let him hurt me, would you, Arnold?’
            ‘No, Miss. No, I wouldn’t.’
 
It was the third week of the Autumn term. While Bob was in the shower after his regular Friday evening training session with the rugby team, Helen took a blue-and-cream dress from her wardrobe and rolled it in the damp earth of one of the flower-beds. She quickly put it on, and rubbed soil on her legs, her arms, and her face. When Arnold called for the money a few minutes later, she was waiting on the front doorstep.
            ‘Miss! What’s happened?’
            ‘Oh, Arnold!’ she whispered. ‘I’m so glad to see you! You can protect me! He won’t do anything while you’re here!’
            ‘Who is it, Miss?’
            ‘It’s my husband. He punched me and knocked me down.’
            ‘Why, Miss?’
            ‘He’s very jealous. And he gets very angry. All I did was to tell him what a clever young man you are, and he started to hit me! I’m really frightened, Arnold!’
            ‘I’ll save you, Miss!’
            Bob appeared at the foot of the stairs, wearing a dressing-gown and towelling his wet hair.
            ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, coming toward them. ‘What’s happened to your dress?’
            Helen screamed and leapt behind Arnold.
            ‘Oh, no! Stop him! He’s going to murder me! Stop him! Hit him!’
            Arnold stepped into the house and swung his huge right fist at Bob’s head. The blow struck him squarely on the temple. He was dead before he fell to the floor.
            ‘Run, Arnold! Run!’ Helen said, lowering her voice. ‘I’ll tell people it was an accident! I’ll say he fell and caught his head on the table. But you must get away from here!’
            As Arnold sprinted away down the road, Helen let out a long scream.
            ‘Help!’ she sobbed, as the neighbours ran toward her. ‘Help me, please! Call the police! He’s killed my husband!’
 
In the witness box, Helen told the court how happy she and Bob had been. They were very much in love, and there was so much they were looking forward to, so many plans they’d made – redesigning the garden, travelling across North America in the long Summer holidays, starting a family. Yes, she was fond of Arnold and often chatted to him, but she’d come to realise that his interest in her was becoming a little worrying. She hadn’t liked the way he’d started to look at her, but she’d felt sorry for him and didn’t want to appear unfriendly. On the evening of Bob’s death, she’d gone to the front door to pay the milk bill as usual. Arnold had suddenly sprung at her, tried to kiss her, and pulled her into the garden. She’d fallen, but managed to get to her feet, and when Bob had come downstairs in response to her cries, Arnold had rushed past her and attacked him.
            In his defence, Arnold could only present a confused and disjointed account of events. No, he couldn’t remember exactly what had happened: he and Helen were good friends, and she wanted to marry him, and Bob had somehow found out, and was going to kill Helen, and he had hit him.
In his closing remarks, the prosecuting barrister painted a compelling picture of an impulsive and troubled teenager who had become dangerously obsessed with the woman who had befriended him, and had allowed himself to imagine that she had fallen in love with him. Neighbours had testified to hearing her frantic calls for help, her screams, and had seen the defendant as he fled from the scene. Arnold’s nonsensical suggestion that he was trying to save Helen from her husband was not only absurd but gratuitously offensive.
            ‘Consider this,’ he said, addressing the jury. ‘On the one hand, we have the defendant, an unfortunate youth of limited intellect and few friends – described by his own father as a man in a child’s body – who has a history of aggression. On the other hand, a happily-married, professional couple, both highly-respected and hardworking teachers, and clearly devoted to each other. Is it remotely likely that this attractive young woman would encourage the advances of such a youth? Or that she would ask him to protect her from a loving husband who had never once threatened or harmed her? Of course not! The suggestion is laughable. Drifting between fantasy and reality, and falling into a dark and sinister nether world somewhere between the two, the defendant sought to use her to satisfy his crude sexual urges...and when her husband attempted to intervene, he had no hesitation in killing him. All the hopes, the dreams, and ambitions of Bob and Helen were wiped out in a moment of savagery.’
            The jury took less than two hours to convict Arnold of manslaughter. Standing outside the court and supported by Bob’s parents, Helen talked of her abiding sorrow, repeated several times that she forgave Arnold, and expressed her satisfaction with the verdict. After lengthy psychological assessments, Arnold was ordered to be detained at Her Majesty’s Pleasure in a secure hospital. Once admitted, he seemed unable to understand where he was or why he was there, and asked all those with whom he came into contact – his family who visited him every week, the nursing staff who looked after him in the hospital, the psychologists who treated him – when he would be going home. Occasionally, he asked if Miss was coming to visit him, but as time passed, he spoke of her less and less. Eventually, he ceased to ask about her at all, and if anyone mentioned her name, he would look at them blankly. He became increasingly withdrawn and prone to outbursts of violence: after attacking one of the tutors during an Art Therapy class, he was placed in solitary confinement. It was there that he lost the willingness or motivation to speak, and retreated into a total silence. Over the next few months, his ability to respond to others deteriorated significantly, and his immobility grew more pronounced. On his twenty-first birthday, the doctors told his parents that their son had fallen into a catatonic state from which it was unlikely he would ever recover. Furthermore, now that he was no longer legally a child, and so long as his vegetative condition persisted, it was probable that he would spend the rest of his life in an institution. When Helen learned of the prognosis, the news had little impact on her: it was as though Arnold was a character in a story she had read long ago whose title she could no longer remember.

The minute he laid eyes on Gwen he was attracted. But he held back from displaying such feelings. Best not to flash your intentions too early. Besides, there was a certain fierceness in her face that made him unsure about whether he could manage her energy.

Sure, he’d been with other women, but he’d never felt the kind of pull he felt with Gwen. It puzzled the hell out of him because it wasn’t just sexual. Not this time. That wasn’t typical. Even her looks weren’t: curly blonde hair, light-green eyes, and an upper lip that was chewable. She made Paul think of the pop star, Pink, but his attraction was solely to Gwen.

That lip distracted him from her clicking elbow crutches. Her legs folded under her and he could tell she had CP. He knew that because of a book his mother had on her shelf about a little girl born with the same condition. No, Gwen’s sticks didn’t bother him. That’s what she called them. All he noticed was where they were taking her – and wanting to follow.

She wouldn’t have cared what he’d thought anyway. Paul saw this whenever she got on a transit bus. This was in the days before buses had hydraulic boarding ramps, so it took Gwen some time to hoist herself up onto the first step then into the vehicle. Riders craned their necks to see what the holdup was. Sometimes the driver grew impatient.

Gwen would just smile and toss her curls, then pause to get her sticks under an arm so she could search for the fare. The bus couldn’t move until she was seated. Paul admired her cool control.

The new transit buses were articulated models. Paul had liked to stand on the accordion section and spread his legs as it turned tight corners, feeling like a downhill skier getting ready for Banff or Whistler.

After he started riding the bus with Gwen he stopped doing this. It seemed right to put aside some innocent fun like that just for her. He didn’t mention it. Some unselfish acts are done in private.

They had met when she moved into his building and took an apartment on his floor. He often saw her in the elevator or standing at her doorway, keys in hand, getting ready to go in or go out.

The first day he saw her, he went up and said hello. Gwen was friendly and they shared names. They had similar work hours, so he started to time his comings and goings just to encounter her.

After they got more friendly, Paul stopped by Gwen’s apartment before noon one Saturday to ask if she’d join him at the coffee shop down the street. When she welcomed him inside her place, he was stunned by the sight.
In the kitchen, food splattered every surface. Filthy dishes cluttered the sink and countertop; the appliances were grubby. Street clothes and lingerie littered the living room. The carpet had grotesque smears. It looked like Pollock had been let loose, minus the cans of paint.

Paul had never known a female who was dirty or unhygienic. His mother had trained him that everything had its place, and he kept his own apartment clean.

Gwen grinned at the look on his face. “I’m not much of a housekeeper, am I? No, I’m a writer. I save my energy for that.”

He mumbled something polite then blurted, “I guess there’s just so much you can do with one free hand at a time.”

She laughed from deep in her belly. The sound was riveting. After that, whenever he got close to her, Paul felt as if an energy field was zapping him. It entered him like soft feelers, made him buzz a little.

Since Gwen liked poetry, he knew she’d appreciate the lyricism of this thought if he shared it. But he didn’t. He had a funny feeling that she’d have something over on him if he did.

Gwen was flirty with men and with women. But mostly with men. He noticed the guys were often unsure what to do. But Paul could tell they were turned on. He mentioned this to her once, just to see her reaction. She startled him by saying, “Men only want to see me naked; to see how the legs work. They want to fuck a girl who isn’t able to hold a guy’s hips with her own.”

She pronounced it fook, like a Maritimer.

‘Now what kind guy who would do that?’ He was disgusted by the picture she’d placed in his mind. Gwen just looked at him and blinked her clear green eyes.

He didn’t press the topic; wasn’t sure he could hold his own if he did. Paul had never felt that way with a woman before. The ones he’d met before Gwen weren’t… magnetic.

After a while, he got the impression that she was busier than he was most nights, that she was out on the town, meeting with others more than he. Setting off sparks, he thought. It made him feel cut off.

He wasn’t good at finding interesting places on his own or mingling among strangers as a one-off. The woman he was dating at any given time handled such matters.

There was no one like that in his life just now; but that would change. He was no Don Juan, by any means, but women always seemed to come to him. Like moths to a hot bulb, his mother had said.

Paul and Gwen would sometimes meet at a bar after work, although not as often as he’d like. He would get there early to find the right seat and scan the scene. Then he’d watch others when they noticed Gwen come in, Lofstrands clicking, searching for him in the room’s cheap lighting.

He saw the men lick her with their eyes and the women look unsure. This made him angry at first. He wanted to defend her against such reactions. Then he felt chagrined, knowing Gwen would shrug it off. Ultimately, he’d fretted that he’d objectified her, too, given how often he’d daydreamed about nibbling that lip of hers.

No, that wasn’t accurate; wasn’t fair to him. His was more an attitude of respect, not one of lust or manipulation. Gwen wouldn’t be taken advantage of by anyone. She stood firm for herself. Those cat eyes, that laugh, those manicured fingers curled around the hand grips of her crutches.

Yeah, Gwen was grounded. She had shown him that up close. One evening, he’d come back from the bar with refills for both of them to find an attractive man leaning over her, talking to her in a low voice. It wasn’t clear if she knew him or if he was hitting on her.

Paul had put the drinks down with a thump and stared at him.

‘Oh, hey!’ said the man, pulling back. He’d looked briefly at Paul then turned his large dark eyes on Gwen.

‘Didn’t realize you were with someone.’ He didn’t say it like a question, just looked from her to Paul to gauge the state of play. Paul had put his hand on Gwen’s shoulder.

‘She’s with me,’ he’d said in a flat voice. He hadn’t meant to sound like that. Without looking at Paul, Gwen had shrugged off his hand.

‘It was good to see you again.’ She smiled at the man. ‘I’ll be at the office on Monday. We can talk better then.’
Red-faced, Paul took his seat, scanned Gwen’s face for some assurance. She smiled at him as the man sauntered off.

‘I’m not with anyone, Paul. We’re having drinks and we’re talking. That’s all.’

She sipped her gin then tapped his hand to get his full attention, green eyes on him like lasers.

‘So, where were we with that?’

Gwen had known all about Paul the minute she’d laid eyes on him months earlier. He was transparent; his innate instability and immaturity were easy to see. She saw he would tap her energy, drain her body dry, then suck the oxygen from around her. Her French grand-mère had told her about all those signs.

The week Gwen was born and this grandmother, Mémé, had held her for the first time, she had recognized the infant’s special life force. Luciole, she had crooned. Firefly. This babe would grow up to be a beacon, a light for others.

When Gwen turned six, her Mémé captured a firefly in a bottle and sealed it without air holes. She and the child watched the glow until the insect’s light flickered and it died. Never allow yourself to be trapped by someone or they will steal your very breath, Mémé said.

Now the look in Gwen’s eyes across the bar table made Paul nervous. Everything had seemed so simple and fun a few minutes ago but an invisible fence had grown between them.

He reached across the table; she took his hand for a few minutes. Paul relaxed and their evening wrapped on its usual casual note.

But he couldn’t help brooding about the scene. As soon as he’d made the comment to that man, he realized that he had felt something for Gwen. She was more than a neighbor or friend. But her response had told him he’d overstepped.

He realized that she stayed cool about everything while he felt hot, yet her power setting was always on high and his on low. When he’d grump about beer prices or his prick of a boss, she would chortle and toss her curls and shift the topic. Bad thoughts didn’t seem to stick to her.

He had always assumed her energy was sourced from bravura or chutzpah to dismiss legs that didn’t work so well for her. Now he realized it was just Gwen. It was her steady state. She’d be the same way with two good legs.

It made Paul think of the novel he’d just read, John Knowles’ A Separate Peace. The central character lived in his own force field. It drew everyone else to him yet he went through the day alternatively oblivious and aware of doing that. His closest admirer, a school friend, got too close and lost himself in that field. Both characters paid a high price for the power imbalance.

Paul identified with that friend. For the first time, he realized an imbalance existed between him and Gwen. At first, being close to her had felt necessary somehow, as if his inner battery needed her electrical charge every day.

But she only let him get so close. Her self-containment was impenetrable. Maybe I’m too dependent on her. Or… maybe she’s too supercharged for me.

The thought embarrassed him and he brushed it off. But it lingered, took a slow hold. If you really wanted to inventory the situation, he thought one day, I do have more choices than she does. I have more going for me. An interesting job, no family concerns, a tidy home. Two good legs that could carry me anywhere, and in a hurry, if necessary.

He reconsidered Gwen’s fearlessness. Maybe it was really just impudence. She must feel some vulnerability about something. She must depend on someone other than herself for something at some point. It was a normal human need. He had it. Why was she camouflaging it?

He was getting pissed off wrestling with all this inside himself, but knew she wouldn’t guess that he was. If he told her, she would likely just turn those green eyes on him and smile. So he wouldn’t. He had some self-respect; didn’t need her approbation.

Then, a new moth entered his space and took his mind off Gwen. Marlene worked at Paul’s company. Well, he was in the Edmonton office and she was at the Fort McMurray jobsite, a four-and-a-half-hour drive north. They started to have regular phone calls every Friday because he needed information for a report.

Marlene’s voice was sexy; words just rolled off her tongue like morsels of food. When they talked, Paul felt as if she was feeding him with that voice. She was book smart like him, too. Soon their conversations were peppered with clever references to Debussy or Groucho Marx.

After several calls, this all began to feel like foreplay to Paul. They arranged to meet for dinner on a weekend Marlene was visiting her girlfriend in Edmonton. Paul spent considerable time deciding the right outfit to wear.
Once ready, he knew he looked snappy in dark pants that hugged his hips, a blue chambray shirt, his new Tony Lama’s. He dabbed Aramis around his neck; just enough spicy citrus notes to entice.

They met at a Mexican restaurant that he’d scouted in advance so he could have a table against the wall. Marlene had described herself well and he saw her come through the door before she could peg him. When they embraced, he was turned on by her stunning blue eyes.

It was good to be with a pretty and intelligent woman who didn’t keep him at arm’s length as Gwen seemed to. They drank too much Chianti and ate too much food. Then she said yes to coming back to his place where one thing led to another.

Marlene plumped the bed pillows and started to strip as he went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. At the sink, Paul froze, mind blank.

When she rapped on the door, he croaked, “In a minute.”

She turned on the stereo. Paul heard The Guess Who singing, American Woman. He ran the faucet, rested his palms on the sink edge, and stared at himself in the mirror.

Something inside him snapped, as if a taut cord had been cut. He came out and sat on the floor by the bed with his back to her.

“I can’t do this.”

“What? Why the hell not?”

“I don’t know. It’s nothing to do with you. I… I just can’t.”

She was silent for a while, then got dressed. He called for a taxi. At the doorway, she said, “You’re on overload about something. I hope you figure out what’s wrong with you.”

He was shocked by the situation; even cried a bit before going to sleep. For the rest of the weekend he moped around the apartment.

The next Friday, Marlene was polite on the phone. He saw her again in a local bar a month later. She was crowded with four others in a booth, hanging on to a guy as if she owned him. When she caught Paul’s look, he turned away.

Glad for her and relieved for himself, he refocused on Gwen. But she seemed busier now. Even her aura felt different, like she’d pulled some of her energy back. It made him feel odd. He was feeling hungry a lot of the time, too, and eating big meals.

Although he dawdled at the mailbox and by his front door at the times they usually met up, he didn’t see Gwen as much in the apartment building.

Then one Saturday he saw a stranger open her door and drag in some boxes. Uneasy, he went to the landlady and concocted an excuse to learn more. Gwen had moved out.

Something inside Paul fizzled, like a blown fuse. Later that day he came down with a bad head cold, had to take several days off work. When he recovered, he still felt lethargic.

So he started taking a different route home from the office. One day his bus passed a medical supply house. He got out at the next stop and walked back to it. In the store window were a pair of Lofstrands just like Gwen’s. Paul bought them.

For a few days they stood in a corner of his kitchen. One evening, he slipped his forearm into one cuff, adjusted the leg height, then put the other one on. He dragged one foot, then the other, pretending he couldn’t walk. A couple of times he made his legs go limp but fell over. He marveled that Gwen kept her center of gravity.

Every evening that week he used the crutches. Doing it perked him up somehow; he felt closer to her, too. On Friday, dozing on the sofa, he forgot the pot of spaghetti sauce cooking on the stovetop, and it overflowed. The thick goop blackened the burners and caked the edge of the tiled backsplash.

The acrid smell roused him. Grabbing one of the Lofstrands, he pushed the hot pot off the burner. The mess was as bad as anything he’d seen in Gwen’s kitchen. The minute the thought occurred to him Paul felt a shiver of cold.

Something surged through him, made him toss the crutch aside as if it were red-hot. Now it was clear. Gwen didn’t use her metal sticks for locomotion; in her hands they were power poles.

He felt taken advantage of in some way that he couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe she’d been playing him. Paul leaned against the sink feeling lightheaded. He found it hard to breathe, pulled his shirt off, and started to pant. It was as if all the air had been sucked from the room. Falling to the tile floor he was sure he heard Gwen’s belly laugh.

Then…. blackout.

I can understand completely someone's urge to disappear into the bliss of zanax and sleeping tablets but that's no way to live. When death comes to your door I suppose you don't want to live anymore with grief as a companion. Grief is what is ultimately left of love, it's the price we pay for love, but we never think about it until payment is demanded by the Grim Reaper. Love blinds us to the pain of that goodbye that will ultimately come without cause or reason. Saying goodbye never comes easy at all and I think I will wonder for the rest of my life, ask why for the rest of my life of God as to why we must suffer goodbyes when he died for our sins? Didn't he die for our pain, so we wouldn't suffer? But those are questions for another day, due to be answered by some people a lot smarter than me. For today, just for today I want to tell you about the hardest goodbye of my life, or more accurately, I want to tell you about the best heart I've ever met in my thirty three years in this world, friends and even foes, let me tell you about Molly.

First thing you need to know about me is I love Christmas, I adore the food, the music, the rituals that make your heart swell with joy. I love the feeling of hope and kindness that we're meant to carry through all year round, even if we don't, I love the hope that we try to. I love the music, especially children's choirs singing Christmas songs, the purity of it is akin to angels singing I think. When I see the Christmas lights, I think even though I'm not OK, I might someday be OK and that hope keeps me going. The dizziness of joy I feel by the love I'm lucky enough to have been granted is like the most intoxicating drug. I'll never know what I did to deserve such love by wonderfully unique family and friends but I thank whatever might be there everyday I have them and at Christmas time I'm bought to my knees with gratitude.

At the heart of our home is Molly, a golden Labrador, she has kept our family together for fourteen wonderful years. She has the most beautiful brown chestnut brown eyes that you will fall head over heels in love with twenty times a day. Her soul is full of joy and brings a smile to the most tear ridden face. She's a pure lady, delicate and elegant, carrying herself through this cruel world with the grace of a dancer. She loves her food and makes me stop and appreciate the simple but wonder filled joy of a juicy pear or a good piece of ham. She knows how to enjoy life, curled up by the fire, toasting her little toeies. She taught be how to enjoy life, to greet each day with a cautious curiosity and wonder. To enjoy each moment and fill love and kindness in the simplest of acts. To not be consumed or bothered by useless things like hate or revenge, these thing had no place in Molly's life, I never saw once succumb to anger or something evil like hate, her heart, body, and soul was consumed by love and joyful moments hidden in this cruel world. She is so intelligent, both emotionally and worldly so, sensing pain and doing her upmost to make it better. She adores the beach, swimming into the ocean and welcoming the salty sea air into her lungs. Watching her gallop into the ocean is what I imagine Heaven looks like. A wide smile on her face reaching to the tip of her tail, her pink tongue hanging out, swaying with the joyful movement of her body dancing on the wind. When Molly was a puppy, she ate everything, and I mean everything. She loved chewing up our bras, and chewed the lead to our beloved PlayStation Two ending lazy weekend days playing games. She torn up magazines and the post forcing us to sellotape back together the post to see who wanted what from us. However, no matter what she torn apart we never could be angry at her, when she looked up at you with her baby face you simply melted. No, Molly aroused many an emotion in you but anger was never one. One thing you need to know about Molly was how fun she is. Fun. She sought fun in everyday life, finding the ordinary extraordinary. Such as chasing a butterfly or chewing a juicy bone, such a snores of a peaceful sleep of someone who adores bed and comfort, or the bark to announce visitors. Really I could write a million words for a thousand years and it still wouldn't capture the essence of the beauty of Molly both in her physical looks and her soul. Since I met her, I experienced what it was like to fall in love for the very first time and to this day, I remain, hopelessly and completely in love with Molly.

It was lightly snowing. Of course it was. Why is it in any heart-breaking story it's always lightly snowing? And it's always, heartbreakingly Christmas, the most wonderful time of the year, the most truthful time of the year, the worst time of year to say goodbye.

Molly's back legs went on Christmas Eve. She couldn't stand. We rang the vet desperate for help, the supplied tablets but told us to prepare for the worst. Molly was fourteen. Fourteen is no age to die. We settled into the worst Christmas of our lives. The food tasted foul. The music was in all the wrong notes. The lights were too bright blinding us. I don't know if I actually said goodbye, I don't think I knew how, I don't think any of us knew how to say goodbye. So instead we rubbed her and told her what a good girl she was. And she was good. The best of any us. She was panting and her brown chestnut eyes were full of pain. On St Stephen's Day we rang the vet and by God's grace he came to our home. When he came into our home, Molly despite her pain, barked to let us know. In her final earthly moments she was still protecting the family. He injected her into neck and her eyes drooped and her tail slowed down until she was as still as a rock. She was gone without cause or reason and the snow froze our broken hearts to stay that way forever.

If I'm lucky enough to be granted the joy of seeing Heaven and Molly again, I will embrace her, and there will be no more sorrow, no grief or pain, and I'll be happy, it's Christmas, once again.

Once upon a time, a boy named Theo lived in the small village of Maplewood, where the trees lined the streets in uniform order and squirrels were more organised than city councils.
 
Theo was thirteen years old, had an insatiable curiosity with DIY and all things computers. He could fix almost anything with a screwdriver, duct tape, and a YouTube tutorial.
 
There was one thing Theo could never fix: the Wi-Fi.
 
His family lived in an old, creaky house at the edge of the village. The Wi-Fi router, which Theo lovingly called ‘Sir Signaloff,’ was moody at best and absolutely defiant at worst. Every few hours, the internet would vanish like magic! Well, more like someone was practising dark arts magic on the router.

One particular stormy evening, as thunder rolled across Maplewood and the power flickered with every lightning strike, Theo heard a strange ping! from his laptop. A new network appeared in the connection list:

‘NetherNet_5Ghz’.
 
Intrigued, he clicked “connect.”
 
The screen went black. The lights dimmed. A low hum filled the room, and his laptop glowed, giving a soft blue hue. Suddenly, a vortex of pixels swirled on the screen and pulled him in, and before he could scream or even shut the lid, he was gone.
 
He landed — thud! — in the middle of a stone courtyard. Around him were strange towers of twisted metal, glowing panels, and what looked like enchanted routers floating mid-air. A sign on the nearest tower read:

‘Welcome to the Realm of the Wi-Fi Wizard.’
 
A girl in a silver hoodie approached. “Oh My GOODNESS,” She exclaimed. “You must be the Token-Holder!”
 
Theo blinked. “Err… the what?”
 
She sighed dramatically. “The one chosen to restore the Sacred Signal. The Realm is in danger. Our connection to the world above is dying; only someone from there can fix it.”
 
Theo looked around. “You mean… the Wi-Fi is down?”
 
She nodded gravely. “Without it, the Magic will fade. The memes will rot. The knowledge will vanish. The streams will buffer for eternity, and no one will have any music ever again!”
 
Theo shuddered.
 
The girl told Theo her name was Pixel, “I am the apprentice to the ancient Wi-Fi Wizard” she said, with her head held high and a smug smile on her face.
 
“Although he mysteriously disconnected two weeks ago.” She said sadly, “All he left behind was a prophecy and a trail of corrupted code. We need you to figure it out.”
 
Theo was led through the Glitching Forest, where the trees were half in focus and half pixelated, some just had blocks of black on their branches instead of the lush green leaves that should have loaded in.
 
Then past the Troll Bridges, populated by actual internet trolls. You could hear them smugly cackling at their keyboard warrior joke or insult against some poor grandmother somewhere. Theo shook his head, and said nothing, keeping his head down, hoping they wouldn’t turn their beady eyes and acrid fingers his way.
 
Pixel led him to the Crypt of Cached Files, where it smelled like old paper and must, like an old library would smell. His feet sank into the ground slightly as he passed through, as though he was walking on a forest floor, staring up at the archives upon archives of files.

Who knew what secrets these could hold?
 
The wizard had left his digital spellbook floating mid-air, a glowing tablet in the middle of the archives, the light from the tablet illuminating the long corridors every which way Theo looked.
 
“The last part of the prophecy says, ‘The chosen one who speaks in code shall reboot the land, if they solve these three errors.’”
 
Pixel waved her hand, and in mid-air, the prophecy appeared:

In shadows deep where data sleeps,
Three faults lie locked in logic’s keeps.
The first was born when truth was bent,
A loop unbroken, time ill-spent.
The second hides in plainest view,
A name misspelt, a path askew.
The third corrupts from core to crest,
A value nil in memory’s nest.
Crack them all, make systems stand — 

“The chosen one who speaks in code shall reboot the land, if they solve these three errors.”
 
The first challenge appeared as a giant firewall shaped like a dragon.

ERROR 404: Page Not Found.
 
Theo grinned. “Classic.” He pulled out his phone and used the torch function to scan the stones around him, and noticed the hidden letters scratched into them. “Ha!” he exclaimed, as he found what he was looking for — the missing line.
 
He typed the line of code into the centre console that had appeared underneath the prophecy; the dragon roared and dissolved into floating 1s and 0s.
 
The path cleared, and Theo let out a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding. He looked over at Pixel, who was grinning broadly.
 
The second challenge was trickier.

ERROR 403: Forbidden.
They stood before a locked gate made of red lasers.
 
Theo remembered that you can’t just break through a 403. You need permission.
 
He scanned the area and found a hidden terminal. Using a command-line interface, he guessed at the admin access with an override password, based on the wizard’s name — “WifiWizard123.”
 
Theo rolled his eyes at the simplicity and lack of security; however, the lasers powered down lazily and let the pair walk through, not beeping or doing anything to suggest that they would dare block the path.
 
Pixel looked at him in awe. “Are you sure you’re not some kind of techno-sorcerer?” She asked when they had reached the other side safely.
 
Theo grinned. “Just a kid with good instincts.”
 
Finally, they reached the Tower of Connection, where the last challenge remained.
 
When Theo saw the third and final error code, he could tell this wasn’t going to be as simple as the first two.

ERROR 500: Internal Server Error.
 
The tower was collapsing in digital distortion, the sky flickering like a broken LED. Inside, Theo found a floating hologram of the Wi-Fi Wizard, stuttering and glitching.

“Y-You must… r-repair… the r-r-router core…”
 
Pixel handed him a tablet, which displayed a real-time diagnostic.
 
Theo opened a panel in the wall, revealing a mess of tangled wires, as though a spider had been using them to make a braid. He looked down and saw what appeared to be a jam of cars and lorries, and even a railway track.
 
Theo peered at Pixel, “What’s all this?” he asked.
 
“It’s just the hardware drivers waiting their turn,” She replied nonchalantly.
 
“What about the railway?” asked Theo
 
“Ah, well, that’s for the twain driver,” replied Pixel knowingly.
 
He marvelled at the creativity of this realm’s naming system. Most of these hardware components were running on outdated drivers, they needed to be retired.
 
Then, he saw that one very overworked magic crystal was blinking in distress, as if screaming — “Please HELP me!”

Theo groaned at the sight of this server management mess…
 
He took a deep, steadying breath and began to work quickly. He followed each wire to its appropriate port, neatly organising and labelling each as he untangled the mess, creating a pleasing colourful array, which made a smooth pathway for the data whizzing back and forth uninterrupted.
 
He reinstalled the firmware with all the required updates and finally pushed down the distressed crystal more securely in its port.
 
Then he whispered, “Come on, Sir Signaloff… do your thing.”

With a spark of light and a familiar ping, the signal bars shot up.

All five.
 
The tower stabilised. The hologram of the Wi-Fi Wizard reappeared, now solid and clear.
 
Theo looked at Pixel and grinned at his success!
 
“Well done, Token-Holder. You’ve restored the Realm and saved us from boredom and ignorance!”
 
Suddenly, the world began to pixelate again. Theo felt himself being pulled back to his world.
 
“Wait!” Pixel called out. “Will I ever see you again?”
 
Theo smiled. “If the signal ever drops… You know where to find me.”
 
And with that, he vanished.
 
He found himself back in his room, laptop in his lap, power fully restored. “NetherNet_5Ghz” had disappeared, but Sir Signaloff now blazed with full bars.
 
From that day on, the Wi-Fi never failed again.
 
Sometimes, when Theo stayed up late, tinkering with code, he’d hear a soft ping. He would peek at the available networks to see if the Realm of the Wi-Fi Wizard was just one click away with new and exciting challenges for him.

He wondered if Pixel still thought about him, as she was constantly in his thoughts.​

About the author:
Zoe is a 38-year-old UK-based author, cat lady, and charity volunteer with a passion for storytelling. When she’s not trying to solve True Crime on YouTube, she volunteers with The Chronic Haven, helping others find their voice and strength to cope with chronic pain. She believes stories, like people, are meant to be felt and fiercely loved.

“What are you doing here child?”
 
The guard looked me up and down, eyes narrowed, lips turned into a frown. What did he expect? Every child which presents the king’s signature letter must appear a certain way? If that was the case, I would have not dreamed of being given a chance.
 
I pressed the letter back into the guard’s hands, narrowing my own eyes. My hands rolled into fists, my jaw clenching. By the expression upon the guard’s face, I understood I had won. The guard tucked the letter into a satchel hanging from his waist and nodded to me. He took the doorhandle, swinging the door open.
 
Fear creeped from the shadows, falling onto me as I stepped through the open doorway. The door shut behind with a loud bang. Darkness fell over me, mingling with the fear. It was done. I was one step closer.
 
 Yet, no one told me I would be alone.
 
I waited a few minutes, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness.
 
How many had come before me. How many of them were granted their one desire? For that was the reason we all came. To have our one desire granted.  I did not have to wonder what their desire was. There was only one reason, one desire which led all towards the unhidden mirror.

Once my eyes adjusted, I began to walk. I found I was in a dark, spacious hall. The room failed to have any windows or any natural light. It was as if the king had invited all the darkness to consume the hall.
 
Despite the darkness, shadows began to take shape, revealing themselves as pillars on either side. Unknown tapestries hung upon both sides of the wall, reaching from one to the other. Halfway down the hall, a white, shimmering light began to flood over the floor.

My breath caught in my throat.
 
The unhidden mirror.
 
How many times I was told of the unhidden mirror was lost to me. There were countless stories, countless records of people who were lost or offered to the unhidden mirror.
 
“Welcome Illa,”
 
I stumbled, catching my fall with my knees. My knees smashed into hard ground. Pain shot through my left side, but I ignored it as I climbed back to my feet. The shimmering light died away, revealing the unhidden mirror.
 
The unhidden mirror was quite big, bigger than I imagine. The length ran as high as me, showing all of me from my toes to my head. Its frame was outlined in gold, most likely in honor of the palace colors.

Within minutes, my image faded away, a masked face taking its place. Two, black eyes stared straight into mine. A shiver ran down from my spine towards my toes. Here was the unhidden mirror in all of its glory.
 
“Hello Illa.” The masked face’s voice was that of a man. His voice was deep and rolled like thunder.
 
“H-h-hello,” I stammered.
 
“So, you are the one whom the king had chosen for me to see,” the masked face mused.
 
“I-I-I s-s-supposed so.” I bit the inside of my cheek. Stop stammering stupid fool.
 
Silence stretched for what seemed eternity. Anyone who had been to the unhidden mirror was bound to never speak of it by word. They were to write it down, which explained the thousands of reports.
 
What would my report be? Eighteen-year-old- Illa Kayes bound by her crippling illness or granted freedom.”
 
“I’m not sure what to do,” I managed to say.
 
A low rumble which sounded like dark laugher escaped the masked face. He shook his head, turning to look at me as if I was a child. “Illa, the king must had seen great purpose in you to grant you permission to see me. Yet, tell me what is it that you wish for?”
 
I stared wide-eyed at the unhidden mirror. How could he be asking such a thing. There was only one desire to be granted. Even for those who did not need to see the unhidden mirror knew the one and only desire he granted. I didn’t realize it, but my mouth was hanging open.
 
I shut it quickly, clearing my throat. “I wish to be whole.”
 
The words fell gently from my lips as if they were waiting to escape.
 
“Whole, the masked face repeated. “My dear, what makes you think you are not whole?”
 
A burning rage filled my whole being. How dare the unhidden mirror say such? As if he understood, the masked face was gone, being replaced by my reflection. I cringed at the sight of myself.
 
Upon first glance, anyone would think I was like any other passing by. If they looked a second but closer time, they would see every part of my right side was tilted, gnarled and broken. My right shoulder stood lower beside my left, my right hand curled inward, looking more like a claw then a hand. My right leg stood shorter than my left, forcing it to drag a little as I walk.

Me whole?
 
To think me as such was a complete joke.
 
The masked face took to the surface once more. “My power is mighty. Even with one word, you may have your desire.”
 
“Oh yes, I have heard stories of your deeds” I answered. “The king has been quite please by how you are healing the kingdom.”
 
“You believe I heal those to heal the kingdom,” the masked face said. “My dear, I heal those who desire such.”
 
My eyes flickered. There was a note I did not recognized Clarity fell over me, my heart beating wildly in my chest. “You don’t believe my desire is to be healed?” There was no denying the fear laced within my voice.
 
The masked face took his time on answering me. “My dear, not only do I have power, but I do have wisdom. I have been in the king’s court for many years. Thousands of people have come to see me, to present the desire of healing. What I have found is most people hide behind the desire of healing.”
 
“I don’t understand,” I answered.
 
“I grant those who truly desire healing the masked face replied. “However, there are those such as yourself who desire something deeper. Behind the desire of healing comes a deeper desire.”
​
 I couldn’t believe my ears. For eighteen years I had to live with my so-called illness. Now with a chance to be healed from it, I was being told it wouldn’t be granted.
 
“To grant your desire of healing will lead into your desire of being seen and loved,” the masked face commented. “Your greatest desire is not to be healed but to be seen and loved. You believe the only way is through healing your physical.”
 
 I suddenly felt dizzy. This couldn’t be happening. There was no way the unhidden mirror was denying me. How many years had I waited for the king to grant me such a wish. Now I was here and…
 
“Illa, I do not wish suffering upon you,” the masked face said. “What you believe is an illness is a blessing. This kingdom does not require every broken citizen to be healed. There are those who are trusted to walk among those who are suffering and grant them hope.
 
“Do you understand what you are denying me?” I cried, throwing up a hand.
 
“I deny you nothing,” the masked face replied. “What I grant you is a story you are able to tell from generation to generation. Here is a young woman who despite physical limitations was able to be seen and loved as she is and not as someone hiding behind a mask. She was able to rise up , showing love, seeing those broken as she. To be loved and seen as you are is a greater blessing then as you aren’t.”
 
“It doesn’t make it any easier,” I whispered.
 
“No, no it doesn’t,” the masked face laughed softly. “Yet, once you accept the desire of being loved and seen as you are, you can start healing in a different way. Healing comes in many shapes and forms.”
 
This was not what I had wanted. What was I going to say when I exit the hall and people understood I was denied? I would have to explain this riddle. I lifted my head to the unhidden mirror, but the masked face was gone.
 
“Illa, your illness, your disability has bene trusted to you,” the masked face’s voice echoed all around. “Go, step into being loved and seen as you and not who you thought you should be.”
​
A sound of iron scarpering iron roared in my ears. A flood of light came through an opening at my right.
 
No, no, no.
 
The unhidden mirror was wrong. My desire was to be healed, to be whole. How dare he tell me what I desired was wrong.
 
“I am not wrong my dear. Stop fighting.”
 
The light was growing brighter. The unhidden mirror had spoken.
 
Once I walked through the light, there was no turning back, no escaping.
 
It was time to face the truth.

Trolls have been around since the world began. The trolls of America, coming from a foreign country, gravitated to bridges, being naturally inclined to do so. Back in the day there was a troll that lived beneath every bridge, but soon there were too many trolls and not enough bridges. Many trolls left America and returned to their homelands where they and their relatives likely still live and prosper.
 
One troll family that stayed in America was the Borf family. They strong-armed other, weaker trolls to turn over their bridges. The other trolls were resentful, of course, but they could do little when their enemies came at them with sharp teeth and nails. As time passed, more trolls left the country until all the bridges in America belonged to the Borfs.
 
The Borf family had only two names. The males were named Borf and the females, Borfetta. There was one troll they called Borfamanaic because he was the worst troll who ever lived, but that is a story for another time.                                  
Borf was a troll who loved to stir up trouble. As trolls go, he wasn't the worst, but he was certainly full of beans. Of all the trolls in existence, he was likely the grumpiest, especially in the morning before he had his first, hot cup of beet juice. His wife, Borfetta, had run off with a circus worker. She took all the hard-earned jewels and money they had. Once in a while she sent him a post card from a faraway place where he was certain she was living it up on his wealth. Thankfully, they had no children to fight over.
 
Borf owned a bridge that spanned the River Clementine, in the country. His bridge was fairly sturdy but not the best. He lived beneath it in a hut made of twigs and whatever else he could find to keep his hairy body out of the weather. He fished a lot, not only for a fresh supply of meat, but because he hated spending any more than he had to.
 
However, he had used some of the cash he had taken from others, for a few pots and dishes to make his life more comfortable. He owned a battery-operated radio that kept him informed about world happenings. He had purchased a soft bed that brought him much comfort.                                                                                                   
When he drove his Borfmobile into the nearest town to purchase what supplies he needed, he was stared at and mocked regarding his strange appearance. One time a town bully came at him, and Borf bit the fellow's nose off. He went to jail for that and had to pay a hefty fine. Fortunately, he had enough dough with him to pay his way out.  Borf was a greedy troll. He had steadfastly rebuilt his stash of jewelry, cash and other items of value.                                                                                                            
 
He had excellent ears and could hear the approach of vehicles from miles away. Borf's specialty was scaring little old ladies out of their possessions when they traveled to the country to pick berries or visit other little old ladies. There were clumps of bushes at each end of the bridge where Borf could lie in wait and jump out in front of vehicles to make them stop. He loved to demand money for the use of his bridge.
 
If it was not forthcoming, he would climb on top of cars and jump up and down, or damage hoods until the victims became scared enough to give him what he demanded. Borf was very heavy. He wore a pair of hob-nail boots and could damage vehicles with the best of them. However, he had to be careful just in case said little old ladies had a hulking son with them or a gun. In one incident he was happily stomping on a Cadillac and turned to see a shotgun aimed at his head. She shot through the windshield, with shotgun pellets flying everywhere. Borf wasted no time in running for his life. He hurried home and locked the door, fearful that the gun owner was about to show up and blow him away. For once, he forgot to be gripey, downing a whole bottle of vodka before he poured himself into bed.
 
One day when Borf was taking a nap in his hut, he heard a vibrating, rumbling sound. At first, he thought it was a tornado. He had survived a few of those and had no use for the destruction they caused. After listening for a few seconds, he decided it was coming up the road.  He hastily put on his boots and went outside. Hiding in the bushes he soon saw what it was--a giant eighteen-wheeled truck.
 
It thundered toward the bridge, showing no indication of slowing. Borf jumped in front of it, wildly waving his arms and screeching for it to halt. He was forced to scramble out of the way as the vehicle flew past. It roared across the bridge and disappeared in a whirl of dust.
 
Half of the bridge was in the river. The other half looked as though it, too, would soon fall. His hut was flattened. Borf was mortified. His poor bridge and his hut! They were ruined forever. He began to seethe with anger. Whoever did this should have known the weight limits of the bridge. Borf stomped around and grumbled for several hours. All that hard work to make such a mansion as he had owned was in vain.  He realized he should have purchased a homeowner's policy when that traveling insurance salesman knocked on his door. He had told the man to get off his property.
 
The next day Borf set out to find the culprit who had ruined his life. After he had worked himself into a rage over the situation, he pulled his Borfmobile from the bushes, checked the oil and drove in the direction the trucker had taken. He found the truck about ten miles up the road, parked next to a rundown trailer. Borf wanted to confront the man at once, but when he stepped into the overgrown yard, about seventeen dogs emerged from beneath the trailer and began to howl and chase him. They caused Borf to run for the Borfmobile as fast as his stumpy legs could carry him.
 
As he sat panting, Borf saw a man standing in the trailer doorway. The man was beefy, red-faced and had tobacco spit running down each side of his chin. He wore a dirty t-shirt and boxer shorts. He was extremely drunk. He glared at Borf.
 
"Whadda ya want?" he slurred. Borf eyed the dogs prowling the yard.
 
"Call off your mutts!" he demanded. The man's bleary eyes partly focused on the dogs.
 
"These dogs won't hurt you if I'm here," replied. He made a dismissive motion with one hand.
 
"Go on, Queenie, Suzy and Jack, and the rest of you sweethearts." One by one the dogs skulked beneath the trailer. The man invited Borf inside. Borf warily ascended the rickety steps. Once he was inside, the man closed the door. He turned to face Borf.
 
"My, you are a funny looking dude," he told Borf, with a smirk. Indignant, Borf stretched himself to his full 4 feet height.
 
"That's because I am a troll," snarled. "Who are you?"
 
"My name is Gus, the man told him. "What can I do for you?"
 
"You broke my bridge!" Borf stated. "I want money to have it repaired." Gus gaped at him, incredulously.
 
"Your bridge? Since when does anyone own a bridge? I thought all bridges were owned by the state, the city or the county."

"Not this bridge," Borf assured him. "This bridge was willed to me by my late grandfather." Gus burped once, then took a big swallow of his beer. He gazed at Borf, smirking.
 
"I had to take a detour because the bridge I usually use was out. I had to use your bridge to get home."
 
"Well, you broke it, and I demand that you give me enough money to have it fixed!"
 
"Look here, you dim-witted little weirdo," Gus sneered. "Nobody demands anything from me. You can't prove it was me who broke your bridge."
 
"But I saw you!" Borf screeched.  Gus waved a hand toward the kitchen table.
 
"Let's sit down and discuss this.”  Borf had to sit on two milk crates to be high enough to reach the beer that Gus offered him. Gus sat across from him drinking another beer.
 
"Let's play cards," Gus suggested.  Borf was in no mood to play cards. He had never played cards. He wanted to take what money he could get and go back to what was left of his kingdom. Never mind that he had enough saved to pay for the bridge ten times over. He wanted Gus to fork over the dough. He itched to get his fingers around Gus' neck, but knew he was no match for an inebriated Gus.
​
Gus shot tobacco spit from the side of his mouth. It landed on the already filthy floor. Borf looked at him with distaste. Borf had always prided himself on a clean house, and he was disgusted.
 
"Why don't you use a spit can?" he asked Gus. Gus aimed a glob of spit at Borf. It barely missed his head.
 
"Very well," Gus told him. "You can be my spit can." Borf leaped off the milk crates and hid beneath the table. Gus pulled him out by his collar. He slammed Borf back onto the milk crates.
 
"Sit there and shut up!" he ordered. Borf sat. Gus began to speak as he dealt cards for Five Card Draw.
 
"I refuse to pay you for anything," "You have no proof that I broke your bridge. Your accusations would not hold up in any court of law." Borf gazed at him through a red haze.
 
"You'd better pay, or you'll be sorry!" he threatened. Gus laughed.                         

"Says who, a pipsqueak like you?" Borf said nothing else. He refused to play cards, making Gus look at him with contempt. Not long afterward, Gus began to doze in a drunken stupor.

Borf watched as Gus began to slide off his chair sideways. Gus hit the hard floor headfirst. Borf winced. That must have hurt, he thought. He hoped it did. He waited for Gus to stir, but it looked as though the man was out for the night.
 
Borf looked around, then began to prowl around the trailer. He was not above thievery, but there seemed to be very little of value there. In the bedroom he found a box of matches. He decided to destroy the kingdom of the man who had destroyed his.
 
He ignited the bedroom curtains first. Looking at them he thought burning them would be an improvement. He went around the trailer setting fire to anything he thought would burn. Gus still lay on the floor, snoring. When the trailer began to blaze, Borf stood in the doorway, watching. Billowing smoke and flames finally roused Gus from sleep. He looked around wildly. He saw the door and bolted toward it with his clothing on fire.
 
Through the smoke Borf could not see Gus running toward him and was knocked into the front yard. Gus began to trample Borf as he tried to get at the flames consuming him. He ran, howling, toward the river, leaving Borf sprawled in the dirt. He sat up and saw all seventeen dogs coming at him. With speed and agility, he never knew he possessed, he made it to the Borfmobile. As he drove away, he felt a wicked satisfaction regarding what he had done. Never mind that the back of his pants was chewed off, and part of his backside was missing. For once, he was happy. He had been vindicated!

All Astra wanted was to go to the ball. But it was another thing her stepmother said she couldn’t do.

Perhaps her sight was failing. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t dance. Sometimes, when sweeping dust she couldn’t see, she would spin and swirl, the broom her partner. Sometimes, when cooking, she would sing songs, tap feet, move to a melody more felt than seen. Sometimes, when her stepmother and stepsisters went to balls, she dreamed of joining them, in some lavish dress, dancing into the dawn.

But Astra would bump into people. Astra would walk into things. Astra would trip, or fall, and embarrass their family name.

She scrubbed floors again, angry. It wasn’t fair. She didn’t have to dance. She could just sit and listen to the music. That would be more than enough. She loved music, and played her clarinet when she had a chance, when no one else was around, when her stepsisters couldn’t criticise her every note. For music was one thing that she didn’t need sight to see, for it was made of sound and feeling more than anything. But her stepmother would even let her listen. Tears spilled onto the floor and she scrubbed harder than ever. As she cried, there was a sound, a series of arpeggios that echoed as someone embraced her.

“You’re right. It’s not fair,” a man said, voice as soft and mellow as a bassoon. He was sitting beside her, a sapphire suit glimmering. He smelt of the sea, and seemed kind. A prince, or a sorcerer, or perhaps both. It was hard to tell.

“I just want to go to the ball”, she sobbed, frustrated.

“And you shall. All you need, is a little magic.” He said, beaming. He spoke a spell, consonants crooning, and produced a long white staff, with a ball at one end. The staff was adorned with runes, clearly magical.

“This can help you navigate any space, especially ballrooms.” He explained kindly, demonstrating how it worked. “Hold it like this.” He said, fingers brushing hers as he showed her how, as gentle as a flute. There was a spark across her skin as they touched, electric and alive.

She followed his guidance, gripping the staff softly, one finger outstretched against its rubber handle that was as tender as any lover’s touch. “Now sweep it across in front of you, not too wide, and walk in step, like this.” He took the staff, demonstrating, the ball at the end rolling over the floor with a song of its own. He gave it back to her, and she practiced a few times, sweeping from side to side like her broom did on the hallway floor, its symphony singing as the ball rolled from left to right, in time to the tempo of her feet. The runes glittered in iridescent colours, lighting up the space, and tingling when he came too close, or when obstacles appeared in her path. It was wonderful.

“Now, about a dress, and some shoes, of course.” He continued. His hands waved as his voice rose and fell, oozing like a bass clarinet as crooked consonants flowed. Her dress shimmered, turning to an emerald gown speckled with stars, and jade slippers adorned her feet, soft and comfortable, perfect for dancing.

Outside, the carriage waited, an amethyst globe of sheer glass. Astra’s new staff guided her up the steps, and she took her seat. She wasn’t surprised to find her clarinet on a cushioned seat across from her. He sat next to her, closing the carriage door, closer than ever. She folded up her new staff and placed it on her lap, as he sang to the kelpie that stood waiting.

True to their tales, it began to race towards the sea, blacker than obsidian, faster than lightning. It raced in the opposite direction from the palace, its music and laughter growing more distant by the minute, heading to the coast instead.

“I thought we were headed to the ball.” She said nervously, as the tall turrets disappeared behind her, too far away for even her vision to find.

“We are.” He grinned. “But I never said which ball.” He chuckled, as the kelpie dove into the sea, spray singing from its mane. Astra held her breath. Could it be? He handed her a red cap, and she put it on, more excited than ever. For there were stories, of a ball more glamorous than any other, deep beneath the waves.
Underwater, she marvelled at vibrant kingdoms of sound. Dolphins sung. Whales warbled. Seals serenaded. Fish reverberated. Coral hummed. Kelp murmured. Wild sea grass susurrated. Even the prince mumbled a tune as they descended, and Astra couldn’t help but smile.

The carriage came to a stop, outside a brilliant bejewelled palace. Music echoed, a beat pulsing, rhythms thrumming as he helped her down. She followed the sound, her new staff rolling as it guided her forwards.
Soon she found herself in a glorious ballroom, a shipwreck’s treasure, a band delighting, people laughing as they danced in dresses of every colour. Many wore red caps, for the Merrow love to dance. Astra spotted selkie and siren, mermaid and merman, sea dragon and sea serpent, kraken and kelpie; spinning, dancing, twirling. But it was the music that entranced her the most, and she longed to move to the melody, to join clarinet and oboe and trumpet and tuba in that swinging symphony, to become one with twirling triplets and swirling dancers.

She made her way onto the dancefloor, her staff leading the way, clasping her other hand round his elbow as he guided her across. A clarinet began to play as she did, and she smiled to hear its sweet song. The crowd parted for her as the runes on the staff hummed, and many asked if they could guide her, selkie bowing, mermen flirting. She blushed many times, overwhelmed by their kindness, never knowing any to be attracted to her before.

She took his hand, his sapphire suit shimmering as they danced into the dawn, and had the best night of her life. She took up her clarinet, and joined that underwater orchestra, playing like she never had before, and was praised as one of the best in the band. Many swirled to her melodies or twirled to her passages, as her fingers flew to new rhythms she had never known before.
​
When he offered to take her home, she refused. For beneath the waves, she was accepted, welcomed, invited, celebrated. Whereas above the waves, it was a different story. She didn’t want to go back, and he understood.
And so she stayed; her clarinet crooning, her soul singing, her heart happy, often dancing into the dawn. She fell in love with the man who had transformed her life, who had become soulmate and friend. In time, she became the Queen of the Sea, forever dancing as she dreamed she would.

About the author:
Sarah Oakes is a visually impaired writer and musician in love with krakens and science fiction. She has had one short story, four poems and many flashes published, and is working on a speculative novella in flash. You can find her stories in Voidspace Zine, Literary Namjooning, The Microlit Almanac, FromOneLine, Litmora Litmag, and National Flash Fiction Day. When not writing, you can find Sarah travelling, somewhere in nature, or playing her clarinet. You can also find Sarah on Bluesky at: @sarahoakeskraken32.blsky.social

“You must understand one thing: all Gods are aliens, but not all aliens are Gods.”

That was the message that Saphyre received after the 15 days of mixing Xanax with antidepressants. Something was off. She knew Lilith’s power was involved, but she wasn’t understanding who was speaking. She got scared.

This was not the first time. She had had psychotic breakdowns all through her teenage years, after a bad case of depression and the abuse of weed and cocaine. Then, the lights across her building started flicking in a different pattern. How could no one pay attention to that?

She was having another episode, that must be it. But it all made sense, really. Every little detail she was overthinking in the small apartment in the suburbs of São Paulo. She had spent the night smoking weed and writing nonsense into her journals. It was nonsense for others, because to her it was all too real. Her long red hair covered her wrinkles. Having a breakdown in her 50s was impossible to think of, but there she was. Of course that those who are experiencing a mental breakdown don’t think they’re off the tracks. Because she wasn’t, really. But this time she wouldn’t let them humiliate her like they did in the first times.

She had started going to a Yoruba temple, called the “Terreiro”. It was her girlfriend’s family group that introduced her to this odd religion. It is Santeria, Candomblé, Voodoo. It depends on where you are in the planet. And it was there she understood what accompanied her throughout decades, even though she was stable and medicated. The Babalorixá, meaning the “Mother of Saints” – the Priestess – of the Terreiro was incorporated with an Esù, the spiritual deity that guards the realms of the dead and the living, king of the crossroads. It was by talking to this entity that she understood what aliens were.

“Extra-Terrestrials. Think about it, child” the Esù said. “That which is not terrestrial. It is outwards. Spiritual. Spirits can be called aliens, so they’re all around.”

She thought about it and it did make sense. In this religion there is drinking, smoking, dancing, drumming. The prejuditial christian mindset considered it to be Dark Magic because of that. “The Occult.”

But, there are aliens that are not reduced to appearances in Terreiros. They invade each generation. Saphyre never remembered her early childhood. She was an alien that had invaded the real human Saphyre when she was about 7. That’s why she didn’t remember. Plus, Saphyre did something very wrong. She made an offering to the Esù on the woods without the assistance from the Babalorixá or anyone from the Terreiro. The spell backfired.

She lit a candle during the episode. Then, the lights started flicking through the opposite loft. They were weird patterns, with different colors and speed. She was communicating mentally, but she wanted to see. They wouldn’t indulge her to that. Not yet.

Her girlfriend was away, on a business trip to Doha to talk about transsexuality and queer awareness. Saphyre was alone. Of course, she was never alone. She had never been alone. When she invaded, she wasn’t aware of her power. Now, they were activating her. And they were charging the bar tap. She needed to go through it again, but now something had differed.

Not all aliens are spirits, like Saphyre herself. When she realized she invaded someone she felt bad. She had been a human for too long. But she was the bad guy, when you think about it.

The candle was red and black. The colors of the Esù. “Knucklehead, you woke them up.” They said. It wasn’t exactly a voice of sound but a quick thought that sunk in her mind. They were saying she woke everyone that had invaded the humans in the new generation. But how to differentiate one from the other? Who could she talk too without being committed to an asylum? The Babalorixá, maybe. But her girlfriend was away. She needed physical contact, someone to talk to about it, a real alien to converse with. But, you see, this is the most exclusive secret cult there was in the planet. Not even those on it knew they were on it. To Saphyre, that was a waste. And the matter was: what for? Why did we come here? Some say it was to enjoy, others to learn, others to hide. They panicked her in the first episodes, but now she knew better. She wasn’t guided by the voices. And she shuffled them with music. Music is the best religion there is.

It wasn’t just a manic episode she was going through. She needed someone on the inside to appear and ease her into it. Little did she know that Gods are lonely creatures, after all they’re really alone because, if you think about it, they’re the only ones existing. They are all one. It sounds confusing, but that’s purposeful.

What happened was that the new generation that she woke up was now demanding explanations. They didn’t want to learn the hard way, the path she took. They were lazy. And that couldn’t be. No true learning comes from ignoring shadows. And whether you like it or not, they were the shadow.

From that frightening and exciting period she spent 3 weeks awaken, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. All her siblings lived abroad, and her mother had recently died. But she didn’t access to what they call mediunity, not directly. Of course that contacting extra-terrestrials was a type of mediunity, but it wasn’t easy like you’d see on TV. It was always cryptical. It was a puzzle she had already solved. What she didn’t understand was that she was the one who created the puzzle. This world wasn’t for her. But what could she do? She thought of offing herself, but she didn’t want to after much thought. She enjoyed being with her girl, smoking her cigarette, painting and singing. Of course they wouldn’t allow her to be very known or famous. She was the best kept secret of the cosmos, but no one can handle that without diving themselves. So she started playing the game.

She went to the Babalorixá. The woman was in her 90s and spent most of the time in the Terreiro chainsmoking and dropping the cigarette butts in what seemed to be an Egyptian urn. She didn’t seem surprised in seeing Saphyre, but looked worry. She ordered her daughter to prepare a bath, which she did in about 10 minutes. It was a big bowl with cold water and several herbs. Saphyre was manic and alert, but didn’t speak much.

“Take off your clothes, go to the bathroom and pour this over your body. Then, don’t dry it or clean it and put on your clothes back on and come back here.” The Babalorixá said calmly, puffing her cigarette. She had big eyes and always seemed curious as she gazed into Saphyre. The woman did as commanded and got back to the elderly guide. She got up from her chair as she dropped another cigarette in the urn and her daughter had a sort of white rag in her hands, and she handed it to the Babalorixá. Then, the woman started draping Saphyre’s head with the fabric. It felt weird. She walked her into one of the back rooms of the Terreiro, filled with strange objects and a straw mat on the floor.

“Lie down. Accept your thoughts. Breathe. I’ll come fetch you when it’s time.” The old woman said. Saphyre complied and, strangely enough, she felt calm. A coming down started tingling in her as she was left alone in that dark room with the rag in her head. But then, with a sudden crack noise, she started trembling. She wasn’t convulsing, but she was shaking as if it was very cold. She started having sad and destructive thoughts and then she blacked out.

She must’ve been asleep for a whole day because it was late at night when the Babalorixá came back and nudged her in the shoulders, waking Saphyre up.

“You’re good. Come outside with me.”

The old woman sat back down in her chair and nodded to Saphyre to take a place on the floor in front of her.

“When we came here, everything was glued together. The Motherland was where the Tree burst and, from that Tree, all of the Orishas came through to Earth. Our world had been destroyed by war, but we found a way back. Thanks to a shaman here on Earth. It was you, child. Your asè was spread through the Motherland and the Tree gave birth to all the rest. You were not a tribe shaman. You were alone. But then, you had us all. You needn’t do anything anymore. The answers are here, here and everywhere. Stop wondering. If they try to catch your attention, let it be. They seek attention. But you must take care of yourself. Worry about your journey now, and the rest will follow. Take off the fabric from your hat and breathe.”

Saphyre did that. She was crying. And then the priestess did something unexpected: she smiled kindly and offered her hand to Saphyre. They hugged each other.
​
“It’s good to have you back. Now, let’s eat.” The old woman said as they went down a flight of stairs into the woman’s house. They ate cheese and corn funnel cake. Saphyre stayed there for a week and went back to her apartment. She burned her notebook, cleaned the house and went back on her medication. That day, her girl came back and lights flickered from the opposite loft every night. They were just saying hi, she realized. Now, another would do her job. She was finally free. But, hey, don’t go telling everyone. It’s just a playground, you see? Keep this between us. See you later.

It wasn’t three pigs, it was one pig at different stages of life. He built a house from what he found, sweet grasses and wildflowers, which made a very pretty place to live. The wolf came and blew it down. The pig was upset by this. He went off and built another house, this time of deadfalls and tree limbs, a more substantial place to live. Even so the wolf came and blew it down. The pig had panic attacks. He traveled even further. For a long time he had nowhere to live. But at last he built another house. This time he made it from what you feel for someone you love and hate. From what’s inside and what’s outside go in opposite directions but always arrive together. From what you leave is what you approach. These materials were challenging to work with. The wolf came. He blew. The house—can we even call it a house?—inhaled, exhaled and stood. The wolf was satisfied. He moved in.