On the 49th day of my bardo I'll climb into an ugly womb to be expelled with all the sticky things, my histories flushed down the drain. And I'll enter this world again just as I have at least 913 times before dressed in waxy skin belonging to the wind.

This is the door I'll choose: orange like the angry sunset protests over times neglectful motions- chased behind tall buildings of a city gone betray me.

I'm painfully enlightened by its cracks, my fingers trace in spiraled patterns spelling out my old discarded names.

I'll enter the doorway knowing to forget the sea and leave its mystery for someone else to worship.

I will never claim to be a saint mostly because it's a bitch trying to conceal my very conspicuous devil horns beneath my low-key halo. However, there is one moral wrong that I just cannot see my sinful nature enthusiastically wallowing in, and that is infidelity. Now, because of my extensively documented addiction to reading stupid shit on the internet, I have come across a lot of stories about people engaging in infidelity. The surprising thing is that in many of these stories the cheater suggests that they, and sometimes even the person they cheated on are better off for the experience. Far be it for me to suggest that I am an expert on human nature, but this seems to be either delusional thinking on the part of the cheater or there has been a drastic shift in what qualifies as douche bag behavior.

One cheating story commonly featured involves a brother/sister hooking up with their siblings spouse. A person might expect this kind of betrayal would result in heartbreak followed by the cheated on spouse finding the rabid wolverine equivalent of divorce lawyers. However, if the stories are to be believed, the end result is that somehow all parties involved realize that the infidelity made everyone's lives' better. Maybe the cheating parties finally have a partner that shares the same interest in anal penetration with power tools. Conversely, the spouse that got cheated on, now free from their coupling, can now go off to realize their dream of becoming a full time underwater basket weaver.

I also read a story where a terminally ill spouse asks their current partner for permission to bang their ex because, "While she loves me more than anything, her ex used to fuck her until she, the next door neighbors, the astronauts orbiting the Earth in the International Space Station, and her future ancestors, all walked funny for a week." Okay, maybe I paraphrased a little, but how exactly did the terminally ill, yet still horny spouse bring up this carnal desire? Somehow, "Hey, honey, you're the love of my life, but you can only make me wet, where my ex can create a veritable vaginal Victoria Falls between my legs" seems a bit cruel

Now, I can hope that these stories are fake, but even imagining such betrayal is so all kinds of fucked up that not even the writers who queef out those Lifetime Movies of the Week would stoop that low. So, am I wrong in thinking that infidelity is still a horrible thing to do to someone you supposedly love and have committed yourself to? Or is infidelity just another way for people to drift apart, get separate places, argue over who gets the cum fruit when, and eventually settle into passive-aggressive and snarky comment filled coparenting ?

I have to wonder if these stories aren't ways for the cheater to somehow justify bumping uglies with an unfamiliar ugly instead of the ugly they are committed to. After all, adults can't pretend that infidelity is a harmless accident. Dropping a dish is a harmless accident. Inserting throbbing naked tab A into equally naked, wet, quivering slot B is in no way shape or form an accident. Also, contrary to just about every fucking Country Western song ever written, being under the influence of alcohol isn't a good excuse for cheating either. Being under the influence of alcohol is only a valid excuse for getting impregnated by one of my relatives. It in no way can be used to, "Oops, my bad" away doing the tube steak boogie in a strange Wonder Bread bun when you have a loving Oroweat bun at home.

I can't help but think that there just isn't an excuse to cheat. If you have feelings for someone who's not your significant other, it could be argued that maybe you should be honest and get out of your current relationship because your feelings aren't as strong as you thought. Sure, it will hurt, especially when your significant other righteously kicks you in the baby maker after you've told them, but cheating would hurt worse and that kind of hurt can lead to a lot worse than getting kicked in the fuzzy-bumblies. (Please see the previous reference to rabid-wolverine divorce lawyers in paragraph II, for an example of what's worse than having your no-no place receiving a firm and justified boot-leather bopping). No matter what, your significant other deserves an honest break. Besides think of any children involved. Do you really want to cheat on the co-pollinator of your cum fruit? Think about it. Cheat on the other parent, your kids find out, and twenty years down the road your children are placing you in Dr. Kevorkian's Home for the Elderly because you couldn't keep your Tab A or Slot B at home where it belongs.

So, maybe I'm an idealist when it comes to relationships. Maybe, cheating has become just another of life's event we should all just assume we'll experience. I hope not because life is hard enough without being cheated on and then having to get tested for gonorrhea. Personally, I hope those who're so insensitive and focused on getting their yippee parts tickled that hurting someone who loves and trusts them isn't a big deal have a prison bitch experience with karma. The end result is that karma viciously renovates the cheater's corn-hole in such a way that a youth soccer league could use their rectum as a regulation sized goal net.

It was just my backyard, but it had been so transformed with flowers and white runners and people in fancy dresses and suits that I hardly recognized it. It felt almost like another world.

I stood in front of a crowd of people that was all big eyes and smiles. I wore a big, poofy white dress that was so tight around my middle I could barely breathe, and the tool skirt felt like sandpaper against my legs. I felt trapped inside it, stuck so tight that I might never be able to get it off.

A man stood next to me, his smile so big it seemed to cover his whole face. He was big, much bigger than me. He wore a cape and held a sword in one hand like a prince, and he pulled me in close with the other.

A priest appeared before us and chanted in a language I didn’t recognize.

Then, I felt cold metal clamp tightly onto my wrist. I stared down at the cuff that linked me to the man before me. “It’s time for the vows. Repeat after me,” the priest said. “With this ring, I promise to be yours and yours alone, for the rest of time.”

No. No! NO! I try to scream, but my voice won’t work. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. The man leans down over me, his hot breath on my face. I can’t step back. I can’t push him away. I can’t do anything. I’m trapped; I’m—

I sit up with a gasp as my mom’s hands shake me awake.

“Sweetie, wake up! It’s just a dream. You’re okay. It was just a dream.”

I let her wrap me in her arms, and I cling to her as I gasp and cry.

“That must have been one scary dream,” she says as she rubs my back. “Want to talk about it?”

“T-they . . . they were gonna make me marry him,” I stutter.

“Who?”

“The prince!”

I can feel my mom’s body shake with laughter. “That was your nightmare?” She shakes her head as she lays me back down. “Most kids get nightmares about monsters. My kid gets nightmares about Prince Charming.”

I encourage my kids to have hobbies. That’s not quite true. When my kids choose to have hobbies, I try not to actively stand in their way. I don’t want them to claim someday that they could have been the next Rembrandt if only their cheap father hadn’t refused to buy them paint. I’m as encouraging as I have to be to avoid being their scapegoat, but I have a price cap. If one of my girls claims they could have been the next Michelangelo if only I had boughten them a chisel and marble, they’re out of luck. If you think restaurant prices are out of control these days, you should see the markup on importing two tons of Italian stone. Recently, I provided modest financial support for my children to pursue three different activities I’ve never tried out myself. (The fourth kid just wants to watch her tablet, which is fine with me. I already pay for Netflix.) I don’t know that any of these new pastimes will lead to lifelong fulfillment or lucrative careers, but they keep my squad entertained for now. Also, supporting them helps me not feel like a dream-stifling monster. My goal everyday is to not be quite the worst parent in the history of the world. It’s a harder threshold to clear than you might think.

The most unexpected request came from my thirteen-year-old, Betsy. One day, she suddenly announced that she wanted to play the violin. Prior to that moment, she had never expressed any interest in the instrument. She didn’t need any band implements. She inherited her mother’s talent for singing. She’s in the most elite eighth grade choir group and was selected to join the exclusive high school song and dance troupe next fall. I thought her own finely tuned vocal cords would be all the musical stimulation she’d need. I was wrong. After Betsy’s request, I checked how much violins cost. I thought they were going to be super expensive. I’ve read articles about a multi-million dollar Stradivarius being stolen or forgotten on a train. That would be one heck of a discovery when somebody empties out the lost and found. I figured the regular kind of violin used by kids must still be expensive. When my eleven-year-old, Mae, decided to play the saxophone, the school tried to charge us $1,500 for her instrument. Off-name-brand versions were still five hundred dollars on Amazon. I went above and beyond in my quest to be the stingiest parent ever and managed to secure a used one for seventy-five dollars on Facebook Marketplace. Mae has been playing it happily ever since. At her current grade and skill level, the instruments aren’t what are holding kids back. A truck could run over every shiny thing in the brass section and the middle school band would sound about the same. When Mae levels up to the point that she’s too good for her bargain basement instrument, I will, of course, buy her a better one. I might even up my price limit to eighty dollars.

I didn’t think I’d be that lucky with a violin. Then I actually checked the prices. “Good” brand new violins were two hundred bucks, and cheap new ones were listed for fifty. For the first time ever, I was shocked in a good way. These weren’t wooden instruments handcrafted by European masters. They’re plasticky composites stamped out of a big machine somewhere, most likely a country without regulations or labor laws. But based on the reviews, they were good enough for an eighth grader teaching themselves how to play from YouTube tutorials. You really just need a box to hold four strings. Anything beyond that is showing off. I ordered Betsy a violin on the spot. I’m not paying for formal lessons. This will be something for her to pick at when she finds gaps in her already overbooked schedule. Maybe this summer she’ll learn to play some basic songs, or perhaps she’ll never touch it again. Either way I’m not out much money. For a modest fee, I get credit for allowing her to pursue her musical dreams, however far she wants to take them. If she doesn’t become a concert violinist, that’s on her. I’m sure many of the soloists in the New York Philharmonic use fifty dollar instruments.

Mae was the next kid who wanted to try something new. I wrote a few weeks ago about how she decided to try out for the tennis team, which isn’t a sport I have any experience with. I figured there was no harm in letting her make the attempt. In the worst case scenario, it would be a valuable learning experience for how to deal with failure and rejection. I got mine the hard way by writing hundreds of thousands of words no one read. Getting the same lesson in two afternoons of hitting a ball over (or not over) a net seemed much more efficient. Well, Mae wasn’t in the mood for learning. She made the team. It helped that there were twenty-four spots and only nineteen girls tried out. She also seems to have a natural aptitude for the sport. That wasn’t how I expected things to turn out. I was thinking of sports like basketball, baseball, and soccer, where kids are on traveling teams from the time they can walk. I see parents spend so much money to turn their kids into scholarship athletes, but apparently tennis isn’t one of those sports around here. It’s a bit too fancy for our rural-ish suburb, so not many kids do it. Mae could also probably make the team for lacrosse or polo, as long as the school provided the horse.

My wife’s boss was a Division One tennis player in college. He tells stories about how he spent all his free time in middle and high school going to private lessons and high-pressure matches around the state. It paid for his degree but made him hate the sport. Now, he never plays. Lola asked him what racket we should buy for Mae. He recommended a few options in the two-hundred dollar range. Lola didn’t get that message to me until I was already on the way back from Walmart with a fifteen-dollar racket Mae picked out herself. She loves it. She’s been playing with it everyday for a few weeks, and so far it’s held up just fine. As with her seventy-five dollar saxophone, at her current skill level, the equipment is not the limiting factor. When she becomes better, we’ll reevaluate. We’ll never get to the point where I’m taking her to private lessons every night. She’s welcome to learn everything the part time coach at school has to offer. Beyond that, she’s on her own. There’s always YouTube.

My nine-year-old, Lucy, is pursuing the least disruptive hobby of the bunch. It’s not loud, and I don’t have to drive her anywhere on a daily basis. She’s really, really into gardening. I’ve talked about it before, but her green thumb has gone into overdrive ever since it became warm enough for her to plant things outside. Gardening is much funner when the ground isn’t frozen solid. Who knew? Even before spring officially began, Lucy was ready. She planted seeds in starter trays indoors to give them a jump on the season. When we went to Missouri for vacation, she left detailed instructions for the guy checking on our pets to make sure he watered her burgeoning garden. She also took pictures of the backs of all the seed packets she hadn’t been able to plant yet. That way she could scroll through her phone’s gallery and continue reading about them during our trip. When she’s home, she flips through those same packets every morning like she’s reviewing Pokémon cards. She might be a little obsessed. I fully approve. It’s a cheap hobby (at this stage), and it has the potential to make the outside of my house look amazing. I’m all for encouraging the one thing my kids do that isn’t actively destructive.

This weekend, I gave her an even bigger hit of her drug of choice: I took her to a gardening show. She was in heaven. We received a free bush just for walking in the front doors and then bought several packages of seeds for native flowers. We rounded out our haul with a garden trowel and some bulbs for some kind of giant flowering bush thing. I’m not the gardener in the family, so don’t ask me to get too technical. Some of these seeds come with more rules than my board games. The bulbs have to be dug up before it gets cold, whereas the black-eyed Susan seeds have to be put in the fridge for thirty days to simulate going through the winter. These plants are pickier than my kids. They also have more follow-through. If a child doesn’t get something, they might threaten to hold their breath until they pass out, but they can’t actually do it. Seeds can definitely die on purpose if you don’t cave in to their nitpicky demands. It’s the ultimate temper tantrum. I suspect Lucy will be doing exactly what the seeds want, no matter how much work it is for her. And she’ll love every second of it.

After the garden show, we went to a big box hardware store to finish out Lucy’s supply list. She picked out the biggest planter they had in stock to start her own private garden. Instead of a driveway, we have a large parking slab behind our house. It’s a barren eyesore. I would love it if Lucy spruced it up with an eclectic mix of potted flowers. She’s welcome to plant among the landscaping of the front yard as well, but it’s harder there since she has to work around the existing flora. The concrete out back is a blank canvas. Of all the kids trying new things this month, I think Lucy is the one who’s likely to stick with her hobby for the rest of her life. I know many people who garden as adults but very few who play the musical instruments or sports they tested out in middle school. If she one day has a house surrounded by beautiful gardens, I’m going to take a little bit of the credit because I literally helped her get started with my credit card.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Catch you next time.

James

(Song for the Chapter: GOD Will Work It Out)

• • • • • • •

"En garde. Prêtes. Allez."

Violet launched forward, her heart racing. She willed her beating heart to be calm. She focused on her movements as she advanced. This was a game of strategy. Her mind needed to be focused.

Dear GOD, please help me, she prayed quietly within. She tried to also focus on the beings that always radiated light.

She held her sword and tried to defend against her opponent's attacks to corner her. This was her last match in the championship.

But, something felt different—not wrong, just different.

She glanced around at where they always positioned themselves during her matches—the angels. They only stood there quietly. She had seen that stance before.

But, when?

In the heat of the game, she could not recall.

Violet spun around in a circle. There were hostile spirits around, but no, there was no attack—

"En garde." the referee called out.

Okay, Violet. She pulled her helmet back on.

One more point to win.

They were at a tie—she and her opponent. After a moment of trying to get back to the mid-point, she finally saw her advantage, launched forward at tough speed, and reaching out beyond her limits, she struck. The light went on. It had been a simultaneous attack.

Violet's heart beat rapidly as she waited for the announcement. Her heart beat even faster.

Who would get the point? Did I fail?

The referee stretched his right arm out extensively, then the left, and finally, the right palm up, to finally announce her victory as a point was added to her name.

"Attaque. Touche. Point."

She screamed as the crowd also erupted in raucous applause.

"Attention, please," the referee announced trying to still the cheering crowd. "Attention. Salut."

She went to her starting point and taking off her helmet, she saluted, then she went forth to greet her opponent.

She couldn't believe it. Another gold medal. She looked for her brother, Prince Tal, amongst those who were trying to get close to her.

He beamed brightly and went forth to meet her, not realising he had walked through the midst of the Heavenly Guardians. And, as she approached him, she felt the agonising pain in her shoulder.

Agh! She screamed in agony.

"Violet?!" Her brother called out.

As her vision blurred from the intensity of the pain, she remembered. The Heavenly beings always took that stance whenever they had to give way for something to occur—for THE FATHER'S GLORY.

———————-

"I would advise that she takes a period to have some rest. The simultaneous touch has deeply affected her shoulder," the doctor said his warm grey eyes soft with sympathy. "I think she should give fencing a break for now till she heals completely."

"No! Tal, tell them. I have to train for the next season," Violet interjected, her voice trembling with fear as she lay on the hospital bed."I'm only seventeen and have to..." her voice quaked and she broke into sobs.

"Doctor," Tal turned to him, "thank you very much. We will see to that."

The doctor nodded understandably and left the room.

Tal slowly advanced to his sister and sat by her, placing an arm around her uninjured shoulder.

"Hey," he said in his soothing and loving voice. It had always calmed her. But at that moment, she felt bereft of the joy and comfort it often gave her.

He had been the only one she had since their parents had died.

He gently touched her cheek and turned her face to himself. Gently using his fingers, he wiped her tears away.

"It's going to be okay. This is just temporary. I know it means a lot to you. But remember, GOD works everything out for our good even if we realise it or not. So, Vee, take a break as you have been told."

He pulled her into his arms in an embrace as he had often done since she was a kid, patting her back. And he softly hummed her favourite song before voicing it out, "GOD will work it out."

Other angelic voices joined in chorus and her attention was drawn to them. In her desperation, she had forgotten they were present.

That brought her comfort, even in that trying moment when she felt depressed and that all hope was lost and the world was collapsing around her.

One of the angels named Abdiel, smiled at her. The smile so familiar, which reflected that of her Loving LORD. It reminded her of many times since her childhood when all had seemed murky and dark.

Her LORD JESUS had been her ever-present Companion. She remembered when she had received her first vision of HIM.

After the death of her parents, she had been in a haze. Everything had felt overwhelming, and she had wondered if she would ever see her parents again—and she encountered HIM.

Her mind snapped back to the present; to the song they sang. They were right. Though she was in pain and felt shattered, The LORD was going to work it all out. She willed her aching heart to resign to her fate, though it seemed slow in obeying the order.

She felt her body relax as they continued to sing the song.

"Okay," she finally said, emotion filling her voice. She wiped off the rest of her tears. "Alright, I will do that. Things are going to be fine, right?"

She pulled away from his embrace and looked up at him, desperately seeking his affirmation. He smiled and nodded in his gentle manner and drew her closer again.

"And my little Vee," he went on to say, his voice thickening and expression turning grave, "I know this is not the right moment, but there is something we must discuss."

———————————

Violet felt discombobulated, the dark evening matched her feelings as she stood at the front entrance to the Villa of the Ferraris with her brother—and her suitcase.

Well, they were not exactly alone. The angels were around, swords drawn out.

Her palms felt sweaty around the handle of the suitcase, her mind and heart feeling unsettled about the future. They would soon be ushered in.

Violet couldn't believe how things had turned out. She recalled the conversation she had had with her brother after her injury.

~

"Things are going awry in terms of security," he tried to tell her as calmly as he could despite the gravity of the situation.

Because he knew it was going to be a big blow to his sister with the ordeal she was going through.

She had pulled away once more to stare him in the face, alarm and concern etched deeply on her already saddened countenance.

"Do you remember me telling you about Vladimir?" She nodded in response.

"Yes?" She replied, her tone rising slightly in question and a confused frown on her face.

"The Mafia leader they finally arrested, right? What about him?" She turned to fully look at him.

Though he tried to make his voice sound soft, she could sense the weightiness in his tone about what he was going to tell her.

Tal sighed and ran his hand through his blonde, beautiful hair. He often did that when he was going to say something he did not relish revealing.

"He has escaped, Vee. And we can't seem to find him. Our intel tells us he is targeting the King Makers. And it won't be safe for us to live together anymore. You are likely one of his targets."

"That's no problem. GOD is with me. And, you've taught me all about self-defence. All will be fine." She tried to sound cheerful, despite the deep concern engraved on her brother's face.

"It's more complex than that, Vee. So, for the sake of your safety, we have to live apart for a moment."

"What?" She was exasperated. She needed her brother more than ever before. Especially, in her present predicament.

"Being with you is the best option! We have been through a lot together and..." her voice wobbled again, the feeling of depression weighing heavily on her chest.

She remembered all they had gone through, the loss of their parents being the greatest of all.

"Vee, listen to me," he finally said to her sternly.

She knew that tone. It was a tone of finality. Her heart raced knowing she could not defy what he was going to say.

~

So, as she stood before the mansion of the Ferraris, Violet knew she had no other option.

She had to stay there for at least a year, or so her brother had said.

She had to stay in the home of the coldest member of the King Makers, Prince Vincenzo Klaus Ferrari, aka, the Ice Prince, aka the Rudest Prince, and his mother and siblings—none of whom she had ever met.

And, the swords drawn by the angels confirmed what else she saw—there would be forces of darkness at work.

Being there was going to be a battle.

——————————

Hola, wonderful family! It's been a long while. I hope you are all well. By GOD'S Grace, the second book is finally here!

It is now in the form of a series; with Princess Undercover being #1. I had initially wanted to take this "Spiritual" stance with the first.

Please, please, please, let me know your thoughts on it. This book covers areas and fields unbeknownst to me

the most scary things

are usually the most ordinary

being left behind

is one of my most treasured monsters

- Eleonore

I stand there for a longer while, my body so stiff and tight that it resembles a bizarre granite sculpture, my eyes staring at the setting sun until the sky outside the window turns completely dark, heavy clouds bringing rain that falls down to the hectic, busy streets, while my mind wanders around two unexpected conversations I had. My eyebrows furrow tightly together at the fact that I could still be stunned by the things happening in my life. It seemed I had seen it all, stepping on the shaky grounds of grief and supernatural elements blending so deeply into my existence. And yet the ordinary events tended to still catch me off guard. I think as Charlie's voice still echoes in my head, his gentle stare on me as he shared the news with me just the day before. I have been so occupied with all the craziness that the mundane facts and situations started to acquire a magical ability to blur out from my mind. I gaze at the street below, my eyes following the reckless people who decided to engage the chill of the evening that has become way too eager to earn the Winter title before the calendar could - and groan slightly as my brain replays the conversations I had never planned to have.

With everything going on, I forgot to tell you before. You will be pleased to hear that Mrs. Wilson is doing better, and her doctor officially signed her out yesterday. With her age and physical state, she will still need help getting around, but I also know the daughter already made arrangements for a part-time home nurse who will be checking up on her, assisting her with anything she needs, and making sure she regularly eats and gets stronger.

I remember blinking several times before I could utter any reasonable response, watching his hands gesture with enthusiasm by the cafeteria table as he reported the hospital newsletter to me.

She left?

My question seemed a bit hollow as something tightened in my chest, invisible weights making me sink deeper into the red plastic chair I was sitting on.

She was signed out because she's doing better.

Charlie corrected me - slowly, patiently, and then frowned, hearing the tones in my voice.

I thought you would be happy for her.

I felt bad for my reaction. I felt bad for still having traces of abandoned issues even after all these years; feeling as if once again I was somehow left behind. It didn't make any sense to react like that, but it was stronger than me. I got so used to Clair being around, safely in the same room and the same bed that her sudden absence caused a small gap in my body, locating itself like several sharp splinters between my ribs, and causing me to shift uncomfortably in the chair. Once again, you got attached, silly girl. I sighed and trambled a bit, frustrated, feeling like a spoiled child - a child who was over-sensitive to the world around her in so, so many ways. I swallowed nervously but managed to put myself together, my embarrassment perspiring through my skin like unwanted sweat.

No, I am happy. Trust me, I am.

Your face seems to contradict your words.

I grimaced slightly, hoping he didn't notice.

Charlie, I'm a complicated paradox, no point in looking too deeply into that pit of despair.

Nora.

Just one word and I heard all the questions he had in his head, and it had nothing to do with my random abilities that appeared whenever they wanted to - besides, my questionable "powers" didn't seem to penetrate his serious-minded, thick skull. Not that it actually worked on command at any time, it was more a case of someone wanting to share thoughts or feelings with me. Well, I didn't think anyone really realized that they left an open door for me; it usually just felt like tuning into a piracy radio station when my antenna hit the right wavelength, most times by pure accident. I remember getting lost in all those speculations until being abruptly brought back when I finally noticed Charlie's stare losing its tolerance for the extended silence.

You just caught me off guard. I expected her to still be in her room, in her bed.

He looked at me as if scanning me from top to bottom, his expression turning surprised at first, and then softening a bit.

It's because she didn't say goodbye.

It wasn't really a question, more of a statement, and my face very quickly turned into unflattering shades of crimson. I didn't say anything in response. What was there really to say?

It's okay to miss someone. But the important thing is that she's doing better and that Connie and Clair's granddaughter could take her home.

I nodded, knowing that he was right.

She left you something before they left.

He said unexpectedly and pulled something from the front pocket of his beige scrubs. He put a small, yellowed envelope with my name elegantly handwritten on it on the table between us. I thought of Clair's shaky hands and felt that her daughter must have written it for her. With some hesitation, I reached for the envelope, sliding it slowly towards me, feeling a certain weight to it that I was not expecting. I eyed Charlie suspiciously for a moment and then sighed, opening the little rectangle, feeling it was time to finally act like an adult. My eyes grew wider as I fished out a delicate round shape; it was gold and marked with tiny vines and roses on the outside, while the inside held a miniature sign on its surface that took up the entire space of the ring. I narrowed my eyebrows and brought the ring closer to my face until the words came into focus. "May we always bloom for each other under the Autumn sun.". I stared in disbelief at the object in my hand, as if it could burn a hole in my skin.

Her wedding ring??

Even though my voice was barely a croaked whisper, it seemed to bounce off all the walls as if I had screamed the question. Charlie pursed his lips as if holding back a grin and then pointed to the envelope. I watched him without understanding what he meant, until he made a circle gesture, prompting me to turn it around. I did what I was told and gazed at an old-fashioned, more messy, and slightly uneven handwriting.

"Too wide now for my bony fingers anyhow. It will have better use on your hand."

I played around with the ring, shifting it in every direction and watching as the light cascaded beautifully against its surface, staring at it with growing disbelief.

I don't understand. Why would she give this to me, Charlie? Even if the ring was too loose for her fingers, and for some bizarre reason she no longer felt the need to wear it it was her daughter that should be wearing it. Or her grandaughter, or anyone from the family... anyone but me.

He looked at me as if searching for something.

But it's you that she wanted to gifted to.

I shook my head repeatedly gazing at the ring. And then my stare shifted to my name on the envelope making me even more confused as a realization hit me over the head.

And Conne accepted the idea. They both did.

Slowly, I looked up at Charlie, and he nodded calmly.

It's what they decided, and that's that. "No returns, I'm afraid." Connie's words, not mine.

He smiled at me gently, and I caved in, slouching against the chair and feeling that there was no more reason to fight against the current. I opened my hand carefully and slid it on the second finger of the left hand; it fitted perfectly. I inhaled deeper, knowing exactly and painfully what the golden band represented, and quickly moved it to my other hand.

Why would she do it, though?

My eyes met Charlie, and he shrugged.

Sometimes, there is no reason to dig too deeply, Nora. Just like you said before.

His eyes stayed on me for a while, and then he reached for my hand and took it, his thumb sliding against the ring.

You opened your heart to her, and so did she. And this is her stating it.

I felt emotions well up in me, feelings like slushing waves moving against my stormy core, my gaze fogging up as tears quickly filled my eyes. I took away my hand from his and stared at the golden band as if it held all the answers I was searching for.

You really think so?

I don't think it. I know it. And because they predicted your responses, Connie left their home phone number. Would you like it?

He unblocked his phone and after a few seconds, showed me the number on the screen. I grabbed his phone without asking and quickly stood up.

I need a moment.

He nodded, not surprised, and returned to his meal, leaving me to my own doings. I walked away to the big windows that occupied the entire south wall of the cafeteria and stared outside at nature's grey, ugly weather manifest while the ringing sounds filled my ears - tapping my foot as the waiting time seemed to outstretch mercilessly.

The current Wilson and O'Reley residence. How can I help?

An amused, young voice answered, and even though I never met her personally, I knew exactly who it was.

Ah yes... yes. Is Connie around? I mean, Mrs. O'Reley. Sorry.

May I ask who this is?

Eleonore. She knows me from the hospital.

Oh, so you're the tribute volunteer who brought my grandmother back to the land of living, huh?

It seems so. Yes.

I said in my standard awkward way, a tone that usually appeared when I didn't have an actual idea what my game plan was. Cheers to being hot-headed and irrational.

Well, in that case, she just might be around for you. We give miracle workers extra points in this family.

She stated in a still amused tone, but I could tell there were additional emotions and unconcealed gratitude in her voice. I could almost feel the warm energy flowing from her and into my body. It was both a comforting and a surreal feeling to experience. After a moment of silence on the line, I heard a muffled cacophony of shouted questions and answers that led to a low clicking sound.

Eleonore, dear. It's good to hear from you.

Connie sounded slightly out of breath as if she was rushing through many flights of stairs and it made me wonder how big their house actually was.

Same here.

I might not have time today for pleasantries as I'm busy in the kitchen, so let's cut to the chase.

A smile formed on my lips as I heard her tones, making me realize how she and her daughter were more alike than they cared to admit.

Yes, ma'am.

I answered shortly with a smile, saluting her in my mind.

I'm guessing it's about the ring and possible arguments about where it belongs. No need, it's right where it's supposed to be. On your surprisingly pale yet very pretty hand. End of discussion.

I figured as much. But Connie... are you sure? I mean, it's an important family heirloom. Wouldn't it be better for one of you?

First of all, I already have my father's ring.

She started, and suddenly, out of nowhere a memory of her in the hospital struck me, an image of her playing around with a delicate golden necklace with a round, thick band and a tiny cross filling my mind.

But...

And eventually, it will be my daughter's as well. There, problem solved. Am I making myself clear enough?

Her tone was strict and not to be disputed with. I took a deeper breath and said with a resigned tone, knowing I would be beaten and disarmed whatever argument I would use.

Crystal.

Good, perfection. Now, I'm guessing that the other reason for your call is that you missed my mother, the terrorist. A retired one, but still active in her position.

Yes, that as well.

Well, I'm happy to report that for a woman her age she is doing a bit better every single day. We still have our ups and downs but she is definitely more vocal about her needs and demands. I think it's what keeps her going: her well-equipped military qualities. Thankfully, you were never fooled by her delicate exterior and know that our family has their personal general to our display. Not that we have any choice in the matter.

Connie's gentle chuckles carried to my ears, and I was stunned at how much she had changed since I met her, never before being a witness to such a flow of words from her.

But she's a good general to be around.

I could feel softness fill me up as the words left my mouth, love, and care moving around under my skin and reaching the deepest part of my being. And I knew that Connie heard it too.

She loves you, Eleonore. I do not doubt it.

I could hear her taking a bigger breath, her strong emotions mixing with mine into one combined organism, making me lean my forehead against the cafeteria window for some support, my fingertips leaving prints on the glass, my hand trembling as the cool surface seemed to penetrate my skin right to the bone.

And you have saved her in more ways than one. You saved our family when we needed it the most.

I didn't do much. I just read to her and... listened to the silent grief when she couldn't find words.

I couldn't tell her that I listened to her mother's memories as if they were scenes in a movie. I couldn't tell her that I took her pain in the best way that I could and cradled it until its weight was smaller, and the edges of her sorrow less sharp before I placed it delicately back into her frail arms, repeating it every time I set by her bedside or held her hand. I didn't even realize I was doing it until the ache I felt from her became less heavy, less suffocating. I think that cradling her sorrow and pain helped me deal a bit with my own, healing things in me that I never dared to touch myself. We helped each other in more ways than I could count. And I knew deep down that she brought me strength too. It never ceased to amaze me how two bruised and broken souls could bring light into each other's lives that they lacked on their own.

That was enough. That was enough for her to come back and let us in again after being closed off for so long. We finally got her back.

Connie said in a hushed, slightly muffled voice, and I felt all the unspoken words and feelings that hid underneath, random tiny flashes of visions filling my mind as if delicate butterflies with golden fluttering wings. Memories. Most of them appeared and quickly vanished before I could even fully register them but one lingered long enough for me to hold it gently in my hands. A little girl with fair hair holding her mother's hand as a tall man came back home from work - the soft light of the golden hour surrounding him in amber hues of the setting sun as he walked towards them... I only saw the outlines of his silhouette but I knew him. I knew them all. At that moment waves of love cascaded down my entire body, circulating in my bloodstream and nestled in my chest, filling it with a kind of warmth that every one of us yearns for. I wrapped my free arm around my waist getting lost in the comfort of the memory, and feeling teardrops fall down my cheeks and mark the cool glass.

I know how much you missed her when she closed up on everyone. And I know that for a while it felt like you lost them both. But you didn't.

I said softly, barely stopping myself from speaking the words that filled my heart, blooming like rich luscious vines between my ribs. She loves you, and so does he, I see it in the way he looked at you when he saw your face every time he came back home. That kind of love, it swells up in you, the kind of love that makes you feel safe, so safe that nothing could ever harm you. I felt the words waiting to flow out of me like a rushing river but I held it all in. Almost.

I feel how much Clair loved your father, and there were times when I felt it so strongly that I could nearly touch the love that came from him even though I never had the privilege to meet him in person. But that love... I feel it around you too as if it never left. As if he's still keeping you safe.

A heavy silence fell down between us and instantly I felt angry with myself for not shutting up in time.

I'm sorry, Connie. I shouldn't have said that. Sometimes I just seem to sense more than I should. I can't explain it. Just ignore me and blame it on temporary insanity.

No...

Connie choked out and I shrunk a bit inside of myself feeling all of her emotions ran over me like stampeding wild horses, dust settling everywhere, covering my hair, my clothes, my lungs. Digging me deep into the ground beneath me.

No... no. Thank you. I don't know how you could have possibly known all of that, FELT all of that but... But thank you, Eleonore. Just... thank you.

She broke off and I could hear her cry, sobbing softly into the receiver, holding back the sound of it as much as she could as if not wanting to worry her daughter or anyone else in the house. I felt the blend of pain and relief cascade out of her, washing over the wounds that were left there after her father was gone. It felt almost as if my words brought him closer to her again, as if at that moment he had joined her for one more warm embrace. And I saw it in my mind. I saw her surrendering into that embrace, I watched her come back home after a very long time. And it wasn't until I felt Charlie's gentle and supporting hand on my shoulder and gazed at my own reflection in the window that I realized it wasn't just Connie's sobs on the other side of the line that I was hearing. No, they were mine as well, streaking down my face in a rushing, overwhelmed way. I didn't turn back to him, just watched his eyes in the glass, as he listened patiently to both my cries and Connie's in my ear, letting us both decompress whatever it was that we had to go through. And we did. Eventually, we said our gentle goodbyes, smiling at the incredible relief that we both felt afterward.

I leaned into Charlie and he let myself sink into him until I found my footing again, until I was once again made of one body and one beating heart, and not two.

_ _ _ _ _

Suddenly, something catches my attention, causing me to return to the present. I stir a bit as the noises of the rain mix with new sounds; a faint vibration of a child's soft snores. I look back at Emily's little body bundled up in a few blankets on a big, comfy sofa, a ridiculous amount of stuffed animals guarding her safety as she sleeps; the blue lights of the TV coloring her delicate, relaxed features. Mmm, babysitting duties while her mother is at a local art gallery, showcasing her newest paintings - rich and wild in color, luscious as one was touching and sinking into a rain forest. Hypnotizing in its power. I was never too aware of how to pursue and take in art in the "right way" but her's spoke to me, it always has and that hasn't changed. My admiration for my best friend and her talents has only grown over the years that I've known her.

I smile and sit down on the sofa next to Emily's petit form, my fingers moving gently through her blond, messy locks that remind me so much of Cara's hair, and gaze at her with wonder. If only I was allowed such rest, such peace - I think and yawn loudly, rubbing my eyes and trying to remember when was the last time I slept more than two hours in a row. The answer doesn't come, too difficult to drag out of the exhausted, dark corners of my mind. Slowly, I shift and roll into a ball next to the little warm body that seemed to always have a soothing effect on me. My own dosage of morphine that did not require stealing or lies. Pure, not yet stained energy that promised to hold back the demons, to restrict the monsters from under the bed even if just for now.

___________________________

This story has proven to be a much longer journey than I have ever anticipated but I still love it every step of the way. Even if often the ride is bumpy and frustrating, it is also extremely rewarding and has let me grow alongside with it. Every time one of my characters evolves and heals, so do I, and I am very grateful for that - even when those characters don't listen to me the way I would like, instead just leave me to follow them and write down their many hilarious, deeply moving and often very bizarre conversations.

So for everyone who still sticks around and checks up on Nora and Charlie, from time to time, THANK YOU, it drives me forward and guides me closer to the finish line, making sure that everything they have to say will be put on paper, and one day will physically earn a place on bookshelves in your homes *the power of manifestation intensifies* :)

It was surprising, how the old house still felt like home. As the great door was clicking shut behind her Eve set her bag down in the foyer and paused for a moment, reveling in a rush of sights and smells, giving herself over to the nostalgia of a sensory teleportation back to her youth, a teleportation so real that she actually heard her long departed father’s welcoming bellow, and watched on amazed as Happy Jack’s giant paws skidded crazily across the hardwoods in his stampede to greet her, his rush followed by the warm aromas of roast beef and cobbler which were stirred up from behind in the big dog’s wake. The hallucinations combined to conjure up a rare smile from this bitter, current-day version of Eve, as they reminded her of how pleasant true happiness can feel.

Isn’t it ironic? How it took Mother’s death to bring about some little bit of joy in her?

Evelyn Forrester goes mostly by Eve now, as she hates the antiquated sound of “Evelyn”. When she hears “Evelyn” she is reminded of the portraits in the foyer of her family home, of the many grandmothers and great-grandmothers sitting solemnly in their guilded picture frames at the sides of their equally solemn (and likely domineering) husbands, men without the good sense to feel the shame of their deeds, but who instead gaze arrogantly down from their elevated positions upon the papered and patterned walls of this house that had once been their home. Eve has just lost her mother, but you should not feel too badly for her, as the two have been long estranged. Don’t get it wrong, Eve is saddened by her mother’s passing (as she would be for anyone’s), but she is in no way left distraught by it. In fact, Eve can barely remember a time when she liked the ultra-conservative woman, much less when she felt love for her, although she actually had loved her, once upon a time.

And Mother’s feelings were painfully mutual, as she made her disappointment in Eve apparent whenever the opportunity arose, the old biddy.

With her mother’s passing Eve has unwillingly inherited the family home. Having avoided it for the past twenty years her initial plan was for a quick sale, the house being much too large for a single woman, although her mother somehow managed it in her later years, and the property includes too much acreage to economically maintain it without farming, which Eve has neither the skills nor desire to do. Besides, it is too far from her job in Savanah, although she could as easily work from home, she supposed, if it came right down to it. Only it would be lonely here, wouldn’t it? As if it wasn’t lonely in Savanah.

On the drive in it became apparent to Eve that the once secluded house now sits in a prime location. The sprawl of suburbia was slowly encroaching, nestling in around the property as one local farm after another has been parceled out to General Contractors who have happily developed them into more of those awful, modern day McMansions until the beautiful, pastoral settings of Eve’s youth have been completely swiped away, and never will be again. She is not sure how she should feel about that, as what has stolen the beauty from her childhood home has also significantly increased its monetary value.

But then Eve finds her thoughts interrupted by another bit of nostalgia… specifically the Westminster chimes of the doorbell which have begun echoing through the foyer, flashing her back to the day when she’d discovered Pooh McCann standing on the front porch with flowers in his hands, flowers he’d picked fresh, just for her. The memory of it brought another smile. Pooh! What an awful nickname for a boy, though he’d never seemed to think anything of it. And poor Pooh had carried such a crush on her back then! Eve had actually gone to the movies with him a couple of times, back in middle school. He’d been a sweet boy, if embarrassingly shorter than her. She had even let Pooh kiss her once, right out there on that very porch. Just a peck mind you, which Eve had not returned.

So it was eerily deja-vu-ish to open the door and find him standing there again, sans flowers, a bigger and better version of the same Pooh McCann, although this older (and larger) Pooh was wearing very nearly the same t-shirt and ball cap he’d worn way back when.

“Pooh?” As it always had when they were kids a snicker escaped Eve when she said his name, although there was really nothing funny about him anymore. Her Pooh was all grown up! He was easily a head taller than she was now, while time and a southern sun had removed any baby-ishness from his face. And below his now chiseled face taut muscles strained against his t-shirt and jeans. Eve’s inability to look away from him flushed her face and neck with a tell-tale signal that Pooh fortunately did not seem to notice. Good God, but her little Pooh was gorgeous!

”Hello Eve. They said you’d be coming in today, and I saw the car in the drive, so… But hey, I’m really sorry about Patricia. Really and truly I am.”

Eve was confused. Patricia? Patricia, her mother? Pooh was calling her mother Patricia? Since when? Before replying, as a woman will, Eve stalled for time by brushing the hair away from her face, giving her thoughts a chance to gather themselves. And what was he doing here now? Had he only come to offer condolences? Or was there something more to this visit?

“Yes, of course. Thank you.” He had come to her, so she would let him begin.

Sensing her puzzled curiosity, Pooh explained himself. “We’ve been planting over here since your father passed. Patricia… err, Mrs. Forrester and I, we split the profits fifty-fifty, her land-my labor. The proceeds helped her to keep the place up, and I have to admit that the extra money has helped us out as well. I have no idea what your plans are, if you even plan to keep the farm, that is. But I thought I’d come on over when I saw the car out front? I hope you don’t mind. But if you do decide to keep working it, and I hope you will decide to, we’d love to continue helping, but if so we’ll need to get started soon. It‘s already pretty late in the season, you know?”

No, Eve did not know, and she did not like not knowing. At her own job she was used to being in command of every situation. Her every intention had been to sell, up until now that is. But this might offer a chance to get closer to Pooh, to get to know him again? Who knew… she might even rekindle his old flame?

“You said ‘we’?”

With Pooh’s attractiveness still stimulating her Eve readily stepped onto the porch to see where his tanned and muscular arm was pointing. In moving closer-up beside him she was introduced to the pleasant, musty scent of red-clay soil which emanated from him, and to the the sickly sweetness of motor oil, as well as a cottony perspiration smell that worked into her like magic, reminding her of the favorite, slobber-soiled fabric “Teddy” bear of her childhood, his aromas pulling Eve in and adding to her temporarily addled brain. But as her eyes followed to where his arm pointed her mood was slammed from its clear, blue skies like a shotgunned quail back to a harsh and unforgiving earth.

For over there in the eastern pasture chugged a blue and white tractor. Perched proudly on it‘s seat was a boy of thirteen or so. Another, even younger boy rode shotgun beside that one. Worse, a woman was balancing herself on the tractor’s hitch plate while clinging to the back of the seat. The woman was somewhat pretty, even if she was dressed roughly the same as Pooh was; cute in her own boots, jeans and ball cap, the cap swishing a soft-looking, blondish pony-tail behind it. If she’d felt like being mean right then Eve might have commented that the woman was a wee bit chunky, but she did not feel like it, like being mean, that is. Well, she did feel like it, but she couldn’t, could she? Pooh McCann was not just another soulless stranger who was forced to be nice to her no matter what kind of bitch she acted like just because he was on her payroll, was he?

Shit.

”I don’t know, Pooh. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with the place yet.”

As they always will do the old, happy memories turned to shit once liquor was poured. And then came the inevitable texts from work. Could the incompetent boobs not even leave her alone to grieve (as if that was what she was doing)? But of course that was what she was doing! That was what Eve always did. And when darkness finally descended she was alone again, only now she was all alone in this gigantic house.

Shit indeed.

Eve woke with a start, her head and her bearings off kilter, to find her old bedroom awash in a glittering, silvery gleam which the midnight moonlight usually reserved for wind-stirred wheat fields, or for heavily rolling waters (although the bedroom no longer resembled her childhood one, as all of her girlish “things” had long since been packed away). Even as Eve watched them the moonlight glitters swirled together at the foot of her bed, slowly taking on the unmistakable shape of a woman, a woman whom Eve at first disdainfully assumed to be her mother, although her straining eyes could not yet make out any distinguishable features through the paleness of it’s light.

But the glitters continued their swirling’s and gatherings, and in her fascination of them Eve forgot to be afraid. It soon became apparent that the glitters floating about were not from the moonlight at all, but were of the woman… or the apparition… or the dream, whichever one “she” was. And sadly, Eve’s drunk and drowsy state refused to let her care, so she simply waited and watched. What was there to fear anyways? If it was a woman, then she would only talk, as that is what women do. And if it was an apparition, then with any luck it would take her mournful soul away... far, far away. And if it was a dream, as Eve expected it would be, then she would simply wake, wouldn’t she?

Eve hoped it was not a dream, as the first two options seemed preferable.

Settled now into their feminine form the glitterings did not diminish, but continued their subtle attack upon the darkness, their numbers brightening the room as they gathered together like wasps to a hive. Thusly illuminated Eve could see that it was not her mother’s form at all, but neither could she deny a shared resemblance with the apparition, even though the matronly ghost looked to be considerably older than Eve’s thirty-six years. Still though, their physical commonalities shone through its glittering wrinkles, as Eve and this ghost shared similarly pert noses, thinly drawn lips, and even the same intelligent brows which arched over the same expressive eyes which judged Eve back from her mirror each morning. Eve found herself vainly comforted by these feminine likenesses, that comfort making her more curious about this midnight interloper than frightened by her. “Who was she, and why had she come,” Eve wondered? She wished she’d paid better attention when Mother had explained those old photographs to her, describing the lives of their family matriarchs. Had she paid more attention then Eve might recognize who this ghostly woman was, but as it stood she had no idea. Only that it must be some figure from her family’s long history.

The minutes ticked by as ghost and mortal examined one another, each curiously fascinated by the other. When the apparition finally spoke it was with a not unexpected directness, as their sort of woman has always felt untethered from any necessity for pleasantries, irregardless of their places on any historical timeline.

“What are you doing?” The apparition’s drawl was too pleasant to be off-putting, it’s southern lilt roundly bending the words, though not enough to actually fracture them. Eve framed the idea that this ghost’s voice was the very sound pancake syrup would undoubtedly make while sliding off of hot butter, supposing it could choose its own sound to make of course; the voice being that smooth, that warm, and that delectable. It was so warm in fact that Eve unconsciously set about mimicking it, and did not do a horrible job of it either, as the ability had always laid somewhere down there in her genetics awaiting it’s moment to emerge.

But it was too vague an inquiry, Eve thought. What exactly did the ghost woman mean? Did she mean “what am I doing this very moment?” Or, ”what am I doing in this house?“ Or was it, “what am I doing with my life?“ How was Eve to know which? She did not know, so she decided to answer from a position of strength.

“I am sleeping in my own bedroom, and minding my own business. The real question is who are you, and what are you doing here?” Eve was disappointed to hear the callous brusqueness in her own voice. She had never before cared that her tone was so grating until hearing this cleaner, undeniably better one.

”Is that what you are doing? Sleeping?“ There was a calculated pause before the glowing woman continued, “And alone, I might add.” The ghost’s un-kind words did not sting nearly so much as the sarcastic smile which followed them.

Good grief! Perhaps this ghost was Eve’s mother? It certainly used the same tone that her mother used. Eve’s nostril’s distended as if she smelled something bad. ”I am fine sleeping alone (“Bitch”, she did not need to add).”

”Are you? Are you really? One thing I know, having once been one, is that no woman living on God's green earth is fine sleeping alone.”

This was a fact. Eve must be more careful. This “ghost” woman was no fool. “My mother slept here alone. Did you visit her, too?”

“Your mother was never alone here. Your mother lived surrounded by those she loved. As for who I am, and why am I here? I am here because my name is Evelyn Rouseau. My husband built this house for me. This is my house.“

”That’s where you’d be wrong.“ Eve did not like this ghost, and was feeling ornery. “It is my house now.”

”Is it? We shall see about that.”

”There is nothing to see. The house is mine, now. It is the only reason I am here.”

”You are here because I called you here, child… before it is too late.” Eve detected frost in the ghost’s tone.

Because of it Eve’s reply was equally cold and quick, perhaps a little too quick, but Eve felt like this ghost woman was getting the better of her, and she didn’t like it, though she regretted her quick words immediately. “Did your husband really build it for you? Or did his slaves build it for you, on land you stole from the Creek natives?”

Even the woman’s smile was familiar to Eve’s, breaking as icily as her own. ”Ahhh. Ashamed of us, are you? That is to be expected, I suppose.”

”You suppose?” Dammit, Eve did it again, but the non-plussed apparition quickly cut her down.

“Those things are not your concern, Missy. I have already been judged, and by better than you.”

The retort was not as vague as Eve wished it to be. She knew exactly what the woman meant by, “I have been judged.” Eve understood it so well in fact that a chill raced down her spine at the realization of it. There is a God! Or, at least something or someone to judge one’s deeds? And that this ghost was here right now, rather than being somewhere better, meant that the woman had been found lacking, did it not? Though Eve did not particularly like this ghost she found no comfort in that knowledge, as the ghost woman had undoubtedly come here for a reason, and that reason was obviously Eve. How lacking must Eve herself be that the dead found her situation dire enough to come back to warn her?

Eve was not such a bad person, was she? Yes, she was tough, but she’d had to be. Eve had worked herself up the ranks in a manly-man’s business. She was strong, and independently wealthy, but Eve could be kind when she felt like it. Her monthly donation to St. Jude’s was quite generous, though it was an admittedly small part of her overall salary, just enough really that she could tell solicitor’s that she, “gave at the office” without any accompanying guilt. Still, it was something charitable, and was more than most gave. She was a decent enough person, wasn’t she? Eve swallowed hard before asking the question that would supply her with the answer she needed, although she prepared herself to parry with an angry response if she felt that the answer given was the incorrect one. “Have you come here to tell me that I am bad?”

“No, Dear. I have not “come here” at all. I am always here. I have always been here. I have only made myself discernible to you now because we are worried about you.”

There was that word again, “we”. Eve was probably not going to like the answer to this question any more than she had when she asked it earlier in the day, but she felt that she had to ask it anyways. “We?”

”Yes... we.” The ghost was apparently not ready yet to humor her with specifics.

”Well then, if you are not here to tell me that I am bad, then what is it you are so worried about?”

”I have already told you what, if you would only listen. We are worried that you are alone.”

Eve chose to try deception. ”I am not that alone. I have friends.”

”Do you?”

So, deception wasn’t going to work. Looking up at her, Eve was relieved to find the ghost’s expression sympathetic. She could not have explained why, but feeling the need for honesty, Eve opened up right at the start with her hardest, most pitiable truth; the one truth she had considered over and over again every night for the past twenty-some years. Yet hearing it spoken out loud only highlighted the ridiculousness of her excuse. “I cannot help that people don’t like me.” Thankfully this admission, right in front of her antagonist, was not followed by the welling-up of tears.

As with any good therapist the ghost did not respond to Eve’s confession immediately, but waited quietly instead, knowing that once the spigot was opened a woman could not turn it off until her pressure was relieved. “Women don’t like that I am strong, and men are intimidated by me.”

The ghost actually chuckled at that revelation. “Are they? Really? The same men who march off to war for you… those men are intimidated by you? By thin, frail, little ’ol you? Hmmm. The same men who kill snakes for you, and spiders? The same men who protect you from bad people, who extinguish fires, and who rescue you from floods? Those same men who would willingly offer you their seats in a lifeboat are intimidated by you? A mere woman? My, you are a special one, aren’t you?”

”But they must be intimidated. I am not terribly ugly. Why else would none of them want to get to know me better?

”The better question for you to ask yourself is, why would they want to?”

”Why wouldn’t they want to? I am pretty, I am educated, I am successful… I have a lot to offer.”

”There are lots of pretty girls my dear. And any decent man already has those other things.”

Eve felt the anger boiling up inside her. “I suppose you are implying that I should cower submissively before a man, like you did when you were alive. I don’t think so, Granny. Women are beyond that now.”

”I am implying nothing of the kind. Come with me, Dear. I want to show you something.”

Eve followed the floating figure down the stairs, and into the foyer where it stopped in front of the painted portrait of a stern looking patriarchal man with an equally unsmiling woman seated at his side, a woman who did not look terribly unlike Eve herself but for the graying hair pulled back in a bun, the lack of make-up, and a very modest, high collared, skin covering dress.

”That is you in the picture, isn’t it?”

”Yes, it is.” There followed a long moment of silence as woman and ghost studied the painting.

”You were pretty.”

”Long before this was painted, maybe. But bearing children ages a woman.”

”How old were you here?”

”Thirty-five.”

Eve’s age? But she looked twice as old! “Oh my God.” Eve didn’t mean to say it out loud, but when she did so the ice she felt in her heart for the ghost melted away. What that man in the picture must have put Evelyn Rousseau through that she appeared so… so worn looking at just thirty-five years of age? “And how old was he,” Eve silently wondered.

”Forty-two, I believe.” The ghost answered without even being asked the question.

Forty-two! Eve would have guessed sixty, or even seventy! “Please don’t take this wrong, Evelyn Rousseau, but the woman in this picture doesn’t have the look of someone who should be preaching about happiness.”

”Ah, that is because you cannot see the whole picture. We were living in serious times, back then. Life was hard, but if you could see down just a little bit lower you would see that Charles’ hand is resting comfortably upon my thigh, and you’d see mine lying atop his. Our hands stayed exactly that way for the full six hours that it took Henry Allen to finish this painting. We were happy. It was a happy day which we both relished. There were not many days when we were able to spend so much time together. Charles had to work so hard! And on top of that, to answer your earlier question, he did build this house, although it was not so large then, and has been added-on to over the years. Charles built it when we were still poor. He built it with his own hands. My father tried to warn me away from Charles, telling anyone who would listen that his future son-in-law was an uneducated nincompoop, but Charles showed him! He was quite competent, Charles was. There was almost nothing he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do for us.”

”For us? Who else, besides you?”

”Why, the children, of course.” The ghostly figure slid itself over to the next set of picture frames on the wall. The men and women in the two paintings were equally as stern looking as the first, though obviously younger. “These are the two of our six who survived to adulthood. Charles Jr. had his father’s looks, but it was my side his personality took after. We were so proud when Charlie became a doctor, and a good one too, so good that he was made a surgeon during the war. Our Charlie was twenty-three when he caught dysentery and passed. Charlie tried, but he never made it back home to Abby. He passed aboard “The Memphis” right outside of Charleston Bay. His widowed-wife was seventeen, the child he never saw having recently celebrated her first birthday. Poor Abigail never recovered from the loss of him. She moved in here with us, of course. We did our best for her, but she was so distraught. The girl was suddenly husbandless with a baby to care for, and no income. There was war raging all around us at the time. New lists of the dead were arriving almost daily; her husband on one, a brother on the next list, and then another brother on another list. Here was a friend gone, and there an acquaintance. Abigail was so young and innocent, with a heart as big as any ocean. Every name she knew hit her so hard.“ Evelyn looked my way then. “How fortunate you are to have missed all of that, although I would not trade those memories of Charlie and Abby for anything, and will cling to them for all of eternity.

“But here I am,“ Evelyn followed her story sorrowfully. “Going on like an old fool when my time with you is nearly up.”

”No!“ Eve looked down at the row of as yet unexplained portraits. There were so many more pictures, so many more ancestors of whom she knew nothing. Her people. “Please don’t go, Evelyn. I need to know more.”

”It can be learned. There are records. The one thing I can tell you now is this. You are living your life in competition, as though men are your enemy. Men are not the enemy, Eve. With men comes all of this,” Evelyn gestured all around, but mostly down the long row of portraits. “From men comes companionship, love, security, family… life. Without them women are nothing, you are nothing, just as he is nothing without you, and therein lies your strength… that you are as necessary as he is. Be what you are, Dear. And allow him to be what he is. We are destined to suffer apart, but together... together man and woman are eternal.”

It was a bright Georgia sun through the window that woke Eve, that and the chugging of a distant tractor. Had she slept in? No, Eve never slept in! Curious, she donned her robe to check the noise. It was him on the tractor… Pooh! Descending the staircase toward the coffee pot she paused before the first in the long line of portraits on the wall, feeling strangely drawn to it, or rather to the man in it. There was a lot to do today, and many decisions to make. Eve wondered what the man in the portrait would do if he was her? He certainly looked competent enough to make a decision, though Eve suspected that whatever decisions he made would be with the woman sitting next to him in front of mind. In fact, on closer inspection, the man in the portrait looked somewhat like Darryl, that lead engineer at work. Darryl was competent too, he only lacked drive… or maybe it was not drive he lacked, but inspiration? In any event Darryl was undoubtedly bright. If Eve could only find a way to motivate him then the two of them might form a formidable team… possibly even a team outside of work?

Huh. That was a strange thought, when Eve had always worked best alone, but thinking on it, Darryl did have strengths in some of those areas she was trying to improve on. Perhaps they could help each other?

Pausing at the next picture, it was the woman this time that drew Eve’s attention; so young to be married, yet the artist had applied a happy sparkle to her eyes that for some reason made Eve blue. The woman, a girl really, looked too vivacious to be alone… but why would Eve even think that? The girl in the painting was not alone, was she? She had the man that she loved beside her, and a glow about her that not even the darkened oil paints could dampen, and the girl had a whole life left to live, besides. Yet this thought crept into Eve’s mind. ”Fate is fickle, is it not? Love while you are able!”

The coffee on, Eve hurried upstairs and dressed. With cups in either hand she headed out to the field.

The dying of the tractor’s chugging engine created a heavy silence which his smile thankfully broke.

“Good morning!” She held the extra cup up in invitation.

”Good morning to you!”

”I have decided to keep it! The house, that is! And I would like for you to keep working the fields, if you would? I have no idea what to do with them, or how to do it? But I can learn!”

”Of course you can. But it won’t be me working them. It’s really Charlie who worked for Patricia… err, for Mrs. Forrester.”

”Charlie?”

”Yea, my son.” Pooh’s smile was contagious.

Eve was surprised. ”The one on the tractor yesterday? But he’s so young!”

”Nah. You gotta start sometime! Charlie made nearly three thousand dollars working for Patricia just last summer. He’s working to pay his way through college someday, if that’s what he decides to do. Or for a head start on a business loan, whichever. Of course, I make him rent the tractor, and pay for the seed.” Pooh winked knowingly at her. “At least he thinks he is paying for it.”

”And that woman yesterday was your wife?”

”Bitsy?” He laughed. “Yea, she’s the best. And what a mother! Those are the luckiest kids ever!”

”Yes. Yes they are. And you are lucky, too.”

”You bet I am.”

Eve took his empty cup and turned back towards the house.

”Hey, Eve?”

She turned to face him.

”I’m glad you’re back.”

And she could tell that he was. It was such a little thing he said, to mean so much.

The enemy had broken through the wall. The battle raged as brave knights, sworn to protect the kingdom, fiercely took arms against the marauding invaders. Gina’s father, who was the King, was nowhere to be found. The smoke from all the fires that had been lit had reached Gina’s room high in the castle. They were coming for her. If they found her, they would take her as a prisoner and publicly execute her, along with any of the other members of the royal family they happened to capture alive.

Gina knew of a secret passage in the walls. It was to be used in case of a dire emergency and her current circumstances qualified. The problem was that once she got into the passageway, which broke off here and there and presented choices to be made at which way to go, she didn’t possess the knowledge to make an informed decision.

Compounding that was that she didn’t have much time to decide. She finally came to a stop, paralyzed with indecision.

“This way mistress” a voice called. Gina ran toward the voice. It belonged to a peasant girl. Gina had never seen her before and from Gina’s perspective she hadn’t really noticed the peasants that served her. The fact is she never paid close enough attention to them to be able to tell them apart. She didn’t hesitate to follow. As mentioned before, she didn’t have much time to think, and she couldn’t just stay where she was.

Gina was sure that she had this dream before. It took her a few minutes, but she finally remembered. The peasant girl was taking her to the wizard and the wizard was going to banish her. As she was following the peasant girl, she had to think about what she was going to do. She had the power to stop what was happening to her. She just had to figure out how to do it.

Gina had safely escaped the Kingdom and was on a path toward the sea. The peasant girl had not let go of her hand. She was taking her somewhere specific. Gina let go of the girl’s hand.

“You are not safe yet, mistress” The peasant girl warned, “we still have to keep moving”. The peasant girl grabbed Gina’s hand and dragged her along the path. They go to the edge of a large cliff. The jagged rocks below betrayed a fateful end to anyone who jumped or was pushed off. The peasant girl found another secret passageway. One cleverly concealed in the rocks and they both entered. After going for what seemed like forever, Gina found herself in a cavern. The man with the cloak was there. The young man who was restrained was also there.

“I have brought her as you requested.” The peasant girl announced.

“You have done well, are you prepared to meet your fate.” The wizard asked. Gina just watched this exchange. She thought of the young man both free and healed. In a moment the young man leaped toward the Wizard. He had a sword in his hand.

Before he could deliver a blow to the wizard, a knight came out of the shadows to oppose him. He was also carrying a sword. The two men locked swords and a battle ensued. Gina recognized the knight as one of the Kings. Why would one of the King’s loyal knights protect this traitor? Gina had to do something to help her champion. She thought the King’s knight’s armor to disappear. When she did that, it disappeared but as soon as it disappeared, it reappeared again.

“You're getting better.” The wizard announced, “But you still don’t get it. You are not the one in control here. I am”

“I’m not afraid of you.” Gina proclaimed.

“You should be afraid of yourself.” The wizard corrected. “You are the one who is causing all these people to suffer.”

“I’m not the traitor.” Gina screamed.

Gina had a thought, and the Wizard was the one who was now restrained. The Wizard had a thought of his own and the young man no longer had a sword. The knight who he was engaged in battle with stopped his attack once he saw that the young man was no longer holding a weapon.

Carla was watching the entire scenario play out and clearly did not want to be there, but she wasn’t sure what she should do. Gina thought up another bow and arrow but this time for the young man who was now without a sword. The young man pulled back the bow and let an arrow fly toward the wizard. The knight easily deflected the arrow, and it bounced harmlessly off one of the cave walls. The Wizard released himself from his restraint.

The young man was back in his own restraint. Gina was back in her restraint. Her attempts at change had failed. Gina wasn’t ready to give up just yet. She thought her way out of her own restraints. She had a small dagger in her hand. She rushed toward the Wizard in a desperate attempt to cause him some kind of wound. She was grabbed from behind.

It was the peasant girl. Gina swung her hand around as the peasant girl let her go and jumped back to avoid getting cut. She wasn’t fast enough, and the girl got a nasty cut on the palm of her hand. Gina woke up. She saw Carla and immediately recognized her as the peasant girl in her dream.

“What did you do that for?” Gina protested, “I almost beat him this time.”

“No, you didn’t.” Carla announced solemnly. Gina recoiled in horror as she saw the blood dripping down the palm of Carla’s hand.

On the show today, Mazzy Star lights the way into a dark and light wave of five unyielding talents from Prose. Mariah leads the rest of the requests, down or up through the beauty of these brains, all wrapped in a bow from Russia with love.

Here's the link, you magnificent mofos.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5TII4uFRDm8

And here are the pieces featured.

https://www.theprose.com/post/804782/dusk https://www.theprose.com/post/811051/converted-brahmanist-2024-spinoza

https://www.theprose.com/post/808088/you-took https://www.theprose.com/post/810984

https://www.theprose.com/post/810980/leftovers https://www.theprose.com/post/811048/-

The Last Time

The last time I heard her speak

She was sure of her words

"Tell my children I love them

You, my husband, already know"

The last time I saw her walk

She spun on her heel

Giving me a glimpse of what first attracted me

And what kept me under her spell

The last time we ate dinner

I gave her the night off

Her favorite was eggplant parmigiana

The fine wine, I chose, covered for my cooking errors

The last time we said good night

I dreamt of our future together

Awashed in laughter and love

Void of pain and sorrow

The last time I saw you

Before they closed the coffin

I recited our wedding vows

Knowing we would (someday) meet again