The Montgomery family has always been strange. People in town know it, and act accordingly. The other schoolchildren are not allowed to play with Vivian or Henry Montgomery, and the adults remain coolly polite to Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery. 

Everyone knows that something about them just isn't quite right. But they never would have guessed that they are witches and warlocks. 

They own a store in town filled with curious items. Only a few people in town have bought something from them, and most of what they purchased caused strange things to happen. 

Mrs. Thompson, for instance, bought a beautiful hand carved grandfather clock. Ever since, she's been insisting that every day is Friday the twelfth or November. 

Jillian Hanley purchased a box of chocolates tied with a silver bow that was just too pretty to pass up. She's been eating a piece a day for months now, and it's always back in the box by the time she opens it again. 

I caught you in the city with poetry on your lips.

How could I not fall in love with a forever wearing such blue eyes?

(But where do we leave whispered future promises

if we're reduced from skies of stars to static on phone lines?)

I'd pack myself inside a heart-shaped locket if you promise

you'll open it up someday and find a face you still love.

Hidden in the midnight

creaks of floor boards,

inside of the sharp

chips of coffee mugs,

mounted in the dusty

frames of forgotten families

are the words

of Life's poetry.

Our stories are told

line by line as

stanzas formed by memories

flow from pens in memoriam

of grandfathers and pets,

childhood sweethearts and

lazy Sunday evenings.

But the memories

we keep at bay

strain to be heard; 

their voices cry as loud as

the floor boards, mugs, and frames.

They beg us to remember

that poetry also lurks in

what haunts us and

the memories we choose

to forget.

Sit up straight, stand up tall, and learn to breathe.

In and out. In and out.

Feel that?

This is who you are behind the noise and the fear.

Why so serious? Life is not the situation room.

You're from Matawan, NJ.

Laugh. A lot. Especially at you. I'm laughing at you now.

And know that holding back your smile is stealing your joy.

Bank on you because you've got a lot to offer, but stay curious and be a student of life.

You'll do the latter anyway. You can't help it. But make the former a practice.

Listen.

Raise your voice in more ways than one. You need to be heard.

Screwing up is not failure. Its an opportunity to grow.

Find the lesson and learn from it.

Don't worry, you look fine.

Oh yeah,

Breathe.

Sincerely,

You in 10 years

He drew up at the customs checkpoint with the confident air of a man who had nothing to hide and only some Taiwanese-made Shrike sport shoes to declare. 

'Just a half-load then?', said the customs officer, looking into the back of the 40ft container. 

'Yeah', he answered. 'Business is tight'. It was tight all right. That's why he had gone into the lucrative people-smuggling game. 

Today, however, he was in the clear, 100pc legitimate. 

The previous night he had crossed the border from the Republic of Ireland on an unapproved back road to deliver 20 Syrian refugees into Northern Ireland. 

From there they would be taken by others on the various lightly checked ferry routes to their final destinations in mainland Britain. 

He had driven back to the Republic by the same route. 

This morning he was getting on with the legitimate business of transporting Shrike shoes from the Freeport of Rotterdam to their final destination in the UK. 

'Took your time getting from Cork to Newry', didn't you, commented the officer casually. 

'Stayed a night with my sister near Cashal', he said glibly, as the officer checked the manifest. 

This official was a sharp one all right, knowing something was wrong, even if he couldn't quite put his finger on what. 

The driver thanked his lucky stars that he hadn't been stopped during the tense drive from The Netherlands to France or at the customs in Roscoff before boarding the ferry for Cork. At least here, at the Northern Ireland botder, everything was in order.  

'Shrike shoes', said the officer. 'Very nice. I suppose they are genuine?'

'100 per cent genuine', said the driver confidently. 'It's a new brand. Not even on sale yet.'

The customs officer nodded. 'Hold on a second, I need to make a quick call. We've been getting a lot of complaints about counterfeit goods.'

Another customs officer took the place of the first one and started going through the paperwork again. The driver knew better than to protest. 

In the background he could just hear the first officer saying, 'Shrike shoes. You're sure? Thanks.'

The second officer, picked out a box of shoes at random from the big container. Some boxes had become loose on transit. 

Inside the soft tissue packing nestled a very old and very worn pair of Rebok shoes. 

One shoe had a large hole at the big toe. The sole of the other shoe had come half unstuck and flapped when lifted. 

Inside the box lid someone had scrawled in pencil:

Camel dealers need

Higher doors than shoemakers

Al-hamdu Illah

The driver looked at the worn shoes in astonishment. 

'Very interesting', said the second officer. 'I don't think these are on the manifest are they?' 

He waved the flapping shoes at his colleague, who seemed unsurprised. 

'Funny you should mention Shrike shoes', said the first officer. 

'I was chatting to my cousin Charlie who's also in the customs. Based in Scotland. They stopped a load of 20 Syrians at Stranraer ferryport this morning. Routine check. 

'Poor sods, you've got to have sympathy for their plight when all's said and done. Ragged and starving they were.'

The driver suddenly began to feel that his shirt collar was buttoned too tight. 

The officer continued. 'But you know what's funny?  Every single one of them was wearing a brand new pair of Shrike shoes.'