I wipe the foggy window of the bus. "Hey look there's a guy in a white shirt and boxers running beside the bus!"

"Driver, stop the bus! Dude running"

Driver waves at me, keeps driving. "Naaa man, he's in training"

"For what? He's got boxers on!"

"Oh good! Yesterday he had no pants on...."

Ever get one of those forty second blinks on the back of a what the....

What if mom forgot to turn off the lights?

Pick up your shoes and referee fights.

What if she never washed another dish?

Didn't do the laundry or feed your fish.

What if mom didn't make you a snack?

Didn't remind you to take your backpack.

What if she never picked up your clothes?

Or wrappers, socks, and misplaced Legos.

What if mom never read to you in bed?

Didn't kiss ouchies or cheeks or foreheads.

What if instead she slept in till eight?

Waited until she was refreshed and awake.

What if she relaxed and read a good book?

Or watched T.V. while someone else cooked.

What if mom never nagged you as well?

Let the house get dirty and start to smell.

Or what if instead you worked as a team?

Maybe mom would be less stressed and mean.

See moms want to play and have lots of fun.

But she can't if her work's never done.

I believe in miracles

I believe in God

I believe in true love

I believe in overcoming addiction

I believe in fixing what seems forever broken 

I believe in peace

George stood, staring at the closed up doorway, in anticipation. The patterned paper on the wall started to come together and swirl around into a whirlpool of colours, like a dancing rainbow. It was as if the library knew what George’s intentions were. The colours then began to stretch out into the distance and it was almost as if he could see what was on the other side, but rippled, like looking into a pool of water, gently wafted by the wind. He felt every nerve ending in his body jangling within him, and on the tips of his fingers, as he gripped the Myths and Legends book tightly in his right hand. He had never felt so nervous in all of his life. He had also never felt so alive.

‘So you know what to do,’ Molly repeated.

‘Yes, Molly,’ he shouted back, ‘you’ve told me enough times and I’ve got the book as well if I need to check anything.’

He took several deep breaths and counted to three in his head before declaring;

‘Okay, here goes,’ he yelled.

He ran as hard and fast as he could across the room and, with a loud whumph, disappeared into the portal.

*

George picked himself up and wearily dusted himself off, spitting tiny specks of dirt from between his lips and picking clumps of moss and grass from his jacket with his finger tips.

He’d been catapulted through the doorway, with flailing arms and legs, making him tumble down into a messy heap. He made a mental note not to take such a long run up in future.

He looked over his shoulder. The portal was in between a couple of trees, where two large branches had met to make a huge archway. Apart from a few reasonably large boulders there was nothing else around him, except mist and darkness. He was in the middle of a field and the ground beneath his feet felt soft and squishy. In the distance he could see the outline of a wood and guessed that this must be where he was supposed to head for. He took the reading glasses off, which were askew on is face anyway, and put them, with the book, into his satchel which was slung around his shoulders. He decided it would be best, on this occasion, to leave the bookmark in place, because he had the feeling he would need to make a quick escape, later on.

With carefully placed footsteps he proceeded towards the haggard trees. Upon reaching the woods George didn’t feel any better about the prospect of entering into them. Luckily the moon above was bright, but in the thick canopy of the foliage, this would offer no help. He slipped his hand into the bag and blindly rummaged around until he chanced upon something metallic and cold to the touch. He pulled out a small thin torch about four inches in length. He normally used it to read under the bedcovers when he was supposed to have put the lights out and gone to sleep. It didn’t offer much light, but it would be enough to see the ground in front of him, so he could at least place step after slow step.

George moved forwards, tracing what appeared to be a track worn in the earth by past visitors. As the undergrowth got thicker he could feel wet leaves slapping and clawing at his clothes. Eventually, after several long minutes, he reached a narrow clearing about ten metres in length. At the other end he could just about make out two paths that headed off in different directions.

All of a sudden, as if on cue, he heard a faint voice coming from the direction of the path on the right.

‘This way George,’ it whispered, ‘this is the way to what you seek.’

The voice drifted and swayed in the air, singing to him in a magically enchanted way. He found it impossible to resist and moved off in the direction of the voice, as if hypnotised by its sound.

‘Come on George,’ it sang, majestically, ‘not much longer now, nearly there.’

George’s feet began to move more rapidly, carrying his body along quicker, but not quite jogging. He was now completely oblivious to anything he was stumbling into, determined to reach the source of the voice. Suddenly, as he crashed through the branches of a large bramble, the ground gave way underneath him and he began to fall.

With an instinct he didn’t realise he possessed his left arm shot out to try to grab something, anything, to halt the descent. He got lucky. A tree root was protruding out of the earth on the edge of the ravine, and he managed to hook his wrist into it. Somehow, with one fluid movement, he swung his body around to grab it with the other hand, ramming the torch into his mouth in the process, to leave him dangling over a drop which he could now see was at least a hundred feet deep. As he hung there stones mixed with earth crumbled over his head and body into the darkness below.

He didn’t dare to move, hanging there for what seemed like several minutes, trying to regain his composure and strength. Eventually he slowly, delicately, scrabbled and heaved his way back to the top before collapsing on his back, his chest heaving to regain some of breath back into it, with his ankles still hanging over the edge.

‘How could I have been such a fool,’ he remonstrated with himself. ‘What’s the point in having a survival guide if I don’t even consult it first?’

He pulled himself up onto his haunches before grabbing the torch, which was now on the sodden ground beside him after falling from his clenched teeth, and took the book out. He opened it up at the appropriate page.

When searching for the Leprechauns lair, situated usually in a cave deep in some woods, be wary of the Pixies. These mischievous little creatures are the bane of travellers and like nothing more than to lead them down the wrong path, often into danger.

He continued scanning the paper until;

One way of fooling a Pixie, so as to be sure not to be led off in the wrong direction, is to turn your overcoat inside out. This confuses them long enough for you to reach your destination…………be careful though, Pixies love Leprechaun gold and, once it is dug up from the ground, can smell it from miles around. No amount of treachery on your part will deter them from trying to steal it from you.

George put the book away and proceeded to turn his jacket inside out. He then gathered all his things together, straightened himself out, and headed back in the direction of the clearing. When he reached it he then took the other path. It wasn’t long before George could see, about twenty metres ahead of him, a cave in the side of a rocky outcrop. The trick with his jacket must have worked, because now he was making good time, unhindered.

The mouth of the cave wasn’t very big, only about four feet in diameter, but, brushing aside some of the foliage overhanging the entrance, he could see that it opened up into a much larger chamber inside, of which there was a small fire burning in the centre.

‘H..hello,’ he shouted into the cave, hearing the echo bounce around the walls. ‘Is anyone there?’

He waited a few seconds but there was no reply so he tried again;

‘I don’t mean to harm you, honest….please can I come in.’

Again he waited, without reply.

I suppose I should go in and wait then, he thought to himself but, just as he was about to crawl into the opening, a little, sharp featured, bearded face appeared from out of nowhere and blew fairy dust into his eyes.

*

‘Blisterin’ buff –gumbles,’ grunted the voice.

George fuzzily came to his senses as his vision adjusted to the dim, flickering, light.

Straddled across the top of the fire was now a small cauldron on a metal stand, with some kind of concoction bubbling away inside it, which the Leprechaun was taking sips from with a wooden ladle. He was muttering things in a strange language, while adding pinches of this and that.

‘Oh, so you’re awake then are ye’,’ he exclaimed in a distinct Irish accent. ‘Stormin’ in all uninvited like that, no manners ye’ aven’t, ye’ darned dumbimble.’

‘Sorry,’ George offered, rubbing his head. Now he knew what a hangover must feel like, or so he thought. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude….it’s just that I need to, well…’

‘I know what ye’ be needin’ ye’ great big scruff-guffle.’ He interrupted, flatly. ‘Ye’ don’t think now that you’re the only one to ‘ave been ‘ere wantin’ some of me gold do ye?’

George hadn’t considered it before, but of course he wasn’t.

‘Oh right, er yes well, if I could just have a couple of pieces then I’ll be on my way and I can leave you in peace...’

‘Ye’ don’t just get to come waltzin’ in ‘ere and expectin’ to take away some gold jus’ like that ye’ know,’ the Leprechaun protested, ‘you have to, let’s say, steal it from me, in a manner of speakin’.’

He studied the bemused look on George’s face, before adding;

‘Look in the darned book ye’ great big pile o’ stinkin’ pugmumble.’

George was shocked by the Leprechauns rudeness, which was in contrast to his tidy appearance, dressed neatly in a finely tailored bright red suit with gold edging and shiny, polished, buckles on his shoes and hat.

Again he took out the book and found the relevant paragraph –

Upon finding and meeting the Leprechaun you will find him most accommodating, but at the same time a rambunctious character, owing to his solitary existence. The only way he will allow you to ‘steal’ gold from him is to make him laugh. Warning: do not try to take the gold from him when his back is turned, for all you will end up with is a bag of smelly dirt.

George took a long, slow, gulp. This was going to be an impossible task he thought as he looked back across at the Leprechaun, arms folded, waiting, with a stony face.

‘Come on, bring it on, give it ye’ best,’ he said. ‘An’ I don’t wan’ te be hearin’ the same ones ye’ Ma an’ Pa told me last time either. Good as they were, I be hearin’ ‘em already now.’

George was stumped. All the best jokes he’d ever heard had been told to him by his mum and dad. He delved into the deep recesses of his memory to try and remember a few from the school playground.

‘Okay, here goes,’ he announced, ‘what type of monster really likes to dance?’

There was no reaction from the Leprechaun.

‘A boogie man,’ George said, enthusiastically.

Still no face movement from the diminutive man sitting opposite.

‘Alright, maybe not that one then…erm...how about this one: What do you call a fairy that never has a bath?......Stinkerbell.’

Still nothing, not even the slightest crease of the upper lip.

‘Oh come on,’ George said, ‘surely you found that funny?’

‘Oh, to be sure, it was mildly amusin’, but not enough to make me split me britches.’

He saw the fettered look pasted on George’s face and, almost but not quite, felt sorry for him.

‘Look, I tell ye’ what, ye can have one more try. Think of the best one ye’ can, but then ye’ll have to feddle yer diddle an’ let me have me supper, okay.’

‘Right, it’s a deal,’ George replied, biting his lip in deep consideration. ‘Are you ready for it?’

‘Go on; give it ye’ best shot.’

‘Okay, here goes,’ He shouted.

George jumped up and darted around the fire, pounced on the Leprechaun, and bundled him onto his front, tickling him furiously all over his tiny body. The Leprechaun started letting out high pitched giggles and squeals.

‘Alright, alright,’ he gasped, ‘you win….leave me alone or I’ll wet meself.’

George pulled away, catching his breath, emitting little ‘he’s’ and ‘ha’s’. He hadn’t had that much fun in a long time. By now the Leprechaun had lifted himself off the cave floor and was releasing little, excited, breathless gasps.

‘Bhago Dhaia, boy, that’s the best of ‘em yet. I’ll gladly give ye’ some o’ me gold. Follow me,’ he said.

The Leprechaun wiggled his finger, directing George to follow him to the back of the cave, picking up a small spade on the way. He plucked a twig out of the ground and started digging on the same spot. Not long after he lifted a miniature treasure chest out of the hole and shook the earth off the top of it.

He then lifted it up to his mouth and whispered something into the lock and the lid clicked open. Inside it there were several tiny leather bags. Leprechaun gold was obviously not very big.

‘Here, take a bag. There’s a few pieces in there, ought te last ye’ a while,’ he said, ‘but ye’’ll need te be quick now mind, the pixies’ll already be smellin’ the scent.’

‘Thank you,’ George said, shaking his hand, before slinging the satchel around his neck and scrambling back outside the cave.

He didn’t want to waste any time as he sprinted back along the track, hurdling over the outline of tree trunks and ducking under branches. The idea of being beaten up and robbed by a gang of marauding pixies wasn’t his idea of a good time.

As he made his way along the path, crashing through branches and brambles, he could hear little yelping sounds to the rear of him and to the side. His heart thumped inside his chest and his legs pumped even harder as the noise got louder and louder.

He finally reached the edge of the wood and exploded into the field, sending leaves and undergrowth flying into the air. He could see the portal in the distance, the mist having now cleared. It was only now, in the bright moonlight, that George could see his pursuers, and then wished he hadn’t looked. Hundreds of tiny blue figures, about a foot in height, all dressed in green costumes swarmed out from every opening at the edge of the trees and closed in on him in a massive semi-circle. Red, silver and purple Pixie dust exuded from every footstep, rising, to create a huge bulging cloud in the air.

Closer and closer he got to the archway, but he was now tiring, his lungs protesting vigorously to every yard of ground he covered. A few of the Pixie front runners had jumped onto him, swinging from his coat tails and pulling at his hair while they clamped their legs to his shoulders.

He flayed his arms around, batting and swatting them away, keeping the leather pouch of gold tightly enclosed in his fist. He only had a few feet to go now so, with a sudden burst of energy and resolve, he took a huge leap head first into the portal, leaving several confused Pixies gliding through the air.

‘We need you to get some Leprechaun gold George,’ Molly stated, as a matter of fact.

George sat there open mouthed.

‘Some what?’ he replied.

‘Leprechaun gold – that’s why you have the Myths and Legends survival guide,’ said Molly.

‘But why? Do you think we’ll need some kind of ransom for my parents?’

George was now finding it hard to take all this in.

‘No,’ said Molly, shaking her head. ‘Let me explain. When you go back to see the Captain and Lady Jane they won’t know who you are, right’

‘Yes, you explained that, but where does the Leprechaun gold come into it?’

‘I was coming to that,’ Molly protested.

‘Oh, sorry,’ said George.

‘Well, the first owner of Arrington hall, the man who had the house built and hid the scroll, realised the potential of the library, in being able to come back in time and visit past ancestors, like him for instance.’

‘Okay.’ George wasn’t convinced.

Molly rolled her eyes into the back of her head.

‘He also realised the importance of the three scrolls and that one day it was bound to happen, but he couldn’t risk just anybody hearing about it and then turning up and claiming to be a long lost relative or a future one for that matter. He figured he would have to come up with a secret code or something so they could be sure who it was.’

‘So when I go back into their history,’ he said, hurriedly, ‘they will know who I am and help me if I give them some of the Leprechaun gold.’

‘Yes, by George, he’s got it, if you’ll pardon the expression.’ She exclaimed. ‘A simple piece of normal gold was not enough. He had to make it something rare and very hard to get hold of.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ George said, nervously.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Molly, ‘the survival guide you have there was compiled by the same man, after extensive research. It’s the only one to have ever been published. Your parents must have taken it from the library to hide it in your trunk.’

‘But wouldn’t you have noticed them doing this?’ George asked.

‘Look, just because I’m a member of the undead, it doesn’t mean I don’t like to have a rest or a snooze now and again,’ She protested. ‘ It can get boring in here sometimes, especially when no-one visits for years on end, and as for that lot, well, they never stop sleeping – and snoring, loudly,’ she added, with consternation, glancing at the old paintings on the wall, with the ink figures fidgeting restlessly within their frames..

‘It all sounds a bit long winded,’ George moaned, ‘Couldn’t he have just invented a secret handshake or something?’

‘No, that would have been too easily tortured out of someone. This way was safer.’

George gulped.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ he said. ‘If it’s so hard to do, why isn’t Uncle Felix doing it, instead of me?’

Molly could see the point George was making, but she also understood what his Uncle’s reasoning might have been.

‘Maybe your Uncle thought it was time for you to know about the family’s legacy,’ she suggested, ‘or that you had come of age, what with everything that’s happened recently in your life.’

Molly hesitated for a moment, and then decided that George needed to know the full story.

‘Also,’ she said, ‘your uncle hasn’t been in the library since before you were born.’

George was taken aback. His Uncle had been only too eager to point him in the direction of the library that morning. What could have possibly happened to make him not want to go back in? George shrugged his shoulders. Maybe instead of explaining everything to him, and have George believe he was a mad old fool, his Uncle had reckoned it would be better for him to discover the library for himself.

‘So why won’t he come back in here then?’ George said.

‘Well,’ Molly hesitated, ’it’s because of something that happened in a book he was visiting.

She sat, or rather hovered, into the chair opposite George and bowed her head.

‘He fell in love,’ she murmured.

‘Really,’ George shouted, smiling. ‘Good for him – but I don’t understand, why is that such a bad thing?’

‘Because it could never last, it was doomed from the start,’ Molly cried. 'The story cannot continue beyond a certain point and characters cannot be taken out of the books, only the odd prop that is not central to the main storyline, like some of the things you see in this house, or the silver keys for example.’

‘Oh,’ George said, simply.

It was obvious from the forlorn look on everyone’s faces, and of Molly’s especially, that this had been a very upsetting time when it had happened, all those years ago. His Uncle had obviously been much loved and was now severely missed.

‘So….what happened,’ he stammered, ‘I mean what book did it happen in?’

Molly looked up, her ghostly eyes red around the edges.

‘Have you heard of a book called 1001 Arabian nights,’ she said.

‘Er….vaguely.’

’Well, basically, the story is based around the tale of a princess who is due to be executed the following day by her husband the King, but each night she tells him a story, leaving it at a crucial moment to be continued the following evening.

‘Eager to know how the story continues he gives her a stay of execution, so that he can find out what happened next. Well she managed to continue this for 1001 nights.’

George listened intently, while Molly continued.

‘Well, your Uncle Felix went into the book and fell in love with the princess. Believing that her time was running out and that she really would be executed he came up with a daring plan to rescue her. But, it all went wrong I’m afraid…he headed back to the portal hand in hand with the princess, chased by axe wielding guards. Except the only problem was’, Molly sobbed, ‘is that upon reaching this side he was on his own, she couldn’t come through. It was only a fictional book so it also meant he couldn’t go back into it either.’

‘Blimey, he must’ve been devastated,’ George said.

‘Yes he was. You see even though she was only a made up character George,’ Molly added, ’to him it was all very real. He swore never to come back into the library, and since that day, he never has.’

*

George stood, staring at the closed up doorway, in anticipation. The patterned paper on the wall started to come together and swirl around into a whirlpool of colours, like a dancing rainbow. It was as if the library knew what George’s intentions were. The colours then began to stretch out into the distance and it was almost as if he could see what was on the other side, but rippled, like looking into a pool of water, gently wafted by the wind. He felt every nerve ending in his body jangling within him, and on the tips of his fingers, as he gripped the Myths and Legends book tightly in his right hand. He had never felt so nervous in all of his life. He had also never felt so alive.

‘So you know what to do,’ Molly repeated.

‘Yes, Molly,’ he shouted back, ‘you’ve told me enough times and I’ve got the book as well if I need to check anything.’

He took several deep breaths and counted to three in his head before declaring;

‘Okay, here goes,’ he yelled.

He ran as hard and fast as he could across the room and, with a loud whumph, disappeared into the portal.

He kept me alive within the pages of his artwork; splashed with numerous hues. My fingertips became his paintbrushes and I would freeze time just to be his muse. But, as the incessant clockwork had its way, my face soon seemed weary, laced with boredom. He is an artist; he can’t limit himself. Art is borderless but, love isn’t.

That raven-haired, ceramic-skinned assistant, Veronica soon served as an inspiration for the portraits he made. My lips remained sealed; I didn’t want to believe that I wasn’t his muse anymore. He concealed canvases and lied about working overtime; I couldn’t bring myself to utter something because my lips quivered every time he said he loved me but, didn’t mean it.

Hopelessness painted our house instead of vibrant hues on the night when over dinner, instead of halfhearted sweet-nothings, I asked about her. His mouth overflowed with denial but, I saw the guilt creep into his irises. My heart raced as he forcibly admitted the truth. The table was littered with incomplete verses, fully-bloomed falsehoods and a plate of the apple pie he adored.

When sunlight poured through the window, I threw everything that I thought belonged to me into a bag and stared at it, realizing that the past five years of my life have shrunken into a mere bag. With misty eyes, I left him a note, telling him not to look for me because I might not be in places he may expect me to be.

The plate of apple pie remained untouched.

I had a home but, I was lost. Stumbling through the bustling city, I ended up at a bar. Anxious, drunk sport-enthusiasts were hurling words at the television screen. I drowned my sorrows in a glass of vodka punch, letting a few tears escape. Losing track of time, I gulped down the drinks recklessly. I began to feet nothing; neither sadness nor elation. The rainbow streaks of light were abstractly splashed across the room and the bartender’s face swirled in a blur. Amidst a pandemonium, I felt as if I was fading into one of those faceless strangers; I was slowly forgetting who I was. I tapped my phone and texted my husband about how happy I was to be partying at the bar which was my usual haunt. It felt surprisingly good and as the last drop of alcohol slid down my burnt throat, my eyes began to droop low.

The last thing I remembered was a black car speeding towards me.

A throbbing head woke me up as sunlight filtered through the window. I bit my chapped lips and squinted at my surroundings. The familiarity of this bedroom haunted me; this used to be ours. But, why was I here? This was the last place I wanted to be.

A cold metallic object clasped in my fingers caught my attention. A sharp-edged knife drenched in blood sneered at me. Alarmed, I threw it across the room and jolted my hand which was covered by blood too. Scarlet bloodstains ran down the hemlines of my dress. Whimpering, I stood up and reached for the doorknob. Tiptoeing through the hallway, I ran into my husband. The look on my face told him everything he needed to know.

“You did something really bad last night,” he said and I shivered.

“What did I…? What did I do? I don’t… I really don’t remember,” I stammered with tears running down my face, once again.

“Overcome by jealousy, you mercilessly stabbed Veronica to death. The cops are on their way, sweetheart. You couldn’t stand the fact that someone else had my attention, could you?”

“What? I didn’t… Victor, I swear I didn’t do it. You know I can’t do something like that,” I cried.

“The weapon was with you, wasn’t it? Don’t touch anything; let them investigate it,” he spoke nonchalantly.

“Don’t you trust me, Vic? I was at the bar last night, I told you. I couldn’t have done this.”

He left the room without saying another word, leaving me clueless and panicked. I shuddered at the thought of murdering someone. I may have never been fond of Veronica but, I wouldn’t go as far as killing her cold-bloodedly. But, the bigger problem was that last night was a blur to me. I forced myself to remember something and it only made my headache worse. I could recollect a crowd of drunken, sports fans, loud cheering, gulping numerous drinks and a black car. I couldn’t find a single answer for the millions of questions buzzing within my mind.

“Charlotte Howell,” my name boomed through the hallways.

I turned to see a team of police officers equipped with guns and other weapons with a firm look plastered over their faces. I sighed as I walked over to them. They told me that I had the right to remain silent just the way criminals are told on movie screens but, this time, I wasn’t an actress, I was Charlotte Bree Howell. Without protesting, I followed their commands and peacefully got into a car marked NYPD.

I watched an officer conversing with Victor, who was smirking. I was told that I was being taken to the police station for interrogation but, I knew better. They had recovered the weapon and stashed it in a transparent bag labeled “evidence”. Enveloped by shock and disbelief, I felt my heartbeats pace up. The thing I regretted the most was getting so drunk that I couldn’t remember a single shred of what happened last night after I exited the bar.

After the car halted, I stepped down as gracefully as I could when I realized that I was going to encounter paparazzi. Photographs will be clicked and coupled with saucy headlines for tomorrow’s newspaper since I was the famous artist, Victor Howell’s socialite wife. The news about Veronica’s murder spread like wildfire and burnt my reputation on the way. I admit that I was senselessly drunk but, I do know myself well enough to believe that I didn’t fatally stab Veronica.

I knew that suspects were considered innocent till proven guilty but, since the knife was coated with my fingerprints and I had bloodstains on my dress, it wouldn’t take long for them to place the blame on me even though I couldn’t have been more clueless. I was questioning myself at this point and wondering if the darker side of mine took over last night and stabbed Veronica Baldwin till she was lifeless.

I was ushered into a dim-lit room and asked to take a seat as my anxiety doubled by the minute. I answered the questions as truthfully as I could but, it wasn’t a clear picture to me, it was a myriad of blurs. I remembered nothing about what occurred after I stepped out of the bar at dinnertime and woke up in the bedroom at the house shared by my husband and me. They intricately noted down the details and made various entries about the time I left the house, what I was doing before entering the bar, when I left and what I did in the meantime.

After leaving the police station, I sheltered myself by checking into a ritzy hotel, accompanied with the little bag which had my belongings. It felt as if I was losing my mind and my soul seemed to be cluttered with chaos. Everything that happened last night was just too much to fathom.

I scribbled in my notepad to distract myself from the turbulent waves of emotions crashing against my heart:

the artist’s dainty mistress

lay lifeless

with her blood running down my sundress.

I was told that the police department will be closely observing my surroundings and what I was up to since the prime suspicion had landed on me. It made me feel like a criminal.

May be I was one.