I had been restless, turning side to side and constantly turning my pillow over to the cooler side. I had eaten a slice of pizza right before bedtime, hoping the spicy sauce and gooey cheese wouldn’t keep me awake, and also knowing that was too much for which to wish. I sat up and kicked the covers off my legs no longer able to ignore my full bladder, and I slid my legs over the side and padded to the bathroom. I walked the short distance with my eyes still closed. Everything was exactly where it was supposed to be, sink, trash can, toilet, roll of paper. I peered through a slit in my eyelids at the round window where the bright full moon shone through in tones of blue and silver as it blazed a trail across the bathroom floor leading back to my bed. I followed the path back to my bed and tucked my feet back under the blankets. I pushed them to the end of the bed searching for just the right place for them to rest, when someone said, “Excuse me.” I pulled my foot back as it touched an obstacle at the foot of the bed and froze. After a moment I kicked out my foot and again met resistance with a thud and, “Ouch! If you need me to move just say so.” I sat up in the bed and reached for the lamp, fumbling with the switch until I was able to flood the room with yellow light. There at the end of my bed sat a man of average to less than average height. He was fit and neatly dressed with khaki pants and a red polo shirt buttoned to his chin. His well-manicured hands were folded unthreateningly in his lap. When he looked up, I first noticed his gray – blue eyes. Though the color was unique and striking, they had no depth and showed no emotion. Then I noticed the small black moustache under his nose and his bottom teeth chewing nervously at its ends. When his icy blue eyes turned to me his posture straightened adding a little more to his smallish stature and he tilted his pale face so as to look down at me.

I was frozen, not knowing what to do next. There was a man at the end of my bed. That in itself was so far out of the norm for me, not to mention that this man looked a lot like the long dead Adolph Hitler, himself. I wasn’t sure if I should grab the baseball bat under the bed and swing for the fences or run or scream. So, I sat there still and unmoving. He looked at me with disgust and said, “I wish you would go ahead and make up your mind what you are going to do. If you are going to scream or attack me, then let’s please get it over with. I hate indecision.” He paused as if I was supposed to answer him, but I was truly stunned into a silence that I couldn’t seem to break. He continued, “If you are afraid that my intentions with you are, well, impure…” He stopped and actually shuddered as if the thought of even touching me turned his stomach. He went on, “I assure you that is not what I am here for.”

Suddenly, I surprised even myself and found my voice. “Well, what are you here for?” He looked at me with a slight smile that only reached one corner of his mouth. I sat back against the headboard of my bed and pulled the blanket up to my chin. He looked at me and said, “You do know who I am, correct?” I stared. Did I know who this man was? He looked like every picture I had ever seen of Hitler, but I was still sane enough to realize Hitler had been dead since 1945. As I stared into his dead eyes, he became antsy and squirmed there on the end of my bed. He looked uncomfortable and a little unsure of himself, but then he became angry. He balled up his dainty fists and pounded them into a pillow. He screamed, “I am the Chancellor of the German Reich! I am der Fuhrer! I am Adolph Hitler!” As quickly as the wave of rage had crashed over him, it ebbed back out to sea as calm washed over him. He straightened his shoulders once again, looking to the right and left. I didn’t know what or who he was looking for. I surely hoped there wouldn’t be any more dead dictators joining the party tonight. “I have once again defeated the inferior enemy. Death cannot keep me in captivity”, He pumped his fist in the air emphasizing every syllable. The light bulb flickered and the little Nazi became quiet once again, looking behind him.

He turned back to me and spoke a little more quietly, “I have only a short time before I must return. I have come to ask you for one thing.” He leaned in closer to me and I tried to back up further but my back was against the head board already. I tried to disappear into the oak. What could the most evil man of all time possibly want from me? Did he have me confused with someone else? Finally, he whispered into my ear, “I hear that you have a great recipe for making tofu crispy and not spongy.”

Silence filled the space between us and grew to fill the room. I had to have heard that wrong. The demon who had tried to exterminate an entire race of innocent people had returned from the grave after seventy-five years to ask about a recipe? A recipe for tofu? I don’t know what I had been expecting. There was absolutely nothing predictable about this night at all. If I had ever given any thought to the question at all, I might would think Mr. Hitler would return to ask for forgiveness or to maybe ask someone to follow in his evil footsteps. I never would have guessed he needed the recipe for tofu. He raised his voice and stood to his feet, exclaiming that it was his right to have the recipe and that I must comply with his wishes right away. Then he paced and murmured more quietly to himself, “How could an inferior being have been trusted with this knowledge? I am the Fuhrer, and I am entitled to the crispy tasty vegetarian delight.” I looked at this man or ghost or whatever he was. For years, this little man terrorized the world. His cruelty knew no bounds, and his arrogance was infuriating. After death, all he needed to rest was a good crispy tofu. I did, indeed have such a recipe. So, I went into the kitchen and grabbed a pen and paper and wrote out the very simple instructions. I handed him the index card and made him promise to never return. He exclaimed that with this recipe he could change the afterlife and that he could rule for eternity. He swore never to return to this inferior place and time. With a quick snap of his boot and a raise of his hand he disappeared.

Once again, my room was silent. I was alone in the dark of the night and confused about the visitor. Did I just imagine all that? Maybe I was dreaming. I pinched myself and I remained there on the edge of my bed wide awake. I looked down at the pen in my hand. I had written out the recipe for tofu for Adolph Hitler. It seemed like such a small and insignificant thing, but the little megalomaniac thought it held the power to ruling the afterlife. He was sure it was all he needed to be happy for eternity. What he did not know was that I had left out the most important step for drying out the spongy cube of protein. I made sure he would spend eternity with soggy tofu.

Individually invisible to the naked eye, collectively the slurry of filth permeated the room as a blanket leaving everything to chance. The dead tiny soldiers lay silently, longing to be put to rest, desperately clinging and cautiously shifting with the subtle movement coming from under the sheets; a toss, a turn, a constant shallow breathe in, breathe out in between fitful nightmares. To the words engraved into the surface of the dusty silver coin by the bedside, life would go on whether or not it’s recipient interpreted the symbolism, or valued the significance and followed through with his promise. It was the 29th day of a 30 day month, one more long excruciating day to go for the red coin to be pulled out of the bag before the group confessional and handed over, entrusted by covenant, defined as daily crapshoot.

Slow to leave slumber, nonsensical images flooded the mind of the body unable to grasp the newness of the day, or the incomprehensible desire to leave his demons behind. He reached towards the bedside where there would surely be a bottle to be had with something left, if not vapors, knocking off the dusty silver coin and it bounced. Light as it was, the sound was enough to remind him of the words he thought would never be his to embrace, 24 hours of sobriety. And then it hit him. “Get up, get showered, get to work, get to a meeting, don’t drink and one of these days, find the strength to clean up this mess.” But as long as he continued to clean up his act, the dust would remain settled, and a new milestone awaits, if only he can make it one more day.

“That’s your salad fork, Elizabeth,” Alexandra hissed at her sister, who all but dropped the offending utensil and seized the correct one for her mackerel.

Cheeks burning, the younger sibling lowered her eyes to the tastefully charred fish before her and wished to the heavens they could switch places. The little dead thing had no idea how lucky it was.

An inquiry directed her way made her glance up and blush anew. Reginald, her pompous cousin, was looking expectantly at her with eyebrows raised.

Panic surged through her.

“F-forgive me cousin, I fear I was distracted,” she answered, eyes wide and voice shaking. “Pray, please repeat your question.”

A ripple of derision ran through the company like a fast-acting ailment.

The table held a good dozen people each dressed luxuriously in fine gowns or crisp, red uniforms with well-polished boots and brass buckles. Each female was the picture of affluent civility; hair was done up in elegant piles and jewelry glittered on throats and fingers. To them conversation came easily, as apparently did the knowledge of which fork to use for their fish.

In this part of the country etiquette and tradition were put before all else and was of the strictest importance. Anything that strayed even slightly from the preordained path of politeness and purity was considered strange, and asking someone to repeat a well-articulated question was a near insult.

“We were discussing the ball tomorrow week,” Reginald replied stiffly, “and my query was with whom you will be attending.”

Of course, they could be talking of nothing but bane of her existence, the dreaded ball. As if she could forget. It had been the single topic of discussion within her family’s social circle since it had been announced nearly four months ago.

The annual event where an individual’s status and prestige was flaunted openly like a prized animal held a place of utmost terror in her heart. Unlike every other maiden who deemed balls as the very pinnacle of existence, Elizabeth recoiled at the very thought of them. Crowds of any sort - including ones gathered around dinner tables – made her anxious and the added pressure of dancing in the midst of one while expected to look perfect was positively petrifying.

“I, ah, am not engaged of yet,” she answered with as much nonchalance as possible although she did not fail to miss the second round of disapproval that passed through the group at her response. Her heart began to pound with mortification.

Not having a partner so close to the date of the ball was unbecoming at best; Alexandra had been secured for weeks by the captain of the regiment, Sir Harrowsby, an honor that had made her the delight of the house. Indeed, they had been inseparable since and had spent a good portion of the night indulged in gossip. The man seemed unable to pry his eyes from Alexandra’s golden curls and sky blue eyes as if amazed he had snared himself such a fine trophy.

Elizabeth had known she would not be so lucky. With her uncharacteristic black hair, dark eyes, and tendency for solitude she knew her company was not readily sought. Her appearance alone categorized her as strange and her love for literature and isolation further singled her out, which in this particular household was definitely not a good thing.

“Perhaps a book shall be accompanying her instead,” her brother Edward chimed in. The jab earned him a disapproving look from their father, who sat at the head of the table like a great silent owl, but the damage had been done. Suppressed snickers and smirks ricocheted around the party.

“It is no surprise she has not been asked if the candidates are anything like you lot,” Alexandra defended, which quieted most of the chirruping but Elizabeth knew they had a point.

To attend a ball without a partner was highly improper. Only widowers and young people being introduced into society were allowed to go unaccompanied; being alone for the reason that no one made the effort to ask you was downright humiliating. She would not want to bother showing her face at that point, although ignoring the invitation would be seen as a slight to the hosting family and the height of discourtesy.

There was no way out – she was trapped by tradition and bound by protocol.

She somehow made it through the rest of dinner without incident, although it took effort to remain composed. A bubble of fear and anxiety was expanding behind her ribs and growing larger with every disapproving glance cast her way. The bone corset cinched around her waist amplified the sensation until breathing became difficult. Why couldn’t she just do what she wanted and be left alone?

By the time dessert was over (some kind of glazed sponge cake that she barely touched), Elizabeth could barely restrain the shaking in her hands. The conversation around her sounded distorted and she no longer knew nor cared whether or not any of it was directed at her.

Scenarios were flying through her head unbidden, all of which revolved around becoming a prisoner within her own body, forced to become society’s doll. Dress like this, behave like that, dance flawlessly when asked and always look beautiful. Marry well and have copious amounts of children. No free will, always under the watchful eye of someone else to make sure she knew which utensil to use. (In this case, the small dessert fork.)

As soon she felt it was acceptable to leave she excused herself. One moment further spent in this room and she was liable to go mad. Stumbling from the area with the grace of a peasant, she managed to gather her skirts before she tripped and made a further fool of herself. Modeling a black eye would do nothing for her already shredded reputation. With that happy thought, she hurried to her bed chambers. All she wanted around her was four walls full of silence. No more talking, no more being judged.

The labyrinth of corridors and stairways of her family’s estate flew by in a blur as she fled to the familiar wing where her sanctuary was located. Once inside, she only dared let out a sob when the door was securely shut and locked behind her. The servants had lit the candles and prepared the fire in the hearth as usual and she caught sight of her flickering reflection in the dark glass of the windows opposite her.

Fear and distress had transformed her into a different person. A few strands of her black hair had fallen in her face, stark contrast to the whiteness of her skin, and her cheeks and eyes held a hollowness that had nothing to do with being tired. The colorless gown she wore further fed the image of an apparition and the tight binding around her middle served just as well as chains. One thought of the bloody ball and it constricted a little further.

The only silver lining to the cursed evening made it bearable – there would be ample finger food.

I suppose I could collabourate with someone.

That way, my problem to be fixed could result in a genuine full wish for my friend.

How?

Well, you did say where was just one catch. The Genie can only solve problems.

That catch is a problem. I wish the only solve a problem limitation was gone and you could grant full wishes..

It’s supposed to be a way to celebrate. A sinister, tragic ritual turned solemn and reverent with the passing of time. The lack of reference makes this sacrifice less barbaric and more humane. What's one more cup of blood when so much has already been spilt?

We stand in silence and remember. Even a child, in a crying mothers arms, knows to be still. An elderly man clasps his weathered hands in front of him and silently weeps. Each of us has a story of our own. Someone they instinctively remember. Someone they watched bleed. Someone they miss. A hundred years can't wash away the memories, the stories, the imprint of a lost society.

Later there will be virtual balloons and fireworks as the space crafts fly over. There will soon be sparkler candies and new whistler toys, but for now the whole new world watches in silence as we reenact the beginning our race. We are the clone race, the second chance the earth never could have, the recreation of that blood that was lost. As our old blood cries up from the dust we hear it call: "Remember us."

I was naïve to fall in love with ‘absolutes.’

I should’ve known everything of beauty is flawed.

They did a favour they said.

By empowering me.

The penetrating facades of ‘wild and free’

An insipid flavour camouflaged ‘liberty.’

When all I did

Was to live by their choice.

The truth is dredged up

When you fight alligators of darkness.

Freedom is not delegated

It’s a loving connection that lets me be…

A thread is enough to cover my body.

Like a sentinel guarding its exclusivity.

A ‘ravening look’

Your ribald charm

Goes out cold unless

It drums up a gorgeous chaos in me.

Then you are invited to seal up my orifice

In your buttermilk.

A loving act defined by

The freedom of my choice.

Hoping for ‘absolutes’

Is like chasing a dream.

Searching for a ‘grotto of hope’ in a graveyard.

Don’t think my freedom is a boarding pass

To your delicious sense rolled flight.

Unless your soul rides my heart.

Till when you stay

Is a boundary defined by the freedom of my choice.

Please let it be that way.

Otherwise it’s quite a task

Clearing maggots of memory

And hiccups of times gone slippery.

I have learnt to trip the light fantastic.

I truly dance to my toes

When I ensure another’s freedom.

Being a woman it’s the most unsullied DNA thread

To be passed on to my child.

I mustn’t forget to tell the young life

Freedom hurts. At times freedom is fate.

At times it’s silence.

At times it’s a simple breath.

Child when you grow up you’ll do stupid jobs.

You’ll work extra hard. You’ll justify.

You’ll beg to get noticed.

However, your eyes will tell the story of the ripped stitch.

A punch of conscience will take you back to your mom’s classroom.

The learning of transference back in the womb.

Freedom is the tenth ripped stitch

That if sewed back on time … saves rest nine.

It’ll be the same story

In church, work, vacations, cruises, dates, Tinder, Ashley Madison sex inventory.

You’ll hope to be noticed. ‘Please accept me! I’m worth your approving gaze!’

On your eighteenth birthday your ‘ole mom’ will tell you a story.

You’ll look with piqued interest and I’ll proceed like a savant.

Don’t let life be a patchwork of piercing memories.

Forget the ‘absolutes’ in your personal diary.

They’ll never find place in the parchment page.

Ever be kind to yourself dear.

Let ‘em’ not fool you.

You can’t be an ‘absolute’ stunner.

An ‘absolute’ radiance, a diva in your summer gown

Dropping to the floor in rustling kisses.

You can’t be an ‘absolute’ feather quill Goddess

Writing Sufi poetry, reading the runes

Divining what it takes to make the perfect love story.

You can’t be an ‘absolute’ professional legacy.

Dressed sharp as a pin, tossing leather bound books, giving bright eyed commentaries.

An ‘absolute’ lover, an ‘absolute’ wife, an ‘absolute’ mother, an ‘absolute’…fairy

Befana, Rhiannon … have I missed yet other ‘absolute’ identity?

Fool yourself no more.

Like once your mother, this good ‘ole’ woman did.

You are not meant to be

Clones of ‘absolutes.’

These ‘absolutes’ poach your free spirit away.

Stitch your hurt in time to save nine.

Be a ‘pistol woman’

Guard your freedom.

I’ve never raised you to be a clone of ‘rectitudes.’

I’m here to remind you.

Only your freedom is ‘absolute.’

The kicking the vibrant.

The subtle the surreal.

The unique the universal.

And when I pass it to you like a tradition.

I expect you to live it like a boss, preserve it and pass it on to the

Seed of your womb.

In turn, don’t forget to tell my grandchild

Gram’s says, “Don’t fall in love with ‘absolutes.’

You’ll be flawed beyond repair.

Embrace your freedom.

All of life’s entitlement lies there.

Freedom becomes an ‘Act’

My prettiest pretty.

If you ensure another’s freedom

By passing on to them the freedom of choice.’

Sometimes I think I’ve lived too long. Three-hundred and forty-two Years is an abundant amount of time. When do you know when enough is enough? Rachel is seven-hundred and seventy-seven years old as of today and for her birthday, she just wants to die. So after her party this afternoon, she will be heading to the zigler. The zigler is the name of the man that kills you when you are ready to die. He is over one thousand years old by now. I’ve known Rachel my whole life. She nanny’d me at my early age. Then when my parents died, she took me in.

***

I said my goodbyes at the party, and yet, watching her die was the saddest thing I have ever experienced. But she has lived a life full of adventure and joy. I don’t want to live that long. I’m already bored and lonely. So I ask again, when do you know when enough is enough?

The boy held the watch in his hand. It was an odd thing to find discarded on the path. Odder still to find it was ticking. He pulled up on the crown. The ticking stopped. All sound stopped. The birds no longer sung in the trees. The wind no longer fluttered the leaves. Silence, yet more than silence. It was an absence of sound, a void, as though all sound had been sucked away. The boy and the watch were all that remained.

Confused, the boy looked up. The trees were still there and the path through the woods. The wind was stilled. The birds seemed to have fled.

He pushed down with his thumb. The ticking began again. The birds began to sing again, the wind resumed its gentle breeze. The boy looked down at the watch, concern etched across his brow.

He dropped the watch. It fell unnaturally slowly as though it longed to linger in the boys grasp. It landed softly in upon a mound of old dead leaves. The boy looked down at it thoughtfully. He bent over and covered it up.

He knew enough about magic, this boy, to leave it be. It was better not to tinker with things like, life and death, time also. There were reasons nature functioned as it did. The boy knew this and he respected it.

He hid the watch for he realized adults did not understand such things. Grown-ups would want the magic, the power. This was their weakness and, in turn, a child’s strength.