The young new kid on the block smiled. It leaned in closer— ready to whisper sweet nothins to thee fresh dough.

“Where’ve you been all my life? You don’t mind if I cut to the chase do ya? Hey- there’s no need to try to fold up, and be shy. Just you wait~ a few more days from now I’ll be much more ready, and tougher, too. I need the bacteria to do its thing. Then I’ll be older from that point. The farmer just finished collecting me from one of his prized female calves.”

The fresh dough blinked in a daze. Her eyes were focused on the sight of the nice, healthy, dark red tomato.

“Eh…What did you say, young Cheeseling?”

The block of cheese sighed. Why was that Mr. Tomato such a big hot shot more than Sir Peri-Peri! The ladies needed to take him seriously, and he also liked being the new young face of the block.

He was not getting any younger, and the thought of finding a lovely match later in his old age at this time made him nervous. By the time he’d be a senior citizen, his hearing would be close to almost naught. Even his sight. He would much rather chat with his beloved while he could still recall what to say in response to her questions, as well as remember what she asked him.

While the fresh young cheese kept pondering about his predicament, he did not notice that a light came on. Something had reached for the smooth Mr. Tomato sauce, his screams echoed from the other side/place he had been taken.

The rest of the gang were as quiet as mice. Even Ms. Cha not cracking any random jokes like one of her favorites: “What does our fearless Chuck Norris Noodles do for a living? He works as an impasta!”

Then the ladies all suddenly burst into tears. Young cheese smiked. Now was his change be the one to comfort the ladies as they all weeped for Mr. T.

Itadakimasu ©️

Chapter 1: Jade

As I walked into the classroom, I still felt weird. Even though it had been two months since I moved to the U.S, I still hadn’t adjusted to my new life. Everyone still thinks of me as the weird kid from Douala, Cameroon. They think I can’t hear them when they talk about me but I do. I am behind in all my classes because I couldn’t go to school the past two years. All my teachers are sympathetic. They even assigned me a tutor named Iris. I have to go to language classes too. Everyday is the same thing. Go to school, do homework, go to bed. Sometimes I get flashbacks of my old life in Cameroon. It is usually the bad parts like my dad dying and all the attacks and hiding. My Mom says Dad is still with us but I don’t see how somebody dead can still be here. Mom is going through a hard time. No one will hire her and we are falling behind on rent. If we don't pay it we will get deported. Most of the kids at school don’t talk to me, except for Iris. She is the only kid who doesn’t think of me as stupid. It’s like somehow she gets it.

Chapter 2: Iris

You know, most sixteen year old's get a car for their birthday but me, I get struck by lighting. The worst part is, no one knows. I can't tell anybody that this happened. When I got struck by lighting, I felt something weird. Like a thing of electricity was running through my body. Turns out, it was, I got electricity powers. Then, some group called the Shock Sisters asked me to join them and help fight evil. I feel like I'm in a movie except its all real. Not only can I not tell anybody, but I still have to act normal at school. No one has noticed anything different about me lately but I feel like Jade is sensing somethings up. I have to tutor her. Jade is pretty cool, except for the fact that she doesn't talk a lot. It gets kinda awkward when the person your tutoring just says "Ok". I walk into the library and of course Jade is already there. The session goes by pretty fast and we are about to leave when my mom texts and says she can't pick me up. "Do you want to walk home together?" I ask "Sure." she says. This is so boring. She won't even talk, but I guess it is a step up from her not even wanting to be next to me.

Chapter 3: The decision

Where am I? The last thing I remember is dropping Iris off at her house. I hear loud steps coming towards me. Someone takes off my blindfold and I can now see I'm in a office. "Listen, I have a offer for you." she said "Who are you." I asked "Shut up. I am going to say this once, I am part of the AOD or the Army of Darkness. You are being asked to join our group. If you join we will give you 100,000 dollars." "You have 48 hours to make your decision." she said and left. I was escorted home and went straight up to my room. What just happened? The only reason I accepted was because the money would save my family. I got a call the next day and was given my first mission. Oh no. I have to kill Iris. Apparently she has powers and is a risk to the AOD. I can't quit now. I was told that if I quit I will be killed.

Chapter 4: The kidnap

I tried to get through school as fast as possible. I had come up with a plan. First, I would walk home with Iris and then kidnap her then, I would take her to a remote warehouse and finish the job. I would get this over with and be done with the AOD. "Hey, do you want to walk home again?" I asked her "Um, sure." Okay, good. Now I just have to knock her out. I had soaked a cloth in chloroform and was pretty sure it would do the trick. "Hey, I got a new perfume. Wanna smell it?" "Sure" When she went to sniff I pressed it against her nose and mouth until she fainted. It had worked. It wasn't to hard to get her to the warehouse. Once I did I tied her up and waited till she woke up. I don't know why but I felt like I should at least explain what is happening before she dies.

Chapter 5: The attempt

What the, where am I? I feel drowsy and dizzy. My hands and feet are tied up and I am in what looks like a old warehouse. Someone is coming toward me and I start shaking. "Oh, its you." I look and it is Jade. "So, about this." "Your not going to like what I have to say. I am going to have to kill you." she said. I just sat there speechless. I didn't think life would end this way, especially by the hands of Jade. "Look, I can't explain everything to you but I am sorry." She pulled out a gun and I closed my eyes bracing for impact. "WAIT" I yelled. "You don't have to do this." "Please, just explain." So, she explained everything and I just sat there. "Listen, I can help you. I am in the Shock Sister and they can help us defeat the AOD so neither of us have to die." "Okay." At that moment someone pounded on the door. "Jade, open up! We know you've turned." "Quick, unite me!" She untied me but I was still dizzy and couldn't walk without falling. They broke down the door and were running in when Jade shot fire at them from her hand. They pulled out guns and were trying to shoot while being burned. There was smoke everywhere and I couldn't see anything. All I could hear was gun shots. I felt something hit me really hard and I fell. I had been shot in the leg. I was on the ground when I saw them about to shoot Jade. I shot all of them with electricity and they fell down. "Iris! Your leg, are you all right?" "No, get me out of here."

Chapter 1: Jade

As I walked into the classroom, I still felt weird. Even though it had been two months since I moved to the U.S, I still hadn’t adjusted to my new life. Everyone still thinks of me as the weird kid from Douala, Cameroon. They think I can’t hear them when they talk about me but I do. I am behind in all my classes because I couldn’t go to school the past two years. All my teachers are sympathetic. They even assigned me a tutor named Iris. I have to go to language classes too. Everyday is the same thing. Go to school, do homework, go to bed. Sometimes I get flashbacks of my old life in Cameroon. It is usually the bad parts like my dad dying and all the attacks and hiding. My Mom says Dad is still with us but I don’t see how somebody dead can still be here. Mom is going through a hard time. No one will hire her and we are falling behind on rent. If we don't pay it we will get deported. Most of the kids at school don’t talk to me, except for Iris. She is the only kid who doesn’t think of me as stupid. It’s like somehow she gets it.

Chapter 2: Iris

You know, most sixteen year old's get a car for their birthday but me, I get struck by lighting. The worst part is, no one knows. I can't tell anybody that this happened. When I got struck by lighting, I felt something weird. Like a thing of electricity was running through my body. Turns out, it was, I got electricity powers. Then, some group called the Shock Sisters asked me to join them and help fight evil. I feel like I'm in a movie except its all real. Not only can I not tell anybody, but I still have to act normal at school. No one has noticed anything different about me lately but I feel like Jade is sensing somethings up. I have to tutor her. Jade is pretty cool, except for the fact that she doesn't talk a lot. It gets kinda awkward when the person your tutoring just says "Ok". I walk into the library and of course Jade is already there. The session goes by pretty fast and we are about to leave when my mom texts and says she can't pick me up. "Do you want to walk home together?" I ask "Sure." she says. This is so boring. She won't even talk, but I guess it is a step up from her not even wanting to be next to me.

Chapter 3: The decision

Where am I? The last thing I remember is dropping Iris off at her house. I hear loud steps coming towards me. Someone takes off my blindfold and I can now see I'm in a office. "Listen, I have a offer for you." she said "Who are you." I asked "Shut up. I am going to say this once, I am part of the AOD or the Army of Darkness. You are being asked to join our group. If you join we will give you 100,000 dollars." "You have 48 hours to make your decision." she said and left. I was escorted home and went straight up to my room. What just happened? The only reason I accepted was because the money would save my family. I got a call the next day and was given my first mission. Oh no. I have to kill Iris. Apparently she has powers and is a risk to the AOD. I can't quit now. I was told that if I quit I will be killed.

Chapter 4: The kidnap

I tried to get through school as fast as possible. I had come up with a plan. First, I would walk home with Iris and then kidnap her then, I would take her to a remote warehouse and finish the job. I would get this over with and be done with the AOD. "Hey, do you want to walk home again?" I asked her "Um, sure." Okay, good. Now I just have to knock her out. I had soaked a cloth in chloroform and was pretty sure it would do the trick. "Hey, I got a new perfume. Wanna smell it?" "Sure" When she went to sniff I pressed it against her nose and mouth until she fainted. It had worked. It wasn't to hard to get her to the warehouse. Once I did I tied her up and waited till she woke up. I don't know why but I felt like I should at least explain what is happening before she dies.

Chapter 5: The attempt

I tried to get through school as fast as possible. I had come up with a plan. First, I would walk home with Iris and then kidnap her then, I would take her to a remote warehouse and finish the job. I would get this over with and be done with the AOD. "Hey, do you want to walk home again?" I asked her "Um, sure." Okay, good. Now I just have to knock her out. I had soaked a cloth in chloroform and was pretty sure it would do the trick. "Hey, I got a new perfume. Wanna smell it?" "Sure" When she went to sniff it I pressed it against her face and mouth until she fainted. It wasn't to hard to get her to the warehouse. Once I did, I tied her and and waited. For some reason I felt like I owed her an explanation.

Chapter 5: The attempt

What the, where am I? I feel drowsy and dizzy. My hands and feet are tied up and I am in what looks like a old warehouse. Someone is coming toward me and I start shaking. "Oh, its you." I look and it is Jade. "So, about this." "Your not going to like what I have to say. I am going to have to kill you." she said. I just sat there speechless. I didn't think life would end this way, especially by the hands of Jade. "Look, I can't explain everything to you but I am sorry." She pulled out a gun and I closed my eyes bracing for impact. "WAIT" I yelled. "You don't have to do this." "Please, just explain." So, she explained everything and I just sat there. "Listen, I can help you. I am in the Shock Sister and they can help us defeat the AOD so neither of us have to die." "Okay." At that moment someone pounded on the door. "Jade, open up! We know you've turned." "Quick, unite me!" She untied me but I was still dizzy and couldn't walk without falling. They broke down the door and were running in when Jade shot fire at them from her hand. They pulled out guns and were trying to shoot while being burned. There was smoke everywhere and I couldn't see anything. All I could hear was gun shots. I felt something hit me really hard and I fell. I had been shot in the leg. I was on the ground when I saw them about to shoot Jade. I shot all of them with electricity and they fell down. "Iris! Your leg, are you all right?" "Yes, I'm gonna be fine. Let's just get out of here."

Chapter 6: All's well that ends well

I had to come up with some explanation to give my mom on why I was in the hospital and had a cast on my leg. Luckily, Jade's a pretty good liar. I was okay and Jade had decided to join the Shock Sisters. They were paying her so she could pay her family's rent. I guess you could say that I should be mad at Jade but I'm not. I trust her and am realized we make a pretty good team.

June 25, 2025

This will be my final journal entry.

After decades of research and endless hopeful results that turned into dead ends, tonight, at last, I will fulfill my destiny.

Over the last five and a half decades, my entire professional life, I have been developing the technology for time travel. I have lost so many on this journey, but I’ve always known my perseverance would bear fruit.

When I was a youth, I visited a fair with my parents. I was drawn to the fortune-teller’s tent. As I gave her the requisite nickel, she grabbed my wrist and looked at the palm upon which the nickel lay. She let go as if my skin burned her. She spat and said, “You will do what you are destined to do and I will have to live with that knowledge. Get out!”

I was confused, hurt and more than a little angry at the time. But as I grew older, and found my calling, I remembered her words with delight: I would prevail.

Why does anyone want to go back in time? Perhaps to change a single, personal action one has lived to regret? A vigorous No, I reply. What a waste of such a precious gift! First, the change may but inflict a worse fate. But more importantly, to be able to twist the fabric of existence and slip into the stream of time in order to travel against the current - it cannot be for such an insignificant moment in the history of man. For never doubt, each life that walks upon the Earth is but a grain of sand on a beach…if that.

Perhaps one would wish to meet some great minds of history? That at least has some merit: to learn from those who spent their lives pondering questions that continue to baffle those who still take pleasure in intellectual gymnastics. Socrates? Plato? Aristotle? Da Vinci? Machiavelli? Russell? Or perhaps some well-known historical figure? One might discover if they were really as they have come to be viewed. Christ? Mohammed? Alexander the Great? Attila the Hun? Queen Elizabeth I? Louis XVI? George Washington? Benjamin Franklin? Abraham Lincoln? I do not deny the exhilaration one might feel gaining first hand knowledge of some historical personage, but the gift of time travel would be wasted in such a venture. Change would be limited, personal and, therefore, meaningless.

Chatting with a writer whose works have not yet been erased by the passage of time might be desired. Shakespeare? Cervantes? Tolstoy? Dostoyevsky? Joyce? Lewis? Tolkien? Dickens? Twain? Wells? Verne? Huxley? Orwell? Garcia-Marquez? How to choose? And really, why bother? Do they not all tickle the brain with the words they weave to tell the same stories, depict the same situations, describe the same feelings that have plagued humanity as long as stories have been told?

Or maybe one has a grand altruistic gesture in mind. Perhaps erase the existence of some murdering tyrant, despot, or prolific serial killer? Remove the scourge before it occurs? Hitler, Stalin, Idi Amin, Pol Pot, Mao Zedong, King Leopold II. Elizabeth Bathory, Pedro Lopez, H.H Holmes, Dr. Harold Shipman. Alas, each is but an infinitesimal sliver of evil as viewed through the lens of time. What of all that has never been recorded but was? Or that will be.

This evening, I sent my assistants home revealing neither my breakthrough nor my intentions. If I am successful, it will not matter. I will be no more.

I have reviewed the algorithms multiple times to ensure there are no errors. I’ve programmed the portal with the chain of commands that will send me where I can have the greatest impact.

Before the egg. Before the chicken. Before the bang. I will intercept that which precedes all that is.

And I will suggest a rigorous and detailed review of the design blueprints for humanity, for the existing one is fatally flawed.

Barley - last name Waters - had been an accident. Not in his conception, that had been planned, and his subsequent birth was celebrated. It was a nurse at the hospital who'd either misheard or misspelled the boy's given name, Bailey, when filling in the requisite forms. Upon reflection, Mr and Mrs Waters had decided they preferred Barley to Bailey, and the rest - as they say - is history.

Barley's Field was only a small part of his Grandfather Joseph's much larger holdings, the Waters being what was known in Australia as the Squatocracy, which is to say they "squatted" on land that belonged to the Crown. They farmed wheat and grazed sheep, and with wool and flour in high demand, their wealth increased exponentially. Barley hadn't been gifted his "Field" by Grandfather Joseph, but had simply begun to refer to it as such, claiming and proclaiming it for and as his own and, in time, everyone came to think of it as his, albeit on loan from Grandfather Joseph, in much the same way as Ironbark Creek Station was on loan from His Majesty King George.

Ironbark Creek Station consisted of the large main house, built from pale brick and sandstone in the Federation style, with its separate kitchen connected by a covered breeze-way, the kitchen garden and poultry run, the dry-larder and ice-house, the laundry, the outside privy, the shearing shed and shearers' quarters, the station-hands' quarters and overseer's cottage, the machinery shed, the stables and tack-room and the blacksmith's forge, and numerous pens and yards for the livestock.

Strange and peculiar things lived in Barley's Field, not the least of them being Barley himself. There was nothing extraordinary or irregular about his appearance, Barley being - to any casual observer - a perfectly normal child. All of his senses were intact. He was able to communicate effectually. Could reason logically. Dressed appropriately. Bathed when necessary. And he did not rave dementedly at the fullness of the moon.

What set Barley apart from other children was his ability to visualize: not to be confused with imagine. Anyone can imagine a hippopotamus. Equally, anyone can imagine a hippopotamus of any size or colour of their choosing, and label it with any name they wish. What was unusual about Barley Waters. What was different, was Barley's hippopotamus - whose name was Thomas - was very, very real. Barley hadn't simply imagined Thomas, he had visualized him into existence. He lived - quite happily, thank you - in the dam at the bottom of Barley's Field, submerging through the heat of the day, ignoring the sheep when they came to drink because, obviously, sheep don't speak hippopotamus, and only venturing onto dry land in the cool of the evening to feast on lush, native sedges, wild celery, and the fan-like fronds of cabbage-tree palms. In Barley's mind, Thomas had been of modest and practicable proportions, standing some three feet high at the shoulder, and measuring some three feet long from nose to tail. He was also a friendly and pleasing shade of iridescent turquoise.

So why not a purple giraffe? Or a pirate ship? Or King Arthur's castle? Or any of a thousand other wonders? If Barley could visualize them, he could wish them into his reality. The simple answer is this, all Barley had ever wanted was Thomas.

Barley lived in the main house with his father Stanley and his mother Evelyn, his Uncle Jonathon and Aunty Gwen, Grandfather Joseph, the housekeeper Mrs Bushell, the cook Mrs Moorcombe, and the cook's assistant Miss Agar. At shearing time there could be as many as a hundred people living and working at Ironbark Creek Station, but only Barley ever saw Thomas, the turquoise hippopotamus, and that was because only Barley knew the magic words.

Perhaps when Barley went to school, he would make "people" friends. But school was still a year - and half the world - away. It was a day's bumpy ride in Grandfather Joseph's old truck to the nearest town, and almost as long by steam locomotive to the city. School was somewhere Barley was in no great hurry to be. It would mean leaving Ironbark Creek Station, his family, and (especially) Thomas, for months at a time.

Standing at the edge of the dam, in a voice loud enough for Thomas to hear underwater, Barley called...

'Hippopotam-ME.'

'Hippopotam-YOU.'

'Hippopotam-US!'

First there were bubbles, followed by a riffling on the water's brackish surface, then a pair of hairy nostrils appeared, the tips of two ears, two eyes, and Thomas was there; floating like a mouldy crouton in a bowl of onion soup.

Barley made a gurgling "snarff" sound at the back of his throat and through his nose which, in hippopotamus, was how one said "Hello".

'Whizzo,' replied Thomas, who spoke perfectly good 'Boy'.

'May I come in with you?' Barley asked politely. 'Or will you come out?'

'I'd give it a minute to settle,' said Thomas, 'if you know what I mean.'

Barley laughed and said, 'You didn't just - '

'Better out than in,' said Thomas.

A swim in the dam having suddenly lost its appeal, Barley retreated to the shade of the cabbage-tree palms and waited for Thomas to join him.

Excluding sheep - and the occasional mob of kangaroos - visitors to Barley's Field were few and infrequent, so neither he nor Thomas were expecting to be observed, nor intruded upon.

'You the Boss Man's kid,' said a young aboriginal boy, elbowing his way through the low growing palm fronds. 'You got a name?'

There being no other logical explanation, Barley assumed the boy had come from the blacks' camp, where the native stockmen lived with their families in lean-tos, or "humpies", near the banks of Ironbark Creek. Dressed as he was in only a pair of ragged shorts, he was really a rather handsome looking fellow, with his dark-chocolate skin and thick bramble of jet-black curls.

'Go away,' said Barley. 'You're not supposed to be here.'

Some years older, and towering head and shoulders over Barley, the boy stood with his feet apart and his hands on his bony hips, as if daring Barley to forcibly evict him.

'Says who? Me belong,' the boy said, 'all this country.' An encompassing sweep of a broom-stick arm took in the dun coloured hills and pastures of dry parched grass, the smoke-haze blue of far off eucalypts, the khaki and rust striped bluffs of sandstone.

Supposing there wasn't much point trying to hide Thomas now, Barley said, 'I'm Barley. And this is my friend, Thomas. What's your name?'

'Reg.'

Barley offered his hand to be shaken. 'How do you do, Reg.'

Shaking Barley's hand, Reg looked at Thomas and said, 'Him bunyip.'

'No,' said Barley. 'Bunyip's aren't real. Thomas is a hippopotamus.'

But Reg shook his head. 'Nah. Him bunyip. How you know blackfella magic?'

Barley said, 'Bunyips live in billabongs and water-holes, not dams, so Thomas can't be a bunyip.'

Reg considered Barley's argument for a moment, decided he was (probably) right, and asked, 'What's him hip... hip... '

'Hip-po-pot-a-mus,' phoneticized Barley helpfully.

'Yeah,' said Reg. 'Him.'

'You can pat him if you like,' Barley told Reg.

Seemingly not the least bit wary of or frightened by Thomas, Reg did precisely that, scratching Thomas between his tufted ears, which Thomas enjoyed immensely.

'Thomas can be our secret,' said Barley, 'but you must promise never to tell.'

After Thomas had eaten his fill of sweetmeadow and wild celery, he'd returned to wallow in the cool comfort of the dam. Reg motioned for Barley to follow him, and the two boys skirted the edge of the clumping cabbage-tree palms until they found the narrow, tread-worn path weaving its way between stands of tall peppermint gums and ironbarks and the lower growing lemon-scented myrtle.

Barley said, 'We could go to the kitchen. Mrs Moorcombe will give us slops.'

Not as disgusting as it might sound, "slops" was simply torn pieces of day old bread soaked in milk - hot or cold, depending on the season - and dusted liberally with sugar.

Reg either wasn't hungry, or didn't much fancy the idea of a bowl of soggy bread, but stopped beside the path to crane his neck and turn in a full circle, obviously looking for something in the treetops.

'What is it?' Barley asked curiously. 'What's here?'

It was too late in the year for the quarrelsome magpies to be nesting.

Reg pointed.

Barley had to squint, one-eyed, against the bright flashes of sunlight spearing through the screens of foliage to make out the high, forking, twisted limb where a mother koala sat, languid-legged, with a joey clinging to her back.

Here was a shovel-headed blue-tongued skink. Over there a tumultuous cloud of tiny parrots: green, yellow and black speckled budgerigars. A banksia tree with its frog-mouthed seed pods. A family of ringtailed possums. The scarlet, bottle-brush flowers of callistemons amid the bright, lime-green of new growth. The tight coils of a red bellied black snake sheltering under a fallen log. The ground was a patchwork of white flannel flowers and clusters of yellow woollyheads. The track led them to the sloping banks of the creek, shallow and idle, but clear enough to see the distinct drifts of coarse sand and tumbled smooth pebbles of its bed. Fringes of reeds and sedges. An old man willow, bent with age. And the swift darting of wagtails; the magpies' smaller cousins.

'And the bush has friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him

In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,

And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,

And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars.'

'I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy

Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,

And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city

Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all.'

'And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle

Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street,

And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,

Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.'

'And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me

As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,

With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,

For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.'

'And I somehow fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,

Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,

While he faced the round eternal of the cashbook and the journal,

But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of The Overflow.'*

In the lamp lit parlour of the main house, Barley's Uncle Jonathon looked up from the book lying open and resting on the curved and tapestried arm of the settee.

'That's the city for you,' he said to Barley. 'Too many people and not enough air for all of them to breathe.'

Seated on a matching tapestried ottoman at his uncle's slippered feet, Barley asked, 'But why do they live there?'

It was Grandfather Joseph who answered. 'Fools don't know any better.'

'And the blacks who work for us? Why do they stay?'

Grandfather Joseph "grumphed" and said, 'They stay because anything's better than being thumped on the head with a bible at the mission. And because we {emphasis} give them everything they need.'

'Rations,' said Uncle Jonathon. 'Tobacco, tea, sugar and flour.'

Grandfather Joseph said, 'I don't hear them complaining.'

'But not money,' said Barley.

'Yes,' said his Aunty Gwen. 'The boy has a point. Why don't you pay them proper wages?'

Uncle Jonathon said, 'They'd only waste it on grog.'

'They're not civilized,' said Grandfather Joseph.

'Is that why I have to go to school?' Barley asked. 'To be civilized?'

'Schools,' said Grandfather Joseph, 'are the least civilized places on earth. But they're a necessary evil.'

'Did you go to school?'

'I learned everything I needed to know from the school of life.'

'Things will be different,' said Barley, 'when Daddy comes home from the war.'

'We'll see,' said Grandfather Joseph, not unkindly. 'We'll see.'

When I was eleven, I thought my life was already over. I’d settled into the tedium of the well-defined role of ‘traditional woman.’ I was to be a helper. This world was for men, and my only job was to ensure that things came easily to their grasp. I was meager. I was meek. I was not the kind of girl to stir up trouble. The feisty part of my spirit had been drowned in dirty dish water when I was five, standing at the sink, scrubbing until little fingers bled. Playing was for boys– for men. Housework was for the women. Women weren’t meant to have adventures, not unless they were accompanying men, anyway. Yada yada. It’s what I was told.

It’s what I believed.

I was bored out of my mind with the role foisted upon me, but I accepted it nonetheless. And so I sat and pulled at tufts of grass, mind wandering down dark corridors, opening antique clocks, solving mysteries like Nancy Drew, while the boys rode motorcycles and shot BB guns. I journeyed in mind, while they left me for hours, sitting on the tailgate of a rusty pickup truck, alone, in the middle of nowhere. They’d come back around noon for sandwiches, disappointed if the food wasn’t already waiting. I hadn’t had anything else to do, after all.

It was one such Saturday that I found a spark of the indomitable spirit I’d been born with. I decided to leave the truck. I decided to go explore. I would not leave all of the adventure to the boys. First, I ventured only a short distance, to a tall pine at the center of the clearing. There, I found a loveliness of ladybugs, congregating at the base of the tree. I thrust my palm into them, relishing in their tiny legs tickling up my arm. They were soft and sweet and nearly as friendly as the pair of doves I’d spent the past weeks cooing at from the bed of the truck. I spent well over an hour getting lost in the ladybugs.

My enchantment was broken by a hot splash on my arm. Steaming liquid drowning my pretty red friends. My brother, urinating all over the little creatures… and me. I screamed in rage and shook the wetted bugs from my arm, fist balling, ready to strike. Booming laughter from the men standing near the open truck tailgate joined the cackle of my brother’s sick happiness. “Where’s lunch, Pearl?” they called between chuckles.

I shoved my brother over and mumbled, “get it yourself,” under my breath. I wasn’t brave enough– dumb enough– to say it where they could hear me. I stalked off, up the dirt road. I hadn’t made it half a mile when they zipped past on motorbikes, leaving me behind with nothing but dust in my mouth and the ringing of wicked laughter in my ears.

I plopped down on a grassy slope, disappointed that in all my walking, I’d just ended up where they were riding, on a hillside creatively named “the meadow.” I didn’t have it in me to keep walking. I watched my brothers jump. I watched my dad try ill-favored stunts from years gone by. I watched my uncle weave between trees, not to be outdone by his older brother.

I hated myself. I hated them. I hated the hot tears that threatened to fall out of my eyelids. I ripped at the grass, pulling hunks from the earth to match the holes in my heart. I lay back, hoping, secretly, that one of them would run me over. Maybe that would at least make them feel a little bit sorry. I watched the clouds breeze by and imagined I was a ladybug flying above the trees. I could almost feel little feet crawling on my skin as my eyes drifted shut and I fell fast asleep.

When I woke it was dusk, and my father was gruffly ordering that I hop on the back of his bike. We rode down to the truck, the wind whipping my hair, and I felt terribly, wonderfully alive. I never wanted it to end. I could have ridden on the back of that motorcycle for the rest of forever, but instead, we stopped. I cleaned up tuna cans from their hasty lunch, guilt eating at me for making them do it themselves, skin crawling. My skin wouldn’t stop crawling. Not during the hour-long drive home. Not while I helped unload and wash the bikes. Not while I put together dinner in the kitchen.

I begged off to go and take a shower before we ate and was allowed several luxurious minutes. I scrubbed, but the crawling wouldn’t subside. It centralized: a pinpoint of annoyance in my belly button. I finally got up the courage to look at the truth that I could feel crawling there. Little legs protruded from the folds of my belly button. I screamed and Dad came in to see what the hell all of the fuss was about. When I explained he laughed. He brought in a flashlight and looked at my belly button. “HAH!” he’d said, startling me, “yer right, Pearl. It is a bug. Looks like a tick.” I started panicking.

“Get it out. Please! Dad– get. It. out!”

“Enough–” he replied, raising a hand and silencing my pleas, “we will deal with this after dinner.”

I sat through dinner, gulping down food, nauseated, but attempting to fake it. Dad scowled and told me to toughen up. I flinched away from the crawling in my abdomen. Dad told me I was being ridiculous–dramatic. He didn’t ever try to help me remove the tick. I tried for a long time, to pull the thing out with tweezers, while I hid in the bathroom, pretending to pack to go back to my mom’s house. I had no luck.

Mercifully, my brothers and I were going home to mom that night, else I fear I would have been forced to sleep with the tick in my belly button. When we arrived at mom’s, she had me lie down on the dining room table and everyone took turns trying to pry the wriggly wee beast out of my astonishingly deep belly button. You see, leaving the head of a tick in one's skin can lead to terrible infection, so we needed to be careful not to break it. It was a delicate game I quite wanted to opt out of playing. At one point, my oldest brother (who lived with mom only) had the bright idea to try and scare the thing out with a match. Suffice it to say that I ended up with a burnt belly button and a stubborn tick still very much inside. Finally, mother stepped in, wrenched the tweezers out of my brother’s hand, and ordered them all from the room.

“Hon– I am going to pull the tick out. If I don’t get the head, we will go to the doctor in the morning. Okay?” she asked.

I gulped, “Okay.”

“Lay back,” mom commanded.

I complied, and she yanked the tick out, whole.

My mother could always be counted on to get the job done, no matter what.

I showered for what felt like hours, washing away the remnants of a day I would have liked to forget, but that lives stubbornly on in memory.

That is the day that I stopped liking bugs.

It’s the day I stopped laying in the grass.

It’s the day I stopped trying to go on adventures.

It’s the day I gave up: the day I decided it would be better to stay on the tailgate.

I'm barely alive enough to tell you what I think; how I feel; what I want. I can't keep going on like this, and yet I can't just stay where I am either. How can I save myself from myself; eternally struggling and conditioned to cope. But what of a solution? Where am I throughout all the wars I wage inside me. Do I have any opinions? I don't care to. But the world screams at me: YOU MUST EXIST! How come? Why can't I stay on the perimeter in reflection and solitude? Why must I be a part of something so confusing? Is it because society is the genome of ME, and so, take part I do, in spite of disinterest. What shall I do? I have no one to put this question toward. No one knows what to do. I'm not hopeful and that's not tragic. Tragedy is the way I live. I watch Netflix all evening after getting home from a job which pays for my attention. So to what do I still have energy to attend to when there's no insensitive? I sip on escape techniques called booze and I tranquilize myself with plants. The dishes pile, the laundry ranks, and my dogs don't get to go outside again because... I'm the problem. I'm sad and tired and keep it all buried deep under bed sheets and exaggerated portion sizes of food. Call it depression, anxiety, fear, weakness, selfishness, none of the above, or an amalgamation of it all. I feel full all the time, and I can't find a space empty enough to unburden my sorrow. No one wants to hear me cry. My whaling reminds them of reality. I wont let them listen anyway. I'm slipping wildly through the void of Life like everyone else, and I don't know what to do about it.

It's a mixed bag for me.

Sometimes I like to lurk. Seeing true art graffiti-ed on the walls of the web is gratifying in a way words can't quite explain. The internet is rife with garbage work pretending to be anything but. Prose is a welcome reprieve.

Sometimes it's to dump the things out of my head when I get that insatiable itch to put words on page. There's something special about knowing I can post anything in the world, whether it be snippets of a novel or the incoherent ramblings of an insomniac at two in the morning.

Sometimes it's to wander through Portals and into treasure troves of talent. Poetry beyond reckoning embraces my senses. The genius on this platform is more abundant than June cockroaches on Bourbon Street.

And Finally-- for the challenges.

The indulgence.

The special treat to greet at the end of a long day of living among un-writerly folk.

I am continually delighted by the creativity to be found there-- in the Challenges section.

In short, Prose. is the choose your own adventure I didn't know I needed.

Their eyes were imprisoned, jailed by their own curiosity, and locked onto a life sentence with no possibility of escape; no chance of parole. 3:41pm (PST) filled the corner of their modest flat screen, which they had affixed over the mantle last summer. Their breathing was shallow, and remained secondary to their other bodily functions, all of them. For now, they were very much alive. Besides the reporters over-speaking the video clips on the television, it was quiet. It was deadly quiet. The world was watching in anticipation, holding its breath, waiting, just like Hank and Francis were, while recessed in their Lazy-Boy knock-offs. They were frozen, side by side, separated only by a small table, a lamp, and their overweight calico who fancied licking itself over anything else. King of the jungle, hierarch of the household, the world had stopped for everyone, yet it revolved around this feline’s nightly routine, and for him, his pretentious licking commenced. If only he knew.

Even the birds, and the wind that carries them, remained silent and still, careful not to whistle a tune or to rustle the tree branches outside. The screen radiated a series of light bursts and reoccurring banners which highlighted the wrinkles in their foreheads, and the impending doom held on their faces. Nothing could break them from the inconceivable truth that cemented them in their place except their tender hands that reached out for one another’s embrace. Francis found Hank first. Overwhelmed with shock and fear her hand trembled across his features to eventually find his hand. With her usual grace, and the deepest love for her husband, she squeezed. Hank interlaced his fingers returning the gesture, but their eyes remained glued to the screen. They had hoped it was an April fool’s prank, or perhaps a movie. Unfortunately, it was September, a week before their twentieth anniversary, and it was a Thursday; Not a typical day for a film release. This unequivocally was not a joke.

The first red button had been pushed, and a day that no one thought would happen, had happened. On their way, heading for the entire the west coast of the United States, were one-hundred-thirty-three intercontinental ballistic missiles, each armed with a nuclear warhead that averaged forty times more powerful than Hiroshima. The display on their television was old news, as the government acted in their usual turtle-like pace, intentionally holding back its warning to the public of the Pacific submarine fleet that fired upon us fifteen minutes prior. Hank and Francis had minutes to live if they were lucky, seconds, if they were less, and now living in Seattle didn’t seem like the dream that they had originally sought out. Outrunning a nuclear blast seemed implausible with or without a timely warning, and unfortunately, there was room left for regrets.

With no time to think, no life left to live, and any future memories already destroyed they finally broke their gazes from the wall, with a fateful acceptance. The screen glazed over into an endless blackness, and Hank carefully set down his remote in the depths of his recliner pocket. Their fingers remained balled into an unbreakable fusion of love, as they stood up facing toward each other. Frances locked eyes with him, and Hank did with her. He gripped her by the waist, pulling her closer like he always did when he meant to get her attention. Like the day he said his vows; Like the day that he asked her out for the first time; Like now. He struggled to work up a word from his lips, but eventually found some, while she remained lost in his eyes; her favorite memories flooding her view.

“Frankie--”

“Shh,” she interrupted while nodding her head, and placed a single finger across his lips. “I know.”

No words were needed. Nothing was needed. They both just knew. Frances rested her head against his chest, and he nuzzled his chin into her cushioned crown, their heartbeats syncing for one last time.

As light is faster than sound, the exponential glow of a miniature sunrise flooded its warmth through the windows. The room became white-washed in a heavenly brilliance. It was silent, but astonishing. Their grip tightened on each other, and their eyes wrinkled in anticipation of an inconceivable pain. Death was imminent. Before the sound could arrive, and with the finality of their love securely held in each other’s arms, their bodies, their home, the memories they cherished, and even the obese cat, all withered away into a dust cloud of ashes miles into the atmosphere, only to have ever been joined as one, connected by love, and now remembered by no one.

I am not alone. It may feel like hell itself, but I am not alone. That one thought keeps me sane as the roars of animals, both lion and human, pound against my eardrums. How long have I known this day was coming? And yet, somehow, I never imagined it would ever arrive.

Now, here I am, surrounded by creatures who will settle for nothing less than my life. I shudder at the very sight of the lions’ bared teeth, knowing they will shortly be ripping my flesh apart, but I don’t blame them. They know nothing but their hunger, and it is no fault of their own that my companions and I are the only food within reach.

No, it is the people cheering for my gruesome death who earn my condemnation. To them, I am nothing but entertainment. They will never see me as a person, worthy of living my life until its natural end. I am a plaything for them to watch and mock.

I will die today. There is no denying that. And yet, after a life that was barely worth living, I find I don’t want it to end.

As the door to our cage opens, I stagger backward, my resolve faltering. A hand catches me, steadying me, and a voice whispers in my ear, “We are free.”

I close my eyes and let the words wash over me. Free. The word has never defined me. Until today. No longer will they control every aspect of my life. No longer will I be forced to work myself to death just to keep from starving. No longer will I sweat and bleed for the sake of others. Today, I die. Today, I am free.