Qualified Entry, Second pixelhose Writing Competition. Nonfiction Category.

By Madeleine Camilli

It was an extraordinary dream. Perhaps the best I’d ever felt. It was impossibly realistic, and the very ambiance of reality was whisked away by the clouds’ melancholic requiem.

I was flying over an ocean on a continuous loop in a world where the grays, blacks, and whites had worked together to bleach the landscape of everything I knew. It was a world with no future and no past and no meaning. Despite how peaceful it really was, I felt this overwhelming sense of nostalgia under my ribs. This was where I most wanted to be, in a world where thinking was unnecessary, a place where the aura of other souls went unknown. Then, everything shifted. I was on a quaint, little shore overlooking a purple sky. The sand under my feet was warm and grainy and all you could hear was the crashing waves. The smell of salty water set my heart wild and the taste of tropic air calmed it down again. Suddenly, a soft whisper froze the world.

“Fight your way back.” it whispered.

I swung around on my right heel and saw a lustrous little girl. Her skin was pearly white with sapphire shaded eyes that had a dead atmosphere about them. The white dress she wore stretched an inch past her knees, and its hem was torn from years of damage. She didn’t look into my eyes, nor was she staring at the waves nonchalantly pounding the shore line. She was staring into a space I would never see; or so I hoped. Her gaze shifted and caught mine and for a moment, I saw a pleading look. One that screamed “save me”. She closed her blue eyes and faded into the mist slowly enveloping the beach.

“Stop this,” I turned around to face her again, “before you end up like me.” The little girl lifted up a quivering hand and gestured toward the ocean. “A deep-sea girl,” her shaky voice continued, “is fated to sink deeper, you know. Flying is ignorance and naivety. Walking is knowledge and power. Sinking is suffocation and loneliness. Walk, now. While you still can.” Her shoulder length hair blew across her face and settled in a mess atop her head and I watched as a navy blue wave swallowed her.

I woke up with a start. My flower print bed spread had become a tangle beneath me and my breath was uneven. My mom’s voice reached me with a wake up call, but in that moment I couldn’t untangle her words’ value and definition. Every once in a while I would get like this: sad and hopeless. I loathed these times. Little by little I was learning to lock these feelings up and replace it with numbness. “deep-sea girl” echoed in the back of my mind. I knew what she meant, that little girl who looked just like me. I was already looking hard to find longevity and destiny, and I was getting closer every day. Happiness creates a natural high, and it was what I was using to beat the waves. I’d already had this dream a while ago, and I’d vowed to win. Life is easier when you have a straight, set path, or even a map. Last time the girl had told me to “draw my own map.” But as this was proven impossible alone, I took my sweet time and thought it up with my friends. This was a dream of encouragement. I’m going the right way this time. Yelling “stop” told me that I shan’t doubt what I want. You either desire or reject the inevitable. As you can either be satisfied or cold in life.

Everybody has something in them, a compass so to speak, that guides them. Many people misunderstand or completely ignore it, resulting in a dead end. Successful spirits aren’t exactly abundant and courageous spirits are few, but people still live and laugh. Despite the sinking times, everyone still lives and laughs. I’ve learned to carry on like the rest, otherwise it would be unfair to those who walked right foot first on the line of life. The brave test the water before jumping in, while the ignorant dive head first into an unseen future. I’m just as clueless as anyone else and I think it’s better that way.

I only have dreams when I most need them, when I’m hopelessly lost. Life lessons can’t be taught at school, nor can they be foretold by those who are already knowledgeable. They must be realized first-hand a little bit at a time. The power to decide comes with it and I’ve decided to take advantage of life’s spoils before the opportunity is long gone. I know where I plan to go from here.

I ran my hands through my hair and sat down next to my key board. I love music. Everything: listening to it, writing it, and playing it; it’s what I want to do with my life. I love it too much for it to become another hobby. It’s too bad I can’t sing worth a dime, or I would’ve gone ahead with that. In two hours I’m meeting up with my band at the town square to play a few songs. These are the most enjoyable moments: when everybody stops to listen to our music, which is extremely well-written if I do say so myself, and when they all form this sort of circle around us. We are the center of attention, and nobody can take away from that. The first four beats we play are always the most nerve wracking. But after that it’s just us, our instruments, and the ground we stand on. Amy, Kevin, Logan, James, and I met four years ago. Logan, the guitarist, set out across school to find the people best at playing their instruments. There were plenty of people who were good, he said, but we had the right personality. The third time we performed, James suggested we have costumes. Thus, I blame him for the formal clothing. I got stuck with an eye-catching purple dress that conducted the sun’s heat and made me sweat like a pig. Logan forbade us from wearing costumes too different than what we wear now, saying it would be easier for the audience to enjoy our music. I can understand where he’s coming from: it’s easier for an audience when they have a sort of theme that stands out to them. But there are other ways of going about this.

I daintily practice my solo for our new song and then continue about my preparations. I grab my graceful, black key board and place it next to the front door. My name, Tori, was written in silver sharpy marker down the left side. I also have James to thank for that.

I still have 80-some years left on my life. I plan on walking through them at a steady pace, with my closest friends by my side. I know that wherever we go from here, we go together. Deep-sea girl got me this far, and I think she’ll bring me much farther.

Qualified Entry, Second pixelhose Writing Competition. Fiction Category.

By Elizabeth Cunnane

Joseph’s uncle ran a glass-blowing studio and Joseph had spent most of his weekends for the past year or so in there watching the team of men working. Saturdays they were open to the public and sometimes there were a lot of people so he’d have press himself into the small gaps in the crowd in order to see what was going on.  He liked the heat, and the smell of smouldering newspaper. And the colours. He could now tell the change in temperature by the incremental change in colour of the liquid glass – from a core of searing white, to cherry red, lush orange, through to an almost urine-coloured yellow and finally to flawless hard transparency. He didn’t really care what they made, but he liked to watch it change colour, and – as he described it to himself – watch it die. Blazing hot glass was wild and alive but in the changing of colours it not only cooled, but died.  He didn’t actually mind the death but it was most interesting to watch the transition, and to see how the men worked this death.

He knew from their movements whether it was a good day or not: if they moved from blowing bench to furnace and back again in frustrated deliberate strides, sweat dripping and glory-hole doors banging, it was a bad day; if it was a good day, it looked as if they danced. Few words were spoken either way, and there was always sweat and smoke, but if the glass was good the movements were easier, and there might even be a few laughs. Sometimes, on a really good day one of them might look up and shout, ’Oy, Joseph, think you could turn ’er up a bit? and Joseph would turn up the rock music that played on the stereo behind the roar of the furnaces.

Those were probably the best times; a thrilling sensation rose inside him as the music blasted and sometimes the feeling stayed for days afterwards. It wasn’t pure excitement though, well not like new-bike excitement, or staying up till midnight, but more like something was going to happen, that the something-exciting was just around the corner. Anticipation. He wasn’t completely sure what that word meant, but it felt right, so that’s how he thought of that feeling. (Years later, even as an adult anticipation was still the feeling he had whenever he smelt the particular biting smell of smouldering newspaper).

On school nights Joseph would work on his own project. His mum would make him do his homework first, and then he’d be allowed to go up to his room, get out the paper, pencils, tissue and balsa wood from the top shelf in his wardrobe, and get back to his plans. They were slowly taking shape. Well, the stack of paper was growing in size, but maybe that was simply because he was drawing and re-drawing the same thing. There were several half-formed maquettes by now, but nothing he was satisfied with. Every time he got out a new piece of tissue paper, he’d be sure that this time the curve was going to piece together exactly right, the size of the balloon would be in exact proportion to the weight of the fuel source and the distance from balloon lip to fuel would be sufficient. It all felt so fresh when he started – unmarked tissue, slim balsa struts, clean PVA glue nip. In the margins of his note paper he had hundreds of little calculations – lift ratios, glass weight per cubic centimetre, helium lift verses oxygen. It all felt unsullied and completely possible – more than just possible, it was perfectly rational and simple – before the tissue was cut. If he were lucky this feeling continued until near the end of construction, but somewhere along the way things always began to get messy, and edges didn’t quite match up. But Joseph had this picture in his head and it was so beautiful and peaceful, and it wouldn’t go away, so he kept at his plans.

After several weeks he achieved the first level of success with the completed construction of the tissue prototype. It was a lot heavier than it looked, and big. A little lop-sided too, but he convinced his parents it was worth a trial run and they agreed to come and help.  That night he took the carefully folded tissue balloon out to the paddock behind the house, opened it and showed his dad how to hold two of the top seams, creating two small ears. His dad’s arms were almost fully extended to allow for the size of the balloon. His mum held the torch. He asked his dad to lift the balloon a little higher and he lit a match and held it gently under the kerosene-soaked cotton-wool ball in the centre of the neck of the balloon.

Ignition.

The large lop-sided sphere glowed from the inside, light flickering. Joseph waited nervously as flames warmed the inside air, and luckily the night was still so they didn’t turn and catch the actual tissue. He assured his dad he’d let him know when to let go of the ears, and when the time came, he said – Yip, now.

Fingers let go. The balloon hovered.

Then softly it rose above them, still flickering.

Drifting off a little to the west as it got higher, but there it was – an armchair-sized patch of warmth and peace climbing the darkness.

As it got to about the height of a three-storey building, a small gust of wind took it and the balloon tilted heavily to the left.

Flames caught the inside lip of the opening.

Even though it continued to ascend, fire quickly ate its way up the curve, and strips of tissue began falling away into the dark.  Joseph’s heart plummeted.  It was spectacular, in its own way, this burning ball in the night sky over the paddock, but the gentleness and hope of a minute ago was destroyed. The last six weeks of careful cutting and gluing, millimetres measured precisely, days of thought before the next segment, exact alignments – it was all burning.  Joseph watched in misery.

A few days later he was helping his mother with the evening dishes when he stumbled across a thought: it might all still be possible. He realised even though the prototype hadn’t been completely successful, that was simply because of the flammable material, and the real balloon was a different material anyway. And the tissue balloon had actually lifted, so he must have got the weight to lift ratio right.

Well.

The following weekend Joseph found Uncle Patrick in the cold-working room. He wanted to talk to his uncle without the other men around but even with only the two of them there, he still didn’t know quite how to start. It might sound silly and just a kid’s game. He took a breath and ploughed into an explanation.

At first his uncle wasn’t sure. He listened as Joseph explained his plans and showed the drawings and calculations in his notebook. He didn’t say no outright, and didn’t laugh, but he asked lots of questions, and frowned at the notebook.  Joseph told him about the prototype and explained the necessity of making the real model now. His uncle said he’d give it some thought – particularly the how-to’s of weight to volume – which he said could be a bit of an issue. If Joseph came back next weekend he’d see where they were at then.

It was a breathless week. Joseph dreamt of strange flights in massive fragile glass balloons, over swelling green seas and calm purple lakes. The air was clear and cool. He woke happy.

By the end of the week he was worried that he might have over-thought and over-dreamt this idea, that somehow he’d jinxed the plans and his uncle would kindly but regretfully tell him that it just couldn’t be done. Saturday morning came and he biked down to the studio early. Uncle Patrick was stacking the pipe-warmer when he came in and the room smelt of the warm beeswax that was used as a lubricant for some of the tools.

Got some good news and some bad news Joe, his uncle said.

Good news first – in theory we can do it. The shape’s all possible and with a little bit of luck we can blow to the right size. It’ll be big, mind you, pretty damn big.

Joseph let out a breath.

The only problem is that at the size we’re talking, it’ll also be damn thin and fragile. One poof and she’ll be confetti. So getting her off the pipe and out in one piece is gonna be a trick ’cos that’s where a bit of stress is normally required to knock ’er off. That’s the bad news.  But the boys have a few ideas so we’re gonna have a few trial runs and see how things go. Don’t get ya hopes up, but we’ll give ’er a good go.

Joseph’s heart danced.

The next four weekends were spent in the hot glass studio with the boys, over-seeing his project. At first he just spread his notebooks out on the table on the mezzanine overlooking the studio floor, drawing and re-drawing and adjusting calculations as the men shouted measurements to him after each trial run. Soon he was allowed to stand on the floor, back from the blowing bench, and by the fourth week one of them asked if he could open and close the glory-hole doors.

The blowing itself was both exciting and frustrating to watch. Joseph had seen the men contend with the strength and toughness of the live glass before but he hadn’t seen them work with its paradoxical opposite – paper-thin fragility. There was still sweat and gruffness, but as the sphere increased in size there was an added gentleness with every move. A point came where the manipulation and coaxing of shape finished and there was just one final blow. That was the moment where it all happened. When the orb’s circumference was about as round as Joseph’s not-quite touching curved arms, it was re-heated one last time. The men watched it almost tenderly, making sure it didn’t get so hot again that it would melt in on itself. A few times that happened anyway, and all the anticipation for the next step exhaled with the deflating glass.

But if they got the moment exactly right, the orb would be carried back to the bench and with one man turning the pipe, another would crouch and blow into the far end. That man would have big lungs and a steady blow, and the glass balloon would expand and continue growing, as if it was somehow suddenly made of rubber. It would swell in an almost reckless fashion, one moment being contained within the space of Joseph’s arms, and in another being twice the size of his uncle’s outstretched one’s. If the blowing stopped at just the right moment, then the sphere would quiver and hold, and someone might even give a whoop of success.

It was the next step – getting the huge fragile sphere off the pipe – that was the problem. Normally a ring of stress was created with water around the join of pipe to glass so that when the pipe was tapped the vibrations ran up the metal and cracked the glass lip cleanly off into waiting hands. But Joseph’s balloon was too thin to cope with any vibrations, and too delicate to be rested against anything in its still-warm state.

For three weekends the men struggled with this problem. Joseph began to wonder if it was ever going to work. After he’d watched a gazillion feathery shards flutter to the floor as yet another balloon burst, he began to think maybe it was just a silly kid’s idea after all. This was why hot air balloons were made of fabric, aeroplanes were made of metal and windows were made of glass.

But on the fourth weekend one of the men had an idea. If the balloon was allowed to cool on the pipe, and a string covered in kerosene was looped around the base, when the string was lit the ring of fire would create enough temperature change to break the glass cleanly at that point. Several pairs of gloved hands would be waiting to take the weight of the balloon, gently. It all just depended on sensitivity and pressure.

It worked. There was a moment of surprise when the glass stayed intact, and then Joseph, his uncle and the three other men looked at each other and grinned. The music was turned up loud that afternoon.

They couldn’t do the lift-off until the following Sunday. It was another week of waiting, but Joseph wanted to go over his drawing several more times more to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.  It would be terrible to muck things up now. Most especially as the men had put this much time into his project. He felt all the more responsible for its success.

Sunday finally came and in the afternoon Joseph’s uncle met him and the men at the studio with a borrowed horse float. The studio had double doors but even so the balloon only just fitted as the men carried it out with supreme care. A deep bed of blankets had been made in the horse float and one of them would ride in the back anyway to hold it steady. The others would follow in cars. The procession left the studio and made its way slowly out to the farm.

The trailer was backed into the paddock along the northern boundary of the farm. Dusk was settling by then, but it was late summer so the air was mild.  Joseph dipped the large bundle of cotton-wool in a bath of kerosene, and speared a strip of number eight wire through it. It took all four men to unload the balloon, not because of the weight but because of its size and fragility. It was like moving a huge, quivering soap bubble. No one could grip too tightly, or do anything more than simply let the translucent glass curve press easily against their palms. Once the balloon was out, Joseph was able to crouch down and gently angle the wire up into the neck, allowing it to lie just inside the lip of the glass.

He stood up. Well, here they were. This was it.

He took the matches out of his pocket and lit one. The four men raised the balloon and Joseph held the match to the kerosene bundle.

And for the second time, ignition.

Fire roared.

Hundreds of reflections of the burning fuel bounced off the shiny curved walls of glass, making the huge orb sparkle and the division between inside and outside impossible to define. Kerosene continued to roar and the air warmed. Nobody spoke. The men watched for Joseph’s signal, and after a few minutes it came and they removed their palms from the glass curves. The balloon hung for a moment, suspended in the air at the same height as when it had been resting with the men. Then it began to rise. Ever so gently, but smoothly, as if it were on water. Refracted light flickered and reflected off the faces of the men as they watched. The balloon continued to rise, to take its weight carefully into its own hands and carry itself up into the darkening sky.

Nobody said anything.

Four grown men, an eleven-year-old boy and his two parents all watched as a glass hot air balloon the size of a small horse drifted up into the dark, above the height of a house, and above the height of a radio transformer. For a moment the boy’s eyes left his balloon and looked at the men’s faces. All sweat and gruffness was gone, and there was an expression somewhere between disbelief and joy. All seven of them would have been up for any wild adventure, any disastrous love, any fight for the under-dog – anything was possible in those few minutes as the balloon climbed higher and higher in the darkening evening sky.

Qualified Entry, Second pixelhose Writing Competition. Nonfiction Category.

By Ute Carson

There had not been such a brilliant autumn in recent memory. Even though it was already September, a month which usually brought dense fog and rain to the port city of Hamburg, this year the temperature was deceptively mild and dry. Margret and I had the door to our balcony wide open. The row houses where we shared a flat were shoulder-touchingly close and noises from neighboring balconies drifted in. It was the beginning of the fall semester, our second year at the university. We were architecture students, a field that promised plenty of opportunities in the early sixties^.  We lay stretched out on the floor on our stomachs, drawing.

A knock at the door surprised us. We were not expecting visitors and our watchful landlady usually screened all callers.

“May I come in?” An elderly man pushed his skinny frame toward the door. He looked like a detective, wore a long gray trench coat, was bald, and balanced horn-rimmed glasses on his beak-nose. He carried a battered briefcase with big brass snaps which he pressed to his chest as though it contained something very valuable.

“May I have a word about a matter of importance to one of you?” Too startled to say no, and not wanting to seem impolite, I gestured toward the battered green hassocks in the corner of our common room. They were laden with books and papers which were tipping toward the adjacent white-tiled stove, still silent for the season.

Margret jumped up, pushed the stack of materials off the hassocks and said politely, “Please sit down.” I remained on the floor but sat up straight and pulled my short skirt down over my bare thighs. The prune-like stranger lifted the back of his coat as if it were a frock and placed himself squarely on the closest hassock, facing us.

“Dr. Schwarz… Dr. Schwarz…Dr Schwarz,” he introduced himself in a soft, dreary voice three times as if to make sure we got his name. All the while his fingers drummed on the top of his briefcase so that the letters of his name seemed to engrave themselves into the brown leather. We sat quiet, expectant. “Which of you is Countess Ute von Hardenberg?” His gaze flitted from me to Margret and back to me. Even beneath his smudged glasses his eyes were prying. “I am Ute,” I said. “This is my friend Margret.” The stranger hesitated and then pronounced with much gravity, “Please, Miss Margret, could you give us some privacy.” “No,” I blurted out a bit too loudly. “She can stay.” I had no intention of being alone with this hawkeyed intruder.

He seemed to be trying to take my measure as a slow smile lifted his sallow cheeks and he continued, “You no doubt honor your father’s memory.” I still had no idea what this was about but my suspicion was now aroused. “Yes… of course…but how do you…?” He interjected, “Good, good, I presumed as much. I have been apprised of the circumstances of your childhood. I am aware that your father was killed in action early in the war and thus was robbed of the opportunity of watching his only daughter grow into a beautiful young lady.” He seemed to be pondering my growing puzzlement. “But you can make it up to him. I will get straight to the point of my visit. I have come to encourage you to take back your birth name.” I must have looked dumbfounded but before I could speak he continued, his voice more subdued than before, “Because your adoption was never finalized, your mother has lived throughout the postwar years on fraudulently acquired income and you are the bearer of a false identity.”   “Now, wait a minute!” I stood up, incredulous. “Who are you? And who is making these foul accusations?” “Please, please, I am only the messenger,” he said in a whisper. “You may not be aware that your mother is under indictment for lying under oath. You and she have reaped the benefits of Count Franz’s inheritance while your half-sister Gertrud, her father Richard and her poor Aunt…” “Which Aunt?” I interrupted rudely. “Why, Richard’s sister, the Countess Beate, who feels that you have disgraced her aristocratic family.” My mouth dropped open. “Count Richard and my sister have shared our inheritance from the beginning.” As I stepped toward him, Dr. Schwarz got up quickly and began backing toward the door. “No need to get exasperated. I am only here to introduce myself and to inform you that I am representing them in a lawsuit being brought against your mother and you.”

As swiftly as Dr. Schwarz had entered he now exited, leaving the door ajar which drew a gust of wind through the balcony door and scattered our papers across the floor.

As soon as the door closed, Margret started to giggle. “Did you hear his accent? Russian? Or maybe Polish?” But I was in shock and for a while said nothing. For some reason I had focused mostly on his boots, dull and scuffed. They had clearly seen better days.  After regaining my composure I sighed and turned to Margret, “I wish I had your family history. No deaths, no money worries, your parents are not divorced and you even have a grandmother who still lives with you.” Margret got up, patted me on the shoulder and walked toward the little kitchen. “You need a glass of wine.”

*

I certainly did have a complicated family history. My mother Gerda was born into an old family of the Silesian landed aristocracy, the Barons von Lüttwitz. Her mother Maria too came from royal stock and always boasted of having taken tea with the Queen Mother of England before World War I. When she was twenty-one, my mother fell in love with my father Gert who was the oldest son of an affluent upper-middle class family and an aspiring academic. When the war started in 1939 he was drafted, posted to France, and was killed two weeks before my birth. I became the talisman of my parents’ passion. Until her death in 1999 my mother placed a fresh flower next to my father’s photo on her nightstand every week.

Three years after my father’s death, my mother married Count Franz von Hardenberg who was the adopted son of his Aunt Sybille and heir to her gorgeous vast estate near the town of Liegnitz. A military man, he rose to the rank of Staff Officer with the Army High Command. I knew nothing of his politics except that on one occasion he had used his influence to save my grandmother Maria, who was an outspoken opponent of the Nazis, from being sent to a concentration camp. Like so many of her compatriots in the resistance she had naively signed the guestbook at a clandestine gathering on a neighboring estate and was subsequently arrested by the Gestapo. Count Franz adopted me shortly after marrying my mother. I was four years old at the time, and I bore his name from then on.

Soon thereafter as the Red Army swept into Silesia my mother and grandmother fled westward with me, taking all the winter clothing they could carry, and their jewelry sewn inside the lining of their coats. Everything else was left behind, and all family documents were lost.

In the early 1950s  the German government began to reimburse former landowners for their losses in the eastern territories. Thousands had to vouch for the validity of missing birth certificates, marriage licenses and in my case, adoption papers. Thereafter we began to receive monthly checks which allowed us to move from the rat-infested shelter where we were housed after the war to a spacious apartment in which we lived comfortably. I was even able to afford tuition fees and living expenses at the university.

In 1945 Count Richard, Franz’s brother had brought my mother the news that Franz had been killed flying back from a staff meeting with the generals on the Russian front. Bereft for a second time, my mother turned to Count Richard for comfort and soon became pregnant with my sister Helga. Count Richard married my mother and became the only father I ever really knew. He lived with us for ten years until the marriage ended in divorce.

*

Not long after the strange encounter with Dr. Schwarz, Count Richard paid me a visit. He was now married again and helped his sister Beate with her thriving dog grooming business. She gave him the responsibility of walking the boarded canines. Count Richard and I had bonded in an unusual way. He came into my five year-old life after the war and though he did not particularly like children, he taught me to be his useful accomplice. Times were hard. He was unemployed, and all we had to live on was the family jewelry and my mother’s breast milk, which we sold on the black market.

Count Richard was also a womanizer. I had to accompany him on his forays to the market which he combined with clandestine stops at various houses along the way. I was always amazed at how many ladies eagerly awaited him. We never left these rendezvous without an extra piece of warm clothing or some needed food. On our way home I stole vegetables from crowded market stalls. While Father distracted the stall keeper I slipped some eggs into my pockets, all the while stroking the heads of clucking hens in their straw baskets. We pilfered fruit from orchards and potatoes from unattended fields. These thieveries created strong ties, strengthened by the secrecy I was sworn to. Count Richard was shrewd and looked out first and foremost for himself. But these early days together had led to a lasting fondness for me, which never extended to his real daughter, my sister.

The Count was his charming self as he swept into our student apartment in his rumpled clothes, embraced me and Margret, and exclaimed, “You two look lovelier every time I see you.” He was all sincerity and smiles as he went straight for the glasses on our coffee table, still unwashed and sticky from the previous night. Acting as if he were at home, he uncorked a pocket-size bottle of fine French cognac he had brought with him and poured himself a stiff drink. “Santé!”

“Did Dr. Schwarz unnerve you?” He grinned at me. My face turned beetroot red with anger but I was at a loss for words. He instantly lowered his gaze and turned into the shape-shifter I knew him to be. “I feel a little bad, Ute dear,” he began. “You have always been like my own daughter but things have turned nasty in recent months. My sister has discovered a deception. And you know how she is, she will get to the bottom of any falsehood. She has found out, quite by chance I should add, that your adoption by my brother Franz was never finalized. Your inheritance deprived her of hers.” “But not yours and Gertrud’s,” I interrupted. “No, but you see, my circumstances have also changed. I have new responsibilities, and your mother can no longer help financially.” “So it’s all about money, right?” “Oh, no,” he protested and immediately resumed his dissembling. “It’s about honoring the dead. You see, we never fully considered your father’s feelings. I mean, what his wishes might have been. I am sure he would have liked his surname to pass on to his daughter.” The Count topped up his drink. “I am not pressuring you, only appealing to your sense of fairness. I have known you always to be very fair-minded. This is your chance to make up for our thoughtlessness toward your dead father.” “And the money would go to whom?” It seemed too transparently obvious. “I’m not sure, really. We would of course see to it that you and your mother are provided for. Please, just think about our request.” Then he placed the half-empty bottle on the table and with a generous swipe of his hand announced, “I’ll leave this for you to enjoy. I must be off. I know, Ute dear, you will make the right decision.” And with a flourish, he vanished.

“It’s all about money, disguised as honor,” Margret trumpeted once the Count was out of earshot. Then suddenly we heard pounding rain on the roof, an unanticipated downpour.

*

I was torn. I had blissfully lived with my adopted name and its privileges and never considered what my biological father might have wanted. The following day I sat through lectures with a knot in the pit of my stomach. Later that evening I decided to pay my paternal grandparents, Aenne and Karl Köhler a visit.

They were waiting at the train station when I arrived, bent slightly forward at the waist like twisted branches laden with snow. It was not age that had crippled them but the burden of a destiny I could not imagine them bearing day after day, the terrible sorrow they continued to shoulder. They were a tolerant, educated couple who had resided in a small town near the Baltic Sea before the war where my grandfather had been a judge. My grandmother wrote stories, poetry, even a play that was performed in the local community theatre. Before the Red Army stormed their town, they abandoned their home, changing location again and again as troop movements shifted until the war ended. In the ensuing years as the country slowly rebuilt, they settled in western Germany and despite their advanced years started a new life. My grandfather joined a law firm and began to attract a small clientele. But tragedy had already done its damage.

My grandparents had five children, four boys and then a daughter. On a walk with her nanny, the toddler was fatally struck by a motorcyclist who lost control of his bike and careened off the road. My father, the eldest of the five siblings, and a second son were killed in the war, and the third son returned home shell-shocked and soon died. The youngest boy was sent to Sweden where he was taken in by relatives and survived unscathed. He became a Swedish citizen and never returned to Germany. No wonder that I was doted on as the only remaining jewel from a trove of lost treasure.

As was customary, the main meal of the day at my grandparents’ house was taken at noon and only light snacks were offered in the evenings. My grandmother had lovingly prepared slices of apples, a variety of cheeses and cold meats served with crusty brown bread. A bottle of white wine whetted our appetite. I ate fast, then delved into my story. My grandparents listened intently and without interruption, though when I described Dr. Schwarz I noticed my grandfather’s nose twitch. After I finished, circling back once or twice to fill in a forgotten detail, grandfather responded first. “Your mother nearly did not survive the news of your father’s death. They were very much in love. So when, three years later, she met Count Franz and brought him to meet us, we were relieved and happy for her. I supported your mother’s intention to have you adopted. We wanted you to be integrated into your new family, of course not knowing that death would strike again. Count Franz’s own adoptive mother was a refined but rather simple-minded lady who took to your mother and you with one reservation. You were not of the aristocracy, and your mother, as she put it curtly “had strayed by marrying a commoner.” Here my grandmother smiled and broke in, “Your mother adored your father but if she could have changed one single thing about him she would have turned him into a Count.”

Grandfather picked up where he had left off. “I went to Seidorf to inspect the adoption papers, and found them in order save for a few typographical errors. Franz planned to sign them during his next furlough from the front. I know he returned once before his final fatal flight. But owing to all the turmoil at that time, nobody can know for sure if the papers were ever actually signed.”

It was my grandmother who surmised my unspoken quandary. She had left the table and come back with a thick art book. She fingered through the index and flipped to a page with a picture of Uta, Dutchess of Naumburg. “Look at his picture. On a visit to Naumburg your parents stopped at the cathedral and saw there the statue of Uta. Your father, who was convinced that you would be a girl, decided on the spot, ‘We’ll name our daughter Ute, only change the spelling slightly to give her name a softer sound.’ Your father marveled at the beauty and self-contained expression of this lady. He would have liked for you to keep that name forever. As for the surname, he would not have cared either way.” I was so relieved. I loved my given name and would always bear it proudly.

But I was not finished. “What is this about, this lawsuit?” I queried. “Money of course,” my grandfather bellowed. Countess Sybille left a curious stipulation in her will. Upon her death the estate would pass to her son Franz, then to his children, only then to his siblings Beate and Richard and finally to your mother. She expected of course that your parents would have several children. But Countess Sybille preceded Franz in death. She vowed to remain in her castle come what might and was murdered by the invading army. So she never knew that he died in the war, without having any children.”

Matters were beginning to fall into place. “Why did you make a face when I mentioned Dr. Schwarz,” I asked.  Grandfather grimaced as he always did when caught off guard. “I must reserve judgment and investigate further but he may have been the Polish clerk who worked at the office in Seidorf. My stay there was brief but I do recall a young man who fits the description of Dr. Schwarz. He volunteered to me at that time that he intended to enter law school.”

I did not sleep well under the comfortable featherbedding that night. Half awake, half dreaming, vague memories bubbled up. I recalled a morning when my parents were in their bedroom during Count Franz’s last leave at home. I had run into their room and jumped onto their bed. Swept up into my new father’s arms, I giggled pleasantly, the disentangled myself and, glancing back teasingly, ran back into the hallway to play. There I overheard my mother say, “I am so pleased you will honor my request to adopt Ute. You two seem to get along so well.” “She is a sweet little girl and I will certainly keep my promise. But be patient, dear. My mother has to warm to the idea of the adoption. There is no rush, right? I will be back soon and never leave you alone again.” I heard my mother sob, whether from joy or fear I could not tell.

A secret abides, a secret wants to be revealed. What really happened?

*

A letter from my sister awaited me upon my return to Hamburg. She is six years younger than I, and when she was a baby I had treated her like one of my dolls. Later on as our interests diverged, we shared little of our lives. But like Aunt Beate, under whose influence she had come, my sister always felt that she had been shortchanged. In her eyes I was the more beautiful one, favored by my grandparents, had more friends and better schooling…. The list was endless. As often as I tried to right the balance between us, Helga always had a new agenda. She felt neglected and disadvantaged no matter what. I was nevertheless sympathetic to her feelings. I had  been dealt a fortunate hand. My fiery, passionate Grandmother Maria favored and protected me like a lioness. I had stayed with her when my mother was ill or being courted, which in the years after Gert’s death was not infrequent. I in turn loved Grandmother Maria fiercely. My sister never had such a bond with anyone in our family. I was closer to her own father than she was. My mother tried to share her affections between us, but I was, after all, the child of the great love of her young life.

My sister’s letter was brief and calculating, clearly dictated under Countess Beate’s auspice. “Sister,” it began, “I have always admired you but you have never requited my feelings. Everything in life has gone your way, and I have had to content myself with being second-best. Can you not at least leave me my name? My father is not your father, and your father is dead. I am the only real Countess. Please do me this ONE favor and I will never ask you for anything again. Take back your Köhler name and let me be the Countess von Hardenberg. I beg you. Helga.” I wanted to weep. Instead I crumpled up the letter and threw it into the wastebasket.

*

My mother was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Her svelte figure matched the pearls she always wore, even in the air-raid shelter. She had an understated poise and style which elicited caring protectiveness in most men. She was the real Countess. I love her though my feelings for her could not rival those for my Grandmother Maria. My mother sensed this, which must have added sadness to her life, already much burdened by loss.

My mother stayed with Margret and me the day before the hearing. I gave her my bed and I shared Margret’s. That night we went to a neighborhood Italian restaurant and had a good time. Mother studiously avoided any talk about the hearing. Every time I subtly broached the subject, she became strangely evasive. “Everything will be fine. Let’s just enjoy ourselves.” And so we did.  But her calm outward demeanor belied her underlying anxiety. I knew that she would hold her ground against any false accusations. I also knew that for my mother honoring a promise was a token of love.

Next morning in the courtroom, Count Richard arrived in his usual disheveled attire, hair uncombed as if he had just jumped out of bed. His stout sister Beate, wearing a white ruffled blouse and looking awkward without her aristocratic pet dachshund, sat stiffly on the hard bench with an air of righteous self-assurance. My sister Helga, also in a white ruffled blouse, flicked her long brown braids through the air menacingly from time to time. The three sat like birds on a wire, facing us. Dr. Schwarz, looking even more hawkish than I recalled, crouched at their side. As it turned out, he was not their lawyer but a witness. When my mother spotted him, she exclaimed, “Why, that’s Max. What is he doing here?” I could not answer her because we had just been ordered to silence. In the following cross-examination our accusers spoke on script, like parrots.

The judge, twirling a black fountain pen, had each of them tell the adoption story which was further embellished with each retelling. My mother swore that the adoption papers had been signed and duly notarized. Not a single bead of perspiration was visible on her brow. When she finished, Dr. Schwarz had his moment of glory. He carried his well-guarded briefcase to the bench, snapped the brass locks open, produced a single piece of paper, and held it up triumphantly. “There is no signature on this document.” His cheeks paled to yellow under more questioning. How had he come into possession of this document, the judge wanted to know. Dr. Schwarz did not hesitate. He gestured toward to Beate. “Before we took flight from the advancing Russian troops, the Countess instructed me to gather her documents. It was all very last minute but I fetched them, to my own detriment. I did not even have time to locate my law school degree.” Our accusers glared at us, sensing victory.

The judge called a recess in the hearing during which Dr. Schwarz’s document was examined. Then my mother was called again to the stand. In a calm, firm voice she told the judge that she knew Max from the office in Seidorf. “Max was absent on the day of the signing. A young woman named Doris witnessed the signing in his stead.”

No one could have foreseen the sudden appearance of my former nanny. Doris approached the bench, toothless, her lips curling over her gums like a rabbit nibbling a carrot. She began her testimony, rising to her unaccustomed role. “I was there that day,” she started, her eyes ablaze. I had come up to the castle because we had promised Ute a party with girls from the village the day she officially became our new Countess. To me she was always a Countess, such a sweet little thing. Max was out of the office and could not be found. So I was called to witness, and I did. Right afterwards Count Franz left to return to the front. Later in the week I trekked westward with the women. I now live in  nursing home in Kassel.” Unbeknownst to us, my mother had summoned Doris. Across from us the three parrots sat speechless, knocked from their perches.

When the judge reentered the courtroom to announce the verdict, my skin prickled. I tried to catch my mother’s eye but she turned away. The judge stated that the date on Max’s document did not match the date on the alleged adoption papers. “Dr. Schwarz’s document appears to be a declaration of intent, composed long before the preparation of the official adoption papers.” He continued, “Many unusual things transpired in those war-torn times, and much remains uncertain to this day. Some things are simply not ascertainable. Case dismissed.” He then gazed admiringly at my mother. It was as if he had come under the spell of a true Countess–and a devoted mother.

Suddenly we all shuddered as a clap of thunder ended the proceedings and the courtroom went dark.

I jumped up and hugged my mother, then turned to see the reaction of our accusers. Beate and Helga were incredulous and irate, parrots with their feathers plucked.  Only Count Richard blew us a kiss on his way out. He still had not tucked in his shirttail.

That evening Margret and I took my mother and Doris to dinner at Hamburg’s exclusive Fürstenhof Hotel. My mother had called my sister and pleaded with her to come along, but Helga declined saying, “Aunt Beate has bought tickets to the ballet. I’ll visit you soon.”

Over dessert I asked, “Did I ever have that girls’ party?” Doris busied herself with her chocolate mousse. My mother leaned over and tenderly caressed my hand. “No dear, the Russians were already burning down neighboring villages to the east. We had to leave in a hurry and were lucky to get out alive.” Did I notice a conspiratorial glance flit between my mother and Doris? Or did I just imagine it?

When we left the restaurant the night was balmy and a myriad of stars twinkled in the sky as if dancing.  A promise had been kept but the truth would remain forever hidden.

*Photo Credit:This photo is used under the Generic Creative Commons license.

Qualified Entry, Second pixelhose Writing Competition. Fiction Category.

By Alex Kario

“This belonged to your father. He would have wanted you to have it.” Without any further explanation, I was handed a tiny globe supported by a rusty iron frame. Faded hues of blue, red, and yellow graced its handsome surface. Tiny inscriptions announced the names of its distorted continents and misconstrued oceans in a language completely alien to me. I placed it on a shelf where it stood out like a somber shadow among my vibrant, happy playthings. It became an object of mystery and wonder that haunted my childhood.

More than occasionally, I would look up from my Legos and building blocks to find the vintage, old-world phantom glaring at me. It beckoned me forward. My imagination proved too strong to resist, as I would hear the echo of passing centuries transport me to another time and place. It was a mariner’s tool, I decided. I saw Arab dhows docking in the port of Alexandria and Venetian merchants unloading precious silk from the Orient. No, it was used by Columbus himself, I decided. He referenced this very globe as he made his brave journey into uncharted waters.

As I got older, my hypotheses became slightly more realistic. I imagined it sitting on the mantle of a fireplace while my grandmother knit socks in her Barcelona apartment. Or, maybe it sat on my father’s desk as he plotted secret missions and decoded messages exchanged by terrorists. Perhaps, he kept it in his tent as a good luck charm while he led a battalion of troops to war against the Syrians. I saw camouflaged tanks roll across the rocky terrain of the Golan Heights and infantry courageously charge into the Valley of Tears in the sweltering desert heat.

It only took one inquisitive moment to dispel all the awe and reverence I held for the object. As an adolescent, I examined the antique with new eyes and found a hole in its bronze base. To my horror, I came to the sudden realization that it was a pencil sharpener. I capsized it and found a company logo, reference number, and an inscription of those three horrible words; Made in China. Years of wondrous childhood daydreams flew out the window as the spellbinding, medieval artifact that had captivated my imagination for so long was degraded to a common gift shop souvenir.  I could almost hear my father chuckling.

Qualified Entry, Second pixelhose Writing Competition. Fiction Category.

By Brent A. Middleton

Chester’s mom gave him one final, tight embrace before setting him down and letting him embark on his first great adventure out into the world. Chester smiled, gave her a peck on the cheek, and turned to face the destiny that lay before him in this strange new land.Although his legs felt a bit wobbly, he managed to make his way over to a wild steed that appeared to be at rest. Before it could gallop away, Chester swung up onto its back and slapped its backside in a flurry of arms and legs. The horse whinny ‘d crazily in fear and shot forward, barely giving Chester a chance to catch himself around its neck. They galloped for what seemed like hours across the barren wasteland, the trusty steed never tiring and Chester never losing the determination that sparkled in his eyes. Before long, the constant motion of the horse began to lull Chester to sleep. Despite trying to fight it, he gradually found himself leaning more and more against the neck of the horse, finally submitting to exhaustion…

Just then, the horse reeled to a sudden stop and sent Chester first backward, than flying forward off of its back, landing face-first onto the soft, warm ground. Coughing and wiping the tears from his eyes, he surveyed his surroundings, and his jaw dropped.

Miles and miles of desert stretched before his eyes.

Chester spun around in panic but could see no one; he was stranded, lost forever to the endless waves of sandy death! He had no water, no supplies—nothing but the clothes on his very back. He tried desperately to call out for help, but no one came. His vision began to blur as his head felt heavy with the fiery rays of the sun beaming down on him from beyond. He tried to stagger a few steps, but it appeared as though his leg had been somehow injured in the horse fiasco. Dehydrated, injured and without hope, Chester collapsed on a dune, slowly closing his eyes to accept his impending doom.

“AHH!!” Chester screamed. Something had pinched him. He scrambled to his feet wildly, falling back over again in the process. He heard small footsteps crunching on the sand, making their way towards him. Chester willed his body to turn around, but it remained still, paralyzed with fear. A shadow he couldn’t quite make out crept hesitantly towards him. This was the end. Chester fondly reminisced of the last time he’d seen his mother’s smiling face; it must’ve been weeks now since he’d bade farewell to her and embarked on his journey. At least he’d been able to say his final goodbyes…

“Hey! Here.”

Chester peeled his eyes open as he looked up at the figure towering over here, silhouetted by the blazing sun. It was holding something in its hand. Squinting now, Chester thought he could make out—yes, could it be!? Water! A bottle of water! Chester snatched the bottle away greedily and attempted to pour all of its contents down his throat, nearly drowning himself in the process. After coughing and sputtering a few times, he looked back up at the previously-menacing figure with a newfound appreciation. Only now it wasn’t just a figure, but a girl.

She smiled down at him kindly, offering him her hand. Chester gratefully took it with a smile and hauled himself back onto his feet.

“Hi, I’m Melanie.” Her voice was as soft as a pillow, and as she talked her head tilted slightly to the right, as if she was inspecting him somehow. Chester rubbed his head as shook himself out of a daze. His head was bursting with questions. Why was Melanie out in the desert? How did she know where to find him? Was she lost too?

Before Chester had a chance to ask her anything, or even offer his name, however, she turned and skipped back the way she’d came, smiling at him one last time. Chester tried to run after her, but tripped over his himself and landed softly in the sand. As Melanie gradually faded out of sight, he saw her tilt her head skywards and shout out “I did it!” as if speaking to an angel.

And then she was gone.

Chester pulled himself to his feet and tried to pull himself together. First his mother, and now Melanie. He could never hold onto a woman, could he? Looking around once more (now with a slight hope of spying Melanie wandering around among the dunes) he sighed. No luck; he still had no idea where he was.

Suddenly, the sun cast a shadow off of something—something huge. It slowly stretched across the sand, taking more of it up every minute until it engulfed the entire desert in darkness. Terrified, Chester looked around wildly, trying to identify the source of the darkness—and whatever danger it might bring. Finally, his eyes brought him to a towering mass in the distance. His mind immediately turned to Melanie wandering aimlessly along the sands, probably with no idea of the danger she was in! Emboldened by fear of his damsel’s life, Chester ran towards to the mass at full sprint, shedding any fears he had along the way. As he finally came within distance of it, his eyes grew round with disbelief, and he heard himself let out a gasp in amazement.

A ship!

Towering above him was the largest, more beautiful vessel he’d ever seen in his life. It seemed older, with its bright blue and purple paint faded and scraped off in places, and the sign on its side slightly rusted off so its name remained a treasure of time. Why here? Chester moved forward, puzzled.

As Chester squinted and walked closer, he swore he heard faint laughing. Frowning, he paused and listened more intently and, sure enough, there was laughter coming from inside the ship! Melanie? His thoughts raced as he made a mad dash for the gangplank. Had she found the ship before him? Perhaps she was safe after all! Chester ran onboard and gazed about excitedly…only to meet the eyes of three not-so-excited sailors. All the merriment from a moment ago had vanished, and their smiles and cheer were quickly replaced with scowls and anger. Chester hesitated, taking a step back onto the gangplank. The sailors slowly stood up and began to make threatening advances towards him, one brandishing a gun of some sort. Chester’s eyes grew wide with horror.

Just as the sailor made to aim for him, Chester turned and ran for his life. He ran so fast he flew across the desert in clear under five seconds, past his disgruntled-looking horse, and back into his mother’s outstretched arms. He burst into tears and clung to her tightly, instantly feeling warmth and protection.

“Susan! Can you watch your boys more closely please? They scared Chester half to death with those horrible water guns!”

“It’s all the kids want these days. What can I do?”

“Aww, it’s okay baby, mommy’s here. Melanie, can you bring me some more water from my bag, please? It’s scorching out here!”

Linda sighed. Summers at her sister’s house always sucked.

Qualified Entry, Second pixelhose Writing Competition. Fiction Category.

By Ray Margulies

Lanny Kalish was dead. He had died in an automobile accident near Detroit. A doctor at the Michigan hospital signed the certificate, took the usable organs as per instructions on Lenny’s driver’s license and sent the remains to Toronto.

Now Lenny was lying at Marshall’s funeral home, displayed on the dais of the chapel, surrounded by bouquets of flowers. Their bright colors of red, white, pink and yellow hypnotized those that had come to view the “remains.” The array of floral decorations emanated a pleasant odor offering some consolation to bereaved and the curious.

The casket was closed and bolted. Lenny’s body had been charred beyond the restorative ability of the undertaker’s expertise.

Norma Kalish gazed at the coffin that held her son. She was oblivious to all that was going on around her. Slowly her mind drifted back into the past and began to indulge in thoughts of its own. Perhaps it was not her Lenny in the coffin? Perhaps it was some impostor or the coffin was empty, perhaps? There was no way to find out. Some things had to taken on trust didn’t they? Not that it mattered, if Lenny was dead, he was dead. The body would be cremated anyway and it could just as easily have been done in Detroit. Perhaps there was some decree that made them send the body rather than just the ashes.

People came to pay their respect. Not to the corpse or the coffin. They came out of respect for the man they had known during his short 42 years of life. Norma watched them approach the coffin, see it was closed and walk away in silence. The room had filled up and on all of the faces were signs of disbelief. He was so young was the consensus of those present, of those she recognized and those she did not know.

Among those that were not familiar was an old man. He was tired looking and leaning against the wall. He had a beard as dull and grey as a November day. His nose was large in proportion to his face, hooked to almost caricatured exaggeration. He wore black horn-rimmed glasses making the nose-rest somewhat distinctive. And behind those glasses were a pair of sad and expressive eyes. They proclaimed by that inimitable expression that they had witnessed a great deal; a great deal more than their owner had wanted. And yet, despite the agony they emanated, was also a sense of pride. Pride, perhaps that in spite of adversities and prejudices encountered, they had not driven him to bitterness.  Who was the old man and what was he doing here?

The ceremony began. A short prayer followed by several eulogies. Tears were shed, tears were wiped away. It was over. The body or the coffin with the body inside, were taken out for the cremation. “Ashes to ashes…”

“There will be a luncheon at the Legion hall across the street. All are invited,” announced the chaplain.

Ay the legion hall Norma recognized friends and relatives she had not seen in years. She wanted to speak to them, to all of them, to thank them for coming, but thee were too many. She was unable to do so. For some inexplicable reason she was drawn to the old man she had spotted earlier. She approached him and as she did so, noticed a young girl at his side. She was in a wheelchair, all 85 pounds of her. Her face was pale and her eyes seemed to be almost half closed. Her dark hair was gathered in elastic and hung down her back. She could not have been more than twenty-five.

“I’m Norma Kalish, Lenny’s mother,” she introduced herself.

“Yes, I know who you are, Mrs. Kalish and may I offer you our sincerest condolences. I don’t suppose you would remember me. I’m…”

Just as the old man was about to give his name, recognition flashed into Norma’s mind. She did not give him a chance to finish his sentence as she interrupted.

“You are Mr. Abrams the pawnbroker from Sudbury.”

“Yes, I was the pawnbroker, but I’m just Mr. Abrams now. And this,” he said, pointing to the girl in the wheelchair,’ is Sally, my granddaughter.”

“I did not know you knew my Lenny, Mr. Abrams.”

“Oh yes, I knew him. I first met him about 35 years ago. He was a boy then about seven or eight. You and your husband had separated. It was early December, quite cold as I recall when he came into my store and started to browse. I knew he had no money, but I did not say anything. After a few minutes he spotted a locket, took it from its bed of velvet and stroked it.

“How much is this?” he asked.

“Five dollars,” I told him

“Five dollars,” he repeated as a lump formed in his throat. A tear came to his eye that he tried hard to hide as he retuned the locket to its bed. He said nothing for that minute that seems like hours as he just stared out of the store window.

“Do you think it is going to snow tomorrow,” he asked suddenly.

The question stunned me for the moment and then I realized what he meant. If it snowed he might be able to earn some money shoveling snow for some of the merchants, perhaps enough to buy the locket.

It did not snow the next day nor the day after or the rest of that week and weekend. On Monday Lenny came back to my store. He was very sad as he looked again at the locket. Tears pushed against his eyelids and he swallowed hard.

“Do you think we’ll have snow before Christmas?” he asked

Mr. Abrams paused. Norma thought he was catching his breath till she saw a rear trickling down the old man’s face. It disappeared into his beard as he undoubtedly inhaled a mouthful of oxygen. Harnessing his emotions, he continued.

“If you recall, Mrs. Kalish that was the year we had practically no snow in December. This was of course unusual and it appeared as though fate conspired against Lenny. Christmas-Eve, it was around 11:30 when Lenny came in again. He fondled the locket and put it back Tears fell from his eyes and he ran his sleeve across his face.  He had heard somewhere that ‘big boys don’t cry’

“Would you like that locket?” I asked him.

“Oh yes,” he sobbed.

“Go ahead, take it. You can pay me when you get the money.”

“Can I, can I?” he asked.

“Yes, Lenny, take it, “I said, “and have a merry Christmas.”

“I’ll pay you Mr. Abrams, I will,” he said taking the locket.

It was a long time ago. Norma’s mind went back and she remembered the year of which the old man spoke. She remembered only too well, having spent her last penny on a tree so that Lenny would not be deprived of a normal Christmas. Being without transportation she had dragged it home for a block and a half. Some of its branches suffered in transit. She had decorated it with paper ribbons and made a star out of foil paper. It shone from the top of the tree just like a real star.

The tree did not droop or fall. It was held upright by some angel’s hand. It covered half the window, while the street outside was visible through the other half. It was quiet beyond the panes of glass outside, silent as though heaven was guarding the earth and somewhere a celestial ambassador was crooning a lullaby. The drops of snow began to fall and dance to the silent melody.  The flakes danced in the air, dropped and spread themselves over the ground in a silvery white. Lenny came in. He glanced under the tree. There were a couple of gifts for him. He smiled but said nothing. He only looked beyond the tree out of the window at the falling snow and turned on the radio to listen to carols.

Norma slept late on Christmas morning. However, once out of bed she hurried into the living room. She looked at the bleak tree, its magic gone, restored to its pauperism by the morning sun. She blamed herself for being unable to provide her son with more. She had tried. God knew she had tried.

Lenny was sitting in the one comfortable chair. He had opened his gifts and stared at the one remaining gift under the tree. Norma knew it was for her. She picked it up, unwrapping it carefully and there was the locket. Its golden coat shone so bright that the Star of Bethlehem could not have been brighter. She undid the clasp. It sprung open. There was no picture. Instead there was a hand-scribbled note. “I love you Mom,” it said…

Norma was disturbed from her reminiscing. People, friends and strangers approached her to express their condolences.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Kalish for having taken up so much of your time,” said Mr. Abrams bringing Norma back to the reality of time.

“Please don’t be,” she said, “I found it interesting and fascinating and am anxious to hear the end.”

“The end, but that was it,” the old man said.

“No it is not, Mr. Abrams. Did Lenny ever pay you the five dollars?”

“As you may recall, you and Lenny left Sudbury shortly after Christmas. I was sorry to see Lenny leave, though I did not expect payment for the locket.  In fact I had forgotten all about it when ten years later he came into my store.  He was a young man by then and I did not recognize him. He just came up to the counter and said, “Mr. Abrams I owe you some money. Would you please calculate what I owe including the interest so that I may pay you?”

“Who are you young man?” I asked him.

“I’m Lenny Kalish, don’t you remember? I bought a locket from you ten years ago.”

“The word ‘locket’ triggered my memory. I had forgotten the incident never having expected payment in the first place. Consider it a gift, Lenny and thank you for coming to see me. You have grown I see, into a fine fellow.”

“Mr. Abrams,” he said, “I came to Sudbury especially so I might pay you.”

“You came especially? I asked more astonished than curious.

“Yes, it is a debt, Mr. Abrams, more than a debt, an obligation and must be paid. The locket was a gift for my mother and unless I pay for it, the gift would be from you and not from me. Can you not see that?”

“I took the five dollars forgiving the interest by mutual consent. And thereafter, whenever he came to Sudbury, he always visited me. You may say we became friends, a friendship born out of respect for one another.”

The old man was finished. He suddenly appeared a little younger. Perhaps he was glad to have unburdened himself of the story he came to the funeral to impart?

“I hope you and Sally will join us at the Legion hall across the street, Mr. Abrams. A little lunch has been prepared and I’d like you to meet the rest of my family.”

“I am afraid I will not be able to do so, Mrs. Kalish. Sally and I have to return to Sudbury. My granddaughter is to be admitted to the hospital.”

Six months went by. It was December again. Greeting cards were coming through the mail. Norma always felt excited as the cards reminded her of the senders who are from year to year forgotten or neglected. And while most of the cards expressed the sender’s wishes for the season and the year to follow, there was always one or two with something significant.  One of the cards that arrived was unsigned. Inside it was a clipping from the Sudbury Star.

:”Sally Abrams was released from the hospital today. She was able to walk without benefit of a cane. The kidney transplant has been deemed a success by the doctors and hospital staff who watched her walk out and waved ‘good bye.’ “It had been a miracle,” confided one doctor to our reporter, “Sally had waited for almost a year for a compatible organ. Fortunately it had been found in the nick of time. The kidney had been flown in from a hospital in Detroit.”

*Photo Credit:This photo is used under the Generic Creative Commons license. See more by the artist Ace-Tron, here.

Qualified Entry, Second pixelhose Writing Competition. Fiction Category.

By Eugene Chun

People who romanticize Van Gogh –like Madness mostly likely have never met him. He’s not the easiest guy to get along with. And he comes out of the blue, when you least expect him to. Most sophisticated aficionados praise the insanity…the intensity…the originality…that’s because they never met Madness…if they did they would think twice about adoring him. I never adored him because I know what he’s really like. He’s not the most pleasant or accommodating of entities. Experiencing him firsthand is liking losing your virginity to a decrepit ,sagging ,and aging prostitute with syphilis-scary. Being in his company constantly will drive anyone to suicide…just ask Van Gogh…he knows all about it. He breaks up your mind and pretty soon you will not know up from down. You’ll want to sleep and try to, but he comes at you that much stronger like lead and cadmium. You writhe, you squirm, but he nags at you and rarely lets go. When he does let go Clarity comes and she is a godsend. She is the goddess of reprieve…the angel of mercy…the bringer of solace. She rarely visits, but when she does she is not taken for granted. Not by me. Most do not grovel at her feet. They think her to be passé, un-hip, and boring. I know better and worship her. She is the eternal hope and guardian against Madness. She is my one true friend who can desert me at anytime, anyplace, and anywhere. She comes and goes as she pleases. And that is what is really upsetting about her.  I’m obsessed with Clarity for I know Madness is always nearby… stalking me and  watching me. She is my only means of defense against him, but like anything feminine she is unreliable, goes her own way, and does her own thing.

Smoking is a makeshift weapon against Madness-it really doesn’t work that well. It will hold him at bay for a while, but only for a short duration…then he comes back stronger than before, which means you have to light up more. Clarity came to me for a while ,but then only for a little while. She’s a real busybody. Whenever Clarity wasn’t around Madness was sure to follow. It was frustrating. There was no stability. No balance. No tranquility. The odds were stacked against me and I knew I had to do something. I had to confront Madness and resolve this vexing issue. I laid down on the grass and let my mind begin to wander as I was gazing off into the starry night. Madness gradually appeared and I told him I couldn’t go on like this…being pulled this way and that. “We have to resolve this issue once and for all!”

I declared. Madness stared at me and began his defense.

“For people like you”, he said. “You need to express yourself… not want, but need to…if you didn’t you would wind up in an asylum or be staring at the end barrel of a revolver. Those are the kinds of people that really interest me.” he said adamantly.

“That is why I am always following you…that is why I relentlessly attack you. I want to be your muse but you constantly shun me in favor of Clarity and that is why I am neurotic about you.”

“Can’t always get what you want,” I stated coldly.

“No… I most often get what I desire and that is people like you…can’t you see? I want to be your friend… your companion…your eternal love…what’s wrong with that?””

“It’s frightening,” I replied. “You have serious dependency issues.”

“Isn’t that what real love is all about?” he asked innocently…”no one wants the real me…they just see a façade… an image…but not you.”

“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.“ I said…”I think you have the wrong number…I love Clarity and not you! Don’t you get it?! I’m not crazy about you and I don’t swing that way!”

”Maybe you should be more open minded”, he said boldly.”I’ll see you later. And with that he left. Clarity came to me after Madness departed and started gossiping to me about him.” Isn’t he scary? I never liked the bugger. He’s so strange and deranged. I don’t see how anyone can put up with him…even his brother.”

“His brother? ” I asked.

“Oh yes.” she said. “He has a younger brother…his name is…well I forgot what his name is?” She paused for a moment. “He’s not as well known as his brother.” I started laughing…“Well I’m not my twin sister.”, she said slightly offended…”anyways his younger brother is always concerned about him and his well-being…which to say …well he doesn’t have much in the way of well-being…let’s be honest”…she started cackling…I didn’t see anything funny about that…I began to feel sorry for him…no one genuinely wanted Madness and he knew it…I could begin to see his point of view. Poor Madness. There was nothing delusional about him…he knows what he is.

Clarity briefly left me and then returned, but only for a short duration. That was her way-always coming and going. It was frustrating. There was nothing consistent about her. She returned once more only with Madness accompanying her. It was brilliant I thought…now we would permanently resolve the issue which had been vexing me all along. Madness and Clarity looked and assured me that my problem would end tonight under the sea of blinking stars. I felt relieved and told them how grateful I was for this…I could not go on another minute living like this .Everything was so unstable. I dropped my cigarette and crushed it beneath my heels. “Begin,” I said…Madness spoke.

“To be mad or not to be brilliant…that is the underlying question…there can be no brilliance without some form of madness…anything mad has some insight and profundity to it…you must realize this…I can be at your beck and call, but she won’t…his finger pointing to Clarity…”she will desert you on a whim”…Clarity briefly looked away…”she’s an unreliable tease…a naysayer whenever she pleases…I am here at your disposal for the remainder of your days…a true friend…a lifelong comrade…one who would never leave you! I am your brother to the end! And then some! Who could love you as much as I? Who could obsess and give you visceral verve to an otherwise meaningless existence?” His argument was right…his diatribe in order. His words held such heavy weight and became so convincingly apparent I quietly replied.

“Can’t I have both of you at the same time?” They both looked at each other and started laughing. “That’s very kinky.” replied Clarity teasingly. I stammered and was about to utter something when Confusion appeared. It was vexing that he was there. He said nothing. And, for once I felt something odd. Memory came to me and reminded me of that peculiar feeling I had when I was caught stealing a chocolate candy bar from a grocery market when I was a youngster…she made me recall every nuance of reddening emotion I felt when I was exposed for the theft. It was an unpleasant feeling and I rushed into Madness’ arms knowing that I would be relieved of any conscious guilt and doubt. It was the easy way out and I took it.

People who romanticize Van Gogh –like Madness mostly likely have never met him. He’s not the easiest guy to get along with. And he comes out of the blue, when you least expect him to. Most sophisticated aficionados praise the insanity…the intensity…the originality…that’s because they never met Madness…if they did they would think twice about adoring him. I never adored him because I know what he’s really like. He’s not the most pleasant or accommodating of entities. Experiencing him firsthand is liking losing your virginity to a decrepit ,sagging ,and aging prostitute with syphilis-scary. Being in his company constantly will drive anyone to suicide…just ask Van Gogh…he knows all about it. He breaks up your mind and pretty soon you will not know up from down. You’ll want to sleep and try to, but he comes at you that much stronger like lead and cadmium. You writhe, you squirm, but he nags at you and rarely lets go. When he does let go Clarity comes and she is a godsend. She is the goddess of reprieve…the angel of mercy…the bringer of solace. She rarely visits, but when she does she is not taken for granted. Not by me. Most do not grovel at her feet. They think her to be passé, un-hip, and boring. I know better and worship her. She is the eternal hope and guardian against Madness. She is my one true friend who can desert me at anytime, anyplace, and anywhere. She comes and goes as she pleases. And that is what is really upsetting about her. I’m obsessed with Clarity for I know Madness is always nearby… stalking me and watching me. She is my only means of defense against him, but like anything feminine she is unreliable, goes her own way, and does her own thing.

Smoking is a makeshift weapon against Madness-it really doesn’t work that well. It will hold him at bay for a while, but only for a short duration…then he comes back stronger than before, which means you have to light up more. Clarity came to me for a while ,but then only for a little while. She’s a real busybody. Whenever Clarity wasn’t around Madness was sure to follow. It was frustrating. There was no stability. No balance. No tranquility. The odds were stacked against me and I knew I had to do something. I had to confront Madness and resolve this vexing issue. I laid down on the grass and let my mind begin to wander as I was gazing off into the starry night. Madness gradually appeared and I told him I couldn’t go on like this…being pulled this way and that. “We have to resolve this issue once and for all!” I declared. Madness stared at me and began his defense.

“For people like you”, he said. “You need to express yourself… not want, but need to…if you didn’t you would wind up in an asylum or be staring at the end barrel of  revolver. Those are the kinds of people that really interest me.” he said adamantly. “That is why I am always following you…that is why I relentlessly attack you. I want to be your muse but you constantly shun me in favor of Clarity and that is why I am neurotic about you.”

“Can’t always get what you want,” I stated coldly.

“No… I most often get what I desire and that is people like you…can’t you see? I want to be your friend… your companion…your eternal love…what’s wrong with that?””

“It’s frightening,” I replied. “You have serious dependency issues.”

“Isn’t that what real love is all about?” he asked innocently…”no one wants the real me…they just see a façade… an image…but not you.”

“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.“ I said…”I think you have the wrong number…I love Clarity and not you! Don’t you get it?! I’m not crazy about you and I don’t swing that way!”

”Maybe you should be more open minded”, he said boldly.”I’ll see you later. And with that he left. Clarity came to me after Madness departed and started gossiping to me about him.”Isn’t he scary? I never liked the bugger. He’s so strange and deranged. I don’t see how anyone can put up with him…even his brother.”

“ His brother? ” I asked.

“Oh yes.” she said. “He has a younger brother…his name is…well I forgot what his name is?” She paused for a moment. “He’s not as well known as his brother.” I started laughing…“Well I’m not my twin sister.”, she said slightly offended…”anyways his younger brother is always concerned about him and his well-being…which to say …well he doesn’t have much in the way of well-being…let’s be honest”…she started cackling…I didn’t see anything funny about that…I began to feel sorry for him…no one genuinely wanted Madness and he knew it…I could begin to see his point of view. Poor Madness. There was nothing delusional about him…he knows what he is.

Clarity briefly left me and then returned, but only for a short duration. That was her way-always coming and going. It was frustrating. There was nothing consistent about her. She returned once more only with Madness accompanying her. It was brilliant I thought…now we would permanently resolve the issue which had been vexing me all along. Madness and Clarity looked and assured me that my problem would end tonight under the sea of blinking stars. I felt relieved and told them how grateful I was for this…I could not go on another minute living like this .Everything was so unstable. I dropped my cigarette and crushed it beneath my heels. “Begin,” I said…Madness spoke.

“To be mad or not to be brilliant…that is the underlying question…there can be no brilliance without some form of madness…anything mad has some insight and profundity to it…you must realize this…I can be at your beck and call, but she won’t…his finger pointing to Clarity…”she will desert you on a whim”…Clarity briefly looked away…”she’s an unreliable tease…a naysayer whenever she pleases…I am here at your disposal for the remainder of your days…a true friend…a lifelong comrade…one who would never leave you! I am your brother to the end! And then some! Who could love you as much as I? Who could obsess and give you visceral verve to an otherwise meaningless existence?” His argument was right…his diatribe in order. His words held such heavy weight and became so convincingly apparent I quietly replied.

“Can’t I have both of you at the same time?” They both looked at each other and started laughing. “That’s very kinky.” replied Clarity teasingly. I stammered and was about to utter something when Confusion appeared. It was vexing that he was there. He said nothing. And, for once I felt something odd. Memory came to me and reminded me of that peculiar feeling I had when I was caught stealing a chocolate candy bar from a grocery market when I was a youngster…she made me recall every nuance of reddening emotion I felt when I was exposed for the theft. It was an unpleasant feeling and I rushed into Madness’ arms knowing that I would be relieved of any conscious guilt and doubt. It was the easy way out and I took it.

Publisher’s background Note: Brianna Soloski’s story, ‘Fall into Me’, was a finalist in the pixelhose.com First Writing Competition and is included in 22 Naked Bodies Inside, a short story collection that resulted from the competition.

Dourandish: Tell us a little bit about yourself.
Soloski: I’m originally from Southern California, but have lived in Las Vegas since I was ten years old. I swear it’s not as glamorous as it sounds, though. I went to college in Lake Tahoe and miss the area quite a bit. I have a Bachelor of Arts in Humanities and a teaching credential. I’m itching to get an MFA, but it’s not feasible right now. In my spare time, I run a freelance editing business and blog at Girl Seeks Place. I love to read and I will almost always choose to stay in with a book than go out. I also love to travel and wish I could go more places more often.

Dourandish: When did you start writing?
Soloski: I wrote my first short story in second grade, about a spider and a missing ring. My second short story came in fifth grade, about a boy named Jeffrey who gets kidnapped. I wrote a lot of academic/research papers in college so my creative writing fell by the wayside.

Dourandish: When did you start writing seriously?
Soloski: I started writing officially two years ago and had my first novel published in 2012. I’ve published a few things on Amazon on my own and am working on my second novel. I also three or four other WIPs that are begging for my attention.

Dourandish: Do you have a specific style? If so, how did you develop it. If not, why not?!
Soloski: I tend to write chick lit type stories, even though that’s my least favorite genre. Perhaps that’s why I’m drawn to write in that style.

Dourandish: What kinds of stories do you (like to) tell?
Soloski: Whatever kind live in my head.

Dourandish: How do you get your ideas?
Soloski: Everywhere. I’m working on a book right now about a girl who goes on dates with eight different men. I have another gelling based on a photo of a centuries old Paris opera house. I’m going on a cruise in October, so I’m thinking about things surrounding that – maybe a murder mystery.

Dourandish: How, and how many times on average, do you edit a piece?
Soloski: I edit myself one time and then send it off to friends and beta readers. The number of times varies from piece to piece.

Dourandish: Tell us about rejection.
Soloski: At first, I hated it, but I realized that it actually helps me grow. I do wish more rejection letters came with notes on how to improve a piece. I know that’s impossible given the number of submissions magazines receive during their reading periods, but it would be nice.

Dourandish: Tell us about some of your successes.
Soloski: My biggest success was finding a publishing company for my novel, Girl Seeks Place. I’ve also worked really hard to make my dream of being a full time freelancer come true. I still have a real, part time job that pays the bills, but for the most part I’m able to focus on the writing and editing end of things.

Dourandish: What have you learned from your writing experiences that you consider invaluable?
Soloski: To keep going. Even on the worst days, when I don’t get any work done and no words get written, I know that I can just start fresh the next day.

Dourandish: How can our readers find out more about your work?
Soloski: My blog is named girl seeks place, and can be reached by following clicking here. My Amazon author page is here.

Qualified Entry, Second pixelhose Writing Competition. Nonfiction Category.

By Carmen Pe’gues Early

Sometimes our best friends are friends we never knew we had.

Almost two summers ago, my husband and I, were told we were expecting twins. A former doctor had warned us a few years earlier that I should look into getting a hysterectomy, after a near death experience that caused me to have a stroke at the age of 34. It was way too risky to have any more children after my son was born. Becoming pregnant again could cause me to make my husband a widower and leave our four children motherless. The news was devastating to me, because even though I was nearing my late thirties, I wanted another child, just, one more. I wasn’t finished, let alone ready to give that part of me up. Most well-meaning family and friends advised us to follow doctor’s orders and have the operation done as soon as possible. If most knew they would have thought me silly, wanting another baby after we already had four beautiful healthy children. As every woman knows, your children will one day grow-up and no longer need you, as much as they used to. That pill will always be very hard to swallow. I wanted, needed someone to take care of, and someone to need me.

And so when I became pregnant about a year later, there were complications, but I also knew how much help was out there for high-risk pregnancies, and so I remained hopeful. But the fact was … I was a walking time-bomb. My husband and I took turns blaming ourselves for not being more careful. Even though I knew that the risks were extremely high, I simply could not bring myself to have regret. I miscarried the twins while at home, in our master bathroom. I had been experiencing cramps that steadily increased with intensity throughout the day. Though I called a Tri-age nurse, I had recently been seen by, she tried to reassure me that it was normal to be experiencing the cramps after an exam I had. After a few hours later, now toppling over in pain, I called back, and again was told the symptoms were to be expected and then given different remedies to try to relax. By the time my husband returned home from work, I couldn’t stand the pain any longer, I was going to the hospital. But we had waited too long. We only shared the news with our oldest child at the time. We felt that 17 was an age where she could understand the situation.

The grieving process was earth shattering for us. We barely had any time to dwell on our lost and had to pick ourselves and our hearts up off the floor and trudged on with our lives, knowing that our other children needed us. During our ordeal I had called a friend who happened to be a nurse at the time, I sought her out for advice, but was met with no bed-side manner, let alone, any hint of sincere concern. From that point, I turned inward emotionally. My husband then confided in a very close friend. Instead of giving him the age-old speech and advice, he suggested, that we get a dog. The friend and my husband were both very concerned with me and my well-being. The friend made the well-meaning statement that someone in my condition that now would be alone for the majority part of the day, now that all four children would be in school, needed something to take care of. The last thing that I needed was to be “alone with my thoughts”. The suggestion to adopt a dog was in no way implied that a pet would replace the babies, but since we were dog-lovers the idea felt right. His hope was that perhaps caring for a dog might help the coping period. When my husband and I discussed it further, I had to admit that I became somewhat hopeful. “Someone that needed my love and constant attention, sounded like beautiful bells ringing high in a church tower, on a beautiful spring day.

I immediately started the search on-line with different adoption agencies and rescue shelters. Though my heart ached and hurt everyday, I used that pain to push my efforts for searching for a likely candidate. It was also suggested that we not necessarily search for just any dog, but one that was older and that had been abused. Agency after agency turned our request down due to the fact, they felt that the senior dogs we were interested in needed to be with older couples and without children.  The search became feverish for me, as the disappointment grew. Finally, after several months, we struck gold! We found the perfect dog. The black cocker-spaniel, at the time named Chester was a senior. The day we went to pick him up from the shelter, we were over-joyed, despite the fact that he was unusually large for his breed, largest cocker-spaniel we had ever laid eyes on. We choose Chester out of all the others, because for one he was extremely friendly, but most importantly, he had already been passed up for being put down – three times. This was possibly his final chance at having a home, where’d he be loved and cared for properly. Where, I felt, I could love and protect him and give him what I couldn’t give my twins, a chance at life.

Chester happily rode with me in the back seat while I had to hold him just so he wouldn’t jump all over my husband while driving.  From the time we arrived home, he bounded from the van not acting at all as a senior, but rather a pup. When my husband opened the front door he had to use more strength than anticipated just to keep him from knocking over our youngest. Of course the children fell in love with him the moment they laid eyes on him. I had already falling in love the moment we were approved for adoption. As a whole we decided on the name, Jacob. It seemed to fit besides the fact that his fur was jet-black with a patch of white on his under-belly. But mostly because he reminded us of the character – Jacob Black from the movie “Twilight,” running everywhere; and very strong, for his age.  The children gobbled Jacob right up, as he did them. From day one, I had done much research on his breed. We learned that besides being prone to ear infections, they would have what is called “excited accidents”, where a very small amount of urine would escape them. And it seemed that it was very rare that a day went by that Jacob had no accidents. And most of the time it would happen right when someone was about to take him out for a walk to relieve him. Jacob was a very excitable dog. He would become excited if we called him over to put his leash on, to go for a walk, when the children would come in from school, he’d have an accident. When my hubby, his favorite new family member came home from work Jacob would jump around and creep over to him with his tail wagging a hundred miles a minute and the result was usually a trickle onto the carpet. Aside from the accidents, Jacob appeared absolutely healthy. His appetite was large and his bark was very strong. If we had guests come by Jacob would have to be tied up with his leash or held by myself or my husband. He was way too strong for either of the children to control. Within a few weeks, I really started tiring of his accidents on the carpet, and my husband and the children would constantly hear of it. I’m not sure if it was the change in my attitude towards him or what, but Jake as we sometimes called him, started using the restroom inside. This would usually happen right when someone was putting on his leash to take him out to relieve himself. I constantly found myself, sometimes several times a day scrubbing the pools of urine up out of the carpet as fast as I could.

Everyone could feel my irritation. Soon I started making hateful statements of returning him back to the shelter. This broke the children’s hearts especially since when we first told them of adopting Jacob and his situation. Yet here I was just weeks later, threatening to take him back. I hated myself for not only saying this but also feeling this way. I wasn’t sure if it was my feelings of losing the twins or that my love for Jacob was somehow dwindling. My patience thinned more and more. I noticed that my speech towards Jake became resentful, and seethed with regret for ever getting him. When we took him out, we could no longer allow the younger ones to do it, because Jacob was becoming very hard to handle on the leash, even for my hubby. Jake would pull you right along with him, especially if he wanted to bark at someone. The neighbors gave him a wild-birth. Even larger breeds stayed clear of Jake. His bark was misconceiving. People would look at him and think, “Hey nice dog,” but then he’d bark and they’d jump or run. Even when in the house his bark could be heard across the street. He started barking at shadows that passed by the windows, people walking past the door, even his own shadow. I had had enough. My beloved pet was now a burden to me. I felt horrible inside. I started feeling that it wasn’t that Jacob didn’t belong with us, it was I didn’t deserve him.  I spoke to my husband about how disturbing this was to me, because Jake was generally a good dog who loved taking baths, getting his fur blow-dried and brushed, eating treats, and playing with his toys. I was soon able to identify this overwhelming feeling concerning Jacob … burdened.

Eventually my husband couldn’t take my out of control feelings toward this innocent creature any longer. So one day, while the children were all in school, he came home during his lunch break and found me with my back to Jacob – ignoring his presence.  He outright asked me if I wanted to return him that day. Though I felt the guilt, the concern that the kids would be heart-broken for not having the chance to say good-bye wasn’t as important as my sanity. I reasoned that if they did, it would only make things worst. So I leashed him and we loaded into the van. Jake thought we were going for a simple ride; he had no idea where we were really going, let alone about to do. I steeled my nerves to keep calm. When we arrived back at the shelter, Jacob was wagging his tail, and was very playful. My husband took his leash from me and we walked Jake in. I went up to the counter and spoke with the attendants. When they asked why we were returning him, I couldn’t speak because of the crushing throb in my throat and chest. My husband made up the excuse that two of our children who had asthma were actually allergic to him and it just wasn’t working. I didn’t have the heart to tell them any of the real reasons why we brought him back, in fear that they’d have a hard time placing him with another family. An attendant removed the leash we had bought for him and clipped a jail-orange leash to his collar. Jacob jumped up on his back two legs and placed his large paws against my hubby’s chest – as if to ask “What’s going on,” the sight broke my heart. Then Jake and the attendant walked down the hall to take pictures to post up immediately on their website for any potential seekers. I guess he knew as I did, that the last thing either of us wanted was to tell them about his accidents and the barking that became intolerable. We in no way wanted to hinder him from being adopted by someone else who deserved him.

I could feel the tears coming. I looked at my husband as to say, “Why did we do this”? I signed the papers and tried to quickly exit the building without looking back, but I couldn’t help myself, Jacob was happily following the lady down the hall saying his hellos to his old inmates. When we got in the car, a second passed by before I heard the engine turn over. I could no longer hold back. I lost it! I yelled out to no one in particular, “I hate that I have to loose everything I love.” In shock I assumed, my husband immediately cut the engine. He stared at me for a long minute possibly contemplating what to do or say to me. All I could do was stare blankly out the front window through watery eyes. We both needed a moment. After a while he eventually placed a hand on my knee and asked the question, you aren’t supposed to ask someone who you can see is clearly doing their best to fight back tears, “Are you okay?” I was tired, and I was in so much pain. My heart was breaking – again! I couldn’t hold them back any longer. The tears flowed down my cheeks and I did the only other thing I could do. I cried. I cried so hard, for failing Jake and my babies. He eventually pleaded, “Tell me what to do. Do you want to go back in there and get him?” I could only shake my head, no. After another long minute, I was able to find my voice again I asked him to “Please just drive, this is just too much.”

Half-way home, my husband finally spoke again since leaving the shelter. He spoke of how he was going to explain to the children, what he had done, and how sorry he was for it. I was taken aback. Why should he explain, let alone be at fault, for returning Jacob, it was me who wanted him back, not him. He loved Jake. When I asked him to explain his statement, he said that regardless of what I said and felt, it was him who drove. I had been so selfish, I hadn’t even thought about how this all made him feel. I did know that he loved Jacob like the rest of us, but he felt the bulk of the blame. I refused to let him take the fall, so when I went to get the children from school that day, I told them the truth, that it was all me. It was my choice, my decision. Our middle child took Jacob’s absence the hardest; she was the one who mothered him. So my husband sat her down and spoke with her that same evening, and promised her that the next time we adopt, it will be a pup that we can raise, and that she will have the honor of choosing its name. Though the children were all very sad and probably even angry with me, they never showed it. I felt I didn’t deserve their mercy. However I did look up online to see if indeed they did place Jacob up for adoption now, and they did. I followed it for a few weeks and learned he had a new family. When I told the children this, though they were still sad, but they seemed relieved, as I did.  My husband asked that I not tell him anything let alone mention Jake to him again. I’ve since then honored his wish.

My heart continues to be filled with much guilt. Jake was only trying to be my best friend and I caste his love aside. I wish that somehow Jake could return to me. I will always regret that selfish act. And as I remember the twins, I’ll remember Jake as well. Wherever he may be, and whoever gets the opportunity to love him like he deserves, for the rest of his days….I hope he’s happy. I’ll always miss you Jake. Thank you for loving me….more than I loved you.

Qualified Entry, Second pixelhose Writing Competition. Nonfiction Category.

By Danielle Villano

Open your testing booklets.  My heart pounded at the prospect of a new picture prompt. Excitement tingled through me, down to the soles of my cheap white tennis shoes.

Look at the photograph below.  The booklets had a black and white photo printed on one page; we were instructed to think about the image presented to us and write a story based on what we saw and imagined.  An image of a boy sitting in a tree, to my classmates, invoked the very boring “one day there was a boy sitting in a tree…”

I wanted to know everything about him, immediately, because even in my earliest elementary school days I was prone to make something out of nothing.

Remember that all good stories have a beginning, middle, and an end.

They’ve always come to me through photographs, these girls.  A glance around a room: an eye catching the glint of a gold picture frame, or drawn to the boxy shape of a white-edged Polaroid.  At first I didn’t mean to find them.

In the stage of a relationship where everything is new, when I want to know every small detail about a person – this is when I’d spot them.  Those small details that, in a rose-colored haze, seem “charming,” or “endearing,” will one day come back to hurt me.  It happens every time.

A photograph: A girl with smooth skin, straight brown hair.  Eyes inviting, like warm almonds.  She’s draped in a prom dress the colors of the sunset, her small frame visible through the sheer fabric.

A Polaroid in hazy colors: Perfectly-arched brows, red lips swollen from bites or kisses.

A photograph, torn slightly at the corner: A girl, no bigger than a speck in the middle of a lake.  Her arms rise up, and I can’t tell if she’s drowning or waving hello.

Sometimes I hear the stories of these girls: first kisses, family friends, tragic breakups.  Sometimes I just have a face to think of.  Always I dream up a story to the photograph.  I know every sentence by heart.  I memorize and recite until my heart, tired of remembering, drops uselessly against my spine.

Lingering with my own memories of first loves and heartbreaks, I now carry the burden of so many others.  In the days of social media, of instant-access, of having the capacity to search anything on Google: a photograph pressed into a book is not my only worry anymore.  Suddenly, I remember picnics I’ve never eaten at, dances I’ve never been to, and backseat kisses caught on film.  The agony I have put myself through, sitting in front of a monitor’s glow.  The curse that social media has bestowed upon us: we can all know each other, if we make a point of looking.

I feel bile in my throat; I feel my skin grow dull and dry.  I hurt as I fold weak and sad into myself.  The realization that there was a world before me is enough to make me cry.

Only once have I encountered one of these girls in a world outside of my own head.  I caught sight of her from across the street.  She had stepped out of the restaurant that I could only assume she worked at, a silly Italian affair with wine casks hanging in the window like Christmas ornaments.

The first thing I noticed about her was her shoes: towering black heels that I could never dream of wearing.  My eyes wandered up the stems of her legs, across the small expanse of black fabric that constituted a dress, and finally rested on her face.  I froze across the street, in the unflattering position of scooping melting ice cream into my mouth, because: it was her.

I had seen her in a dozen photographs, folded into the corners of a boyfriend’s life.  Her blonde hair hung shining down her back, and her collarbones were reminiscent of a ballerina’s.  Most of all I was drawn to her mouth, which was shaped into a perfect pout.  This Cupid ’s bow had been burned into my brain from a thousand guilty glances at these photographs, the catalyst of my self-pity sessions.  My own lips were thin and not mysterious at all.  The pout was glossy and red as cartoon blood, and it remained, even as she lit a cigarette and placed it to her lips.

As if she sensed she was being watched, her brown eyes met my stare.  I blinked quickly but did not look away, acutely aware of the mint chip dripping onto my open palm.  She exhaled smoke and did not register any sign of recognition, but her look scorched me nonetheless.

Another person may wonder how someone who looked so perfect could cause so much destruction.  I understood the “how” completely: one look at her and I knew – even two-dimensionally, she was capable of breaking my heart.

We were separated by a street, a lazy line of mid-afternoon traffic, but she may have well been breathing Menthol down my neck.  I watched her mouth intently as she finished her cigarette.  I hoped for some sort of acknowledgment of her own insecurities, or some sort of assurance that I was the better girlfriend, better lover.  Instead, she sucked the last of her cigarette down and crushed the carcass underneath her tall heels.  She turned back to the din of the restaurant where I was sure she would charm the patrons with cheeky humor and the lingering smell of a perfume that would smell rancid on my own skin.

As I slip my lovers my own photographs calmly, some comically-serious in their poses, some candid in a way that may be considered “charming,” or “endearing,” I am aware of the fact that I have surpassed the beginning and the middle of the story.

Each time I hope that I will not have an end.