Majinto had always wanted a dog, so when a relative came knocking on his door with a puppy in hand, he leaped, forgetting his painful knee and quickly yanked it out of his hand.

 “Now hold on Majinto, this dog is meant for Ma Andies. I promised her that as soon as Bocky had puppies I would deliver one to her.” 

“Forget that old hag! What does she need a dog for? Didn't she have one last summer? What happened to it?”
 
No one knew what had actually happened, but there had been rumors that Ma Andies’s dog had been stolen.

“Wasn’t the dog stolen?” Ruta, the relative responded while fanning himself with his t-shirt.

“Of course, it will get stolen! Who buys a white dog with fur as silk in these parts?” 

“Some people are clearly inviting trouble,” Majinto said as he let the pup latch at his fingers.

“And you are sure yours won't get stolen, ha?” Majinto looked at the thin pup and smiled, 

“Ruta, this dog is so unremarkable no one will dare steal it from me.”

The dog, as if suddenly in on the conversation, looked at Majinto and barked a small, “Woof!”

Ruta, who had been fanning himself lazily, stood up from the stool he was sitting on, taking his worn, tattered hat with him.

“Where are you now going this time of day?” Majinto looked at him, putting the pup down for the first time since Ruta had entered the compound.

“Well, I still have my cattle to watch over. It’s August and the grass is almost dry now. I cannot have the likes of Spirit and Aziz jumping into people's vegetable gardens.”  He said as he walked out of the hut.

Majinto followed him out and walked with him towards the gate when Ruta looked back and the open door with the pup inside.

“What are you going to call him?” He said as he eyed the pup. Majinto flinched and stood still, becoming engrossed in choosing a name.

“How about Danger?’ He smiled at the idea of giving the dog a name he wanted the dog to become.

“And when he becomes dangerous then what?”

Majinto looked back at the think pup as it lingered in the doorway and shook his head, 

“No. Danger will never be a dangerous dog.”

He sits across from me on the dirty, muddy floor with his legs crossed. He is wearing patterned trousers printed with one of those famous logos that I see most of the youth in these parts wearing. In one hand, he tightly clasps a grey denim hat which he had removed as he entered. 

I catch a glimpse of his eyes as they dart quickly across the room. Is that a scowl I see anchored on his forehead? He twitches his nose in disgust and averts his eyes to the floor. 

The man next to him with the broad shoulders in the orange t-shirt forces a smile as he introduces him. "So, this is Matthee. He is here to—"

I finish the sentence for him. “Seek solutions for your business, is that right?" 

I look in Matthee’s direction while I fan myself. The October heat is merciless and threatening to sap all the energy I have left.  I force a smile because I know “Matthee” is not his real name. It's one of the lies they tell me, born out of sheer embarrassment to be caught in a dingy place like this.  Matthee hangs his mouth open in shock. 

"Your business is failing and you need a little boost to get it pumping right?"

 His companion smiles and interjects, "that's right and we came to you because we heard you are the right man for the job". 

Matthee smiles. This time I see his mouth and brow relax. I fan myself harder and a few flies buzz off from the rim of the gourd they had settled.

 "Come closer Matthee ...." I whisper. 

I fetch water with the gourd and throw it to his face with force. He gasps in astonishment. He motions to his companion who looks down stifling a laugh then takes tissues from his back pocket and starts wiping his face. 

"Come closer Matthee. " I repeat again. 

With hands shaking I throw the stones I have used for more than a century to read his life. "You are the third born out of five children…” Visions of his family cross my mind. Startled, he breathlessly responds," yes” 

"You have to give something in return for what my god ALASHI will do for you. What can you give Matthee?" 

His face is gloomy suddenly. It’s a look I have seen many times. He fumbles in his pockets and draws out a wad of cash-$100 bills. He signals to his companion, who brings in more notes and carefully lays them before me. 

I laugh.  “I thought what you lacked is money. Why bring me money? Take it away from me, it smells!" I hold my nose in disgust. 

After more than a century serving ALASHI and being surrounded by money you learn that money in abundance smells. You can even smell financial wealth on a person. This man had it but not in cash or assets and I wanted it. He fumbled with his pockets again then he dropped both his hands on his side

“What do I have? I can give you, my car." He hesitates, "I have a .... FORD F250, good condition. I can give you that." 

He twitches his trousers, and I laugh again,

"Son, I am an old man, what would I do with a... what is it called?" I hold my chin pretending to remember, “A Ford. I am too old for that." I extend my veiny withered hands in his direction. 

"What else can you offer me?"  His eyes drop in defeat on the floor. 

"Who can you offer ...in your family ...to ALASHI. ALASHI has no need for money but souls he needs. You know, you can just pick your least favorite sibling; besides there are too many of you, fewer mouths to feed. Are you not the one who has been helping with those last two fees for college? Would you truly miss them if they are gone?"

He waits silently. Then in horror I watch him shift where he sits, "I don't. I cannot say what I actually think. It's family, after all. “ 

 "Then?" I ask, mad at him for wasting my time. I needed those two souls. 

He stands up. Confused, his companion nudges at his trousers signaling him to sit down.

 "What if I offer myself? Will your ALASHI refuse?" 

I look at him and smile. "Then it is a deal. ALASHI will be coming for you on this day six years from now. All the doors of fortune are now open to you, just, sign here, in blood" 

He lingers, "Six years, huh? Deal."

I watch him sign and I smile. Well, this I had not seen. I had seen him in a vision in my mind offering two souls as he entered the door but not this.  Anyway, I cannot say it is a bad deal. Another soul for ALASHI, a few more to release me from bondage. That is another story for another day.

I heard the hopping of feet over my fence and a slight cry of distress. Opening the curtain directly facing the gate, I watched as Rolin untangled his shirt caught in the wire. I wondered where he had been. I had not seen him for two weeks, and suddenly he was reappearing? Closing the curtain, I moved over to the dining table where I had laid my plate of fried chicken and curried rice, about to devour it when he barged through the door.

"Yooh Shawn, my man..."

I didn't look up but stared at my plate, taking the big piece of chicken. I was about to chew it when he grabbed it out of my hand.

"Sheesh man, dat ain't cool, barging into people's houses like dat. One day it would get you shot, ain't it?"I said. 

Chewing the chicken loudly as he lounged into the nearby chair, Rolin replied,

"Eish, you no people. You is you. I would not do dat at any other person's house."

He took the cooler I had placed for myself and gulped it.

"Anyway, where you been these couple of weeks? I went to your moms and she would not tell me nothin. Said you got a job or somethin?"

Rolin chewed on the chicken bone as he replied,

"Yaah, I got a job. Me and Mickey been running this successful operation, and we in it on our own—no man be our boss. All profit goin’ straight to our pockets."

He laughed as he said dat.

"I hope it's somethin' legit. Can't trust Mickey with no operations. Hope he ain't making you do somethin' questionable."

Rolin had been my friend since kindergarten. He always somehow found himself mixed up with the wrong crowd

"So what is he making you do?"

"Ahh! you know, run a couple of gigs, you know."

I raised my eyesbrows and frowned at him. Now, this was unconvincing.

"you mean like a singin' gig? I know you like to belt a tune from time to time. Thought you finally found a producer or somethin'."

"Nah, man, maybe one day, you know, I'll find him. I'm still looking for a man who can understand my vision."

He looked up, his voice serious.

"Sheesh, man, you can't be no next Luther Vandross. There was only one. Be you, man."

"Anyway, about this side gig of yours..."

"Fuck you, man, you dream stealer, you know dat? Fuck off..." he cursed.

I waited until he had cooled off. His temper flared quick.

"So about the gig?"

"Alright, I'm gonna tell you, but don't tell no one, alright? Alright... okay, here it goes..."

He looked around quickly to make sure we were alone.

"Alright. We be supplyin’ coffins... you know, out at Mochies. Top quality stuff brings in good money too."

I looked at him, puzzled. Now, this was new.

"Coffins!"

"Eish, be cool, man. I thought you promised."

I cast him a questioning glare.

"Where you gettin' dem coffins from?"

"Ahh you know,"

he fumbled.

"Yes?"

I flared at him.

"So Mickey's been digging for dem, you know, out of the rich dead folks out at Mulberry. you know, fresh bodies. you know, the whole thing is clean operations. dat's what I came to talk to your about, thought you might wanna join, since you lost your gig at the security company."

I looked at him, horror registered on my face, and he said,

"You know, think about it, but it's cool if you don't wanna. Dead bodies ain't for everyone. Anyway, gotta bounce. We got something big tonight." He banged the door as he went out. I didn't say a word. WHAT HAD ROLIN GOTTEN HIMSELF INTO THIS TIME?

When the 3pm church bell clanged, it sent echoes through the vacant church. Its arches, which stretched high, caved in at the sound. For a moment, the high-rise tinted windows shook, then quieted as the sound faded. The granite floor bounced the echo towards the vast walls. The walls caved in to everything around them, even the man kneeling before the cross.

Before the cross a man bowed. His head was covered by thick, black hair. A few streaks of grey hair adorned it here and there and these shone in the dim light. His nose and mouth aligned in a quiet harmony giving him a handsome face shadowed by the ambient light. Yet, as the light gleamed and caught his features, traces of worry and pain carved into his face became clear. Deep lines furrowed the corner of his eyes and  mouth.

"Forgive me, Father" he muttered under his breath, his voice low and almost beseeching. It was a voice of yearning of deep agony by a man at his end. His hands clutched his dark trousers tightly.

He fell silent. A silence that seemed to linger, searching for an answer. Finding no resolve he whispered,

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. My heart..." He waited; his voice caught in his throat "...is burdened by a love I cannot express…. to a woman. I took a vow. You, Lord, are my one true love.

Yet here I am… conflicted by the thoughts that linger fondly towards this woman. Tell me, Lord, what should I do? He beat his chest harshly in agitation.

 He shifted his knees as he spoke, feeling tired and strained by having knelt for too long. I am but a man, his thoughts raced. He listened in the silence waiting for an answer, yet the church stood motionless, silent and unswerving.

Resigning, he rose and walked toward the main exit door at the far end of the church. His feet made slow, tired thuds against the granite floor.

As he exited the door his eyes caught sight of her green, lilac flower-patterned dress.  She stood on the steps— her blonde hair cascading to her shoulders. She gave the impression that she was not in a hurry.

"Father Irish, I..." her voice spoke as if in hesitation. "I did not know you were here..." She broke into a smile that lit up her face. A smile that always latched at his heart.

Bernard Irish felt his throat tighten and his knees almost buckled at the sound of her voice. Catching himself he managed a weary smile 

"Where else should I be but, but the church, Miss?"

I am but a man. Lord, grant me the serenity to change the things I can change. I am but a man...

She lingered on the threshold, her hands busy with the handkerchief which she twisted restlessly. When she finally spoke, her voice came slow and steady: 

"It’s been a while since we spoke. Every time I mean to inquire of you, you are always busy. I am of the impression that you are avoiding me..."

He hesitated. 

"Have I? I have not noticed, Miss. I am a man of God; I have priestly duties that demand my attention more these days. Is something wrong with your father again?" He said, his eyes averted from her gaze lest she see his yearning for her.

"No... My father is well. He, by all accounts, has recovered. I wanted to see you, Father... Bernard." Her voice drew into a whisper. Adeline climbed the steps towards him. 

"I have been meaning to talk with you. I cannot help myself—I am but a woman."

What then shall I do? Father Irish thought. “Lord, give me the courage to change the things I can change…….

“Miss……” Father Irish spoke, his voice caught. 

“Call me Adeline……please. I want to know what you think of me?

Father Irish, hesitated and muttered under his breath, “Lord, I am but a man.”

When the 3pm church bell clanged, it sent echoes through the vacant church. Its arches, which stretched high, caved in at the sound. For a moment, the high-rise tinted windows shook, then quieted as the sound faded. The granite floor bounced the echo towards the vast walls. The walls caved in to everything around them, even the man kneeling before the cross.

Before the cross a man bowed. His head was covered by thick, black hair. A few streaks of grey hair adorned it here and there and these shone in the dim light. His nose and mouth aligned in a quiet harmony giving him a handsome face shadowed by the ambient light. Yet, as the light gleamed and caught his features, traces of worry and pain carved into his face became clear. Deep lines furrowed the corner of his eyes and  mouth.

"Forgive me, Father" he muttered under his breath, his voice low and almost beseeching. It was a voice of yearning of deep agony by a man at his end. His hands clutched his dark trousers tightly.

He fell silent. A silence that seemed to linger, searching for an answer. Finding no resolve he whispered,

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. My heart..." He waited; his voice caught in his throat "...is burdened by a love I cannot express…. to a woman. I took a vow. You, Lord, are my one true love.

Yet here I am… conflicted by the thoughts that linger fondly towards this woman. Tell me, Lord, what should I do? He beat his chest harshly in agitation.

 He shifted his knees as he spoke, feeling tired and strained by having knelt for too long. I am but a man, his thoughts raced. He listened in the silence waiting for an answer, yet the church stood motionless, silent and unswerving.

Resigning, he rose and walked toward the main exit door at the far end of the church. His feet made slow, tired thuds against the granite floor.

As he exited the door his eyes caught sight of her green, lilac flower-patterned dress.  She stood on the steps— her blonde hair cascading to her shoulders. She gave the impression that she was not in a hurry.

"Father Irish, I..." her voice spoke as if in hesitation. "I did not know you were here..." She broke into a smile that lit up her face. A smile that always latched at his heart.

Bernard Irish felt his throat tighten and his knees almost buckled at the sound of her voice. Catching himself he managed a weary smile 

"Where else should I be but, but the church, Miss?"

I am but a man. Lord, grant me the serenity to change the things I can change. I am but a man...

She lingered on the threshold, her hands busy with the handkerchief which she twisted restlessly. When she finally spoke, her voice came slow and steady: 

"It’s been a while since we spoke. Every time I mean to inquire of you, you are always busy. I am of the impression that you are avoiding me..."

He hesitated. 

"Have I? I have not noticed, Miss. I am a man of God; I have priestly duties that demand my attention more these days. Is something wrong with your father again?" He said, his eyes averted from her gaze lest she see his yearning for her.

"No... My father is well. He, by all accounts, has recovered. I wanted to see you, Father... Bernard." Her voice drew into a whisper. Adeline climbed the steps towards him. 

"I have been meaning to talk with you. I cannot help myself—I am but a woman."

What then shall I do? Father Irish thought. “Lord, give me the courage to change the things I can change…….

“Miss……” Father Irish spoke, his voice caught. 

“Call me Adeline……please. I want to know what you think of me?

Father Irish, hesitated and muttered under his breath, “Lord, I am but a man.”

 In the century-old deep forest of Zolda where sunlight barely peeped through the leaves, a tiny kingdom glowed with the gentle shimmer of fireflies. This was the home of the delectable mushrooms – the Fungus Kingdom of Arcane. It stood nestled on century old gigantic damp and decaying bark of fallen oak and elm trees. Once, a brave (or perhaps just lost) earthworm named L. Rubellius had embarked on a voyage through this kingdom and witnessed the majesty of the Shadow King himself.

And oh, did L Rubellius have tales to tell! To any fruit or vegetable of Merry Meadow who dared lend an ear, he recounted his tale. But as stories often do, especially when whispered through rustling leaves and across moonlit clearings, L Rubellius's firsthand account began to twist and grow. In those tales, Shiitake the shadow king had three crooked heads and, in some stories, his intense gaze a soul–piercing glare. His quiet authority was interrupted as paralyzing magic.

 The rumors drifted with the wind painting a picture of a fearsome King so terrifying that no resident of Merry Meadow dared to go near Arcane.

Contrary to such tall tales, he was just a king with two hands, two legs, and two eyes. Peculiar was his mushroom head—crimson capped and crooked. He wore a permanently fixed smug smile and had bushy black brows. He was enigmatic, choosing to wear black knee-high boots as charcoal. His cap, crowned with a crown made of curled moss. 

He might have looked grouchy, but he harbored quite peculiar interests. He was fond of colorful socks, he kept a diary and occasionally indulged in poetry, his favorite writer was Shy Shallot- a resident of Merry Meadows. 

He envied his neighboring kingdom of Merry Meadows, always ablaze with constant cheerful chatter and he often wondered why they were always so cheerful. He was puzzled by their endless cheer that meandered through the forest like mist spreading from Merry Meadow to Arcane. Standing on his balcony one season, he watched their glowing lanterns swaying to music about fireflies.

"Must they always be so loud?" he grumbled. His father Mitake's words hissed like a snake in his memory, "We shaped these plants, son. Long before their first leaves unfurled, our ancestors worked the soil. We broke down stone and rot to make earth where they could grow." The old king's voice had been firm. "Without fungi, there would be no forests, no fields - just barren rock. Remember that when they call us mere decomposers."

But where Merry Meadow celebrated, Shiitake's people worked - silently turning death into new life. Now, with even bold radishes avoiding his borders, those distant melodies sometimes made him pause. A childish thought would whisper: What if we joined them? But kings didn't entertain fantasies.

It was in 1999 when I received the news that my grandfather, Dickens had passed. He had   been living alone in the house that he once shared with my grandmother before her death. He was eighty-five. When I heard the news, it struck me. To me, Grandpa was indestructible. He had been an ever-present force throughout my childhood. It was simply hard to believe he was gone.

He had been ill for a while and carers checked on him daily. One of the carers found him one morning, stone cold in his bed. A heart attack had robbed him of his life. 

 That season, I found myself detached from living. I became unusually quiet, pacing through life as if in a daydream. When his last will and testament was later read, I was still in a haze. It was then I found out he had left me his favorite heirloom he had received from his own father.

His favorite chair.

The chair had wide armrests, and it was covered with soft dark brown leather. The leather had wrinkled through time, bearing that refined look of age. The day I collected the chair, I did not sit on it. This was the heirloom that had been passed on from father to son and finally to granddaughter. It had novelty. Instead, I anchored it in a corner in my bedroom and stared at it for a very long time. It brought back memories of my grandfather. Sitting on it felt like a violation— an intrusion into his personal space.

Weeks passed. The chair stayed anchored exactly where I had placed it, a silent fixture in the shadows. I avoided that side of the room except for one day each week. On that day I took the time to gently clean it with a leather cleaner, polishing it as was Grandfather Dickens' custom. But for the most part I avoided it, choosing instead to stare at it, imagining him sitting there drinking his coffee, laughing heartily.

The chair was peculiar. It always felt warm to the touch and carried that old expensive wooden scent that once surrounded grandpa. There were times the scent was heaviest in my bedroom, or maybe it was my imagination born out of grief. Sometimes, I saw a soft pressed wrinkled depression on the chair's seat as if someone had been sitting on it. 
I mentioned this to mum one morning when I visited home.

"Maybe your grandpa doesn't want you sitting in his chair." 

Mum said as she folded the laundry. Mum was grandpa Dickens' only child.

"I highly doubt it mum, he left me the chair".

Mum grew quiet for a while then she said, "So how long do you plan on avoiding it? Maybe you can bring it here if it bothers you that much".

I grew quiet too.  Then I thought to ask her, "Did you ever sit on his chair when you were growing up?

"Well…” She paused. “I don't ever remember sitting on it. It always seemed….”

"Seemed like what?" I asked.

"Never mind what I wanted to say,” She muttered. “Your grandpa seemed attached to it, that's all."

Attached? That word clung to me long after I had left her. Driving back home, I thought of grandpa. He always seemed bigger than life, occupying and taking up space with his presence. I remember the time he came for my high school graduation: his assured presence, his standing ovation, him calling my name from the crowd. No wonder people naturally gravitated toward him.

But opening my bedroom door that evening, the entire room scent was heavy with the aroma of wood. Looking at the far corner where the chair stood, it seemed to have moved a few steps towards the bed,

The angle was wrong.

"Did I move it before I left?” I said aloud.

As I stepped closer to move it, my eyes caught sight of a large wrinkled depression in the seat, as if someone had been sitting on it. But who? My fingers drawn to the depression suddenly traced it. The depression was surprisingly warm to the touch. I then pushed the chair back against the wall with a hard shove and turned away, my feet ready to flee. That is when I heard a slight heave as if someone had gently settled in it. I paused, stuck in place then quickly spun around quickly to take a look. Nothing was amiss. 

For a long time, I lay awake in bed, my eyes darting from one part of the chair to another staring at it trying to catch the slightest movement, my mother's words echoing in my mind:

"You can bring it here if it bothers you that much."

That morning, I opened my eyes and looked towards the chair, as I had begun to do each morning. The chair was not in its corner. It had moved again. This time it was next to my bed, close enough for me to touch it.

Maybe, maybe I had woken up from my sleep and moved it? I had sleepwalked for a long time as a child and the habit had died then but I had never sleepwalked as an adult. Maybe the habit had returned? If so, could I have moved the chair without knowing?

I jumped out of bed nearly tripping as I bolted out the door. Banging it behind me, I found myself in front of the sink with both my hands on my chest. My heart beat so fast and my hands were shaking violently. I shakingly took a glass from the dish rack, filled it with tap water and drank it just to  calm my nerves. Moreover my throat felt dry. The water did not provide any relief. I filled another glass quickly and gulped it again. It seemed ever since his death—since the chair entering my life—I had been spending most of my days rationalizing. Finally exhausted with all the rationalizations, a thought urged me to take it out of the bedroom, out of my sight.

I tiptoed up the stairs, not having decided where I would place it.When I finally reached the top, I stood there, pacing a while my mind in a fog then placed both hands gently on the door handle. I exhaled a little then slowly opened it. As I did so, I heard the chair's legs scritch against the floor. Panicking, I closed the door again and stood there. I thought of Grandpa Dickens—the man he had been. Surely he would not haunt his own chair, would he? What then was the point of it being given to me if it was going to torment me?

 I slowly opened the door and tiptoed into the room, my eyes firmly glued onto the chair. I crept towards it and firmly placed my hands on the armrests. I resolved that there was nowhere to run to now. If a ghost of my grandpa was to appear I would have to face him. 

With my hands on the armrests,I tried lifting it up, but it was strangely heavier than before — or maybe my energy had been sucked out of me after having received such a terrible fright before?

This seemed like a test, a test of will, so I tried lifting it again, but this time it felt like it had been permanently hinged to the floor. I tried again just to make sure I was not dreaming — still it remained firmly in place. Is it possible it knew of my intentions? I thought.

That very thought made me angry. Had I welcomed a sentient dressed as a gift into my home to torment me? So, I angrily wrestled with it, attempting to move it again and again. The whole act was futile. Exhausted and discouraged I finally slumped on the bed and wept. I wept— wept for Grandpa Dickens. He had been a father figure to me. I had lost my own father at two years old.  Death had once again robbed me of family. I dragged myself up in between sobs and walked towards the elephant in the room: the chair. I finally sat on it and wept again.

I do not know when, in my weeping, the chair unhinged itself. I never found out.  I then lifted it back in the corner. But, in the morning, it was still close to my bed. I resolved it wanted to stay near me and decided to clear a spot for it there. There are times I still feel it heave, as if someone has just sat down and times I hear it move in the dark. I have just accepted it. Maybe it is Grandpa Dickens. Maybe it is grief.The chair remains with me

Madam: "Hello children?"
Children: "Hello madam, how are you this morning?"
Madam: "We are fine. Are you all feeling well?"
Children: "YES MADAM!"

(One child stands up, his feet hurrying to the block center.)
Madam: "Mark, please come sit down. Can't you see madam is talking?"
(Mark continues to head towards the block centre.)
Madam: "Well, Mark dear, sit down. We can play with blocks after we have finished our learning. If you play with them now, you won't be able to play when the others are playing."
(Mark sits down...)
Another child: "LOOK, MADAM! AVA IS HITTING OTHERS!"
Madam: "Ava, darling, don't do that! Look at the class rules. Class, what does the class rules say about hitting others?"
Children: "NO HITTING OTHERS!"
(Another child stands up and heads for the door.)
Madam: "Ashley, where are you going?"
Ashley: "To the toilet, mam?"
Madam: "Did you ask me?"
Ashley: "No, mam..."
Ashley: "Mam? Can I go to the toilet?"
Madam: "No, Ashley, sit down. You will go when Steven comes back."
(Madam looks at her notes.)
Madam: "NOW WHERE WAS I? YES... HELLO CHILDREN..."
(Children remain quiet.)
Madam: "HELLO CHILDREN!"
Children (weakly): "Hello madam..."

Madam (sighing): "Ugh. If this is the preschool classroom, then I am DOOMED."

Madam: "Hello children?"
Children: "Hello madam, how are you this morning?"
Madam: "We are fine. Are you all feeling well?"
Children: "YES MADAM!"

(One child stands up, his feet hurrying to the block center.)
Madam: "Mark, please come sit down. Can't you see madam is talking?"
(Mark continues to head towards the block centre.)
Madam: "Well, Mark dear, sit down. We can play with blocks after we have finished our learning. If you play with them now, you won't be able to play when the others are playing."
(Mark sits down...)
Another child: "LOOK, MADAM! AVA IS HITTING OTHERS!"
Madam: "Ava, darling, don't do that! Look at the class rules. Class, what does the class rules say about hitting others?"
Children: "NO HITTING OTHERS!"
(Another child stands up and heads for the door.)
Madam: "Ashley, where are you going?"
Ashley: "To the toilet, mam?"
Madam: "Did you ask me?"
Ashley: "No, mam..."
Ashley: "Mam? Can I go to the toilet?"
Madam: "No, Ashley, sit down. You will go when Steven comes back."
(Madam looks at her notes.)
Madam: "NOW WHERE WAS I? YES... HELLO CHILDREN..."
(Children remain quiet.)
Madam: "HELLO CHILDREN!"
Children (weakly): "Hello madam..."

Madam (sighing): "Ugh. If this is the preschool classroom, then I am DOOMED."

Captain Rogard of the pirate ship 'Misfit' had spent twenty years sailing the seas. He had been born at sea, grew up at sea so naturally he knew the sea's lies like the back of his hand. Yet as he stared at 'The Widows Mirror,' he sighed heavily. The sea gleamed like black glass. The air was calm. No wind. No storm.

But Rogard knew the currents could turn suddenly. 'The Widow's Mirror' was deceitful. There were tales. Tales of sea serpents, thick as a man's waist lurking beneath. Others spoke of dragon-like beasts that hunted in the black water. Many who crossed never returned.

He was apprehensive about putting his men in danger. But a thousand pieces of silver waited at his return from Merho. A fortune. Enough to buy a new ship. The Misfit had seen better days—and gear for his crew. A few bottles of rum. Maybe women to entertain them. He let the thoughts warm him. They had to. Without them, he would turn back. So, he and his crew naturally gravitated toward the danger.

With a bottle of his favorite rum in hand, he shouted, "Hoist your sails! We sail off—"

"Ahoy, Captain!" a voice called from across the deck, interrupting his command.

Rogard paused, cutting his shout short. He walked slowly across the deck, rum in hand, and lifted his heavy boots toward the steps leading below.

"Captain!" the voice called again. "The cargo, what if something gets out?"

Rogard stood at the edge of the steps, his back to his crew. He staggered slightly from the rum. "Make sure the crates are sealed tight. No gaps. Nothing escapes." He turned to go, then stopped, casting a hard unwavering look over his shoulder, "And I don't want to see any of you eating a banana. I'll know where you got it from."

Captain Rogard's face did not smile. Instead, a foreboding shadow enveloped it. His face was stern and serious.

The crew knew. These were no ordinary bananas. Yet somehow, they wanted to test him. Test his patience. There were other things to eat besides the bananas, but somehow it was the forbidden fruit that called to them.

Pouring a final drink, Captain Rogard gulped the rum in one go and dumped the cup into the hands of one of his crewmen. Bottle and empty cup disposed of; he quickly descended below.

Opening the door to his cabin, he fell onto his bed. As his eyes closed, he dreamt of the bananas.

In his sleep, the dark truth of the cargo haunted him. The bananas had been born out of a failed experiment. Now they were causing hallucinogenic tendencies in humans. Once a person swallowed them, he hallucinated for a while. Then after a few days, he would be found dead. The bananas had to be discarded where no human or animal could eat them. He had witnessed firsthand what the bananas did to a man—torn his mind into madness before he died.

The Neburta Daily Star.

Headline: CHIEF ENGINEER RAMEKIN ON ANNOUNCED SABBATICAL; ARTIFICIAL SUN PROJECT AHEAD OF SCHEDULE

The Ministry of Atmospheric Harmony and Samtheories Corp announced today that Chief Nano-Engineer Dr. Rajif Ramekin has taken an unscheduled personal leave following the successful completion of Phase 3 of the Sol-2 Project. Officials assure the public that the construction of the Artificial Sun remains entirely uninterrupted.

“Dr. Ramekin’s vision is secure within the automated systems,” a Samtheories Corp spokesperson stated via the broadcast. “The pink horizons we have endured for fifteen years will soon be replaced by clean, corporate-regulated daylight.”

Citizens are reminded to ensure their household Samtheories Corp Purifiers are updated to Firmware 10.4 to accommodate the minor atmospheric static caused by current orbital construction. Failure to update may result in filtration delays.

Ramzol sat beneath the yellow faint fluorescent lights in a Pub called Neska in Region 8 of Neburta. The TV which was propelled above his head, glowed in front of him. It hissed in static, its volume loud. Then its pictures disappeared, the screen now white. The bartender, a thin man with a large beard and red eyes, paced slowly in front of him, his hands frantically   wiping a  copa glass with a white dish cloth. Then standing in front of the hissing TV and beat its left side twice. The flickering images suddenly reemerged.

Ramzol did not look up. His eyes remained glued at the gin in his hand. He titled the glass, drowning its contents, then gritted his teeth. Placing the glass down at the wooden counter he winced a satisfied "ugh."  For a few minutes his eyes remained glued   to the screen. He trailed the rim of the glass as he looked then took another long sip and grimaced again. The corporate anchor on the screen kept smiling, preaching about progress while the reception flickered over Moss's shoulder. The bartender, Moss let out a heavy sigh, his eyes tracking the scrolling headlines at the bottom of the broadcast.

He walked over to where Ramzol sat and remarked, 

"Umm... these motherfucken capitalists... You can never trust them, can you?"

Ramzol remained quiet. Instead, he pointed to his glass signaling to him to refill it.  Sipping it the gin tasted bitter—too bitter for his liking. 

"The problem was not capitalism; the problem was the men behind capitalism," he thought, sipping the gin again. He twirled the glass and watched its contents dance. Who cares if Ramekin is on leave? he thought again. 

The heavy air around broke his focus as he suddenly became conscious of how thick the atmosphere had become. Faint suffocating traces of sweat, cheap perfume, and cigarettes filled the tavern. Putting the glass beneath his nose he hissed at Moss, "Is your purifier not working again?"

Moss grunted, 

"No, it's working... but I better buy the latest version. It will do the work."

He said it with the blind obedience of a man who bought into the upgrades, oblivious to the trap. Samtheories Corp made everything in Neburta—the air purifier, the nanotech clothes he was wearing. They practically owned them. Ramzol stared at him again and sighed: The men behind capitalism.

Lifting himself up from the stool, he put on his mask and slowly trudged towards the door out into the streets of Neburta with its thick air and delayed promises. As he descended the steps, the neon sign from Samtheories Corp glowed in a haze: 

"Breathe what we built. Trust what you cannot see."

Still looking at the sign Ramzol cursed, "Trust my ass..." and walked off.

Above him, the sky stood shrouded in a thick veil of gas, the sickly remnants of the 10th industrial revolution where the natural sun now only peeped with a sickening grin. The streets were lit only by the artificial lights from Samtheories Corp. Desperate to escape the suffocating air of the surface, he looked toward the concrete stairwell leading down into the train stations.

He walked, his steps slow and steady as he crossed Babel bridge, taking the underground route into the city with it destitutes sprawled in corners, coughing and sellers lodged to them hawking mouth sized air purifiers for a dime.

As he walked an old man in what appeared to be remnants of a lab coat now reduced to tatters bumped hard into him.

"Watch where you are going, will you!" Ramzol barked under his mask.

The old man, who wore no mask, ignored the snap but kept his eyes forward. Staring right through Ramzol, mumbling frantically. "Dr. Rajif is not on leave. The man is dead! I tell you, the man is dead!" he howled.

 What is man without a ritual of sorts? “Every man has a ritual.” The old lady spoke to the air, jabbing her crooked stick at the sky. She laughed, a hollow laugh, the stick still pointed upwards.

Then……

She crouched at the fringes of the massive landfill, her long coat draping the mass then she rummaged through the filth. She picked up a small bottle, peered closely at its sealed contents. She then scanned the grey faint label and without hesitation tossed it back onto the massive heap.

A girl walking past her on her way caught wind of her words and retraced her steps to where the old lady was crouched and said, "A ritual, you say? Her voice cracked, then she coughed, a dry cough. The old lady didn't immediately respond. She stayed crouched, mumbling into the garbage. Then, without looking up, without halting her slow, scraping hands she said, 

“Everyone's got one. Even the ones who claim not to."

The girl stood there, frozen. Her eyes on the old lady. Then she nodded once, as if something small and useless had clicked into place and then walked away. 

As she walked, she thought of her recent failed relationship and that absurd ritual of hers that began and ended with each relationship. 

The ritual always began with panties and always ended with panties. 

As she walked away from the landfill, the old lady's words nudged at her, like the old lady’s crooked stick poking the massive landfill…….

'Even the ones that claim not to.'

Max. His name had been Max. It was with him that the ritual had first crept in like the early dawn except the creeping carried with it a lethargic feeling which she had dismissed as mere fatigue. She was twenty-one then. She remembered how soon after their relationship had begun, she had rushed to purchase panties that suited his energy. 

Red panties.

Max was loud, the life of the party. His laughter shook places and left a trail of friends.  Purchasing the panties was a way of matching his temperament. With them, she found herself loud, chaotic, slightly unhinged. She became loud in meetings, quite capable of voicing her own opinions. But it was a fleeting feeling. Something she could not sustain. Somehow his energy siphoned her, leaving her dry. The red panties fell short, unable to match his vivaciousness. 

Tired of it all one morning, she, without hesitation gently kissed him goodbye as he slept. She peeled off her red panties and hid them under his bed as her parting gift.  When he   tried calling her afterwards, her number was no longer in use.

Then there was Caleb. The man was quiet. He spoke with a gentle softness that had her leaning in across tables just so she could catch his words. For him she bought: 

White panties.

He carried himself with the quiet dignity of a monk. It did not help that he liked tea and always seemed to make it with the gravity of a religious ceremony. The white panties were homage to him proof that she too could be still, could be saint-like. 

But…... 

His tea ceremony meant to unite them stretched uncomfortably for hours. She perceived she was to be silent during it lest she cause discord. So, long stretches of silence deepened between them. A lingering feeling of unease jumped at her with the intolerable truth that she was not the quiet type and the whole act was a slow suffocation.  When she left him, she hid the white panties in the pocket of his winter coat. It was summer. It would be four months before  he  found them.

In twelve years, she had hidden six panties. Each panty carried with it a color and a goodbye. 

As she walked across the road from the landfill she thought   
Maybe.

Just Maybe. 

It was time to start a new ritual. This time, a ritual for herself where the panties’ colors were to her own liking. 

“How about blue panties?”

 What is man without a ritual of sorts? “Every man has a ritual.” The old lady spoke to the air, jabbing her crooked stick at the sky. She laughed, a hollow laugh, the stick still pointed upwards.

Then……

She crouched at the fringes of the massive landfill, her long coat draping the mass then she rummaged through the filth. She picked up a small bottle, peered closely at its sealed contents. She then scanned the grey faint label and without hesitation tossed it back onto the massive heap.

A girl walking past her on her way caught wind of her words and retraced her steps to where the old lady was crouched and said, "A ritual, you say? Her voice cracked, then she coughed, a dry cough. The old lady didn't immediately respond. She stayed crouched, mumbling into the garbage. Then, without looking up, without halting her slow, scraping hands she said, 

“Everyone's got one. Even the ones who claim not to."

The girl stood there, frozen. Her eyes on the old lady. Then she nodded once, as if something small and useless had clicked into place and then walked away. 

As she walked, she thought of her recent failed relationship and that absurd ritual of hers that began and ended with each relationship. 

The ritual always began with panties and always ended with panties. 

As she walked away from the landfill, the old lady's words nudged at her, like the old lady’s crooked stick poking the massive landfill……..

'Even the ones that claim not to.'

Max. His name had been Max. It was with him that the ritual had first crept in like the early dawn except the creeping carried with it a lethargic feeling which she had dismissed as mere fatigue. She was twenty-one then. She remembered how soon after their relationship had begun, she had rushed to purchase panties that suited his energy. 

Red panties.

Max was loud, the life of the party. His laughter shook places and left a trail of friends.  Purchasing the panties was a way of matching his temperament. With them, she found herself loud, chaotic, slightly unhinged. She became loud in meetings, quite capable of voicing her own opinions. But it was a fleeting feeling. Something she could not sustain. Somehow his energy siphoned her, leaving her dry. The red panties fell short, unable to match his vivaciousness. 

Tired of it all one morning, she, without hesitation gently kissed him goodbye as he slept. She peeled off her red panties and hid them under his bed as her parting gift.  When he   tried calling her afterwards, her number was no longer in use.

Then there was Caleb. The man was quiet. He spoke with a gentle softness that had her leaning in across tables just so she could catch his words. For him she bought: 

White panties.

He carried himself with the quiet dignity of a monk. It did not help that he liked tea and always seemed to make it with the gravity of a religious ceremony. The white panties were homage to him proof that she too could be still, could be saint-like. 

But….. 

His tea ceremony meant to unite them stretched uncomfortably for hours. She perceived she was to be silent during it lest she cause discord. So, long stretches of silence deepened between them. A lingering feeling of unease jumped at her with the intolerable truth that she was not the quiet type and the whole act was a slow suffocation.  When she left him, she  hid the white panties in the pocket of his winter coat. It was summer. It would be four months before  he  found them.

In twelve years, she had hidden six panties. Each panty carried with it a color and a goodbye. 

As she walked across the road from the landfill she thought   
Maybe.

Just Maybe. 

It was time to start a new ritual. This time, a ritual for herself where the panties’ colors were to her own liking. 

“How about blue panties?”

Gaia, the eternal queen in her ethereal beauty stood upon her kingdom of Etheron, gazing down on the Earth at her children. They were her purpose, her essence. She was forever watching, probing……. forging. 

Like a potter, she had molded them with clay and breathed her life force into them.

In her hands she held seed born from the forbidden tree that stood in the middle of her garden. 

Suddenly……….

One of the seeds slipped through her fingers and rolled out of her hand cascading fast as if propelled by an intangible force that had aligned itself with the law of motion.

 It rolled past the infinite crystal waters whose waters shone like a mirror in the heat, like melted glass through her forests called ‘Goodness’, with its singing flowers that swayed with a gentle symphony with the light breeze, until…… 

…...it toppled upon Earth with a thud as if dropped into a dry well.

 Then….  

Boom.

It sounded loud and chaotic, churning the waters and all that there was.

Gaia stood motionless, staring as it tumbled. Remembering the law that bound even the gods—a fallen seed could only be retrieved by them after a great span of time, she sank into her throne, her eyes suddenly darting across the chamber.  

Gabrib, her servant, came flying into her massive hall and landed a foot away from her throne with a massive ‘thud’.

"Long live Gaia who furnished Mount Tazamah with her purity and delight in her children. My Queen, a seed has fallen upon mankind—the seed of Mollariah. Should we journey below to retrieve it?”  Gabrib gave his salutations gracelessly, clearly out of breath.

The seed of Mollariah was a seed of darkness, birthing destruction upon anything it touched. It had the power to quicken time as mankind knew it. 

Gaia, in her white crystal adorned robe, drew a couple of breaths that shook the great mountain around her. Her voice, loud yet sweet, descended like a thousand waterfalls,  

"No, Gabrib! It is up to mankind now to retrieve it and send it back to us.” 

"How, my Queen? It is impossible. How would they even see it? 

With her face shining and her eyes ablaze with seriousness she replied, "They will see it for its fruits. I have chosen a few men to retrieve it. We are bound by law not to go down there.”

“Is this perhaps the slip of the hand, my Queen? Or the will of the stars?” Gabrib asked, his face peeking with interest.

Gaia looked beyond him. A smile slowly anchored itself across her face.

“It is yet to be seen, Gabrib. Etheron does not make a mistake.” And with that, she dismissed him.

“Then long live my queen, in her infinite wisdom”. 

Gabrib quickly vanished from her presence, with a whoosh and a slight wobble of his knees, dipping his magnificent translucent wings as he flew.

When the seed fell, those who had the eyes of Tazamah saw it. 
When it fell, the people of the shadows saw it as a bolt of light. 
The people of the dry sands saw it as a fountain of water.

“If they fail this quest, its fruits will poison the world below,” Gaia thought.

My name is Charles, Charles Bushrock, and I am ten years old.  I live in a tiny town called Wayly. Forgive me if I cannot enunciate my words properly. I lost my teeth, some of my teeth—the summer we went snockly doodling in Creek Hill. Me and my friend Jack had been cascading down the rocks when a tree at the side lunged at my front teeth hard, and I lost my front teeth. Of course I wailed hard all the way home to Papa. I had never experienced pain like that. Anywho, that's that about my teeth. I want to tell you folks why I love Wayly. 

We in Wayly, we love to hunt. We hunt bush buck in the summer and roast it out on our backyard patios. I like watching Pa roast buck meat. Pa is a big man with a big belly. I reckon he gets it from eating too much buck. Ma says he is just big boned like his Poppa. Ma says one day I will be big boned too like Pa and Poppa. But who knows? Maybe I will be little, like my uncle Ray. He is short and has a big mustache. I reckon he does not eat enough buck like Pa. Anywho  that's that. 
Have you ever had buck meat? Well, I reckon you do not have buck where you come from. Pa says buck has been around us for centuries. I ask him if we will ever run out of buck and he quietens slightly then says, 

 “We will never.” 
He must be reassuring me and I believe him. I suggest to Pa that maybe, sometime, we must hunt rabbits. Pa laughs hard and shakes his fists at the idea of eating rabbit. He scoops me on his knee and laughs again,

"We Bushrocks are buck people son. We will only eat rabbit when we are desperate." 

“What does it mean to be'despleate Pa?” Pa rubs my chin and says,  

“des-per-ate. means only when we are starving, son. As long as we keep looking after these forests we will never run out of buck”.  Anywho  that's that. 

I tell Ma about my dreams about buck sometimes. Ma can interpret my dreams by how buck be moving in them. One day I had a dream that I saw a big buck, one with them big horns drinking quietly by the stream. As I got near he did not move but just stared at me. I woke up and told Ma.
 
"Why you think he did not move Ma. He wasn’t even scared or nothing?" 
Ma says this kind was the spirit of the forest. It was no true buck. She ruffles my hair and says, 

"It mean, you must be the protector of the forests, and it will reward you son."
 I promise Ma that I will. Anyhow that's that. Anywho folks I have a lot to tell all you about Wayly, like that time the big trucks drove through our town. Anywho, Jack is calling me to go fishing for trout. He has been waiting since morning to go. He is my friend and I promised. I will come again to tell you about trout fishing in Wayly. Poppa taught me how to catch it.  Anywho, talk to you later about Wayly.

It is a Thursday afternoon, and here I am in my therapist's office for my appointment, sitting on her brown suede couch. The couch sits proudly with three stuffed seats facing the window and looking at it, I wonder where she bought it from. It's the kind of couch you can sink into and suddenly sleep has taken over you.  I am convinced this is one of her secret weapons which she wields against me to get me talking about my childhood. It is quite a beautiful couch. I trace the fabric gently and the suede slides between my fingers smoothly. Who knew such a simple act could provide such comfort.

"You were talking about your mother….” She says softly.

I ignore her and continue to run my hands through it. In every conversation, we have to talk about my mother. If I am to be honest, I think she is the one obsessed with her. It must be something that wacko Freud said that got her talking like a bird. I wonder what his childhood was like for him to express such bizarre ideas and consequently subject me to this unwarranted scrutiny. I wonder if she, too, my therapist, thinks it is the tension with my mother that led me to be how I became. Who cares? I still think Freud had weird ideas.

I look at her eyes, which somehow match the color of the couch, and I turn away from her gaze to answer her      "I loved my mother.... I just didn't trust her decisions," I say.

"Oh, how’s so?"

I glance at my feet and do a quick swipe at hers.  She has such an impeccable timeless taste in shoes. I wonder where she bought those shoes from. Blue shoes. How serene. Blue.  The color was unpleasantly nostalgic reminiscent my mother's favorite blue cardigan. She was profoundly attached to it and was always reluctant to part with it. I must have frowned at the thought for my therapist to ask  

"What are you thinking?"

I hesitated then said, "My mother liked blue. I notice you wear blue quite often. Anyway, growing up, she acted as if she was not fond of me. Nothing I did ever made her happy.”  
Maybe… 
“Just maybe she loved me in her own twisted way."

I rub my hands together as I say that. Noticing it, my therapist scribbles in her book quickly. Umm, she always seems to scribble in there. I wonder what she writes.

Mother.

Maybe this explains my insatiable need to mother everything and anything, too much to my detriment. My shoulders tremble with the realization.                                                                                                                      

"Do you mind if I lie down?" I asked, my voice suddenly quavering. I lunged my shoes off and slowly descended flat on my back on the couch, my face facing upward at the ceiling.

 Heaving a sigh of relief, it at last dawned on me why I smothered affection to my children with such intensity they saw it as control. Tears cascaded slowly down my cheeks as it slowly dawned on me. It all was because of Mother.

When Eglo’s spinnerets tightened and his silk glands swelled against his abdomen, he knew it was time to spin his web. The web, an extension of himself to the outside world, would help snare passing prey and shelter his family. So with his legs scritching, he scurried beneath the wooden table where he had hidden towards the kitchen window—a prime hunting ground where bugs streamed nightly to catch the warm glow of the kitchen light. There he anchored himself to the frame's corner and wove.

Day after day he wove, each silk thread delicate yet fierce as it transformed into an elastic net that intertwined intricately into a funnel shape. Each knot woven with expectation for the future he hoped.

 Finally the funnel gleamed complete, but as he locked the final knot, a strong wind gushed through the window and shredded the web, ripping it into a mess. Eglo, dangling overhead, was thrust by the furious wind to the edge.  His legs dipped in weakness, his front legs trembled mid air as his web tumbled towards the vast floor below.

Exhausted and broken, Eglo dangled for days in stunned silence as the last remnants of the web disappeared. With his eight legs stiff  he crept slowly to the windowsill, towards  the kitchen cabinet. There he anchored in its inner  corner and never wove again. The silk inside him remained unspent, calcifying.

 In the inner corner though Eglo's eyes dimmed, his spider-senses constantly pinged. His leg hairs quivered to the faint tremors of his  brother Ergen as he skittered across the outer right corner of the kitchen cabinet where he wove his own web. He sensed the menacing wind whispering Ergen’s way but Ergen’s legs sounded resolute as they continuously drummed underfoot. 

As summer nudged into autumn, Eglo felt the air shifting. One moment the cold draft would slip cunningly through the open windows, licking him , then a bolt of humid air would suddenly sway in,blanching his abdomen as it slowly settled. As Eglo watched Ergen, this shift did not seem to faze him as he continued to skittle across the kitchen counters with the intensity of a spider impervious to the elements. His little scuttles always drummed the surface in quiet determination, his thin gangly legs quavering in search of a mate to sire sons. By late autumn, Eglo would receive tremors of Ergen having found a willing partner.

Determined to be free as Ergen, Eglo  at one point extended his stiff thin legs and took three steps towards a small patch that glowed with light towards the door, but as he neared the door the light from outside the cabinet slanted directly into his dull eyes and he retreated  into his corner. When he next stirred, the kitchen had gone grey and biting. Somehow it was winter.  Every part of the kitchen surface stung with cold.  When spring finally came, Eglo breathed a great sense of relief.  

Spring brought with it the eager skittles of Ergen's spiderlings, their feet drumming against surfaces as they made their way to and from in search of prey. Eglo felt his heart palpitate at the shift. Suddenly, his days, long mum in silence, vibrated with the chatter of eager feet.

One day, pacing a few feet from his corner, he felt the sudden skittles of Erbolden, Ergen's son, making his way. The boy was sturdy like his father, yet light on his feet. In his hands he held his silk thread, which he slowly extended to Eglo.

Taking it, Eglo's hands quavered with the excitement of showing the young boy how to weave, remembering how he too had woven his first web. He took the strands and wove slowly as the young boy's eyes looked on in wonder. As he twisted the knot across the knot into a half-moon shape, he remembered the silk pulling smoothly and warmly from his swollen glands. He felt the pleasure of the throw, as his body dangled weightless in mid-air between anchors. The radial lines singing faintly as he touched them, each one a path he had made and could travel again. The spiral growing beneath him, sticky and gleaming, was his own architecture becoming shelter, becoming home. For a moment, hanging at the funnel's mouth, he had felt full—not of prey, but of purpose. The kitchen light had felt warm on his abdomen and the world alive. Then he remembered the wind, and his legs stopped. He abruptly extended the thread back and shifted uneasily back into his corner. For a moment the boy remained transfixed, then moved slowly away towards home.

Time crept along in Eglo’s life until the day the silk threads around Eglo stilled. The Great Spider Spirit drew him upward on a single thread to the Spirit Web, where he stood to be judged on how he had lived.

"Tell me, Eglo, were you satisfied with your life?" the Great Spirit asked.
But Eglo cried, "Great Spirit, why did you deny me a fortunate and full life like Ergen's? For he built his home and fulfilled his dream."

The Great Spider looked at him with compassion and opened the book of Eglo's threads. "Look, Eglo. Here are the threads you wove."

Eglo looked into the book and saw how he had lived, anchored in the dark corner, his heart calloused by the brutality of the wind that had destroyed his web once. He saw his limbs stiffen and his silk calcify, unused. At the corner of his eye, he caught the eager scritching of Ergen as he continuously rebuilt. He watched as Ergen took a mate and sired sons. He saw how the wind still raged, yet Ergen persisted. Living.

As he looked, Eglo was overcome by a great sense of sadness as he understood the threads he chose not to weave.