Donna was a woman of easy virtue who lived in the quiet Mid-West town of Spitsville. She made no attempt to hide her source of income; far from it, she advertised on television, sponsored local events and handed out leaflets outside church after Sunday services. Donna loved the limelight. And for the most part, folks around Spitsville just shrugged their shoulders, accepting that every town needed a Donna like it needed a sheriff: and Donna provided an ‘education service’ of sorts.

No one, including the IRS, knew how much Donna earned. But as she grew older, what did become clear that she was using hard-earned dollars to buff up her image. The hair was always blonde, her face botoxed and there were even rumours that she wore a wig. She continued to earn, but with age and experience came power: town officials and politicians discovered Donna was not a woman to cross. If Donna thought Spitsville needed a new shopping mall, it was as good as built.

Things changed completely the year Spitsville decided to elect its town prostitute. Forced to seek Republican Party nomination, Donna found herself up against a Joanie-come-lately in Lolita Leybrand, a young Democrat brunette. The campaign was dirty. In the event, Lolita was the clear winner, but Donna was having none of it. On the very day Lolita was due to be sworn in, a party of Donna’s most loyal clients stormed the town hall. Four people died, including a police officer.

A furious Spitsville split in two. The Democrats wanted to charge Donna for insurrection; Donna’s supporters insisted that no such assault on the town hall had ever happened, it was all “fake news”. What was needed was hard evidence of serious lawbreaking.

But this, of course, was Spitsville, and even if folk weren’t that bothered about an attempted revolution, financial cheating was another matter. Daniel Storm, an old client of Donna’s from way back, came forward to testify he’d paid her $500,000 in service fees, but she hadn’t paid anything in local taxes. Locals had starved because of Donna’s greed. Clearly Donna was therefore a witch. And Donna agreed: it was a witch-hunt, she said.

Donna was therefore put on trial in the one way that would establish if she were indeeed a witch. Tied to a stool, she was ducked in the town pond. Innocent, she’d drown; guilty, she’d survive.

Fully five minutes later, the stool re-surfaced. A triumphant Donna had not only survived, she’d emerged triumphant, waving and promising to “make Spitsville great again”. For half of those watching, it was proof that Donna was guilty as charged; to the other half, Donna was a god, the new Messiah. The two groups started to argue, then they came to blows, then the guns came out. Until then, folk in Spitsville had always wondered why the US needed a Second Amendment, but now their no-longer-quiet town had finally found a use for their weapons.

Meanwhile, Donna just stood and watched. And grinned.

The black mirror of polished toe caps reflect the old buildings, Horse Guards frowns down upon the assembled soldiers waiting...they've seen it all before.

A lone woman rider approaches the dais, it's her birthday, the band strikes up Hearts of Oak.

As the red jacketed soldiers move off, the crowd of spectators starts applauding, arms move in unison in time with the pace.
Boots hit the gravel with a sound like crunching cornflakes, red striped trouser seams crease as their owners march as one toward the dais.

When the first rank breasts the platform the guards commander orders "eyes left" the bear skinned heads snap round until they pass, then they snap forward again, in a rippling effect.
Brass buttons gleam in the early sun, competing with the Life Guards cuirasses as they ride towards the Queens Troop horse artillery.

Tourists cameras flash as the parade is freeze framed in a thousand lenses, sensors working hard as the high speed whine blurs the shutters.
The band now plays the Grenadiers March, the pressed crowd applauds again jostling forward to get a better view.

Row upon row of guardsmen pass the dais their officers saluting with their sabres, the dressing is superb, their legs and arms rise and drop as one, holding the line ruler straight...
​

It was such a busy time at the vineyard, there were both strangers and friends who came to help every harvest. Anna managed to escape from the house and lose herself amongst the vines, absorbing the chatter and the laughter and the warmth of the sun. The illusion of secrecy made for a day of adventure.
With the leaves shading her neck, she sat directly below a cluster of beautiful purple globes and attempted to pluck them off using only her mouth. She had surprised a bee doing this last year, but had been lucky because he was fat and full and had been too sleepy to sting.
The time went quickly in the morning, the sun never got fierce until after lunch. She chose her hideout very carefully, staying ahead of the pickers until she was full of grapes then dropping behind them when her belly felt too big.
She let the noise and laughter wash over her, not everyone had such a fun day. She had watched harvesting at Uncle Doug’s, he had a machine. It had scared her, grunting and shaking its way through the vines, taking grapes and leaves, leaving the vines looking as if a storm had gone through. She had begged daddy not to buy a harvester and had been content when he said he wouldn't have the money for another three years.
Their vineyard was much nicer. It was noisy, but it was filled with happy chatter and soon they would all get to sit at the long table to have lunch.You couldn't have lunch with a machine.
After the pickers headed back to work, Anna thought the table looked like the vines at Uncle Doug’s property after the machine had gone through. She sneaked back into the rows before she could be caught to help clear the table.
There was a lovely vine near the end of a row, she tucked herself under it brushing a few webs aside. She used to be scared of spiders but every spider she saw ran away. She closed her eyes for a minute and woke to hear her mum and dad talking. She lay very quietly.
Mummy said” that money will make a big difference, we could even get a harvester like Doug earlier than we planned”
“If I hadn't promised a certain someone that it would be three years before we got one,” daddy replied.
“She won't remember, it was only three years because we had to save, now with this windfall...”
“I'm still not sure that a harvester is the way to go, yes it's cheaper, but it will take the fun out of harvesting, less social. No, I promised her. We can wait three years. Three years isn't long”.
When they left, Anna skipped back into the middle of the pickers, she was surrounded by gossip and laughter. Daddy was wrong, she thought, three years is a very long time.
​

We were share-the-bathwater poor. My belly was a veteran in the war of going to bed hungry. Breakfast was grits without butter or cheese. Cinnamon toast was for special occasions: butter and sugar on white bread with the mold trimmed off the edges. It was almost as good as a birthday cake. Almost.

Mama went to daddy’s funeral alone while I looked after the kids. She put all her stock in me, the oldest. I got the clean bathwater and the least-worn hand-me-downs. In exchange, I sold hot dogs in the mall and wore a top-hat-tall paper chef’s hat. I learned how to play the part, however humiliating. Because I had a family to feed.

Now I have a bigger family. Thousands of people. I take care of them all day every day. I gave them my life, even my salary during the downturn. I gave them security and jobs so they could bathe, feed and clothe their families. Who was going to take care of me? So if I sold off a few stocks, that’s me taking care of me. And if I used the private jet, it’s because I needed to. I deserve it. Where’s my thanks?
​

It never hit here before you say and keep polishing your nails to the orchestra of the air siren.

But it hits here this time. Everything happens so fast—there is no chance even to get scared. The blast wave crashes through the walls, and the furniture falls on top of you. You lie pressed between your wardrobe and bed, cough, pant, and call for Makar and Sonia, but can’t hear the answer behind the agonizing whistle in your ears. A dazzling beam of flashlight pierces through the clouds of dust, and someone’s firm hands drag you out. Paramedics cover your shivering body and the old lady from the flat downstairs, wrapped in a blanket like yours, pats your hand. “You’ll be fine.”

It’s not that you don’t believe her, you don’t believe it’s happening. But when they find the bodies of your husband and child, reality bursts in with the power of a rocket. Only this time, it does kill you.

A shelter room in a hostel smells of desperation. Minimal allowance is all that connects you to the world as you know it—nothing else is the same. You ponder about your family, twisting the imaginary dagger in your heart, and feel void. Your heart has burnt with the house. You can’t make up for it. Why bother trying? But you scrap the remnants of hope and go back to work in a fortnight. Sit at your desk in the tidy bank office and open credits for people’s dream homes, cars, and all that makes little, if any, sense. You don’t need this job, but you need to keep going.

Your friends send you sorry messages and buy you dinners. You nod to their smiles and jokes about Putin and don’t believe a single word. Behind the glass wall of fragile safety, they are just like you before the hit. Now you know, coffee doesn’t smell strong, songs carry no meaning, and all you have, you’ll give away one day. You turn into a walking clock: your body functions on its own. No matter what, it keeps going. You breathe, you talk, you buy yourself a winter coat; you save a little, and obediently, you walk down the bomb shelter when the siren sings.

Then, gradually, you begin to understand why you really live. It has nothing to do with things you want, people you love, or those who throw rockets at your home.
​

Millennial Sohan was in a hurry. Pings on his latest smartphone were buzzing continuously. Friends were responding positively to his request of meeting at midtown. He was about to run out of the front-door when his mother Sudeepa noticed his hurriedness.

Sudeepa: Why are you in such a hurry, son?

Sohan: Organizing a peaceful protest march from the city-centre toward the Parliament, Mom.

Mom: For what cause?

Son: To raise our voices against current administration’s attempt to trample on democracy. Don’t you see how the opposition views getting suppressed, TV channels parroting only their views and big money industrialists funding their corrupt politicians?

Mom: But they’re powerful.

Son: Don’t you worry. Our country became a technological and economic superpower, but inequality also climbed to the sky level. Have you already forgotten about the lack of hospital beds and oxygen tanks for the ordinary citizens from Covid days? For poor people, good jobs and enough money to buy foods are always lacking.

Mom (nervously): But, what if the armed forces begin to gas and fire upon all of you?

Son: Mom, growing up, didn’t you tell me about the bravery of the Grandpa, when he fought against the power of colonialism and you’re a little child?

Mom: But that was to liberate our country after two hundred years of brutal occupation. First they‘d appeared as friendly traders; soon their ruling kingdom took over.

Son: But after capturing Grandpa, their armed forces broke every piece of his bones and pulled out all his nails. Then they transferred and hanged him in the notorious prison in that remote island. You even took me there once to pay respect and the gallows still stood.

Mom (desperately): But he was a freedom fighter, fighting for motherland’s independence.

Son: Mom, nowadays the word “freedom” took upon a completely new meaning in free societies. It is the “freedom from injustice”, “freedom from hunger”, “freedom from discrimination based on your color, ethnicity, and gender.” I can go on Mom, but I need to go, friends will be waiting for me.

At high noon, Sohan arrived at the designated square. Via social media, the words spread. Thousands of college students, members of trade unions and city’s intellectuals gathered. Each group carrying protest placards and flags began to march toward the Parliament. But the informants of the local authority soon created a disturbance, thus allowing armed forces to discharge tear gas and rubber bullets. While the dispersed protesters remained peaceful, the authority began to arrest the leaders of various groups, transferring them to the same building that once housed the forces of the rulers of the colonialism. Sohan was mercilessly tortured inside a dark basement room, happened to be the same room where his Grandpa underwent similar treatment, sixty years ago.

At midnight, Sohan was lined up along the banks of the river at city’s edge. Two bullets went through his head. His lifeless floating body, glistened by the full moon began a new journey.
​

The lights on the 4th floor of the Baxton Health Care Center sting my dry eyes. For two nights, I have not slept. Katherine Ranford, an old college friend and nurse at this nursing home in Boston texted me a message at 3:32a.m. on Monday morning. It was a message I never expected to receive in my lifetime: “I think I found him.”

~

I came to terms a long time ago that he was dead. In August of 2021, when the United States withdrew their military operations from Afghanistan, Baba Ayaan—my grandfather, like thousands of other Afghans, fled in desperation to the Hamid Karzai International Airport in Kabul with the hopes of escaping the Taliban takeover. At 60 years of age, he rushed me—his 4-year-old grandson, to the perimeter wall of the airport. Carrying me with his last will of strength, he begged the U.S. marines for my safety. As his trembling hands released me to the soldiers over a barbed-wire wall, he faded away into the stampede ensuing behind him.

~

Standing by the entrance to his room, my body paused at the sight of his name on the door tag: Ayaan Aziz. Closing my eyes, the sounds of screams, the roaring of the C-17 cargo plane engine, the gunshots… It disappeared. My soul surrendered to a warm feeling that was forgotten a long time ago, the love of family.

Katherine cups my hands into hers. “Are you ready, Hashim?”

I nod, exhaling a breath as I enter the room. Their he was... By his bedside window, a frail figure sitting hunched over and motionless in his wheelchair. “Ba—,” My voice cracks, “Baba Ayaan?”

“He can’t speak, Hashim.” Katherine remains close.

I kneel beside him. A beam of sunlight shines on both of us, revealing the emptiness in his eyes. Holding his hand, I observe him, searching for my answer. In the pocket of his left breast, a small square outlines beneath the fabric.

“Hashim…” Katherine steps forward as I reach for the pocket.

“Katherine please…”

The photo is half bent. On the picture side, an image of a younger and heavier-set version of himself holding an infant in front of a house. On the blank side, a name and date is scribbled.

“Is it him?” Katherine asks quietly.

Kissing his forehead, I place the photo back in his pocket and whisper in his ear.

“No,” I turn to Katherine, patting her shoulder. “The photo is from 2021 and the name on the back is Maryam Aziz. I think it’s his granddaughter.”

“I’m sorry, Hashim. Do you think they were there that day? Like you and Ayaan?”

“They had to have been.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what did you say to him?”

Turning back to Ayaan, I take a few steps forward to roll down the curtain, blocking out the sunlight.

“I said the same thing I would have said to my grandfather: Thank you.”
​

Although Kristin was born and raised in a small town, as an adult, she moved to the city of Reykjavik. But after a few years of urban life, she felt burned out and depressed so she returned home to try to heal.

One afternoon, she took a long walk in a gravelly, barren tract of land near her home. In a small dip, she found a single lupine growing in the rough ground. The emerald-green leaves and strong upright stems lined with beautiful violet flowers were in stark contrast to the bleak landscape the lupine was growing in.

Her mother told her that there were areas full of lupines and that all the lupines were the descendants of a few seeds someone had brought from Alaska many years ago.

Kristin read about lupines on the internet and discovered that they were nitrogen-fixing plants that could be foundation plants in a process to make soil fertile again. The lupines could survive in very poor soil and, each year when they died back, their leaves and stems broke down into humus that other plants could grow in.

She found out who owned the land where the single lupine grew and asked if she could attempt to rehabilitate the area. The owner laughed at her idea but gave her permission to try.

Near the end of the summer, Kristin collected seeds from the lupine plant. She dug holes about half an inch deep and planted the seeds about a foot apart. After a few weeks she began to see sprouts. When the first snow of winter came, the plants had half a dozen leaves that would be protected by the cold blanket.

The next spring, Kristin was pleased to see that almost all the lupines had survived. In the summer, she watched them grow into large plants with tall, attractive spikes of purple flowers. That fall she had hundreds of seeds to plant.

Encouraged by her success, Kristin decided to move on to the next stage of her planting scheme. The following spring, she researched what kinds of trees might be able to survive in that environment, and she planted some Sitka spruce, Russian larch, and black cottonwood.

Every year she expanded her patch and planted more varieties of trees, shrubs and grasses. She dug a small pond to be a ready source of water. Birds, insects and animals made her garden their home. It became a place of regrowth and healing for Kristin.

When she inherited money from her grandfather, she bought several acres of the land she had been rehabilitating. People started to visit her project and were inspired to try similar projects elsewhere. Out of barrenness had come life, beauty, and hope for the future. The stalwart lupine's will to survive in the most difficult circumstances was a lesson for everyone.
​

The young king could look back on a thousand years of tradition to guide him in every aspect of his life, his reign, and even his thoughts. Now he needed a wife to bear him sons and continue the line. All his predecessors had chosen from the huge and intricate Family, which had intermarried and multiplied endlessly over the last millennium.

He was shown beautiful young women from every branch, all guaranteed to be fertile, and all promising to love, honour and obey him, but none appealed.

His choice of a commoner, with no trace of royal blood, displeased the Family. They could never allow it. He would not back down, and neither would they.

The Chronicler and his assistants leafed back through centuries of archives to find protocols or precedents to prevent such a marriage. At last they found one, from seven hundred years before.

In due course the king’s unexpected and tragic death was announced. His amenable younger brother would inherit the crown, and the Family looked forward to a state funeral, a coronation and heirs to continue the line, the Family line.
​

There were once two girls who did everything together.
Beth Min smiled as she lay in bed, thinking of her and her older sister’s adventures. How life had been simple back then…

Beth was in a small village. Everyone was outside, pointing at the sky. “The sky! Look at the sky!” A huge dragon appeared in the sky.
Beth was next on a huge mountain. There was the red dragon, sleeping. No, Beth realized. It wasn't sleeping. It was bowing. A bigger dragon was in front of it, with magnificent gold scales…
Beth Min gasped. It was morning, and a steady glow of light was streaming in through the windows.
What could it have meant? Beth wondered.
However, there was no time to ponder about dreams. Beth and her husband, General Yi, were going to Queen Kate Min and her husband, King U.

Arriving at the palace, Beth Min exclaimed, “Kate! It feels like such a long time since I’ve seen you!”
The sisters embraced.
Queen Kate Min was pinning up her sister’s hair into a traditional bun when they heard the men talking about war.
“War?!” Beth said, “What do you mean? I thought we were at peace.”
Queen Kate sighed. “The invaders near the northern border are getting aggressive. The King needs to appoint a supreme commander to defeat the invaders. But I’m worried. All the generals seem over-ambitious. They want the throne, I’m afraid.”
Beth said, “Why don’t you make my husband the supreme commander? You can trust us.”
Queen Kate brightened. “Of course! I will talk to the King.”

Soon after, Beth Min and the newly promoted Supreme Commander Yi left for the North. While leading the vast army, Beth told her husband: “We have to do something about my sister and the King. They are too weak. I think it’s time for a new dragon.”
Beth explained her dream to Commander Yi.
“What? I cannot betray my loyalty to the King!”
Beth Min looked ready to explode. “If another general takes the throne, his faction won’t just kill Kate and King U. They’ll kill all potential rivals, especially us! How about your oath to protect me and our children?”
“But…What should we do?”
“After we defeat the northern invaders, we take the throne. We will become the new dragon king.”
Commander Yi nodded. “I’ll prepare the troops.”

After stopping the invasion, Commander Yi prepared a huge victory banquet for the King and Queen. When the royal family arrived, the Commander’s troops quickly arrested the King and took over the government.

At the public execution was a tearful Kate, the deposed Queen, her head forcefully bowed down to the new Queen, hailed as the ‘Dragon Queen’.
“Why would you do this, Beth Min?”
“My will to survive was greater than yours,” Beth replied.

​

Before I saved you, I had to leave everything behind.

I packed my bags and told my father goodbye. “There’s work to be done Dad, a flip on Grandad’s shack,” I sighed. When he asked me about you, Anna, I felt a tightness form somewhere in my body before I said, “Anna’s mixed up in something bad.”

Still, I drove straight to your apartment and parked by that faulty streetlight, the one that’s burning out. I thought about all those times you tried to break free-free-free, some say it was a modern-day spell since he was known to dabble in tarot cards. Some say it was you, that you were hooked but I knew the truth, those blue-greenish bruises, the bloodshot eyes from a lack of sleep. All those times you tried to call me but the phone went dead and that day, the day, the, one time, you were finally able to reach through, and connect to me. You were crying when you said you were pregnant before the phone went click-click once again.

Now, “Tarot boy” was out on one of his “beer binges” at some slimy pub, the moment I offered you the escape to the horse farm, a place far away where the rush of the creek, the great, sharp, light of the moon would be our daily vibe, the place I would work hard with my bare hands to mold and shape the hut into something solid, real.

When you climbed up into my red Ford pick-up, your belly was a bit swollen underneath that tattered lace dress but your rootbeer-colored eyes were bright. And, I knew the silky row of stars above us, would be the pathway of light to your secret nest, our kingdom.
​