The most skilled warrior in her homeland, Lea was called in to deal with the threat. It was a big threat, she was told. Perhaps the biggest she’d ever faced, the Leader had said.
At first, she was dubious. She’d dealt with a lot of monsters in her time, most of which were easily twice her height and six times above her weight class. But the Leader was insistent that Lea take great caution, and not be overconfident. The threat – a group of trolls – was not physically big, or strong, he explained, but they were cunning and cruel.
Previous warriors had all failed to defeat them, and it was becoming increasingly vital that the trolls were vanquished, as they had formed their lair underneath the main trading route and had majorly disrupted the exchange of food and supplies.
The people were suffering and Lea was their only hope.
She headed out to the water’s edge and across to where the trading route bridged the gap between land and sea. There, underneath the structure that all people entering and exiting the land had to pass, was the lair entrance.
Rallying her bravery and stilling her mind, Lea strode forth and tore down the barrier, ignoring the door completely.
The trolls jumped up in fright, hissing at the sunlight hitting the pale skin of their arms and legs. As they backed further into the shadows, she followed the retreat until she saw it: the glowing beacon from which they had been drawing their strength.
So she turned off the Wi-Fi router and tore their precious fibre optic cable in shreds.
​

Jim Taggart was exploring Manila, Philippines, the country where his now-deceased dad was a POW in last World War. Jim was advised to stay away from certain troubled neighborhoods. One day, he missed a turn and ended up in a desolate area; streets littered with broken glasses, discarded needles, and burned tires. Soon he discovered a fenced-in decrepit cemetery. The place was teeming with little children playing various sports amidst the tombstones, while adults carrying out daily life. Jim noticed a young girl, all alone, hitting tennis balls against a wall with a broken racket. He approached the girl and introduced himself. He asked whether he could show her a few gripping techniques. The girl smiled, nodded her head and agreed. Her name was Jenny. She informed Jim that an entire neighborhood living in various still-standing above-the-ground memorial chambers. After the practice, she took him to her family’s living quarter. Electricity was brought in by hijacking the local municipality’s power-line. Jenny’s younger brother was watching a soccer-game on live TV, while her mother was busy in cooking on an electric-stove at the corner of the chamber. This event took place almost a decade ago.

This summer, Jim was visiting London. While there, he caught the fever of the Wimbledon Tennis. At his request, his travel consultant was able to procure a ticket for an early round match for him. On a sunny day, he joined the long queue, entered the main court, and was led to his assigned seat by an usher. As he was taking his place, the players started to arrive to the court. One of the female players was a famous one dominating the sport for past twenty years. The other, just qualified to compete, was a short lanky one appeared to be of half the age of her opponent. From distance, Jim couldn’t recognize her. That’s when he looked into the day’s schedule. To his astonishment, Jim learned that one of the players was this year’s wild-card sensation Ms. Jenny Lin from Philippines. His heart began pounding, while he focused his sight at the younger player at the far side of the court. No doubt, it was that little girl from ten years ago, now all grown-up to be a confident teenager taking on a mighty opponent. It was a match made in heaven. Ms. Lin had no fear and didn’t care who her opponent was. She fought gallantly, saved several match-points in the final set before breaking down her opponent, and won the match. Later Jenny embraced her elder opponent at the net. Addressing the crowd, she broke down in tears telling them how growing up in the slums of Manila, she used to worship her idol, now the defeated opponent.

Jim stood silently for a few extra moments in the stands, now emptied. He understood why our humanity survives amidst all the mayhems going around the world.
​

It’s ridiculous to think ghosts could be about in sunlight, but there she was, I had
seen her before and I wasn't scared. I watched her out of the corner of my eye as I sipped my coffee. The ghost was openly studying me, so I in turn gave her my full attention. Perhaps she was twelve or thirteen with a steady gaze and soft brown eyes, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.
Daylight, no sheet, I could just see my husbands eyebrows rise in that supercilious
way if I told him that there was a ghost, wearing jeans, in our kitchen. She was certainly a ghost, the kitchen clock said 10.20 and I could read it through her shirt. What do you say to a ghost? I waited hoping she would speak first.
If I reached out, would my hand go through the shirt?
The ghost smiled,could she read my mind? That wasn't in any movies. I suppose I’ll have to speak first, perhaps it's ghost etiquette to only speak when spoken to. The ghost smiled again.
“Now look here,” I said,’ I don't think you should be able to read my mind if I can't read yours”
'What makes you think you can't read mine' the question was there, but the girl hadn't spoken, I could feel her speaking to my heart.
How silly, drinking coffee and mind reading with a ghost.
“How did you die?”, the words came more easily.
“Do you have unfinished business?” Surely all those movies couldn’t be wrong.
'Well no, I haven't died, but I’m not born yet either', her spirit sounded small and lost,
'I need your help because I want to live.’
“I don’t understand, who are you?” I gasped as I felt her reply.
'You're my mother,or you could be if you help me.’
“How can you be mine? If you can read minds you know I take contraceptives.”
How could I bring any child into this marriage? I studied my bruised cheek in the window.
“I’m not your mother and you wouldn’t want him as a father.” It sounded harsh,
“I can’t protect a child from him. I’m sorry, I wish you were mine.”
'I could be if you leave before he comes home,” her eyes were warm and pleading.
‘Leave and I will be your child in the future, stay and he will kill you tonight.’
“I can't leave, he will come after me.”I panicked,“You can't want him as a father , you would never be safe”
'He isn't my father, my father is in your future. A safe future, if you leave now.’
This beautiful girl could be my child , I stepped closer, her image wavered.
‘Hurry, leave now!’
“How will I know your father?” I asked, grabbing the case hidden in the broom cupboard after yesterday's beating.
The child had gone, but the thought came to me with her laughter,
'I have his eyes'
​

Dragging his carry-on suitcase behind him, Carl wearily pushes through the door. After three connections and a delayed flight, he’s finally home.

Wiping his brow, he looks up to see Marci, their “babysitter,” lost in a book sitting in the recliner. She’s brought back to the real world only when he clears his throat.

“Oh, Mr. G! You’re home. Mrs. G said you’d probably be late. She had to go to work.”

“Yeah, the wonderful world of flying. How’s Mark?”

“You know, other than grumbling about me having to be here, he’s lost in that video game, Dark Fantasy.”

Carl smiles. “Something about being 12 makes you think you’re ready for the world.” He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out his wallet.

“No need, Mr. G, Mrs. G paid already.”

He nods, but yet pulls out a 10. “Here, a little extra for all you do...and puttin’ up with a 12-year-old’s attitude.”

She laughs and takes the bill with a thanks. Tossing her book in her pack, she starts for the entry.
“You need a ride or anything?”

“Nope, but thanks. Got my dad’s car.” She flashes another quick smile and waves, then slides through the door.

Carl moves over to the front window, keeping an eye until she’s safe in the car and on her way. Loosening his tie, he heads up the stairs, giving a light tap on Mark’s door before stepping in.

“Oh, hey, Dad. Didn’t know you were back.”

“Just got in. How’s Mom?”

“Good. Think she had to work or somethin’.”

“So I heard.” Carl juts his chin in the direction of the curtained window. “You know, there’s this bright thing called the sun out there calling for you. We could go out and toss a ball or something. Supposed to be nice tomorrow again and I’m off...maybe we could go fishin’?”

“Thanks, Dad. Maybe some other time. I just got to Level 16, Shadowland.” He takes a deep sigh.
​
“But I’m kinda stuck. My partner has been off line since last night, and you really need to team up for this next demon.”

“Partner?”

“Yeah. T-Rex44. He’s really a cool dude. We’ve been kickin’ as...uh, butt together since Level 5.”

“A cool dude, eh?” He smiles and shakes his head. “Okay, well I’m gonna get these stinkin’ work clothes off and kick back for a bit. I’ll come get you for dinner later.”

“Can’t we just order a pizza?”

Carl gives his head another shake. “Okay, sounds good.”

He heads down the hall, tucking into the master bedroom, twisting the lock on the door as he closes it behind him. He tosses his suit jacket and tie on the bed, then slips into the “sitting nook,” a little alcove in the large room. He sits at the desk, jet lag taking its toll, and fires up the PC.

A beep tells him the PC is alive, and clicks on the application. 

Twelve-year-old Katy Moore sometimes thought jealously of her friends, who all were seemingly having a great Summer. Going to the mall, having pool parties, talking about boys, and at least two of her friends had their first boyfriend.

But not her. She was invited to do things, of course, and sometimes she went, but when she did, she found it hard to pretend to be happy. It was the middle of July, and it felt like mostly what she had done this Summer was either listen to her parents fighting, or wait in dread for the inevitable next one.

They fight about a lot of things, but one thing that stuck in her mind was when her dad told her mom they had nothing in common anymore, and that was one thing she agreed with him about.

It hurt her when they fought because she loved them both. She yearned for their happy family again. Or at least, she used to. Lately, she mostly felt resentment towards them because of their never-ending fighting about the same stupid things, and how they hardly ever talk to her anymore.

She used to hide in her room and cry when they fought, but now she just felt kind of numb. She didn't even really fear them getting a divorce anymore. She sometimes wondered why they didn't just get one, instead of torturing themselves and her.

It was a hot, sunny Saturday morning and even before the fight, she felt the same old tension in the air. She sat at the kitchen table, playing with her hair, and stared at the bowl of Frosted Flakes that she didn't want anymore. Her mom had walked in and stood over by the oven. Her dad had followed and stood by the refrigerator, and right away they started arguing. As usual, they didn't seem to even care that she was there.

Nothing in common, Katy thought, angrily. I wonder if I could change that today?

She'd thought about it for a while, and it was becoming more than just a morbid fantasy, but something she thought she could really do. In fact, the thing was in her room right now, hidden under her bed since early this month, and all ready. She smiled bitterly. She was tired of all this.

She got up from the table and went into her bedroom and shut the door. Neither of them noticed.

***

They continued.

"That's not it, at all,” he said.

"Then what is it? Why don't you just tell me that?” she said.

"Your goddamn attitude, for one thing!" he yelled.

"You made me have this attitude!” she yelled back.

"Oh, bullshit! You—"

A loud bang roared through the house. They both screamed in surprise and stared at each other, eyes wide and mouths open. All their anger was forgotten.

"My God, that sounded like it came from Katy's room!" her mom said, frightened.

They both yelled her name and ran to her bedroom together
​

On a particularly sunny Wednesday afternoon, the Twin rushes home like a wretched shadow of his former self and hands his heart to you. ‘Here, take it. I don’t want it anymore.’
You receive the heart smeared with blood and grime on the palm of your hand, the way one might receive a delicate chicken. The organ was still beating.
‘Why? What’s the matter?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it. Just take it.’ The twin retires on the sofa like a war-torn general.
‘But it makes no sense. Your heart should belong to you only. In any case, what I am supposed to do with it?’
‘Burn it. Throw it away. Slow-boil it, for all I care. I’m done with it.’
He falters towards the bookshelf and picks up a copy of ‘The Outsider’ by Camus. You just stand there dumbstruck, having no clue what to do with a beating heart.
You almost throw it away, but then decide against it. Maybe it’s better to slow boil it after all. ‘A peppery broth of the Twin’s heart’-there’s a certain flavor in the phrase.
You’ve always been an innovative cook and a voracious reader for that matter. The Twin had his mind over football and motorcycle repair.
You wash the heart of the grime and blood. You put the heart inside a pot with some water and light up the stove.
‘Camus was a filthy bastard!’ the Twin proclaims and throws away the copy. He was never much of a reader.
From inside the pot, you could still hear the faint lub-dub under the hissing sound of the boiling water.
‘Gosh, that’s a strong heart. Wonder why he wants to get rid of it’-you think.
The Twin has picked up a copy of ‘A Moveable Feast’ by Hemingway.
You start chopping onions and garlic.
The Twin rushes through the pages.
‘Hemingway is just a drunk guy who is profoundly over-hyped’. He throws away the book.
You sigh. You’ve seen the pattern enough times to recognize. It’s a downward spiral. He’ll end up settling for Dostoyevsky and feel miserable for no particular reason.
Inside the pot, the vegetables flow in a serene manner centering the heart, quite like ballet dancers. The Twin is rummaging through the bookshelf.
‘Isn’t there a single decent book in your collection??’
You toss fish sauce and pepper into the pot. The broth is almost done. Sure enough, the Twin has picked up a torn copy of ‘Crime and Punishment’. You gracefully scoop up the heart along with some broth and put it in a soup bowl.
‘Do you wanna taste of it?’
The Twin doesn’t reply. He just sits there with his hands over his temple. The book lies open on his lap.
You put a spoonful of heart inside your mouth. The visions rush in like a torrent. Ah, now you remember. It was raining. You were inside a cafe. She was wearing a red dress. You start to feel miserable for no particular reason.
​

He was livin’ the dream. He lived in a mansion of a house with a five-car garage filled with exotic sports cars, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. He had a great wife and two wonderful children.
His prosperous business may have allowed him all this but he knew the credit really belonged to God for his success.
He didn’t know God personally, but he knew about Him. He didn’t believe in reincarnation, but he did believe in resurrection. He knew that in order to have life after death, eternal life, he would need to establish a personal relationship with God.
He never committed to that relationship as a young boy as he felt it would cost him too much fun. He was just too busy later in life by having a family and building his business. He thought, “I can do that at anytime, after all, God’s not going anywhere, is He?”
One evening he was sitting in his living room, reading the newspaper. He glanced up to see an amazing sunset over the ocean right outside his bay window.
He began to reflect on God and His creation. As he folded up the newspaper to put it away, he saw his friend’s name in the obituaries. The same friend that was six years younger than him. That did it! Just as he was ready to make that commitment to God, he was interrupted by a phone call. This was not just any call. This was a very important long-awaited business call. It lasted for three and one-half hours. It was very late when the call ended and he was mentally exhausted and emotionally drained.
He said to himself, “Tomorrow morning there will be not interruptions and first thing I will get right with God”. The he fell fast asleep.
The next morning when he opened his eyes, everything remained dark. He then extended his arms above himself only to feel something firm but silky smooth. His face filled with terror and his soul with despair when he realized it was the lining of his coffin.
The dream had turned into a nightmare.
​

Tim accepted his mission out of love for his country. Parachuting behind enemy lines at night, he would blow up a strategic bridge, which would severely limit the enemy’s ability to move about. He would then escape to safety by hiking three miles to an awaiting jeep.
He had just planted the explosives onto the support system of the bridge when he realized he was completely surrounded by the enemy, who were quickly closing in. His plan of escaping to safety had now vanished.
In order to accomplish his mission he would have to detonate the bomb now. This meant he would not only destroy the bridge, but he would lose his life as well.
Could he do it? He wasn’t sure. His stomach was tied in knots. His entire body throbbed. This could be his final decision he would make in his life. His entire life flashed before him. Could he do it? Would he do it? He gently placed his thumb on the switch, when he heard his mother’s voice piercing the air, “Timmy – it’s time to come inside – dinner’s ready.”
​

“Damn it”, screamed trauma surgeon Dr. Timothy Ryan, in frustration. After leading a team of five expert surgeons over past eight hours, Dr. Ryan had just pulled out the 6-inch bullet (fired from a high-powered military-style assault weapon AK15), lodged next to the heart of the teenager Jose Lopez. But Jose couldn’t survive the huge amount of blood-loss from the surgery. A brilliant math-whiz, Jose was about to graduate in two days from his high school, subsequently heading to MIT. But in a selfless act of bravery, he lunged towards a gun-trotting classmate who was about to open fire at the entire class, thus staging an unimaginable horror. Before coming out of the operation theatre, exhausted Dr. Ryan took a last look at Lopez’s lifeless body.

He began walking down the corridor, murmuring “Oh, how we, even as a civilized nation, normalized the school-shooting? It all began with the massacre of those thirty little kindergarteners two years ago.” And that’s when he looked at the screen of a mounted flat-screen wall-TV. The live scene was streaming the loaded aircraft-carrier USS Horizon (recently built at a staggering cost of $12 billion of taxpayers’ money) embarking on a mission to flex its muscle to a smaller country. Soon, several B-52 bombers filled up the sky, completing the flotilla.

Dr. Ryan whispered to himself: “No wonder, our young generation has been taking up arms, following adults’ examples. Now, who’ll stop that forthcoming evilness?”
​

‘Have a seat.’ Bethany Wilkes said gesturing towards the vacant chair. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m here to evaluate you.’ Mr Fredricks said sitting down.
‘The Law Accreditation Board, how could I forget.’

Mr Fredricks looked at Bethany Wilkes for a few seconds, then opened his notebook.

‘Tell me about yourself?’
‘My background is this.’ Bethany began in a self importance tone. ‘I’ve been a Solicitor for thirty years, starting as an intern with Haversham Solicitors in London.’
‘Really?’ Mr Fredricks asked skeptically.
‘Yes, the biggest law firm in London.’

Bethany paused.

‘I was there for twenty years making my way up to partner. They were sorry to see me go, the department imploded without me.’
‘Why did you leave?’
‘Stress. I had a breakdown and took a six month sabbatical.’
‘Why didn’t you return?’
‘I needed a change. I moved to the City Council as their Legal Advisor.’
‘I see.’ Mr Fredricks replied making notes. ‘That sounds like another stressful job.’

Bethany said nothing.

‘Ms Wilkes? The Council?’
‘Right! After the Council I set up my own Practice and I’ve been successfully running the business for ten years.’

‘I think I have all I need.’ Mr Fredricks said closing his notebook. ‘Thank you for your time.’

They both stood up and shook hands.

‘Here’s my card.’ Bethany said. ‘If you want to know anything else, call me.’
‘I will.’ Mr Fredicks replied looking at the card and frowning.

Nurse Watson waited in the corridor and noticed Mr Fredricks’ expression as he exited the room. She waited until the security lock clicked into place.

‘She’s had a complete psychotic break.’ Mr Fredicks said. ‘She’s totally immersed in a fantasy world.’
‘Did she ever work in a law firm?’ Nurse Watson asked.
‘Yes. According to her file she was a cleaner in the evenings. She was caught sitting in the Partner’s office talking to herself.’
‘Pretending to be a Solicitor?’
‘Probably. She was also stealing office supplies, that’s why they fired her. Her Solicitor said she had mental health issues and the company dropped the charges. She spent six months unemployed.’
‘The sabbatical.’
‘Yes. Then she got another cleaning job in the Council offices where she was caught by Security going through files. She attacked a Security Guard with a letter opener.’

Nurse Watson gasped.

‘She was arrested and sent to a secure facility.’ Mr Fredricks said. ‘She’s been in and out of various institutions ever since.’
‘What do you think caused the breakdown?’
‘Most likely, she can’t cope with the world and retreated into a fantasy where she feels important and in control.’
‘What’s that?’ Nurse Watson pointed to the white card.

Mr Fredricks handed her the card. Neatly written in orange crayon read;

“Bethany Wilkes - Solicitor”

‘I’m recommending evaluations and an increase in medication.’

Mr Fredricks looked through the window as Bethany Wilkes talked to someone only she could see.

‘Let me tell you a little bit about my background. I’ve been a Solicitor for thirty years…..’
​