“Do not forsake the gifts of your God.”

The words rang over and over again in her head, she almost thought perhaps she should see a psychiatrist about it. She buried them in her heart, buried them in her mind and did her best to throw away the key.

She avoided the churches, the Christian smiles. She avoided the crucifix and all things referring to stars and crosses. She just wanted a normal life, simple and uncomplicated.

The complications found their way despite, but nothing she felt she couldn’t handle.

But she always felt empty. She found sex, she found drugs, she found the devil and had her fun. But she couldn’t recognize herself in the mirror.

She only saw the maniac her mother always told her to stay away from on the streets.

She hated the cross, she hated the stars, she hated everything.

So she wept, she got on her knees, she cried out in pain and all anguish.

“Where were you? Why didn’t you stop me from becoming this?”

At first, there was nothing. She felt the urge to simply take a long walk over wrestling waves, but just yesterday despite her pleading she witnessed her father do the same.

Her father left her, and she was too stubborn to die.

So again she cried out in anguish and in pain. She cursed this life she had made. She cursed herself for letting it get this way.

“Why didn’t you tell me I would become this way?”

Then the tears came, tears she had not shed in such a long time.

They burned.

They scorched her eyes and felt hot on her skin. They stung as they washed the dirt away from the palms of her hands. Then calm came to her.

She wanted to worry, but the calm would not let her.

She wanted to cry, and cry she did.

I was here. I always was.

“I’m sorry...” She could not find the words. “I’m sorry!” It was the only thing that came to mind. “I’m so sorry for everything that I have done!”

I know. Come home.

And so she did. Like the miracles she never witnessed, a woman came to her that night. “I don’t know who you are, but I was told to take you home.”

She said nothing, just sat amazed. Across from her a woman who had given her a few dollars everyday. Her little crucifix hung in her car window. Her smile drove whatever darkness she had accumulated over the years away in an instant.

“I’ve strayed so far, I don’t know the way.” She said as she gathered into herself, hugging her knees. The woman merely took out her phone and opened up a map.

“Do at least remember the address?”

Oh. Right.

So she told her, and they left for a place she ran from when she was 16 and there on the porch was her mother waiting with open arms. “Mija, where have you been?”

“Forsaken, mama. On the streets on a whim.”

She and her mother thank the woman profusely but turned to see no one there. She thought she saw some lights in the distance, but it was the middle of the day.

She dreaded walking into the little hallway of her mother’s house. There hung a mirror, and she dreaded what she would see. As she turned the corner with every intention to hide her face in awe she gasped at what she saw.

It was her, a little rough around the edges, and in desperate need of a shower, but it was her.

She hadn’t seen herself in such a long time. So she bathed, she brushed her teeth, she cleansed herself of the garbage she lived in most of her life, then followed the scent of her favorite meal into the kitchen.

Her mother had already set the table and waited with clasped hands for her to join. She sat in her usual spot and did the same, and undeniably she heard it. She really really heard it for the first time in her life a deep most beautiful voice that she had forsaken for so long say:

“Welcome home.”

orsaken; Transfigured

“Do not forsake the gifts of your God.”

The words rang over and over again in her head, she almost thought perhaps she should see a psychiatrist about it. She buried them in her heart, buried them in her mind and did her best to throw away the key.

She avoided the churches, the Christian smiles. She avoided the crucifix and all things referring to stars and crosses. She just wanted a normal life, simple and uncomplicated.

The complications found their way despite, but nothing she felt she couldn’t handle.

But she always felt empty. She found sex, she found drugs, she found the devil and had her fun. But she couldn’t recognize herself in the mirror.

She only saw the maniac her mother always told her to stay away from on the streets.

She hated the cross, she hated the stars, she hated everything.

So she wept, she got on her knees, she cried out in pain and all anguish.

“Where were you? Why didn’t you stop me from becoming this?”

At first, there was nothing. She felt the urge to simply take a long walk over wrestling waves, but just yesterday despite her pleading she witnessed her father do the same.

Her father left her, and she was too stubborn to die.

So again she cried out in anguish and in pain. She cursed this life she had made. She cursed herself for letting it get this way.

“Why didn’t you tell me I would become this way?”

Then the tears came, tears she had not shed in such a long time.

They burned.

They scorched her eyes and felt hot on her skin. They stung as they washed the dirt away from the palms of her hands. Then calm came to her.

She wanted to worry, but the calm would not let her.

She wanted to cry, and cry she did.

I was here. I always was.

“I’m sorry...” She could not find the words. “I’m sorry!” It was the only thing that came to mind. “I’m so sorry for everything that I have done!”

I know. Come home.

And so she did. Like the miracles she never witnessed, a woman came to her that night. “I don’t know who you are, but I was told to take you home.”

She said nothing, just sat amazed. Across from her a woman who had given her a few dollars everyday. Her little crucifix hung in her car window. Her smile drove whatever darkness she had accumulated over the years away in an instant.

“I’ve strayed so far, I don’t know the way.” She said as she gathered into herself, hugging her knees. The woman merely took out her phone and opened up a map.

“Do at least remember the address?”

Oh. Right.

So she told her, and they left for a place she ran from when she was 16 and there on the porch was her mother waiting with open arms. “Mija, where have you been?”

“Forsaken, mama. On the streets on a whim.”

She and her mother thank the woman profusely but turned to see no one there. She thought she saw some lights in the distance, but it was the middle of the day.

She dreaded walking into the little hallway of her mother’s house. There hung a mirror, and she dreaded what she would see. As she turned the corner with every intention to hide her face in awe she gasped at what she saw.

It was her, a little rough around the edges, and in desperate need of a shower, but it was her.

She hadn’t seen herself in such a long time. So she bathed, she brushed her teeth, she cleansed herself of the garbage she lived in most of her life, then followed the scent of her favorite meal into the kitchen.

Her mother had already set the table and waited with clasped hands for her to join. She sat in her usual spot and did the same, and undeniably she heard it. She really really heard it for the first time in her life a deep most beautiful voice that she had forsaken for so long say:

“Welcome home.”

"Open the message." The Magistrate demanded. Her long nose, wiry hair, and stuffed throat would have made anyone churn like spoiled milk. Lest they did not see her appearence, her quality of voice would have made nails on a chalkboard seem like choir angels singing.

Her poor victim was none other than Milain Mildred, a young woman with an air of innocence and puppy-like trust which would make anyone want to squeeze the daylight out of her (out of annoyance or love is anyone's guess). Poor Milly- as her friends call her- didn't hesitate to do as she was told. The Magistrate huffed, most likey irrate by the girl's candid joy-something she very much lacked. You see, the Magistrate was once much like Milly. She too was once colorful, and a catch for the lucky man who would have caught her eye, but the Magistrate-like many- grew to be a sour woman. She was about to show Milly why.

"Magistrate," the girl peeped, "what was it you were going to show me?"

"Quiet. Read the first sentence." The old woman snarled, teeth bared like a rabid wolf. Like a child, Milly obeyed:

It comes as a heavy burden to inform the caretakers of the young ladies' orphanage

that soon, under commandment of Prefect Sliz, that all orphanages shall put all

able-bodied children to work for his lordship's advancement project.

Milly, with eyes bright, looked up toward where the Magistrate who stood contemplating rather sternly the ruffled edges of her office's curtains.

"Surely you know what this means, Milain." The Magistrate huffed once more, this time utterly ruffled from her subordinate's lack of response.

"It surely means that the orphanage... the orphanage is to close its doors."

"Hmm. Surely you are smarter than that Ms. Mildred. Think a bit if you have a mind to. It means our country is at war or going to be very soon." The Magistrate had hoped her prod would bring a bit more of a reaction out of the girl, but alas the woman-like so many of her peers- uttered no sound.

"What is a war?"

It would have been simple for the Magistrate to finally loosen her barbed toungue off at the girl, but this was not the first time she had ever heard the question. In fact, she had heard it so many times her response was nearly automatic like the automatons who taught at the children's schools without any children to sit at their desks.

"A war, Ms. Mildred, is a conflict." The older woman did not spare Milly a glance, rather she walked toward her office's secret, one which she most certainly would be imprisoned for. Milly watched in fascination as she took out something leathery and geometric, something rare and wonderful that only ever were mentioned by her metal professors.

"A conflict," the Magistrate continued, "is a disagreement between two parties. A disagreement, dear Ms. Mildred, was something our species never knew how to resolve without bloodshed."

Milain Mildred had never heard these words before in her life. Wah-or, CON-flict, blud-shed; all were a wonder. The Magistrate did not care to explain further. Instead she opened up her leathery chest filled with much treasure and began to sing, something Milly-and many others- never knew could resonate so beautifully from a woman so bent.

הֶֽעֱלֵ֖יתָ מֵאֶ֥רֶץ מִצְרָֽיִם " חסָ֣רוּ מַהֵ֗ר מִן־הַדֶּ֨רֶךְ֙ אֲשֶׁ֣ר צִוִּיתִ֔ם עָשׂ֣וּ לָהֶ֔ם עֵ֖גֶל מַסֵּכָ֑ה וַיִּשְׁתַּֽחֲווּ־לוֹ֙ וַיִּזְבְּחוּ־ל֔וֹ וַיֹּ֣אמְר֔וּ אֵ֤לֶּה אֱלֹהֶ֨יךָ֙ יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל אֲשֶׁ֥ר הֶֽעֱל֖וּךָ מֵאֶ֥רֶץ מִצְרָֽיִם: טוַיֹּ֥אמֶר יְהֹוָ֖ה אֶל־משֶׁ֑ה רָאִ֨יתִי֙ אֶת־הָעָ֣ם הַזֶּ֔ה וְהִנֵּ֥ה עַם־קְשֵׁה־עֹ֖רֶף הֽוּא: יוְעַתָּה֙ הַנִּ֣יחָה לִּ֔י וְיִֽחַר־אַפִּ֥י בָהֶ֖ם וַֽאֲכַלֵּ֑ם וְאֶֽעֱשֶׂ֥ה אֽוֹתְךָ֖ לְג֥וֹי גָּדֽוֹל

It was a song that Milain never heard before. But it didn't sound like a song, nor did the Magistrate read it as if a set of laws from Prefect Sliz. It almost sounded as though she were enjoying the melodic prose. Milly never thought the Magistrate knew any joy. Too soon did it end. All the more did Milly want to hear the rest, but as before the Magistrate said nothing. For some time it was silent between them. The Magistrate at some point during her song had sat heavily behind her wooden desk with the leathery relic carefully placed before her. For the first time the Magistrate did not have that air of commandment. Something about her seemed less. Perhaps her wrinkled brow or the shadows dancing across her face changed it. But before her the Magistrate looked vulnerable.

"Milain, what I have just read to you is what was read to my ancestors so long ago in a market place. Before it was sung, it was told for generations before from elder to elder. Sons to sons, daughters to daughters. It was taught throughout the world. And still somehow, through people like me, is still chanted privately."

"Milain, I have no idea what you were taught, what you were trained for before you came to be my assistant, but what I need now, more than ever is an answer to this question. What would you do for these children here at our orphanage?"

The question struck Milain like bolt of lightning. It was a question she never expected, because questions like that were never asked. It was the first time she was ever asked to think about another's well-being, and she did not know how to do so. Somehow she did know the answer. The idea of losing the children crossed her mind every now and then. She often asked herself if there was ever another option, another possibility. Surely there must be a way for good things to happen. She never expected the Magistrate to give he r the words she needed to make sense of it all.

Her words now made sense. Her world now made sense She now knew what happened so long ago on a summer's evening when her world turned red before her. She had words to make sense of it all. She was in a Wah-or. Her disagreements with Prefect Sliz are a CON-flict. The red she witnessed so long ago, the red she could not understand before now seemed to make sense. She saw Blud-shed.

But she still hadn't answered the question.

"The children are going to be trained for this- uh... Wah-or"

"War, Ms. Milain. It is little emphazised."

"The children will be in CON-flict"

"Conflict, Ms. Milain. The word is said quickly."

Milain couldn't bring herself to say the other one. She thought of her little girls going out and learning of these things in the strangest of ways, ways she did not understand. How dreadful it would be. And she thought much about how she dotted on these children, and how infectious their smiles were. Oh, how could anything keep her from her children? She had her answer.

"Magistrate," she uttered under her breath, almost fearful of her own answer. "I would do anything."

Suddenly the weakness Milain had seen in her superior vanished, but what replaced it perplexed her even more. Dare she say the Magistrate looked... hopeful? It was a most curious day indeed. The Magistrate stood, steadfast and firm as she was, but brighter. She picked up her leathery treasure and with care offered it to her.

"Then read this, as much of it as you can, and I will answer any questions you may have on the condition that you will not speak of this to anyone. I promise you, it is for all of our sakes."

As Milain took the wonder into her hands she marveled at how heavy it truly was, but its weight was a sentiment to her, nearly comforting. She wondered if the Magistrate thought the same, but before she could ask the Magistrate was at her door, gesturing for her to leave. Ah, it was time for them to put the children to sleep. But for Milain, she would find no rest tonight. Rather her dreams would instead be living things, things with feeling, things with depth. Milain knew she had little time to read the special gift she had recieved. Ah, if only she could remember what it was called!

But perhaps it was best she forget the name. Afterall, this was why the world when she was so young turned red, red, red. Perhaps finally, she'll understand why.

Oh, sleep elude me, she'd surely say. The children would need her to know everything she possibly could. So Milain tucked it away deep into her pockets, then helped the Magistate with her duties. She had to make plenty of time to read as much as she could. And perhaps, if she were lucky, she'd ask the Magistrate to sing that song again.

"The technology of a civilisation does not determine its advancement. The advancement of a civilisation is the worth it puts on a life. A boy in a river, a boy who came from nothing, who is no one- who drowned. What value does a civilisation put on that boy? That boy's value is what determines the advancement of a civilisation."

--The Twelfth Doctor

For years I've looked at the stars.

I've looked, searching for something

anything

I did not know what

I picked up the Bible

I read it and became convinced

We are not alone

But something felt missing

The narrative felt incomplete

Not because it was not enough

But because I felt not enough

My universe was me

I searched the stars, praying, hoping, thinking

for an answer that was not mine

I searched under the bones of learned men

I heard talks from smart women

But none of it fit

Eden came to mind over and over and over again

Why Eden? Why Now?

I hear the rain, smell petrichor

My heart aches for something

I am completed by my God, but something feels missing

So I look to the stars

I pray, and prayed

Then Eden came again, this time with a withered tree

Its branches were black

Its trunk was charred grey and smoking

I heard three claps of thunder, and a bolt of lightning through me

It was I who ate of the tree

Creation groans because of me, my mother, father, brothers, sisters

We consumed its heart, tore at its body

I wept, as I now weep; bitterly

We destroyed Eden, pillaged it.

Then after the scraps did we turn on one another

What is so different now than what was back then?

Why now do I think it has come to finality?

Because Eden is waiting to be born again.

Brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers.

Eden is lost.

But the stars wait for our return

As does the sea

As does the wind

As does the ash

As does this body made from dust

Our souls have lost Eden, but the Garden still waits

God has prepared a homecoming

And all creation yearns for us to attend

Tend your hearts brothers and sisters

Prepare the plot before the storm

The Garden must be watered soon

From a speck came life; complex and anecdotal. Think about this for a minute or so. While science has yet to come to a conclusion about what started the Big Bang, I would turn your attention rather to the idea of the Big Bang. We generally accept it as truth because it suggests truth, yet turn a blind eye to the improbability of it all. In sequence, giant balls of gas, hot particles, and things came from supposedly nothing. Humanity may think they can do anything but when it comes to making something from nothing, we don't have that ability. I don't believe we ever will. Physics, as we understand it, always has something whether in relationship forces or light or molecules of unidentified dark matter.

We believe things fade and lose momentum, our guess at what the universe will look like at the end of matter is bleak; a place merging black holes that consume themselves for eternity. Time there is irrelevant because there is nothing to sustain the act of time. Will the universe continue to nothingness? Probably, probably not. We simply do not know. Yet we think we do.

But let us consider the "something" we do know. It is structured. It is mathematical. It is not completely random. Everything happened in sequence. Life could not happen unless it happens in a specific condition in a specific sequence as far as we know. I'll let you come to a conclusion on your own what any of that means. If it means nothing, I will not believe it. Every kind of molecule in our body somehow formed to be a cohesive, functional, and specific collection of parts to somehow act as a whole person. It doesn't make sense that any of this is random.

It simply isn't mathematically possible. It seems to me that Earth is simply too perfect to be random. We have a moon to balance us and just big enough that from the distance of our sun we have eclipses. We have a magnetic field just strong enough that it protects everything on the surface of the planet without inhibiting its growth. We have a sun just strong enough that it holds us at a safe distance without pulling us into it's melting embrace. It's simply all too perfect. That never happens except in thought.

But it did. And so here we are. Killing each other because we think that's our nature. Natural selection and all that.

We are here and we've made it seem like we are the universe. We are a collection of specks unwilled together. None of us chose to be here. We are simply here. I call that a blessing.

I call it a blessing that I am even aware at all. I call it a blessing that I exist at all. I call it a blessing that somehow the genetic line of my ancestors didn't get killed off by mass extinction of the human race via preditors, temperature, poison, or every other million ways humanity could have died.

So I don't understand why we are okay with killing each other. We don't eat each other's flesh (minus the cultures who still do) because it causes us illness. The more diverse our genetics are, the more likely we are to survive. It seems to me that humans were meant to thrive. But it seems to me we've forgotten that. We have this brain, a very complex brain that no one knows really anything about (even though we've studied it extensively) that is capable of complex thought, planning, envisioning, etc. We seem to be ending ourselves too soon.

We seem to not understand the miracle that is this Solar System, this Earth, and human life. Everything seems to me to be by design in our corner of the universe far before humanity ever existed. I don't believe we're a coincidence of space-monkey brains (a real theory by the way). It simply doesn't make logical sense. What makes sense is that everything seems to fit together if it is sequenced in just the right way. What makes sense is we could learn a thing or two about natural design, and not ideological primitivism. I am not saying nature is our god, but I am saying that maybe God isn't impossible.

What I am saying is we have this amazing complex brain somehow formed after millions of years of properly sequenced particles throughout time, and we have forgotten to use it in consideration of the something that we are. Because so far all we know is that something came from nothing. Logic says there must have been something outside our idea of existence because so far something always makes more something. Perhaps it was a thought. A thought is held in a particle of matter but what is the thought itself? Nothing unless it acts on something.

Perhaps a thought was all we needed. A thought that existed before any of this, because it definitely wasn't human thoughts or alien thoughts in our reality.

Perhaps Descarte wasn't completely loony. Perhaps instead of "I think, therefore I am," is actually "I am, therefore you are." Not so crazy, think of the dead cat paradox. It is both dead and alive; it exists only in the state it is perceived, but that alters its state.

Somehow we exist, and we question our existence. Why do we exist? Perhaps it is because there is something thinking of us after all.

I smell it on the wind.

I see it in the air; gun smoke and target practice

The oceans are stirring because of a red sea

a red sea of fishers

fishers not of men

fishers of violence

War.

Red is Coming

Red will pour from you and me

Red will make us pray for a sign

Stand.

Do not let this wave go unnoticed

Pray.

Make a sound, and warn them

Kneel.

Only God can help us now

War.

Is.

Coming.

Can you hear the canary sing?

I can't be the only one who wanted things to go back to normal, but when I think about 'normal' I get even more depressed. My job didn't change much, I am supposedly an "essential worker." When this all happened in March, the only thing that changed was how far my job suspended worker's rights for the sake of their customers. Don't misunderstand, being a grocer worker allows people to be able to get food and other necessities so I understood. But they didn't stop asking from us, and are still asking a whole lot more from a whole lot less, and the more lawsuits against them, the worse the situation becomes. It got me thinking; grocerers aren't the only job that does this.

Warehouses, retailers, pharmacy-you name it, they do it, but how many people are out of a job? I hope I don't sound angry, but I am exasperated. What will it take for real change?

We could say education. We could say fair policy. We could say accountability. These also got me thinking.

It has to be everything. Everything needs to change. Everything needs to be 'reset' so to speak. But I don't want violence or complacency to be the solution either.

It made me realize that truly the change begins with me, but me alone can't change a damn thing.

It has to be everyone.

I had to ask myself the question; Why should I care?

I came to the answer; Because no one does!

It just has to be one thing. I've seen that do amazing things. Just changing one thing for the better in my life encouraged others to do the same. For one thing, just being quiet for ten minutes changed my life. It lead me to prayer; reaching out for something better than our imperfect solutions, our imperfect -isms.

Talking doesn't seem to be solving anything. In America, we've seen the so called "debates." Listening is considered weak. But have we really listened? Listen to silence. It does more than you can imagine.

We all want something better, but I think we've all been thinking and talking too much, working or watching too much. If we truly see another human being and simply contemplate their existence, wouldn't we come to the conclusion that they have a life so very similar to our own? I'm not talking about material wealth or anything like that. I'm talking about everyday frustrations, but also everyday joys. Does this person think about her family? Does this person worry about his job? Are they like me? Do they have problems? Most of these answers are yes.

Sometimes I'll see someone, and it will just occur to me when I overhear a tidbit of information from a conversation they'll have on the phone; Wow, this person has a whirlwind of a life, just like me. This person has a mother or father or brother or sister or son or daughter or so-and-so. This person has a mind that thinks, a mind that feels, a heart that beats. Gosh this sounds like me.

Maybe this person is better off than I am, or perhaps worse, I don't know. What I do know is that despite what economic or social background they come from, their relationships, their wants, their needs are not so different from mine. I think we've forgotten that. I thought with the Covid-19 pandemic, perhaps we'd realize that. And for a brief period of time, I saw that goodness come out of people.

But now it's back to the same thing, this time we're just wearing masks that better hide cursing one another from afar.

We're not people anymore. We're back into the machine, this time with vigor. And it's driving me crazy.

I'm a person. So are you. Is that so hard to understand? When we are caught up in our own little world, yes, yes it is.

Please, listen to silence, and instead of thinking of yourself, think of someone else; not so you can feel guilty, but so you can feel free.

Set yourself free from this machine, and never be the same, please.

Did you know that the reason why we feel the need to squeeze cute things is because we don't know how to react to them?

Apparently this is called "cute aggression"- a response in the brain overwhelmed by the wonderful fluffy or adorable feelings we get when we see something we consider cute. Because our brain literally can't handle this overload, we try to sedate ourselves by squeezing or biting the thing in question.

Some even suggest this is because we want to rid our brain of the percieved stress. We just can't seem to "get a grip" of our emotions when it comes to small floofies.

“I need a little more time.” Eamon said. “Just a little more time.”

“You do realize that once you commit to this there will be very little left of your future?”

“It’s worth it. I promised. I need to go back.”

The Timemonger looked up from his scroll at the man before him, and shook his head. Rolling up his scroll dotted with heavy blots and complicated charts, the trader huffed as he searched for another scroll. The chair underneath him creaked under his weight, though he had little of it. Eamon shook his knee, scratching at his stubble. The Timemonger simply sighed as he watched the other man fidget with his coat.

“Here,” the trader said as he rolled out another scroll. It was shorter, simpler. One large inkblot marked its beginnings then streamlined itself forward until another smaller dot created more branches where some connected to other minor marks or stopped completely. More choices the Timemonger had explained the first time Eamon came to him. After a thought, the Timemonger followed the continuous line until he reached the moment his patron desired. “You want how much in this moment?”

“As much as possible, please.”

“You remember I still need time to resume after you leave it? The minimum as decreed by law is a day forward in time.”

“How much time will that give me in the past?”

“It will give you five minutes.”

“I can’t do five minutes. I need more time. I need to make things right.” Eamon stood then, his face taught as he firmly placed a hand down on the table. The Timemonger did not move, nor look up from the scroll. Instead the Timemonger took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, then returned to his musings on the scroll.

“You may borrow your own time from the future in order to relive a time in the past. That is the way these things work.”

“I know. I don’t care if I don’t live past tomorrow, I need to go back.” Eamon leaned forward looking at his scroll then back to the tradesman. “You can leave me five minutes in the future. You need time to flow forward, right? Five minutes is five minutes.”

“Mr. Baxter--”

“Please. It’s not for me. It’s for them.” Eamon pleaded. The Timemonger put on his glasses, sniffing dully as he thought.

“Fine.” The Monger raised his hand stopping a reply from the other man. “But the ratio still stands; you trade 28hrs and 55minutes now for 28 minutes and 55 seconds in the past. That leaves only five minutes in the present-future.”

“That will suffice.”

“Will it?” The Monger scoffed under his breath. Taking precise tools from his petticoat, the tradesman got to work on Eamon’s request. The thin surgery-like tools looked to Eamon like locksmith wires rather than fate-altering contraptions. It was a work that eluded him. The tradesman unraveled a point just after a dashed mark and elongated a strip somewhere earlier. Rarely did the Timemonger explain anything he did, he was a businessman afterall, he did not risk a rival or worse. It seemed like ages before he was finished but it was foolish to think any time had passed at all. The Timemonger was anything but a thief, and wasted no currency.

“Is it done?” asked his patron.

“Just about--ah, there.” The Timemonger settled his tools back into their pouch and tucked it back into his coat pocket. Then, taking a canister from the wall, the tradesman rolled the scroll up, placed it carefully within and held it to Eamon to take. Both men stood. Eamon reached for it, but paused for a brief moment and outstretched his other hand. The Timemonger took it, but did not let go immediately.

“You were one of the rare ones Eamon, I’d hate to see you go.” He said. His patron, suprised, retreated his gesture and placed the scroll in his satchel, shrugging.

“Yeah, well you will if all goes well.” Then he left.

With a heavy sigh, the Timemonger almost collapsed into his chair, but knew he could not rest for long. With leaded heels, the tradesman walked toward the inner chambers. There he opened a door to a large inner room littered with devices, some working, some not. But his goal ended at the other side. There opposing him was a large chart resembling old naval and star maps. To anyone looking, the map would simply be an eclectic collection of dots, dashes, lines and inkspots, but to the Timemonger all had a deeper meaning. He searched with purpose and without confusion. In a moment he found the line he was looking for all matching his previous encounter with one exception, a dash with a blooming dot where there previously was none. The Timemonger watched for a few moments more until a bellchime woke him from a daydream. There on the wall adjacent was a bell rung over the lobby sign. The Timemonger glanced over the chart one last time then decided he could not keep a client waiting.

Out in the lobby was a young woman holding a satchel. When his footsteps approached the corridor, she stood smiling readily. This to the Timemonger was most unusual.

“So you must be the famous Timemonger, I presume.”

“You presume correctly, madame.” He spoke. At this the young woman merely giggled.

“Please, it’s Elaine. I owe you much, though you know nothing about me.” The Timemonger could only give a small smile. She was indeed very lovely. With a care, the young lady opened the dampened flap of her satchel, surely so due to the weather, and after rummaging for a moment placed a canister there on the tradesman’s desk. Then in a swift motion she placed a card next to it. “Visit us sometime.”

“Surely this is not all you came for?” He asked.

“It is. I hope you understand, I’m running a bit late as it is. Please do visit though.” One last smile made way to the Timemonger’s lips as she shook out her umbrella to meet the gloomy outside. Then she was gone.

In two steps he was at his desk shaking out the contents of the canister. Two items made their way into the palm of his hand. One a locket, and two some fresh baked wedding cookies, his favorite. The Monger placed them within his hankerchief, then opened the locket. It was inscribed to him although not with his name-not that anyone knew his name. On the other side a photo of a baby girl adorning the portrait. It was an interesting gift. But he would ponder it later. He had the terrible task of covering up his moment of weakness. Taking the canister and placing the locket inside, he reached for the card only to pause. It was for a baking company, and truly had nothing interesting about it. A plain stock with simple design, but there the woman’s name elegantly scribbled on the back with an address.

Elaine Baxter.

It had been years since something like this had happened. It was most unusual to see it within his own timeline, but it was not unheard of. He merely wished he knew what his future self did to allow such a woman the safety of her existence without ridiculous consequences. But that would wait, and in time would come to play out he hoped. For now he had cookies he wished to enjoy.

The duties of a Timemonger be damend.

It was some time during winter break years ago I met this girl at school who liked all the the things that I liked, and hated most things I hated. She was really cool, and I was really not.

She invited me out to parties, get togethers, family reunions, but I turned them all down.

Y'see I was under strict supervision. My ins and outs were monitored, my time away from home tagged and jotted with precision.

We could only hang out afterschool for volunteering programs, theatre, or some other extracurricular activity. I joined everything she did.

I was on my way to what seemed to be an Ivy League future intended for the rich and the famous, and so was she. She had a lot of friends, I did too I guess. It was more out of association that they hung out with me than hanging out with me for me. She also had several best friends whom I always held higher than me in her esteem.

I never had a best friend.

Because of my upbringing, I never had the chance to even know what a best friend or a true friend even meant. But I thought this friendship was the closest thing.

I was wrong.

I was very wrong, but that isn't what hurts me. The fallout of our friendship was equally my fault as it was hers. Growing up and neglect tends to seperate people, y'know?

But I had another friend who was very dear to me, like the first she had a best friend already, and I didn't rank in that category.

But she was the best friend I ever had.

I was jealous of her best friend, because I wanted to be considered THE best friend. How concieted I was.

It came to the point I was almost angry at her for not having that spot available to me. I wanted to tell her "Why am I not enough? What makes him better than me?" But I knew that they went through much more than she and I have together. They truly deserved to be best friends.

When she graduated everyone of course says they'll keep in touch, but they never do. I participated in that lie on more than one occassion, but she was different. She didn't write in my year book "See you soon!" or "Keep in touch," or "Can we hang out sometime?"

She said; "we're getting sushi, every friday, every week, you better be there."

The night before she told me how she had found her so called best childhood friends drifted away from her almost immediately after the graduation ceremony prefering instead to hang out without her. I don't really remember what was said, but it must have been something, because she's not one to offer this kind of thing lightly. She, her true best friend, and I would strive to meet up every friday during summer before her best friend went off to study medicine.

But that didn't happen.

It was August. It was 3:00AM when they called me. I was up doing whatever. Her childhood friends asked me to sit down, already quite hysterical.

"You need to make sure you're in a safe place" she said, "are you in a safe place?"

"You're starting to scare me," I said "what's wrong?"

"Are you sitting down?"

"Yes"

"-----'s gone"

"What?"

"She's dead- It was around 2:00 AM- she got hit by a car. She was dead on site."

It echoed in my head over and over again. She's dead, she's gone. My friend was dead. My friend was gone. We'd never eat sushi on friday. We'd never get our driver's liscence together. We'd never see eachother again.

Five years later this still echoes in my head August to August. Year after year.

No one talks about it, I don't blame them. Everyone has lived their life to honor her memory, her best friend became a doctor. I've been left behind, but I'm still trying to make something of my life. I try to live for her.

I found more reasons to live.

I found more reasons to be happy.

I found more purpose to my existence.

I found peace with my family and love in my life.

But it hurts. I miss her everyday and I wonder often what she'd be doing at these events in my life.

There was something I wrote in a text to her that I never pressed send, because I knew she already had a precious friend.

I don't regret not sending it. I don't regret anything from that time, anymore. But I just wanted to say that friends, real friends, are the most precious relationships you'll ever have.

The only thing I wish I said to her was that she was my precious friend. The best friend that I had ever had, and maybe would ever have, and that I loved her. She was my friend. My real friend. I was lucky to have known her for any amount of time at all.

Please to anyone reading; tell them you love them. Tell them you care. Because today everyone has lost a friend, some to sickness, some to suicide, some to a tragic accident but the lucky few still have them.

Live to find them or live to cherish their memory. Please. Live. Because you are someone's precious friend, even if you don't realize it.